Susan announced that she wanted to take Adam for a ski, so I helped her get Adam's sled down to the snow, and they went off to ski toward Van Norden meadow, which was down the old right of way toward the west. David, after telling of his recent open heart surgery, his second career as an abalone diver, and his earlier career as an ATF inspector for wineries, left to enjoy the beautiful day with some more skiing. I resolved to try again, this time taking a different tack to dealing with the wind...

Just to the north of my abandoned right of way there was another large, flat area, about 6 to 15 feet higher, which served as a snow equipment yard for Donner Ski Ranch. Since the management of the Ski Ranch was so supportive, and their yard was so situated that it would almost double my room to run directly into the wind, I decided to move my launch point to their yard. I set up as far to the left as possible, with my glider laid out on the ice, but with my feet off the ice on the muddy dirt, with a clear shot upwind between two telephone poles. Luckily, the wires had been taken down from these poles, but there were still wires on the next poles over to the left. So my planned route was to run about 100 feet on their flat lot, exit between the poles, flying or nearly so as the ground fell away about six feet when I crossed onto the abandoned railroad right of way. I would then have about another one or two hundred feet to decide what to do about the box canyon kind of effect that awaited me to the west, where granite walls, low tension wires, and, finally, high tension wires were looming. I doubted that I'd have time to climb over these in any direct approach, but if I were flying I thought that I should be able to turn in time to avoid them and then climb out toward the west, where the right-of-way went on for at least a mile.

It was now about 1:15. I had been at this for nearly two hours, and still hadn't flown. The new situation looked much more likely to work, with quite a bit of room to move directly into the wind, and that nice six foot drop-off after the first 100 feet to help get me flying more easily. [I had learned that down slope is much better than up slope when launching in thin air.]

The wind was very light. The day had warmed up quite a bit, well into the forties, and I had decided to leave my jacket and gloves behind. But my camera was on and running, and my motor was running well too. I found the center of my lines, got my heading, took three big steps back, took three deep breaths, and surged forward with my chest, guiding my 'A' risers up with the thumbs of my out&up stretched hands. The wing came up, and though it went right, I was able to get under it and when it felt good above me, I applied full power as I ran. I passed through the opening in the telephone poles, a little to the right of the center, and flew off the embankment as the ground fell away, more due to the difference in height between the two fields than to my rate of climb, which was still nearly zero. But I was flying, and cleared a willow bush by several feet as I steered left to avoid heading into the trees on my right. Before I knew it, I was reaching the end of my box canyon, with perhaps 20 or 25 feet of elevation as I flew over the gawking faces of the families who were playing with sleds and saucers on the slope that rose in front of me and to the right, up to the road. I decided my best chance lay in turning left, so left I did turn, keeping full power on and using just enough brake to stay clear of the hillside and telephone poles and wires ahead of me. I still had perhaps 20 feet of elevation as I saw that another set of poles and wires, running at right angles to those that I had just avoided, were now approaching me, so I turned left again, completing what amounted to a 'U' turn with perhaps 10 yards to spare, passing right over the head of a man who was at first cheering and then giving the 'Up' 'Up' signal with his hands as I lost elevation and passed perhaps 15 feet over his head. Yikes! This was one scary takeoff!

Now, at least, the path before me was free of obstacles, provided that I did not veer right into the poles and wires, which would remain a hazard for the next hundred feet or so, before changing to just poles. I continued gently left, trying to gain elevation. I was flying, free and clear, out over the snow-covered abandoned railroad right of way that had been my intended take off and landing zone. I decided that this was a good time to get back into my seat. I let go of my toggles, brought my hands down, scooched myself back into my seat, and reached up hurriedly for my toggles as a huge yellow snow-moving skip loader loomed in front of me! Yikes! I had turned rather quickly right while getting into my seat, and now was headed right for the equipment in the equipment yard! There must be some tricky air currents blowing around here on the lee side of the summit, I thought to myself as I turned left once again and brought myself back on course, glad that I had enough elevation to clear the equipment, but disturbed that I hadn't flown straight when I let go of the controls...

I did look up at my wing, but the lines appeared to be coming down to me in a the proper configuration, being blown back by my airspeed but otherwise OK. I was not getting it... As I flew down the right of way, with a clearing below me, a tree-covered valley floor to my left, and a tree-covered hillside sloping up to mountains on my right, I was impressed who the 'air currents' seemed to want to suck me into the hillside on my right. I tried to figure out in my mind how the winds, coming from the east, were moving across the land masses around me to produce this surprising strong ground effect. What a fool!

Soon the right of way was ending, and a gondola cable, laden with moving gondolas, loomed before me, carrying people between the Sugar Bowl ski resort on my left and their parking lot up slope to my right. It looked like I was going to make it, but, damn, it was uncomfortably close. I'm just not climbing as fast as I'd like. It must be an effect of elevation, I thought to myself. I'm at about 7400 feet now, after all...

With the gondola cable rising from left to right, I turned a bit left to stay away from the high part of it and cleared it with relative ease, after all. Ahead of me, less than a mile away now, lay the huge, open space that is Van Norden meadow. Feeling confident with my elevation, and the fact that I could see an easy glide path down to the old right of way, I flew in relative comfort toward the safety that the meadow represented for me. I watched for Susan and Adam skiing the path below, and finally found them shortly before the meadow. I waved and Susan waved back, but I did not come down for any low passes, being unwilling to give up my hard-won altitude at this time. Instead, I circled around to the right (this was easy to do, just ease up on the left brake) and took in the amazing views of Castle Peak, Sugar Bowl, and Van Norden Meadow, with Devil's Peak behind it in the distance. My chest-mounted camera was still running and caught some of these beautiful perspectives...

I still could not figure out why my glider wanted to turn right. I could tell that I needed an inordinate amount of left toggle just to fly straight, and continued to need most of this input even when I'd ease up on the throttle. Yet when I looked up, I did not see any problem. [Funny, because Susan, perhaps 300 feet below me, said later that she could see a pronounced deformation of the trailing edge of the right side of my wing.]

But it was a beautiful day, I was flying high above the meadow, and after my takeoff experience I expected that I would not be trying a takeoff there again any time soon, so I decided to fly around and enjoy this one (and perhaps only) chance to fly here. I climbed higher, to gain longer views, seeing more and more peaks of the Sierra crest to the south, out into desolation wilderness and beyond. I had a huge, miles-long and mile+ wide meadow below me, and had, by the time I turned back East, picked up enough elevation that I could safely glide a long way, so I was able to venture out a little further over the trees on my return, sweeping right toward Sugar Bowl's Mounts Disney and Lincoln. But I was still afraid of rotors and other ground effects that might be coming off the lee sides of these mountains in the easterly breeze, so I played it conservative, heading back above my takeoff/landing zone much sooner than glide path required.

I was rewarded for this by a gorgeous view of Donner Lake over the notch of the summit, sparkling 2500 feet below me at the head of a forested valley whose granite shoulders rose up toward me in a series of snow swept steps and outcroppings that draw rock climbers from hundreds of miles away. At the summit, now 1200 feet below me, there lay two frozen lakes, Lake Angela and Lake Mary, flanking the liquid lower lake on left and right, providing tempting clear possible landing areas much larger than my takeoff zone, should I be willing to trust my life to strength of their ice. I wasn't willing, but enjoyed the sight of them none the less.

Turning gently to the left, I circled above Donner Ski Ranch, picking up a lot of elevation as I came into the gentle ridge lift from the air that was coming across Donner Lake and being forced up the end of the valley toward me. Even at idle, I continued to climb as I flew around above the slopes of the ski ranch. I checked my camera again, to see if it might just be off, but, alas, the battery was dead, and the only record I have of these incredible views is the one etched in my memory..

I was soaring! It was not only soarable, it was *smoothly* soarable, to the best of my ability to determine. Though it was pretty smooth, there were still definite pulls on the canopy here and there as I flew over the square mile or so that roughly centered over the Donner Ski Ranch main lodge... I was climbing, with engine at idle, and debated whether to shut the engine off and just soar until it was time to land. I had only killed the engine at elevation once before, and that time I was above a huge meadow, while here I was over a ski resort, with a small landing zone off to the side, and I was not confident that I would be able to make that landing zone properly without resorting to power, and I was afraid that if I had to land on the wide runs of the ski resort that I might be a hazard to skiers and lose the good will of the resort. I was also getting colder by the minute, wearing only a light fleece jacket and no gloves. I was also, sorry to say, just plain scared to do it...

That reminds me that I need to start practicing shutting the engine while high in flight and re-starting it, like my instructor Eric does, until I become comfortable with the procedure. This reminds me that a big problem with shutting the engine and re-starting it, on this particular flight, was that my glider was not flying straight when I'd release the controls - it would spiral to the right instead. Spiraling to the right would not have made for an easy first attempt at re-starting in flight with my recoil starter!

Enough excuses, already! I had enjoyed about as much fun as I could stand for one day, was higher than I had ever been before, and thought that just getting down safely to land would be adventure enough for me. I decided to head for home, which meant, first of all, that I was going to have to fly out of the lift I was in and find some stable or sinking air. I suspected that I should get away from the eastward face of the range, since the wind was coming from the east, and when I did this I got out of the strong lift, into what might still have been a light lift (at my new elevation) out toward the center of the Sugar Bowl valley. Here I chose to spiral down, to the right, losing elevation rather quickly and amazing myself with how rapidly I would accelerate into a feeling of being in a centrifuge, and choose to back off once again. My hands were getting really cold and a bit unresponsive. I started to worry about what would happen to me if my hands did not do what my brain commanded. I also found myself worrying about whether my brain would be able to make my landing zone, which looked very, very tiny amongst the trees, power lines, railroad tracks and other hazards that seemed to fill 98% of the big valley below me...

Given the situation, I chose not to fly around and sightsee very much on my decent. I just stuck close above my intended LZ and did spirals and S-turns, trying to get a good handle on my glide path and stay prepared for possible turbulence in the wind which had to crest the summit and come down slope to my landing zone. Once I got to be perhaps 150 feet above the ground (now below the summit to my east), the lift seemed to disappear, replaced by a sinking action that quickly brought me into landing stance. I was none to happy with my landing zone, as it seemed small to maneuver above, and was only to happy to find myself in the approximate middle of it, flying West, as I came in to land. On my previous circuit of the field, the sock had seemed to indicate a westerly breeze, but that may have been only a passing thing, because my landing turned out to be slightly downwind and crosswind, onto yielding snow. My feet sank in and I fell forward on my hands and face, with my wing overflying me and crashing (gently), toward the right, on it's leading edge. I almost kissed the ground! It was nice to look at that snow up close, before climbing up to the parking lot to sit in my greenhouse-heated car and get warm... I was elated and shaken at the same time.

After sitting in the car in the sun for about ten minutes, I felt like I was warm enough again, and went down, now bundled in jacket and gloves, to retrieve my equipment.

While laying out my glider for folding, Susan skied up with Adam in tow, and I enjoyed a tender reunion with my family. It's so great to be alive, and so sweet to have a wife and child such as these! I love them dearly! They are so understanding of me, to, supporting me in the great adventure of flying these high mountain passes!

Ever observant, Susan asked me if I knew that my wing had a deformation, like a 'V', she called it, on the right side trailing edge. As the reason for my glider's tendency to turn right hit home to me, I replied that I had not known, but now it all made sense. Before flying, I had carefully cleared the 'A' risers and the 'B' risers, but figured, based on something that I had once heard, that 'the others will take care of themselves'. Well, maybe they 'usually' will take care of themselves, but the last time this glider had been flown, it had been put away in very windy conditions, and a snarl might have been folded up into the glider. Checking the 'C' and brake lines, sure enough, I found a snarl, about one third of the way in from the tip, in the lines leading to the trailing edge. It was not tightly knotted, but it was knot-like in that it might have just tightened up if it were jerked on. I don't know whether I could have cleared it in the air. But I should have noticed it before even trying to launch, and cleared it then. Failing that (and I doubt that I ever will fail that), I should have noticed it while kiting and before applying full power. Failing that, I should have noticed it when the glider pulled right while I was climbing into my seat, and returned immediately to land and clear the lines, instead of flying around using my left brake for three quarters of an hour... Am I a shortsighted fool, or what?

Pondering these things, I hauled the glider, and then the motor unit, up the hill, just in time to get a visit from David, the shareholder in Donner Ski Ranch. He was driving this time, and had his wife with him. She told me excitedly that they (she and other skiers) had been watching me fly over Van Norden meadow, from the top of the ski mountain, and that it had been very beautiful to watch. It was nice to hear what it looked like from her perspective!

I took the cage off the motor unit, while visiting with the snow equipment mechanics who came by to chat, and I noticed that an aluminum stub that the middle of the harness clips into, which had cracked previously (on the Lone Pine fiasco?) was now broken completely loose. I would want to have this welded before flying again, just to put things right. These guys were happy to help, but they didn't have TIG equipment and did not know who did. Oh well. I got the glider, cage, motor and dog all packed into my little convertible and was headed toward a lunch date with Susan when who should drive up but Norm, the veritable owner of Donner Ski Ranch! He offered congratulations and interest in my flight, while I told him how beautiful it was and offered my regrets that the video camera battery had died before I made it back to the summit. I think I'll be welcome to fly there again, but I plan to wait for either a westerly wind, or a monster power unit, or perhaps a ride to the top of the mountain to launch if it's an easterly breeze again...

P.S. After a glorious top-down ride to Truckee, a great late lunch, a meeting with the amazing local TIG welder, who had just finished a boat that is currently competing in the America's Cup down in New Zealand, arranging for my unit to be repaired for pickup on New Year's Eve, and a glorious top-down ride over the summit an home, I got sore, tired, weak and took sick. For days, I had to lay low, and did not fly again until eight days later.

Flight 59 :

Location: Old abandoned airport above Nevada City, California
Elevation: 3000 feet, estimated.
Temp: 51 degrees Fahrenheit, estimated
Time: 4:20-4:38 PM, Jan 7, 2000
Wind at start: 0 mph W, variable
Wind at finish: 3 mph NW, variable
Glider: 38 meter Nervures Stromboli + .4 Hr = 30.0 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, + .4 hr + = 15.9 hr TT
Airtime: +.3 = 13.9
Launch: Forward, on first try
Touch and Go's: None
Screwups: 1. Made some error re-assembling the carburetor after the getting the unit back from the welder. Symptom was that fuel ran out of carburetor vent tubes. I was slow to notice it, and ended up with quite a puddle on my tailgate. Removing the float bowl, verifying that the float-actuated valve was working properly, and re-installing the float bowl corrected the problem. 2. Slightly downwind/crosswind landing. Conditions were varying quickly.

Breakthroughs: Experienced much better climbout than previous flights at this site. Perhaps due to the tuning Eric did on our last meeting. Engine is running leaner now. It's also pretty well broken in.

Remarks: A nice little pre-sunset flight. I had planned on flying about 3/4 hour, but my carburetor follies used up much of my available flight time. I set up with a nice little breeze, but by the time I was ready to launch the wind was gone, and even starting to pulse from the opposite direction. I launched with some trepidation, but it went splendidly, and I had climbed nearly to treetop height by the time I reached the BMX track, and thus was able to use the dog-leg part of my runway to climb comfortably above the trees. It was nice to have a glide path back to clear ground available at all times when flying from this site. Once well aloft, the views were also rather nice, with a handful of snow-capped peaks poking above the smoky forested slopes to the west, and what might have been the coast range poking above the fog that filled the great central valley to my east.

I shot video of the first 8 or 9 minutes of this flight, and then forgot to turn the camera back on for the landing. When I landed, a small crowd gathered, and soon a family arrived with a two-year-old boy. They explained that their boy had seen the 'kite' in the sky and had pointed it out them. They are neighbors, living just a short distance from the site, and invited me to come by with Adam (my two-year-old) next time I come to fly there. I look forward to it, now that I know I can climb out of the trees with some degree of comfort...
 

Flight 60 :

Location: Meadow at headwaters of Bear River, Highway 20 near I-80
Elevation: 4600 feet, estimated.
Temp: 53 degrees Fahrenheit, estimated
Time: 1:25-1:45 PM, Feb 6, 2000
Wind at start: 6 mph W, variable
Wind at finish: 5 mph W, variable
Glider: 38 meter Nervures Stromboli + .5 Hr = 30.5 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, + .4 hr + = 16.3 hr TT
Airtime: +.3 = 14.3
Launch: Forward, on first try
Touch and Go's: None
Screwups: None.

Breakthroughs: None.

Remarks: My first flight in a month, after four failed attempts. Today it was a perfect day, on a perfect field, and it all went perfectly. I was beginning to think that flight 60 was the one that would never happen. But when the conditions are right, it is easy to fly... The snow that had covered the field just four days before had mostly melted off, and there was a nice up-canyon (Westerly) breeze. Although the speed of the wind was variable, the air seemed smooth while I flew. I stayed rather low on this first flight and just cruised around the meadow, waiting for my friends to arrive. When they arrived, I came in for a landing and answered their questions before taking off on flight 61.

Flight 61 :

Location: Meadow at headwaters of Bear River, Highway 20 near I-80
Elevation: 4600 feet, estimated.
Temp: 53 degrees Fahrenheit, estimated
Time: 2:10-2:46 PM, Feb 6, 2000
Wind at start: 3 mph W, variable
Wind at finish: 2 mph W, variable
Glider: 38 meter Nervures Stromboli + 1 Hr = 31.5 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, + .6 hr + = 16.9 hr TT
Airtime: +.6 = 14.9
Launch: Forward, on first try
Touch and Go's: 4
Screwups: None.

Breakthroughs: None.

Remarks: It's just great to be back home at my friendly mountain meadow. This was another fun flight, this one above my friend Jack and his friend Bonnie. They shot video that I have yet to review. I stayed rather low and flew over the meadow, using the isolated pine trees as giant pylons, trying to stay close enough to my friends to keep them from getting too bored. The air was smooth, the sky was clear and blue, and the snow line was 500-700 feet above me. I got an aerial view of a bunch of four-wheelers who were playing in the mud down by the river, and generally tearing up the meadow more than they would have if they had seen the 'donut scars' from the air...

I should mention that on my takeoff run I found myself running far further right than I expected before turning back to the West. Maybe the video will provide an answer as to why the glider went right...

Flight 62 :

Location: Meadow at headwaters of Bear River, Highway 20 near I-80
Elevation: 4600 feet, estimated.
Temp: 53 degrees Fahrenheit, estimated
Time: 2:56-3:14 PM, Feb 6, 2000
Wind at start: 2 mph W, variable
Wind at finish: 1 mph W, variable
Glider: 38 meter Nervures Stromboli + .4 Hr = 31.9 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, + .3 hr + = 17.2 hr TT
Airtime: +.3 = 15.2
Launch: Forward, on first try
Touch and Go's: 2
Screwups: None.

Breakthroughs: None.

Remarks: Yet another great flight around and above the meadow, staying close to maintain a sense of connection to my friends on the ground. I love the views in this meadow, flying around trees and over the rippling waters of the river in the afternoon sun. Was wishing I could record the views, so I came in to get the camera, my new altimeter watch (which had just arrived from Bruce Brown), fuel up a bit, and head up for higher elevations in the nice-and-smooth air.

Flight 63 :

Location: Meadow at headwaters of Bear River, Highway 20 near I-80
Elevation: 4600 feet, estimated.
Temp: 50 degrees Fahrenheit, estimated
Time: 3:20-3:50 PM, Feb 6, 2000
Wind at start: 1 mph W, variable
Wind at finish: 2 mph E, variable
Glider: 38 meter Nervures Stromboli + .6 Hr = 32.5 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, + .4 hr + = 17.6 hr TT
Airtime: +.5 = 15.7
Launch: Forward, on first try
Touch and Go's: none.
Screwups: None.

Breakthroughs: My first in-air re-start! Yahoo! I was 'way up there', as Adam (my two-year-old son) would say, with engine off, gliding peacefully down toward my landing zone about 1500 feet below, and thought to myself: "If you don't try and practice in-air re-starts now, when are you ever going to?". Needless to say, the answer was that I should give it a try. The first thing I noticed is that I did not know where, by feel, to find my recoil starter handle. I groped around for it a bit with my left and then with my right hand, which involved me taking my right shoulder out of the harness, which soon led to me feeling scared, with the ground so far below and one shoulder out of the harness. I resolved to build myself a simulator setup so that I could practice this kind of exercise just a few feet above the ground instead of over a thousand feet up. After thinking about it for a minute, however, I decided to give it another try on this glide, and this time I found my recoil starter handle, pulled it out enough to get both hands on it, and gave it a sharp pull with my right hand as I pushed out with my left hand. To my pleasant surprise, the SD-48 started right up! Even though I had used only half of the rope's effective pull length. Grinning from ear to ear, I applied power for only a short time before resuming my power-off glide back to base...

Remarks: I put about four more liters in the tank, got my new altimeter watch strapped on, figured out how to set it to a reference elevation (I did not know the true elevation, so I set it to 4000 feet for easy reading), and said my goodbyes to my friends Jack and Bonnie, warning them that I planned to stay airborne for quite a while on this flight, and thus I might not see them again if they wanted to do anything else with their afternoon.

With my camera running, I blasted off forward into the setting sun. The wind was nearly nonexistent, but I've gotten used to running in the heavy meadow grass in my huge size 13 Sorels, and in perhaps 50 yards I was flying. I decided to 'take her on up' and see just how high the smooth air might continue.

That smooth air continued for a very long way. Soon I was level with the canyon walls, which I could now see were not the 500 feet that I had estimated, but more like 700 feet above the meadow. I was climbing at about 100 feet per minute, under full power, and was probably about 5200 feet above sea level. The tuned pipe solo was doing a good job, but I can't wait to see how fast I climb with the nearly 50% bigger tuned-pipe Hirth and the dual 48 inch props that will be mine when my SD 'Monster' arrives later this month...

Since there was no turbulence above the canyon walls, I climbed higher and higher, circling, keeping an eye out for aircraft. The higher I got, the more I found myself worrying that a fast-moving aircraft could be approaching me from behind, in my blind spot, and this worry inspired me to make a lot of turns. As I climbed higher, more and more snow-covered peaks came into view, and the topography of adjoining river canyons below me was revealed.

At about 1250 feet above my meadow, I noticed that my hands were starting to get cold. I started to wish I had worn gloves. But the air was still smooth, and the views were sweet, so I kept on climbing, until my new Suunto altimeter watch said that I was 2000 feet above the meadow. The views were great, but the air was colder still, and I still could not see the actual crest of the Sierra to my east. My view of the crest was blocked by snow-covered peaks that I knew to be west of the summit. So someday I would have to fly higher to see the full crest. But for today, I had climbed 2000 feet, to an estimated elevation of 6500 feet, bare-handed in February, and that was good enough for me!

I landed smoothly and stayed happy.

Flight 64 :

Location: Parking Lot across from Donner Ski Ranch, old Highway 40
Elevation: 7100 feet, estimated.
Temp: 32 degrees Fahrenheit, estimated
Time: 5:15-5:33 PM, Feb 17, 2000
Wind at start: 2 mph SW, variable
Wind at finish: 2 mph SE, variable
Glider: 38 meter Nervures Stromboli + .4 Hr = 32.9 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, + .4 hr + = 18.0 hr TT
Airtime: +.3 = 16.0
Launch: Forward, on first try
Touch and Go's: none.
Screwups: Neglected to attach backup safety strap to right riser, so I flew with no backup attachment on my right side! It's especially disturbing when I remember myself repeating Eric Dufour's "THIS IS YOUR LIFE!" reminder while attaching the safety strap on the left side, just moments before. Early senility? Or just careless rushing in the face of cold and failing light? I better figure out which, and get a handle on it.

Breakthroughs: Much faster/easier liftoff than expected. It think it really helps when the grade drops away. I estimate that it dropped 4 or 5 feet in the first 100 feet of my takeoff path...

Remarks: It's 11:00 PM, and I've felt tired since getting home after my little 15 minute flight at the summit. Outside, it's a full-moon lit night, with rolling waves of sparkling snow, and I don't have the energy to go out and ski! Why? Maybe it's because I packed several hours of living into that 15 minute flight!

The process began more than an hour before, when I skied out to the road, cleared the six inches of fresh snow off of the car, put the top down, and took out the child seat, re-packed the skis and snowshoes to make room for the incredible Mookie, the wonder dog. All the while, I was trying to decide which direction to go for this afternoon's flight attempt. I knew the winds were reported to be 3mph SW near my usual flying meadow, about 20 minutes and 2000' downslope. But I also knew that it had snowed down at Bear meadow, and if I was going to deal with snow, maybe I should go for the real thing, and head 1000' upslope to the summit. When I came to the fork in the road, I stopped the car, got out, walked to an open area, and felt the wind. Seemed like a mild wind from the southwest. I thought of the orientation of my likely summit field, and realized that this *might* just work. So off to the summit we went.

On the way there, I checked a couple of parking lots at the western end of the huge Van Norden meadow. One was plowed down to muddy earth, while the other had half-frozen slush more than 8 inches deep on it. The slush looked like a recipe for a very, very cold accident, and the mud looked like a recipe for a very, very dirty glider, so Mookie and I left these lots and headed east.

A couple of miles later, we were just west of the summit, looking at an empty parking lot across the street from Donner Ski ranch. It's their overflow lot, actually, but no one was using it this Thursday afternoon. The lot was mostly covered with re-frozen snow and frozen slush, with an occasional bare spot. As I stood and looked down the length of the lot, I could tell the wind was largely coming toward me, with a component (1/4-1/3?) from my left. The left component was worrisome, because in that direction lay a six to ten foot high berm of stacked snow, standing like a wall, where the snow thrower machines had chewed their way to the edge of the parking lot. Projecting from this snow berm were a series of abandoned power poles. If I flew, I'd have to avoid these hazards. My plan was to stay to the right of them, but if the left component of the wind was too great, then I worried that I'd have to run toward them in order to launch into the wind.

Worrying a bit about these things slowed my setup a bit, as did admiring the beautiful, floating back lit clouds and the snow covered peaks that surrounded me. For the first 20-30 minutes of my set up, I was in the full sun, with all the clouds hanging around edges, near the peaks. Then the sun dropped behind the ridge that was maybe 400 yards in front of me, and it got *colder*.

Suddenly, a white bronco(?) pulled up. The window went down, and inside I saw my smiling friends, Hans and Kim, who happened to see me setting up as they drove home from a day of skiing at Sugar Bowl. We enjoyed a nice visit, as I continued tightening the bolts holding my prop, and snapping my cage onto the frame. They told me that their thermometer reported thirty-two degrees... After exchanging well wishes, they headed off into the sunset.

I had assembled my SD-48, and was preparing to place my glider, when a huge front-loader, used for clearing snow, drove right across the space where I intended to lay the glider. It would not do to have giant loaders driving across my beautiful turquoise and orange glider! I repositioned my car in such a way as to discourage any other loaders that might be looking for a short cut, and laid the glider out, as far back as possible without getting in trouble with the wires. Did I mention the wires? I had a 220v drop line (a single twisted bundle) crossing diagonally about 20-25 feet above my glider position, and set of high-voltage lines and poles about 30 feet to the right of my right wing tip, and contueing along the right-hand side of my launching lot. These wires were not going to be a problem on takeoff, because they were somewhat downwind. It was the wireless poles on the left side of my intended runway that were on my mind...

I was rigged up. Time to start the motor. First pull, the engine feels really tight and heavy. Second pull, still tight and heavy, like the oil is thick, and I'm not getting a fast pull. Third pull, faster, and it starts instantly. After a minute of so, I turn off the choke, climb in my harness, stand, and step over my lines to face away from my glider. I'm trying to attach my helmet strap, wearing neoprene gloves, and not paying much attention to the motor, which for some reason is not really that warm yet. Putt Putt. It dies. It's cold! I try to re-start while standing in my harness, but I'm not getting enough speed on the pull. A man, who's been standing over by the snow berm watching me, volunteers to give me a pull. He comes right over to help, but ends up having to spend a couple of minutes negotiating with his dog, who wants to make it clear that she does not approve of him getting anywhere near this motor thing. Once he works it out with the dog, he starts the SD on the first pull, with full choke. After 10 seconds, we turn the choke off, and I resolve to keep it running above idle until it's truly warm.

I spend what seems like five minutes getting the helmet strap threaded through the metal rings that hold it in place, fumbling with my gloved fingers until I finally take the right glove off to carry out the job. A couple of snowmobilers appear on top of the berm, watching intently. I pull my lines up out of the ice and snow, making sure that they are clear of freeze-sticking. I find my center, then step back three paces, and then another half-pace just for good measure. This is, after all, a 7000 foot plus field, with ice and snow for footing! I want to have plenty of forward momentum when those lines tighten and the glider begins to pull up. All is ready, except that, according to the wind sock, the left component of the wind has increased. I don't want to run into that giant berm, or snag my glider or lines on those abandoned power poles. I wait, watching the windsock, warming up the motor, wondering to myself wether I *really* tightened those bolts holding the prop to the hub...

The windsock shifts to a more westerly direction, and indicates a little increase in wind speed. This is my cue. One, Two, Three - step into it, leading with my chest, guiding the A-risers up with my thumbs, applying moderate power as soon as the wing is above me, trying to run forward but feeling that 'stuck' feeling that seems to go with pulling up the wing. As the wing approaches the top of it's arc, it starts to let me move forward, and in a few steps I am running rapidly, steering by feel, dancing sideways, first right, then left, then right again, trying to gain perfect control, but achieving only good control, with a building (why did some fool put a building right in the middle of this runway?) looming large in my view before passing safely by on my right. I am almost flying. Then I am flying, above the bluish, crusty ice, turning slightly right to avoid those nasty, splintery old abandoned power poles that are sweeping by me on my left. I fly over a huge slush-puddle at the low point of the lot, and soon have enough altitude to fly over the row of parked heavy machinery and out over the old railroad right-of-way. Now we're flying!

There are trees to my left, and trees to my right, but this old right-of-way is pretty wide, a hundred yards, maybe, so as soon as I verify that I am flying straight without control inputs, I let go of the toggles and push myself back in the seat before taking the controls again. I'm thinking that this takeoff and climb out sure were a breeze compared to my last (and only other) flight from this site (#58). It really helps to have a bit of a down slope, and a bit of head wind, on takeoff!

Soon I have enough elevation to leave the abandoned railroad right-of-way and turn left, over the trees. At this point I realize that the camera is not really running, and turn it on. The trees are especially beautiful against the pure white snow, seen from the sky this way. There's still some direct sunlight on some of the terrain around me, but much of it is being shaded by the giant clouds that the sun appears to be sinking in to... As I turn downwind and marvel at the views, with the sun at my back, I am impressed that there must be quite a bit higher wind up here than down where I took off. I estimate that it's blowing 10-12 up here.

I find myself flying South, out over the Sugar Bowl ski resort. It's out of the sun, shaded by Mount Disney, and it's almost a black-and-white scene, with brilliant white snow cut by dark black roads and seemingly black trees. There's not much activity, but beautiful fresh tracks decorate the new snow. I turn back toward the North, where some peaks are still in the sun. The frozen lakes of the summit don't even look like lakes anymore - they look like snow-covered meadows. I wonder if they would be safe to land on? I flash on the image of landing on one and crashing through the ice into the cold, black water - I decide not to try landing on either of these lakes!

Instead, I maintain my altitude (300-500 feet AGL) and cruise, first, over the main bowl of Donner Ski Ranch, and then out over the giant glacier-carved granite domes of the summit, getting a nice view of the partially frozen Donner lake on the other side. A black ribbon of highway snakes from the summit down to the lake. Snow really brings out the contrasts. I find myself wishing I had gotten into the air an hour or so earlier, as the lighting would have been much better, or so I imagine...

But meanwhile, my hands are beginning to feel cold, especially my fingers. They are getting colder fast, too! It's time to head down.

I elect to do a straight approach, till I know that I'm past all the dangerous wires, and then S-turn to burn any excess altitude. The way my fingers feel, I'm not in the mood to waste any time. From up there, the parking lot that I launched from looks dirty and full of hazards. The snow-covered right-of-way looks far more inviting - I just don't know if I can run on that snow, or if it will grab my feet and hold on...

Seeing snow-cat tracks, I make my last corrections to touchdown with my feet on those tracks, and run out my landing without even sinking in the snow. It feels like four inches of powder on a firm base. A dream come true!

Moments later, Mookie, the world's greatest dog, comes bounding across the snow to welcome me back, as I try to figure out whether my fingertips are just numb, or are they frozen. They feel like each fingertip has been injected with Novocaine - I can still feel pressure, sort of, but they are not responsive, and the first joint does not move. Good thing I came down when I did - I did not realize, while aloft, that they were this far gone! It's amazing how cold fingers can get in just 15 minutes of air time...

Now that I'm down, I see that the clouds to the west are starting to glow with the yellow-orange light of a high sierra sunset. To the east, a nearly full moon shines against the deepening blue sky. To the north, my beautiful glider lies in the snow, staying dry, to my amazement. Then I realize: it's cold, that's why!

I pack up, grinning all the while, and Mookie and I head home, top down, with the full moon shining behind us, my trusty wing and motor tucked in the back seat...

Flight 65 :

Location: Parking Lot across from Donner Ski Ranch, old Highway 40
Elevation: 7100 feet, estimated.
Temp: 28 degrees Fahrenheit, estimated
Time: 2:24-2:29 PM, Feb 21, 2000
Wind at start: 5 mph SW, variable
Wind at finish: 8 mph SW, variable
Glider: 38 meter Nervures Stromboli + .3 Hr = 33.2 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, + .3 hr + = 18.3 hr TT
Airtime: +.1 = 16.1
Launch: Forward, on first try
Touch and Go's: none.
Screwups: Should not have flown in these conditions. Should have killed engine before landing.

Breakthroughs: None.

Remarks: I've been ashamed to write this flight up for weeks now, but, since I flew three times again the other day, I've got to write it up to document the subsequent flights.

It had been beautiful, earlier in the day, with the previous day's storm having blown over, leaving clear blue skies in it's wake. But I had work to do, and by the time I got up to the summit, the clear blue skies had acquired some big white and white-grey clouds, which were rolling over the range of peaks to the south and across the valley toward me.

As I set up, things got wilder and wilder, with snow flurries coming through. Still, I did not quit. The snow stopped but threatened to return at any moment, and the wind sock showed rather wild variation in wind speed and direction.

I should have known to pack it up, but decided to 'go up for a short flight to see how it was - I could always return if I did not like it...'

Spoken like a true fool. My short flight was very scary, a roller-coaster ride of updrafts, downdrafts, and side-drafts, scaring me to the core. It was hard to find a moment that felt safe to let go of the toggles and scoot back in my seat. But I did. With the crazy air currents, my narrow emergency landing zone looked much, much smaller than it had on my previous flight from this location just a couple of 4-foot storms earlier...

As I climbed, it only got bumpier and wilder. I turned left and found myself flying, more or less downwind, like the proverbial 'bat out of hell' back toward my launch/landing area. Turning upwind again, I came nearly to a stop, perhaps a hundred feet above my launch/landing zone, and managed to descend with a few wild S-turns. My hands were already freezing, as I had not felt safe taking the time to put them back inside my mittens. I neglected, or found myself unable, to kill the motor. A swirling side/tail wind/downdraft helped to bring me to the ground faster than I liked, and I heard the sickening sound of my prop chopping the packed ice and gravel that had been thrown from the parking lot to my ill-chosen landing zone by the snow-throwing machinery. Ice, dirt, gravel and pieces of my shattered prop were thrown high into the air, right into the open cells of my glider as it fell from the sky. The sickening slapping sounds stopped quickly after I depressed the kill switch, only 20 or 30 seconds too late.

My glider collapsed in a pile, splattered with nasty crud, approximately half of my prop was scattered about in tiny pieces, the webbing of my cage was hanging in shreds, and my cage tubing itself had been chopped through in one place. Though I was glad to be back on the ground, I was very unhappy about how I had landed. A mechanic stuck his head over the snowbank to ask if I was OK. I told him that I was OK, but had been a fool to fly in such sh*tty conditions...

Thoouroughly disgusted with myself, depressed about having damaged my equipment unnecessarily, I packed up as the snow began to fall again...

Flight 66 :

Location: Sand City Beach and Dunes, part of the former Fort Ord, near Monterey, California
Elevation: 12, estimated.
Temp: 58 degrees Fahrenheit, estimated
Time: 11:15-12:15 PM, Feb 12, 2000
Wind at start: 5 mph NW, steady
Wind at finish: 6 mph NW, steady
Glider: 31 meter Ozone Electron + 1.6 Hr = 25.6 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, + 1.1 hr + = 19.4 hr TT
Airtime: +1 = 17.1
Launch: Reverse, on first try
Touch and Go's: none.
Screwups: Flew with loose belt. It is easy to tighten belts on an SD, so I should have taken the time to do so.

Breakthroughs: Learned that just because I just tightened a belt, that doesn't mean that it can't have gotten to be loose again.

Remarks: I waited until April 21 to write up this flight, so this report may lack some detail that it would have had if written sooner.

I had driven down the coast, looking for a place to fly, thinking that Sand City might be a good possibility, and, indeed, it turned out to be such.

There are on the order of ten miles of sand dunes here, north of Monterey. The beach looked very flyable. I took a long, sightseeing flight to the North, with a loose belt that kept me from using more than about one-half power. I didn't need much power, however, because of the offshore breeze and the handy ridge of sand dunes, so I flew for the sightseeing, and it was enjoyable. I went North until I came upon what was obviously an organized hang-glider launching area. I steered well clear of this and returned to my starting point, for a one-hour flight.

Flight 67 :

Location: Sand City Beach and Dunes, part of the former Fort Ord, near Monterey, California
Elevation: 12, estimated.
Temp: 58 degrees Fahrenheit, estimated
Time: 2:35-3:05 PM, Feb 12, 2000
Wind at start: 10-15 mph NW, variable
Wind at finish: 15-25 mph NW, variable
Glider: 31 meter Ozone Electron + 2.0 Hr = 27.6 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, + 0.6 hr + = 20.0 hr TT
Airtime: +.5 = 17.6
Launch: Reverse, on fifth try
Touch and Go's: three, none quite intended.
Screwups: Conditions had gotten too windy, but then mellowed a bit, and despite a warning from a general aviation pilot who said that I should not fly, (he estimated that it was blowing 28-30 up there), I flew anyway, partly because a pilot from England was visiting that day and he had missed my morning flight which was in much more appropriate conditions. Another screwup was to scoop a bunch of sand into my wing during a failed reverse launch attempt, not pay attention to it, and continue to make reverse launch attempts with a couple of pounds of sand in my wing until finally taking off, flying with a bunch of sand in my trailing edge!

Breakthroughs: First time ridge soaring. Very enjoyable way to travel along a ridge.

Remarks:
As I write, it is now April 21, more than two months after this flight. I've been slow to write it up, probably because I'm not proud of it. But write about it I must, so here is the story:

My English friend had been too far away to arrive in time for a morning flight, but he arrived around 1:00 and really wanted to fly. The wind was building up. While he put together his equipment and carried it down to the beach, I got my tools and tightened the belt on my SD-48. I then tested the motor and was very happy to feel that I once again had full power.

I then decided that it had become too windy to fly and went back to my car to get my training harness, so that I could perhaps do some kiting instead while waiting for the afternoon surge to pass. I was kiting on the beach when my English friend came down with his gear and announced that he thought it was flyable. I looked at the situation and had to admit that it was, indeed, flyable at the moment, but that just a few (15?) minutes earlier, it had been un-flyable...

He was very enthusiastic, and in the end I relented, though I could still hear the words of the general aviation pilot who had come up to talk to me on the beach just half an hour before, who had declared that "I think it's blowing 28-30 up there, and you should not fly..." When I asked my friend if he had anything to say for the camera before we took off, he said something like "Let's hope the wind doesn't come up."

I'd like to make a long story short, now, but I don't know how...

My friend took off first, doing a clean reverse.

My reverse, from a different place on the beach, was not clean, and I allowed the wing to crash to my left, where, in the high wind, the leading edge picked up some sand before I got the wing oriented properly again. Either I didn't see this happen, or didn't want to know that it had happened, with my friend waiting in the sky, so I tried to return to normal reverse launch procedure, but, hey, I had gotten really clumsy! I couldn't seem to kite that wing worth a damn! It took me half a dozen attempts to get it flying well enough to take off... (In retrospect, I now know that there were POUNDS of sand in that wing, dragging down various portions of the trailing edge, deforming the wing, and generally creating a difficult and dangerous situation.)

Once airborne, I climbed easily in the stiff sea-breeze and soon was heading north along the bluff of dunes with my friend. Since we were in an area where the hang gliders and paragliders come to soar the ridge lift, we gave it a try ourselves, and before long we were enjoying riding the ridge without real use of our motors, though we both kept them idling, rather than trust our soaring skills completely.

We rode this ridge north for miles across the face of the former military base, with it's old bunkers, barbed wire, firing ranges, and mysterious emplacements dotting the huge sand dunes. This was probably the most fun I had all day, playing around near the edge of the ridge, trying further out, further back, higher, lower, learning how to ride the current of air that was forced upward by the dunes as it traveled inland from the sea. This fun lasted for perhaps 20 minutes or so, and we had made it quite far north, nearly to the hang-glider launch area, when the wind picked up considerably, and the ridge was not such a pleasant place to be anymore...

As it began to get uncomfortable above the ridge, I tried dropping below it, toward the beach, but found that it was not to my liking down there either. I don't any longer recall what my complaint with the beach was, but I think it was turbulent, with unexpected up and down-drafts that made me uncomfortable - I remember that I had been planning on trying a touch-and-go but changed my mind when I saw how quickly the amount of lift could change...

All of which is not to say that it was better when we turned *away* from the ridge... If we turned away and stayed high, we were blown inland, and if we tried to stay low, we encountered rotors off both the primary ridge and all the secondary lumps and bumps that one finds in sand dunes. My friend was blown far inland but somehow managed to make it back, while I was blown only somewhat inland before trying to fly low, whereupon I found myself doing vertical and sideways, and even backwards touch and go's, culminating in my being blown backwards over the and down the back side of a giant sand dune, where I made an imperfect, forced emergency landing, damaging one end of my newly-repaired composite prop and cutting my cage lines to pieces but not damaging my glider or myself.

So there I was, climbing up a sand dune that might have been salted with unexploded military test rounds, as far as I could tell, while trying to maintain radio contact with my flying friend, who was being blown inland and was now above the highway, as far as I could see. He was pleased to hear that I was alright, and I urged him to try to make it back to base if he could, that I would be fine. My plan, I explained, was to wait for the wind to subside, as it appeared that my glider could not penetrate the stiff wind as well as his. (I still did not realize that my glider had been flying with sand-bags in the trailing edge).

Feeling down and out about my poor choices in regard to this flight, but happy that I had a safe plan at last, I climbed up the sand dune, watching out for land mines and such, up onto the ice-plant covered crest, and began to pick what looked like a safe path to what looked like a safe place, very glad to be on the ground in what now felt like a 28-30 mph wind. It was hard to carry my glider and make forward progress, but eventually I made my way down to the bottom of a beautiful round-bottomed sand dune valley with a thick, springy carpet of ice-plant covering everything in sight except for the beach and ocean that stretched in front of me at the bottom of the cliff that formed the western edge of this little valley. I decided this would be a nice place to spend my 'thoughtful time' while waiting for the weather to turn.

Ten or fifteen minutes later, I saw my friend briefly as he flew over, making very slow, but almost steady progress into the stiff wind toward the beach. Later, I learned that once he got down near the beach he was able to make better progress, and in this way he flew back to base.

I, meanwhile, found the wind too strong to face without more protection, so I rolled up in my glider, like a loose cocoon, and contemplated my predicament.

First, I was sorry that I had made the mistakes that brought me here.
Second, I was glad to be safely here.
Third, I realized that my safety was fragile, as I was ill-prepared for a long stay.
I had no water, no knife, no food, no matches, no extra warm clothes, no first aid and only marginal radio communications. I was very lucky that my motor was still (apparently) flyable, even though damaged. I came to realize that I should have a good set of survival supplies with me when I fly, and began to prepare a list of what they should be and think about how I could carry them. The Woody Valley harness that I fly has a space about 2"x16"x14" beneath the seat that could have been filled with some useful items but was filled with nothing on my rig. I resolved to consult with some of my more survival-savvy friends about just what provisions would be a good fit for my situation, where I could one day find myself in the back country where having the right knowledge and equipment might make the difference between continued life and unnecessary death.

Such ruminations filled my next two and a half hours, as the wind rattled my glider cocoon and tried to pull the heat from my bones. At perhaps 5:50, the wind was quieting down, I was up, setting up for a reverse launch, when I received a radio call from my friend. It seems that he had flown back, packed up, decided the wind was getting worse instead of better, and had then driven to what he thought was the closest point to where I was stranded. He had then scaled the fence and hiked across the abandoned base to find me, but had not succeeded, and was now walking down the beach in my direction.

In moments, I spotted him, far down the beach, and apologized for putting him through this. He was very kind about it, however, and came to help me set up, just as the wind was dying away to nothing. Given the lack of wind, we elected to carry the equipment down to the beach, as the ice-plant was not fit to run in. On the beach, setting up, we discovered the sandbags that had formed in the glider and took a few minutes to empty them out. Conditions were not quite calm, they were, rather, light and variable, so he helped me to orient my wing and then signaled me to go when the variability was favorable to my alignment. In this way, I took off back toward base on flight 68, which is documented in the next flight report.

Time: 14:33, April 30, 2000
Base Elevation: 2480 feet

At last! I am taking time away from my endless computer programming to assemble and start my SD-Monster, (Serial No 00001, I believe), which has been waiting patiently for me since it arrived here almost two months ago.

Assembling the unit, my first impressions are that it both beautiful and strong. I really like the way the engine is mounted, using different engine mounts and different attachment points than the SD-48. It looks as if this design will provide improved resistance against the motor (and props) 'twisting' within the cage when inertial changes (bad landings, for example) occur, while still providing plenty of vibration dampening.

The driven pulley is also mounted in a new way, which appears to be very strong as well. I can't intelligently judge whether this new way is stronger than the SD-48 way, but it looks to be very strong.

The cage itself also feels stronger, but that may just be because it is new and tight. I am very pleased that I ordered a cage with velcro fasteners instead of the spring-pins used on my SD-48. Where before there was a small pin popping out through a 3/16 hole in an aluminum tube, there is now a big velcro strap to take the same loads, and the danger of the pin tearing the tubing has been completely eliminated.

One area that is surprising, and the only area that I can see that appears to be weaker than the SD-48, is the head on the new Hirth engine. On the SD-48, the stock Solo head had been replaced by an oversize head that provided superior cooling in the wind eddy behind the pilot's seat where the head lives. The Hirth 312's head is much smaller than the SD-48's Solo head, so I worry that it will not provide enough cooling... OTOH, the dual props of the 'Monster' ought to provide better airflow to this smaller head, so maybe it is all OK.

The first change I've made, before even starting this beautiful new machine, has been to reposition the air intake to be above the fuel tank (and engine) rather than below the engine. In this way I hope to pick up less dirt and debris than I otherwise would, while I see about getting an air cleaner to work with this machine. It appears that the Germans (and Canadians) have less problem with dusty air than we do here out West.

Well, that does it for my first wave of impressions. Now to install those dual props and fire this baby up!

She started beautifully on the second pull, and within 15 seconds wanted the choke turned off. Throttle response is smooth and even. We're running 50:1 Amsoil racing oil at 25:1 in 92 octane premium unleaded gasoline. I ran the motor for about 5 minutes, varying speeds continuously, before shutting it off for fear of annyoing my neighbors.

For some reason, I'm getting the itch to fly, so I've come into the house to plug in and check the current conditions at the airport nearest to my favorite flying meadow.

Here they are:
Wind from the W (270 degrees) at 8 MPH (7 KT) (direction variable) Visibility 10 mile(s) Sky conditions clear Temperature 64.0 F (17.8 C) Dew Point 36.0 F (2.2 C) Relative Humidity 35% Pressure (altimeter) 30.26 in. Hg (1024 hPa)

Since it's now 3:21, it will most likely be heading toward calmer conditions by the time I get up there. Even if I can't fly, I can walk around with the motor running to help break it in...

Flight 68 :

Location: Sand City Beach and Dunes, part of the former Fort Ord, near Monterey, California
Elevation: 6l estimated.
Temp: 52 degrees Fahrenheit, estimated
Time: 18:05-18:23 PM, Feb 12, 2000
Wind at start: 0-4 mph SW, variable
Wind at finish: 3-6 mph N, variable
Glider: 31 meter Ozone Electron + .3 Hr = 27.9 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, + 0.3 hr + = 20.3 hr TT
Airtime: +.3 = 17.9
Launch: Forward, on second try
Touch and Go's: none
Screwups: Flew of with wing-overs on both tips, according to my friend. I never saw/realized this, and it may have accounted for some of my difficulties on this flight. On landing, I made a pass, unexpectedly downwind and too low. I was fortunate to pull out of it and swing it on around to land back into the wind.

Breakthrough: first time practicing how to determine wind direction from observation of ground speed while making pass over landing zone.

Remarks:
Be sure to read flight 67 to understand the setting of this flight.

Pulling the glider up in a forward launch, I applied power and hoped that my damaged prop would hold together. The tide was coming in, and I had to make it perhaps six miles up the beach.

Well, the prop did hold, the wind did fly, the pilot kept his wits (such as they were), and I had the mixed pleasure of watching a beautiful sunset over Monterey bay whilst creeping along the ridge over a beach that was vanishing beneath an incoming tide. The air was turbulent in a strange sort of way, though at least part of that perception might have been due to the way I was flying with line(s) wrapped over the both tips of my wing, according to witness reports.

Flight 68 :

Location: Sand City Beach and Dunes, part of the former Fort Ord, near Monterey, California
Elevation: 6l estimated.
Temp: 52 degrees Fahrenheit, estimated
Time: 18:05-18:23 PM, Feb 12, 2000
Wind at start: 0-4 mph SW, variable
Wind at finish: 3-6 mph N, variable
Glider: 31 meter Ozone Electron + .3 Hr = 27.9 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, + 0.3 hr + = 20.3 hr TT
Airtime: +.3 = 17.9
Launch: Forward, on second try
Touch and Go's: none
Screwups: Flew of with wing-overs on both tips, according to my friend. I never saw/realized this, and it may have accounted for some of my difficulties on this flight. On landing, I made a pass, unexpectedly downwind and too low. I was fortunate to pull out of it and swing it on around to land back into the wind.

Breakthrough: first time practicing how to determine wind direction from observation of ground speed while making pass over landing zone.

Remarks:
Be sure to read flight 67 to understand the setting of this flight.

Pulling the glider up in a forward launch, I applied power and hoped that my damaged prop would hold together. The tide was coming in, and I had to make it perhaps six miles up the beach.

Well, the prop did hold, the wind did fly, the pilot kept his wits (such as they were), and I had the mixed pleasure of watching a beautiful sunset over Monterey bay whilst creeping along the ridge over a beach that was vanishing beneath an incoming tide. The air was turbulent in a strange sort of way, though at least part of that perception might have been due to the way I was flying with line(s) wrapped over the both tips of my wing, according to witness reports.

Flight 68 :

Location: Sand City Beach and Dunes, part of the former Fort Ord, near Monterey, California
Elevation: 6l estimated.
Temp: 52 degrees Fahrenheit, estimated
Time: 18:05-18:23 PM, Feb 12, 2000
Wind at start: 0-4 mph SW, variable
Wind at finish: 3-6 mph N, variable
Glider: 31 meter Ozone Electron + .3 Hr = 27.9 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, + 0.3 hr + = 20.3 hr TT
Airtime: +.3 = 17.9
Launch: Forward, on second try
Touch and Go's: none
Screwups: Flew of with wing-overs on both tips, according to my friend. I never saw/realized this, and it may have accounted for some of my difficulties on this flight. On landing, I made a pass, unexpectedly downwind and too low. I was fortunate to pull out of it and swing it on around to land back into the wind.

Breakthrough: first time practicing how to determine wind direction from observation of ground speed while making pass over landing zone.

Remarks:
Be sure to read flight 67 to understand the setting of this flight.

Pulling the glider up in a forward launch, I applied power and hoped that my damaged prop would hold together. The tide was coming in, and I had to make it perhaps six miles up the beach.

Well, the prop did hold, the wind did fly, the pilot kept his wits (such as they were), and I had the mixed pleasure of watching a beautiful sunset over Monterey bay whilst creeping along the ridge over a beach that was vanishing beneath an incoming tide. The air was turbulent in a strange sort of way, though at least part of that perception might have been due to the way I was flying with line(s) wrapped over the both tips of my wing, according to witness reports.

Flight 69 :

Time: 05:45-05:51, March 29, 2000
Elevation: 200, estimated.
Wind at start: 6 mph SW, variable
Wind at finish: 6 mph SW, steady
Glider: 31 meter Ozone Electron 27.9 + .2 = 28.1 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, 20.3 + .2 hr = 20.5 hr TT
Airtime: 17.9 + .1 = 18.0
Launch: Forward, on second try
Touch and Go's: none
Screwups: Loose belt again.

Breakthroughs: Ascent into an incredibly beautiful vista.

Remarks: I'm writing about this flight on April 22, and consequently my memory of the detailed events has faded.

Susan had an idea that there might be a great place to fly from out towards Tiburon, so she took me on a tour, looking for sites. For those of you who don't know, Tiburon is out on a serpentine peninsula of land that extends into the north San Francisco Bay. It has lots of bay frontage, we saw that there were a couple of nice fields down by the water. They were being pretty heavily used, however, and it did not look like paramotoring would be welcomed by all, so we continued our search.

Half an hour later, we had climbed up to a huge open space on the saddle of the peninsula, which faced well into the oncoming South-westerly breeze, and afforded spectacular views of Mount Tamalpais and San Francisco. We took turns exploring the field, as Adam was sleeping in the car, and both thought it would be a great place to fly from, either now or at some future time.

I carried my equipment out into the field and set up, slowly, in an out-of-the way location, planning to move to a more appropriate take-off location at the last minute when all was ready. This process took a while, quite a while, as I was still doing some last minute work on my machine. I did not take time to check and tighten the belt, which I should have done.

Ready, I thought, at long last, I set up for a forward, far back from the edge of the cliff (did I mention that this relatively flat top had a cliff at the southern, wind-facing edge?) I was a little worried about rotors, but expected that I would have lots of time to abort the flight if the air was more turbulent than it seemed to be...

My first launch attempt ended in a wing falling off to my side, but the second attempt came up nicely and I was flying in what seemed like 70 feet. I climbed very slowly, until, just before the edge of the cliff, I shot up like a rocket. It gave me a good taste of the power of ridge lift. I continued to climb very rapidly in this lift until I was perhaps 300 feet above ground level, whereupon I turned downwind and was rapidly carried to the north. If I kept going north, I would soon be blown out over the bay, so I turned south again and found that I did not have full power available. I did not even have half power, instead, I had vibration and slippage. My prop was out of balance, and the slipping was increasing rapidly. I decided to call it quits, and come in for a landing. I did a couple of s-turns, but decided that I might overshoot the cliff if I tried to land on this pass, so I turned downwind again to make a loop. The downwind speed was shocking to me, and in just a couple of moments I had to turn again, back into the wind. But now I was on the back side of the hill, and there was a bit of a down-draft as the air followed the shape of the ground, so I found myself being dragged down, and, now lacking nearly all power due to the slipping belt, was forced to land well short of my goal, up slope, in the spring grass.

The views, however, had been worth it. I saw nearly the whole of the San Francisco Bay, with the jewel of the city in the center of it, the golden gate bridge spanning between the City and Marin county, and even the East Bay looking beautiful across the rippling waters of the bay. Meanwhile, the spring green grasses of Marin covered the rolling hills to my North. The views looked like postcard pictures in every direction...

Flight 70 :

Time: 15:05-15:11, April 17, 2000
Elevation: 4, estimated
Wind at start: 8 mph S, steady
Wind at finish: 8 mph S, steady
Glider: 31 meter Ozone Electron 28.1 + .4 = 28.5 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, 20.5 + .1 hr = 20.6 hr TT
Airtime: 18.0 + .1 = 18.1
Launch: Reverse, on first try
Touch and Go's: none
Screwups: Left travel fuel cap (ventless) on fuel tank, had engine die (of fuel starvation) approximately 5 minutes into the flight. Self-repaired prop also failed in a minor way, flinging off some chips of poorly-bonded epoxy which tore up my cage netting.

Breakthroughs: First takeoff ever from the Pacific Plate. Ascent into an incredibly beautiful vista.

Remarks: This beach would normally be a bit small to fly from, but with the wind was perfectly aligned down the length of it, the tide was out, and there was plenty of room for an afternoon flight.

The views were spectacular beyond description, with clear views out to the Farralon Islands, springtime on mount Tamalpias, the miles of curving white sand of Stinson beach, the variegated, mud-choked wetlands of Bolinas Lagoon, the stacked mesas of Bolinas, with the San Andreas fault running down the rift between the Pacific and North American geotechnic(?) plates.

I had only had time to spiral up into these views for a few minutes before my engine quit and I glided back to the beach, where I found the problem to be that I was running my un-vented, travel fuel tank cap. Yikes! My cage lines were also rather torn up, apparently from pieces that flew off of my epoxy-re-repaired prop. Looks like that epoxy has limits as to how much centrifical force it can withstand...

[My video camera was running on this flight, but hanging rather low. With editing time it might be possible to extract some of the vistas from this tape.]

Flight 71 :

Time: 15:30-15:36, April 17, 2000
Elevation: 4 feet, estimated
Wind at start: 8 mph S, steady
Wind at finish: 8 mph S, steady
Glider: 31 meter Ozone Electron 28.5 + .4 = 28.9 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, 20.6 + .1 hr = 20.7 hr TT
Airtime: 18.1 + .1 = 18.2
Launch: Reverse, on first try
Touch and Go's: none
Screwups: None known, but engine did die with a somewhat metallic sound just a few minutes into flight, at about 680 feet elevation. This may well turn out to be the result of an as-yet-unknown screwup, but is currently (4/30/2000) thought to be the result of the original spark plug finally sparking it's last.

Remarks: Another short, sweet flight from this scenic location. Camera was running, but hanging low. It is great to fly, even if only for a short time. This was my last flight before turning 47, and it was very memorable, with views all the way to the tip of Point Reyes and out to the Farralon Islands, against a backdrop of the Mt. Tamalpais and the Bolinas Ridge. Hang gliders were flying off the ridge that day, but I did not see them. It was too windy up on the ridge to launch my PPG, and this was one reason that we came down to investigate the beach. The locals were friendly and supportive, but this town is famous for trying to discourage visitors from the outside, and so can't be expected to welcome traveling PPG pilots in the future. An example of this wish to discourage tourists is that all signs with the town's name on them 'disappear' the night after the highway department puts them up...

Flight 72 :

Time: 07:40-08:58, April 21, 2000
Base Elevation: 1140 feet
Wind at start: 1 mph E, steady
Wind at finish: Unknown, but suspect 3 mph W, variable
Glider: 31 meter Ozone Electron 28.9 + 1.5 = 30.4 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-48, 20.7 + 1.1 hr = 21.8 hr TT
Airtime: 18.2 + 1.3 = 19.5 hr
Launch: Forward, on second try
Touch and Go's: none
Screwups: Forgot my sunglasses, probably because I took off from the shade. Once aloft, I wished that I had them...

Breakthroughs: First mountain river canyon flight.

Remarks:
11:09 AM: The windsock dances crazily as I sit here in my lawn chair, in the shade of an oak tree, my feet up on a stone, the river rushing from left to right in a semi-circle in front of me, with the sounds of a happy camp full of friends all around me. My son, Adam, wants me to take him to the river, so I may not be writing more just now. The wind is gusting up to perhaps 15 mph, from various directions, but mostly from the west.

This morning, I arose early and was rolling across the rocks in the van before 6:15 AM. I reached my proposed launch site at 6:18, and was finally ready to take off by about 7:30. (I always seem to think that things will take less time than they actually do.)

When I set up, there was no wind, so I elected to launch in the slightly-downslope direction. By the time I was all hooked in and ready to go, the wind sock was saying that I had a variable, 0-2 mph tail wind! Sagely or stupidly, I decided to try and time my launch to match a calm spell in the now-variable conditions. On first attempt, this failed, but at least I was now about 40 feet closer to the other end of the field, where I might soon be carrying my gear. Luckily for me, the breeze abated and my second attempt was quite successful.

I cleared the trees and immediately had to decide whether to turn upstream over the river or head downstream over the river. I elected to turn left, upstream, to stay close to my field, which was the only decent-looking landing area around. I circled this field, climbing, remembering that altitude is my friend and that my previous two flights had been cut short by unplanned engine outages... [Since the previous two outages had occurred within 5 minutes of launch, I took the trouble to run the motor under high power, on the ground, for 7 minutes before the flight to see if the problem would recur.]

As I climbed, I was acutely conscious of how narrow this canyon actually was, how steep and tall it's tree-covered sides were, and how much of the flat area at the bottom was covered by cold, rushing water. It all added up to a clear decision to climb, climb and then climb some more, foregoing the scenic but dangerous course of flying low up the river canyon, skimming above the water, looking down at the fish...

I had gained about 1000 feet before I ventured away from my launch field, heading up-canyon toward our camp. Below me lay a couple of rocky beaches that looked like they would serve for emergency landing fields if so required. They were not required, and as I passed over camp I saw that there was a large rock-and-sand bar just upstream from camp that would also serve as a possible landing field. Perhaps I would land there when I was done with my flight...

At the moment, however, I thought it best to keep climbing and motor on upstream, taking in the increasingly spectacular views as more and more snow-capped peaks began to appear beyond the canyon walls. Looking at my altimeter watch, I could see that I was climbing at 30-60 feet per minute, now passing through 2700 feet. I felt increasingly safe as the rocky shoulders lower of the canyon continued to recede below me, as the rocky upper shoulders were further away to the sides. The river, now far below, looked like a rippling white ribbon as it cascaded from over an increasingly continuous series of small falls. I could now see all the way up to the end of the road, where the boaters would put in for their downstream runs. Above this put-in, the river was nearly choked with boulders wrapped in swirling, foaming white water.

I took time to shoot some more video despite my very limited supply of batteries on this four-day campout. The sky in the distance was decorated with bulbous lenticular clouds, which have such beautiful furry edges. Below them rose the granite domes of the more distant, upper walls of this river cut. Descending from these domes were glacier-carved walls of granite, and streaking these walls were long water slides that occasionally fell as waterfalls when they fell off an overhang.

I was now over 4000 feet, and the engine had been running for over 40 minutes without missing a beat. The air was still mostly smooth, but there was an occasional bump here and there, and these bumps were becoming more frequent as the morning wore on. I did a few more turns with the camera to try and record the panorama of sky, granite, trees, grass and white water river before turning back toward home. I figured that I had less than 30 minutes of fuel remaining, and was concerned that the sun-heated sky might turn turbulent at any moment.

As I flew back toward my launch site, I realized that I was many miles out, and way high, over 4800 feet now. My glider began to sway and swing without control input, indicating that the sky was coming alive. I had more than a few moments of trepidation, hanging high above that steep canyon, being bounced around by the air, wondering how I would deal with strong mountain wind conditions should they develop. I could see that if I had to land directly below where I was now, I would be a long, long hike out. [8:22 PM:] Luckily, I was only shaken a bit by turbulence, every so often, just enough to help instill a healthy respect for the sky...

With the motor running just above idle, I slowly lost elevation as I headed back downstream the last few miles to camp. When I reached camp, I was still nearly 3000 feet above ground level, so I turned on the video camera, killed the engine, and began a joyous glide down with no engine noise, just the wind in my lines. Watching my altimeter, I found that my rate of descent varied from an initial 169 ft/min to almost 300 ft/min as I approached ground level. It seemed pretty quick to me!

It was during this descent that I made my biggest mistake of the flight, when I decided to go for the glory of landing in an un scouted field right next to camp rather than landing in my scouted, but out-of-sight, field a half-mile downstream. I can clearly remember the moment when I realized that I could easily glide to my takeoff site, and chose, instead, to make a flashy landing right next to my friend's camp.

Once this decision was made, there was no turning back without re-starting the cold motor, and I didn't want to turn back, not until I saw those rocks the size of car tires that were rushing up at me as I prepared to hit the 'beach', and by then it was too late to do anything but flare and try to land well.

Actually, the landing got scary before that point, as I found that I was not figuring out what direction (up-canyon or down-canyon) the wind was blowing at the moment, using all the cues I could find. Lacking cues, I reasoned that it would be down-canyon, turning to up-canyon later in the day. But this was just reasoning from weak knowledge of principles, and was, in fact, most likely wrong. Headed in up-canyon, I was sinking fast but flying faster, having trouble burning up enough altitude to land in front of the water and trees. If it had been a down-canyon wind, this would not have been the case, but with a tail wind (up-canyon wind), it is easy to understand.

So the last half-minute of the flight was spent with a high 'pucker factor', making s-turns and trying to steer a path that avoided the water ahead to my right and the trees ahead to my left, a path that took me right down into a very, very rocky 'beach' where I flared too little, too late, landing 'hot' right into some rocks.

Nothing broken, however. Eleven hours later, I am limping from a bruised heel and a bruised outer thigh, but I am happy to report that I did not break any bones, smash any joints, or even damage my equipment, camera included. Fool's luck?

You might have noticed a self-critical tone to the closing parts of this flight's remarks. If so, you are not alone. I am feeling critical of my judgment after this flight, and don't plan to be making any more 'glory over safety' decisions regarding flight.

Flight 73 :

Time: 18:12-18:41, April 30, 2000
Base Elevation: 4500 feet
Wind at start: 6-8 mph W, variable
Wind at finish: 2-5 mph W, variable
Glider: 38 meter Nervures Stromboli + 1.0 Hr = 34.2 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-Monster, 0.2 + .5 hr = 0.7 hr TT
Airtime: 19.5 + .5 = 20.0 hr
Launch: Reverse, on first try
Touch and Go's: 3
Screwups: None.

Breakthroughs: First flight with the 'Monster'. Easiest high-elevation take-off's ever!

Remarks:

Several of my dreams came true today!

As I write, it is 11:04 PM. I sit here in an easy chair, drinking a cold beer, reflecting on how sweet it was to take the 'Monster' up today, at last, after having it in my garage for two months.

The machine is absolutely amazing, even during it's break-in period. It feels no heaver than my SD-48 (I have yet to put them on scales), yet it is so much more powerful that it made my 4500 foot flying meadow feel like sea level... Incredibly, it is even easier to start than the SD-48. (I think Fresh Breeze did some kind of magic inside the Hirth to achieve this.) I was starting it on one pull, cold, with the machine on my back. It ran perfectly throughout it's RPM range, no hesitation, no problems idling, no problems at all. I think I'll want to re-jet it, only because the plug was turning more and more pale as the day wore on and total time approached 3/4 hour.

After assembling the Monster this afternoon for the first time, and starting it, I found myself overcome with an urge to head out to a green mountain meadow and take it up into the blue April sky. So I loaded up the para-convertible, with my new SD-monster, assembled, riding on a bike rack in the back, two wings in the trunk, and Mookie the wonder dog in the back seat. We headed over to the local McDonald's to load up on 39 cent cheeseburgers and found ourselves being asked questions by nearly everyone we met. Putting one of these beautiful units, assembled, on a bike rack sure makes it hard to keep a low profile! One fellow, who styled himself 'dragonfly', was so interested that he announced his intention to come on by the meadow and see this kind of personal flight for himself.

Half an hour later than I had planned, we were on our way up beautiful highway 20, winding through the pines and cedars as we climbed up the ridge, from 2500 feet on up to 5100 feet before descending to the Bear River Meadow at 4500 feet. The meadow was now a brilliant green, in sharp contrast to the frozen browns and whites of the preceding fall and winter.

Even though I knew they were there, I was shocked to see that perhaps 50 people were living in the meadow now, camped in trailers and motor homes, apparently crews that were associated with the large helicopter operations that are taking place there this spring. A huge red and white heavy-lift helicopter was parked near where I usually enter, surrounded by support trucks, and my usual path was blocked by a motor home and lined with stacks of building materials. I had known that Pacific Gas and Electric was using helicopters based here to fly out an old flume and fly in a new one, but I was shocked to see how much presence they had here late on a Sunday afternoon. I decided to loop around, and entered through the impromptu campground to the North. A man with a beer immediately approached me and asked if I was 'going to fly that thing'. I explained that I was, and he promised to come over and see what I was up to, later. The wind was out of the West, so I headed around past the long rows of salvaged redwood flume sections, past my regular trail, and out to an untrammeled area of deep green meadow where I had at least of half a mile of open field to the west.

The breeze seemed strong, but relatively smooth. I set up my wind sock, and watched it spin (It's a spin sock, actually), as I took my shiny new silver 'monster' off the bike rack and set it down on a spongy tuft of mountain meadow.

By the time that I had attached the new harness, a family of curious onlookers had arrived to 'assist' me. I learned that they were not all flying flumes in and out of the wilderness - there was also a big helicopter operation flying logs out of the back country taking place at the same time, and they considered the flume-flying helicopters to be small. Around this time, my new acquaintance, 'dragonfly', arrived from town, and was there to help inspect the plug, which I pulled to see how the first five minutes of running back at home had measured. The plug looked good, a light chocolate brown. I decided that the tune was close enough to fire it again, this time at 4500 feet.

Soon I was walking around on the springy meadow grass with a monster on my back, varying the throttle, averaging gentle but running it up for a moment from time to time, finding that this 'monster' felt very light indeed. It wanted to fly! I wanted to fly too, so I decided after about six minutes of this that the rest of the break-in could be handled very well in the air, thank you.

The wind seemed strong enough to make me want to try my 31 meter Ozone Electron, but soon died down enough that the 38 meter Nervures Stromboli looked like a better choice for the moment. Moments later, I was hooked up and ready for a reverse inflation. Just for the heck of it, I decided to try putting my motor on before starting it, and, to my great pleasure, the starter handle was easy to reach with the extra loop of rope that the SD team had attached to it, and the motor started easily on the first pull and dropped into a perfect fast idle! I wasn't even flying yet, but I was smilin'!

I 'followed the highway' down to my brakes, took them in my hands, and used my body to place the glider into the wind. Nice conditions for a reverse, and the scene, with my white convertible in the foreground, sitting in the deep green grass trailing off to distant trees, capped with white, snow-covered mountains rising in the distance, was one to remember. The next question was: would I remember how to lift the glider into the sky?

Happily, I did remember, lifting it up by the A's, moving my body to the right and backward to center myself beneath it, flying it straight and level for a moment before turning into the wind and starting to run forward, squeezing the throttle.

In perhaps 8 steps I was airborne and climbing rapidly as the 'monster' pushed into my back. The only other times I had ever climbed this fast on takeoff had been when was flying off the beach into an offshore breeze. Soon I was over a hundred feet above the meadow, encountering a little turbulence that was coming off the trees, but feeling very secure.

I don't know if I even used full power, but if I did, it was only for a moment. I spent the next 29 minutes breaking in my new engine by varying my engine speed and load while keeping the average power demand low as I explored the meadow, which is traversed by the headwaters of the Bear river. There was lots to see, but my thoughts kept returning to how happy I was with this new power unit. I found it amazing how much it could swing me forward when I applied a bit of throttle, and how much I could swing backward when I let off on the throttle. I came to appreciate that one has to do these things gradually when one has this kind of thrust-to-weight ratio...

I stayed rather low, overall, perhaps no more than 250 feet AGL, avoiding any long climbs, taking it easy on the new motor. I did enjoy a few touch and go's, especially the 'go' part!

I finally came back in, at the half-hour mark, to take a look at the plug. I was disappointed to see that it had gotten even paler, and was now as pale as chocolate milk that has been cut with two parts of white milk. Too pale for comfort!

I got my tools and parts kit out, found my spare jet, but upon close examination found that it appeared to be a bit smaller than the jet I was running, so I could not re-jet toward richer with the parts I had in the field. I consoled myself with the thought that I was running 50:1 Amsoil racing oil at 25:1. When I got back to town, I'd begin a search for a richer jet...

I enjoyed more questions and answers with 'dragonfly' and the other onlookers, as the wind died down into the forward-launch zone. The sun was just disappearing beyond the north ridge, the sky was blue, and I estimated that I still had 15 minutes worth of fuel left from my first gallon. Mosquitos would be coming soon, so I had better get back in the air...

Flight 74 :

Time: 17:46-17:50, April 30, 2000
Base Elevation: 4500 feet
Wind at start: 0-1 mph W, variable
Wind at finish: 0-1 W, variable
Glider: 38 meter Nervures Stromboli + .1 Hr = 34.3 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-Monster, 0.7 + .1 hr = 0.8 hr TT
Airtime: 20.0 + .1 = 20.1 hr
Launch: Forward, on first try
Touch and Go's: none
Screwups: Left choke partially on. (One way to richen the mixture!)

Breakthroughs: Even with the choke on, this thing flies great!

Remarks: The sun was already behind the ridge when I pried myself loose from the conversation with 'dragonfly' and into the sky. Once again, I started the motor easily with it on my back. I can't get over how easily this motor starts. I suspect that it has a high-efficiency magneto in addition to come kind of trick compression release, because it pulls easily and fires without even pulling *that* fast...

Once again, I was airborne quickly, a few bounding steps across the springy meadow grass and I was headed steeply skyward. Soon, however, I started to notice that the motor was missing here and there, across the RPM range, so I headed back down and immediately found that the choke was on. Since the choke is in the same position on this machine as on my SD-48, I should be able to check and adjust it in flight if need be in the future, with a little practice...

Flight 75 :

Time: 20:06-20:18, April 30, 2000
Base Elevation: 4500 feet
Wind at start: 0 mph
Wind at finish: 0 mph
Glider: 38 meter Nervures Stromboli + .0 Hr = 34.3 hr TUVT
Engine: SD-Monster, 0.7 + .2 hr = 1.0 hr TT
Airtime: 20.0 + .2 = 20.3 hr
Launch: Forward, on first try
Touch and Go's: none
Screwups: None

Breakthroughs: More fun in the setting sun.

Remarks: It was getting darker fast when I extracted myself from conversation and headed skyward once again, leaving the mosquitos to drink the blood of the ground bound. With the choke off, the 'monster' still started on the first pull, even with the handicap of pulling the starter while I was wearing it on my back. (Visions of easy in-air re-starts are dancing through my head...)

A forward inflation, followed by a nice tour of the meadow in the light of the setting sun, and the smoother air that now prevailed. I wave to a new onlooker, fly up-canyon, return, coast in for a landing but grossly overshoot my target in the now calm conditions, go around again, and come in to land close to the car just as the light is starting to fail.

The new onlooker comes up to talk, and I learn that he is a fixed-wing pilot who flies commercially, and who used to teach flying when he was in the military. I answer his questions and tell him what little I know as I lovingly break my machine down and put it in the front seat for the trip home.

Mookie and I head under the deepening blue, as the first stars start to appear, and pick up a few more 39 cent cheeseburgers before returning home. There, after a hot shower and a cold beer, I write these flight reports before turning in, a happy flyer once again...

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