Hidden Courage (Atlantis) (9 page)

“Amazing,” he said to himself.

As he turned to fly out of the valley, he looked nervously at the saddle between the two mountains that had nearly killed him only an hour earlier. Now flying at 13,000 feet, he was well above the danger zone and he breathed a sigh of relief. He made a mental note not to repeat the same mistake the following day when he returned.

Flying back, passing from one valley to the next, he was filled with euphoria. He had finally seen the unnamed mountain he had spotted in a magazine, and it was even more impressive than anything he imagined. Fighting the turbulence, he lost himself in the memory of Destination B.

The Adventure:

DAY
1

Jack examined the skis where the floats once sat. During the design phase of his plane, he knew he would need to be able to swap out the floats for skis, so he created a mechanism for quick disconnect. He was able to quickly remove the floats and attach the skis with a single bolt and cotter pin, a procedure that took less than ten minutes to complete. With the skis and tires in place and with a flick of a lever, he could transition from tires to skis and back to tires again in an instant.

Jack stood back and looked at his plane. He had neatly repacked most of his gear into it, leaving only the pilot’s seat empty. Having checked the weather for the next few days, he found that a slow moving low-pressure front was moving in through the area and would prevent any travel by the following day.

Jack’s nervousness pierced through varying degrees of severity. He could almost see his heart pounding through his fleece pullover.

“Well, Jack, this is it. It’s time to grow some nads,” he said to himself, hoping the humor would relieve some of his anxiety.

He took one last look around the airport, exhaled deeply and hopped into his plane. With his flight sectional laid out on top of his gear next to him, he scanned the map one more time for completeness.

“Stop procrastinating. you idiot. You didn’t fly all this way to admire the view,” Jack scolded himself once more.

“Clear,” he hollered out his side window.

Jack reached down and began to turn the key. He watched the propeller windmill momentarily, then the engine came alive. Immediately, he glanced over to the engine’s gauges. Everything was in the green and operating normally. With a quick check of the area around him, he added a touch of power and began to roll.

Jack taxied to the beginning of the runway, then ran through his checklists to ensure he hadn’t forgotten anything. A few minutes later, he stowed the lists and crept onto the runway, lining up with the centerline.

Looking up into the clear skies, he checked for any aircraft that might be flying near the airport. There were none. Jack hesitated momentarily, second guessing his plans, then slowly advanced the throttle forward.

With a full load, the tiny plane moved forward slowly, then, after a few feet, started to pick up momentum. Nearly seventy feet down the runway, he had reached his departure speed and pulled steadily back on the stick while adding a slight bit of rudder to keep the plane from drifting off-course.

Jack’s climb rate was about 1,200 feet per minute – nowhere near the 2,000fpm he experienced the day before when the plane was empty. He was climbing to 13,000 feet, the maximum height he had reached while flying around Destination B. This would ensure he cleared the deadly saddle that almost claimed his life the day before.

At the higher elevations, Jack’s engine performance was greatly reduced. He could only expect about three hundred fpm above 10,000 feet, and much less above 12,000 feet. In all, it would take him at least forty-five minutes to climb to 13,000 feet, almost the exact time it would take him to get to the saddle. If he arrived too soon, he wouldn’t have the altitude to clear the ridge. He decided to circle the small town while climbing, ensuring he would have the altitude well before he reached the saddle.

After fifteen minutes of circling, Jack had climbed to the 10,000 foot level. With only 3,000 feet left, he knew he would clear the saddle with time to spare. With that, he exited the valley to the east, following the directions displayed on both GPSs.

Forty minutes of light turbulence later, he could see the saddle in the far distance. Apprehension swept over his body as his eyes locked on the spot he almost gave his life to the day before. He was about 1,000 feet above it, and still lower than the snow-covered mountain tops that suspended the saddle between them.

As he passed over the ridge, right on cue, the wind that was being driven over the top of the saddle like water over a dam caused him to lose altitude as the downdraft forced him lower. He watched as his altitude unwound from 13,000 feet down to 12,700, clearing the ridge by 700 feet. He learned his lesson and felt good because of it.

“Oh yeah! Jack, two; saddle, NOTHING,” Jack said out loud, mocking the inanimate mountain pass.

As the valley opened up in front of him, he no longer needed the flight sectional to guide him. He headed for the northern side of Destination B, where he had spotted the snowfield and the two ridges. Working his way around to the ‘front’ of the mountain, looking out the right passenger window as he flew, he watched as the football field-sized snowfield came into view, the two ridges bracketing each side.

Jack’s heart started to pound. He had butterflies in his stomach as he moved in for a closer look. As he flew closer, he lowered his flaps to the halfway point, allowing him to lower the nose of the tiny plane without picking up unnecessary airspeed. He now had a commanding view of the mountain through the windshield as he descended.

Minutes later, he judged his altitude to be a thousand feet above the snowfield. He reached down, pulled the throttle control and reduced his power to idle. Jack’s heart was now pounding and his hands were wet with sweat, as he thought of landing under such extreme conditions.

As he descended, he took a hard look at both the ridge and the snowfield. Aside from a couple of exposed rock climbing pitches that looked easy, the ridgeline looked like an easy snow hike. He looked down toward the field. It looked flawless, without a single depression or bump along its entire surface.

“Wow, this is unbelievable,” he shouted to himself over the roar of the engine. “How lucky can I get?”

At about 250 feet above the field, he could tell that it was much bigger than a football field; twice as big, if he had to guess. Pretending to land, he flew over the snowfield and straight at the mountain. With a quick glance down at the snow below, then back to his altimeter, he determined that the field sat at an elevation of about 11,700 feet.

“Ok, fun’s over. Time to get the hell out of here,” Jack said to himself as he stared at the imposing mountain in front of him.

He added full power, banked hard left and circled out away from the mountain as he slowly climbed.

“Climb, baby, climb,” Jack shouted out as the engine strained in the rarified air.

Keeping an eye on the field, he flew away from the mountain until he was a mile or so away. As he reached 12,200 feet on the altimeter - 500 feet above the field – he started to slowly bank back toward the mountain. Coming back around, he stared at the snowfield.

“Damn, that thing looks smaller than my mom and dad’s backyard,” Jack said, his anxiety now peaking.

With as much determination as he could find, he took a deep breath and headed to the right side of the tiny snowfield.

Jack reduced the power to almost idle and lowered the flaps to the final setting. He pushed the control stick forward and lowered the nose of the plane, once again drawing in the impressive view.

Heading for the ridgeline on the right side of the snowfield, Jack examined the ragged cliff that rose up from its base. He could see massive blocks of rock and ice that had fallen off the wall and landed at the base of the cliff.

“Holy shit, some of those blocks are as big as a house,” he exclaimed.

The sight of such a powerful and dangerous environment sent a chill through his body. Wiping the nervous sweat from his hands, he regripped the control stick and focused intently on his descent.

Now stabilized and descending at five hundred feet per minute, Jack checked his speed and heading: fifty knots and heading exactly west as displayed on his gyroscopic compass.

The excitement and fear sent Jack’s heart pounding wildly. He could see his jacket expanding and contracting with each pulse.

Once again, his hands trembled and became slippery with sweat. He wiped them off on his pants and then shook them out in the air, one by one.

Jack could see that the winds were blowing to the north, as the tiny plane drifted off-course with the wind. He turned slightly into the wind to counter the drift, finding a heading that kept him moving in a straight line. The altimeter continued unwinding, now down to 11,950 feet; 250 feet above the field.

Jack sharpened his focus further now, scanning the instruments, then the field, back to the instruments and then back to the field again in an unending cycle that resulted in precision flying.

Wiping the nervous sweat from his brow, he noticed his speed had dropped slightly below fifty knots. Jack added two hundred rpm of power, stabilizing the speed at fifty. As he flew lower, he was continuously buffeted by turbulence that forced him to ‘work’ the throttle in a constant struggle to maintain his proper speed. It was exhausting and stressful work.

Jack peered out the pilot’s side window. Looking down, he was no longer flying over the frightening and treacherous valley that led up to the snowfield. He was now directly over the snowfield and flying up it’s right side.

He looked back at his altimeter. He was now 200 feet above the field and less than 1,000 feet away from the mountain.

The mountain in front of him, Destination B, towered 5,500 feet above him as he stared at it through his windshield.

“Holy shit! That thing’s big,” he said as his slowly banked left into the wind.

Jack looked to his right. He had now descended below the northern ridge. Suddenly, he was hit by a burst of turbulence from the south, striking the plane broadside on the left and shoving it dangerously close to the ridge and drifting closer.

“Whoa!” he cried out in fear.

The plane immediately drifted to less than a hundred feet from the cliff. He could see the plane’s shadow cast onto the mountain’s face as he inched closer. Jack instantly reacted by adding power and banking into the wind to steer away from the deadly rock face. With his eyes glued to the ridgeline, he nervously watched as the tiny plane turned and began to distance itself from the impending crash.

“Damn, that was close,” Jack called out as he breathed a moment of relief.

Jack’s relief was short-lived. Refocusing on his task at hand, he quickly looked out his window to monitor his progress. He was now a hundred and fifty feet above the ground and still descending. As the tiny plane flew away from the ridgeline, he stopped his turn and now lined up, heading directly across the snowfield.

With the great mountain on his right side, he now stared out his windshield at the other ridgeline directly in front of him. Lined up in the center of the snowfield, he estimated the ridgeline to be only five hundred feet away. He cut the power completely, rapidly accelerating his descent.

Jack looked out his side window, down at the snow below. He could tell by the ski that he was close; about twenty feet from the ground now. Then it dawned on him. He hadn’t lowered the skis below the tires yet. Quickly, he grabbed a lever and lowered them, while he watched the skis instantly drop below the tires and lock in place. In the time it took him to do this, he had dropped a few more feet. He could see the skis casting a shadow on the snow below. He was close.

Looking up across the field, there was now only 300 feet left between him and the other ridge. It was going to be close.

Jack reached down and turned off the key, cutting the power to the engine.