Love Story: In The Web of Life (34 page)

As I looked North to the Sierras, the Mojave
was what soaring pilots call a "blue hole," a large expanse of air
with no clouds, and therefore no thermal activity. It was still too
early to leave.

When I reached nine thousand feet I looked at
my watch and saw that it was 11:15. I was joined in the thermal by
a hawk, which made one circle with me and then turned and began
soaring out into the Mojave.

I said to myself, "If the hawk says it is time
to go, it is time to go," and turned my sailplane to the North,
starting my journey. It is always easier to let someone else make
such decisions.

I picked my way from weak thermal to weak
thermal for forty-five minutes and found myself down to five
thousand feet, only fifteen hundred feet above Rosamond Dry Lake.
Despair was settling in.

'I'm going to have another visit with another
Mason jar down there,' I thought. Then, I saw a dust devil moving
toward the lake and thought, 'I'm saved!' Over the dust devil I
found a very strong, narrow thermal requiring me to execute nearly
acrobatic fifteen-second turns pulling a couple of g's. At first, I
barely gained any altitude, but by a half hour later, I was up to
ten thousand feet. Saved!

I had been flying for an hour and a half and
only gone about thirty miles with two hundred eighty to go. Ahead,
cumulus clouds were forming above hills and mountains. Things were
looking good. About fifteen miles farther north I found a powerful
thermal over a small blood-red cinder cone mountain, the home of
the Silver Queen Mine.

As I circled, I remembered the time I had been
forced to land near Silver Queen and had been greeted by a miner,
the kind of rusty pickup driving, shaggy bearded, grimly clothed,
shotgun–carrying kind. He had that wild look in his eyes, like one
of the attorneys at my firm, which comes from a life driven by
selfish greed. I had to pay him fifty dollars and a six–pack of
beer for "crop damage" to his dry, barren field before he would let
me remove my sailplane.

I topped-out in the thermal at fourteen
thousand feet and sped north. The crisp air at high altitude made
me feel good, and I was having fun. I put on my Cannula oxygen
feed.

I passed the Mojave Airport on my right. I
could see the rows and rows of a graveyard for airplanes; most
wearing the paint jobs of the airline they retired from. They were
stored for scrap and salvaging parts. Here in the dry desert air
they age slowly, like ones' discarded toys from
childhood.

To the West of me, the barren tan Mojave Desert
ends at the up rise of the Tehachapi Mountains. The area was calm
today, a good sign for soaring. Most of the year the Northwest wind
is funneled through the Tehachapi pass to make this one of the
windiest places in the state. I could see hundreds of power
generating wind turbines, row after row, lazily turning, waiting to
do their thing.

I was now at the southernmost end of the
Sierras. The lift was getting stronger, and steadier, rising from
the barren east-sloping faces of the low mountains. I didn't have
to search for thermals; I could easily maintain altitude. When the
air was going downward, I sped up to get through it. When it was
rising, I loitered.

To the right, in the distance I saw California
City, sprawling, still waiting for the boom times of the last
century to return.

To the north of California City I saw the Honda
automotive test center, dozens of laboratory buildings and the
seven–and–half mile high–speed oval track where people had driven
autos 24 hours a day in high speed life tests. It was now
abandoned, for sale, a suitable major industry for California
City.

Now, I was flying over low mountains stippled
with green trees. Ahead, I saw Owens Peak. Judging by the clouds,
it would be a great source of lift today. I sped up, now flying at
seventy knots. I circled in the vigorous lift, looked at my watch,
saw it was now 1:30, and heard my stomach complain. I had been too
busy to think of lunch. I ate my sandwich and enjoyed the views,
Lake Isabella to the West, nestled among low mountain ranges; and
the magnificent Owens Valley to the North.

The Sierra Mountains are a massive block that
tilted up eons ago. The Sierras rise slowly, over a hundred miles
or so, on the western slope, On the eastern slope they fall
precipitously, going from high points at Mount Whitney (14,000
feet) and surrounding mountains, to the Lone Pine in the Owens
Valley (3,700 feet) in only fifteen miles. A couple of dozen miles
to the East, two ranges of high mountains arise, the Inyos and the
White Mountains. Their highest peaks are only a few feet lower than
Mount Whitney. Death Valley, the lowest place in the United States,
is only a few more miles to the East.

These tall granite mountains heat the air
rising from the low areas and produce magnificent
thermals.

I had finished my lunch and was now circling at
seventeen thousand feet, barely below the ragged bottom of a cloud.
It was sixty degrees in the cockpit so I put on my sweater. I
turned north and sped up to seventy knots, porpoising through the
lift and sink. Soon, I was at Olancha Peak overlooking the Owens
Lake bed.

During the Gold Rush, Owens Lake was full of
water. A steamboat ferried miners to the eastern shore and
hoped–for riches. Now, it is dry, dust–blown. Early in the
twentieth century, the Los Angeles Department of Water and Power
(DWP) bought most of the land in the Owens Valley, drove out water
hungry farmers, dammed the river, and piped the water to LA, so
people could water their lawns.

A few small towns that predate the DWP
stewardship remain in the valley, mostly dependent on the tourist
trade. I was now flying past Lone Pine, the gateway to Mount
Whitney. I could see Mount Whitney below me a few miles to the
West. I was tempted to fly over it and buzz the people at the
summit, but didn't want to delay my trip.

In about a half hour, about 3:00, I was
approaching my turning point, the town of Independence, and the
county seat of nearly nothing, about the size of Rocky Butte. The
lift was weakening so I circled to gain altitude. At seventeen
thousand feet I turned east for the dash across the valley to the
Inyo Mountains, which spawned a street of clouds that went south
toward home.

Air that goes up must come down the rising air
over the mountains comes down in the valley. For about ten
terrifying minutes I flew fast to get through the sink as I watched
my altitude drop, until I looked up at the peaks and dropped to
within couple of thousand feet of the bottom of the valley. At the
bottom of the Inyos, I found weak lift. I circled slowly and tried
to assuage the adrenaline flowing in my body. I looked at my watch.
It was 4:00, uncomfortably late in the soaring day for someone only
half the way around the course. The lift slowly increased and then
got strong as I went south. Soon, I was at eighteen thousand feet
again, traveling at ninety-five knots, silently scraping the bottom
of the cumulus clouds.

Pilots have to be careful not to get sucked up
into the clouds. A sailplane pilot decided to explore flying into a
thunderhead during a legendary flight in Germany seventy years ago.
A half hour after he entered, his frozen body and the shards of his
splintered wooden sailplane fell out of the bottom of the cloud. It
might be a legend, but I have decided not to try it
myself.

In about a half hour, I could see that I was
nearing the end of the street of clouds and the Mojave Desert ahead
looked like a big blue hole with no sign of any lift. Twenty miles
away, I saw a very large, isolated, cumulus cloud, perhaps topping
thirty thousand feet. It was yellow in the late afternoon sun and
was bent over by the late afternoon wind. I flew fast over the
sinking air, loosing thousands of feet of altitude, to get under
the cloud, into being sucked up at nearly a thousand feet per
minute.

I did a calculation. There would be no lift
between here and CrystalAire, ninety miles away. There would be a
tailwind. I figured I would need to get to twenty-five thousand
feet to glide home. Cloud base was at eighteen thousand feet, and I
wouldn't consider going into the cloud. Then, I remembered the
thunderhead was bent over by the wind, and there would be a stream
of wind flowing up the windward side. When I got to the ragged
underside of the cloud, I flew to the upwind side and sure enough
it was there, a river of air flowing up and over the side of the
cloud. I began tacking back and forth near the cloud, occasionally
speeding up to keep clear. Climbing steadily. I pulled the lever to
dump my wing water ballast. It streamed into the cloud, my
offering. I was now at twenty-three thousand feet and was sure I
could make it home. I called Joshua Control, the station that
controls the airspace over Edwards Air Force Base and the test
ranges, and asked for permission to overfly. It was granted. It was
5:00. All the test pilots were dead, retired, or in a bar at
California City; I had the airspace to myself.

A minute later, I heard Dan at CrystalAire call
me.

"King Romeo. Where are you, we were
worried?"

"I am eighty-five miles out. Starting my final
glide."

"Did you say eighty-five?"

"Yes, I'll be there in about an hour. Would you
call Tina for me?"

"Wilco," He replied. I could hear cheering in
the background.

As I settled into the long, quiet glide, I
reflected on the day, the excitement, and the occasional terror. I
was achieving my flight goal, maybe a life goal, maybe an
inter-life goal. I would get an FAI gold badge with three diamonds,
an alternative to the Blue Max without having to kill
anyone.

I had traveled in space and in time, from noon
to evening, from CrysalAire to Independence. I had traveled in
space-time, fulfilling the goal from another space-time.

I thought of Tina and could feel her love
through space. I recalled our time at Rocky Butte and could feel
her love from that space-time. I also felt that she was
worried.

I felt Tina's vibration change from worried to
joy: Dan must have called her and told her that I was safe and on
my way home.

I thought of Uriel and his task and
dreams-come-true now remitted to me: love, marriage, and new job,
fulfilling future; possibly a vine covered cottage, with a white
picket fence, and a Golden Retriever.

I glided on wings of gratitude.

****

When I neared CrystalAire about 6:00, I found I
had a thousand feet to spare. I radioed Dan.

"I'm about a mile out, can I do a high speed
pass?"

"Go ahead, everyone with any sense is on the
ground."

A high-speed pass is similar to a victory lap
in auto racing. A mile off the end of the runway, I went into a
steep dive, sped up to one hundred ten miles per hour, leveled off
a few feet above the ground and, flashed by four people waving at
the runway side. I pulled up into a steep 2g climb, coasting up to
fifteen hundred feet, and circled to land. I rolled to near my
trailer, stopped, popped the canopy open, jumped out, and ran
behind another trailer to pee.

Back at my sailplane, Dan who quickly examined
my flight recorder data to see that I had done as intended met
me.

"Looks great, congratulations!"

Tina appeared with two six packs of beer and a,
surprisingly tearful, giant kiss and hug.

We all drank beer while I savored the retelling
of one of the great tales of flying.

Tina clung to my arm.

As we walked to the mobile home after the
celebration at the field, I stopped several times and held Tina in
a loving embrace. I was having difficulty in staying in my body,
feeling that I could simply soar away, without that big thing I
left tied down at the airfield.

"I need to get grounded!" I laughed grinning at
Tina.

Tina replied, "I have just the thing." She
steered me up the stairs to the deck of the mobile home, and pushed
me into the love–seat on the porch.

In what seemed only a second, she reappeared
with an ice bucket with a very fine bottle of champagne, and two
flutes. "You do the honors," she said as she thrust the bottle into
my hands, and then held out the two flutes.

"Pop!" it went and I quickly poured the foam
that happens opening champagne at high altitude.

Tina giggled in delight as I filled both
glasses.

I was only being held down from flying away by
the weight of the bottle. We one arm hugged for a long time as our
glasses and spirits bubbled.

"A toast!" I said. "To you, love of my life! My
guiding spirit through a most important period of change in my
life! To your love and companionship I will cherish the rest of my
days."

We hugged and cried in joy. Then, cried some
more.

Tina pushed me away, and held up her glass.
"And to you, love of my life who perfectly compliments me and has
expanded my horizon and taught me the delight of adventure that I
look forward to sharing with you for the rest of my
life."

We hugged and cried some more.

"I've got to sit down," I said.