Year 2 Hang Gliding

For those of you who remember my last article (imaginatively

entitled “Year 1 Hang Gliding”), seeing this article appear in print

must be an exquisite release of anticipation. Yes, I am back to report

on my second year of flying!

Year one was a fantastic adventure of establishing new sites, breaking personal bests, and fierce competitions with my nemesis, Chris Shaw. (But I don’t need to explain further, do I, what with my last article being indelibly burnt into the brains of every Airporn reader.) Year two promised much. Chris was onto a high performance glider (high performance for the eighties, that is) and I was putting the finishing touches on my skill base to make the transition too. We both had flexible work hours and both lived within a few minutes of some great cross country sites. We had visions of flying every other day, battling intensely for air superiority in our chosen theatre of war, the magnificent mountain ranges between Picton and Hanmer Springs. If I was honestly to further that analogy of a “theatre of war“, the battles that did eventuate were a bit like if the D-Day invasion force forgot to check their oil before departing, left the bung out by mistake, and finally got stranded by the tide to be left high and dry outside a Dover primary school. This was because the weather was nothing like the year before. Every time a delicious high pressure system parked itself over us we ended up with a horrible low layer of cloud that didn’t depart until after lunch, if at all. I would estimate our premium flying days were slashed by about 80%. The year before we were getting an average of 5 or 6 days a week of beautiful sunny thermal conditions. It was relentless to the point of almost wishing for bad weather so you wouldn’t have to fly again. This time around it was so bad that Chris and I resorted to learning to windsurf, as the only time the sun came out was on windy days. There is a saying I heard in America that goes: “If all God gives you is lemons, make lemonade.” That was how we viewed our windsurfing, and to be honest, we had brilliant fun. I can recommend it as a sport to complement flying. The learning curve is pretty easy if you use appropriate, well rigged gear. It is a lot more fun than it looks for some reason. The speeds you can reach are hilarious, and it is all the more fun with the amazing lack of stress that comes from knowing if you stuff it up you don’t die, unlike flying. (Actually you probably can die windsurfing but you‘d have to be a right plonker.)

The big excitement for me last Spring was going from my skyfloater to an Aeros Combat topless glider that Matt Barlow sold me. That sale as an interesting one in regard to market dynamics, with there realistically being only one Combat for sale in NZ my size, and only one buyer, being me. Matt and I had a bit of a Mexican standoff for a while where I played my trump card of buying monopoly versus his trump card of selling monopoly. The outcome proved I was a) desperate to keep up with Chris Shaw in our cross country races, and b) a very inept negotiator. Before I felt safe getting on the Combat I figured I should fly something a bit less wicked, so I bought a 15 year-old “Foil Combat” (they had such cute names back then) from Steve Bankier for the very generous price of $200. Hey, maybe I am a brilliant negotiator. Anyway, I was buggered if I was going to fly a glider that cheap without some definitive proof of aerodynamic soundness, so I bullied my good friend Ben Judge into flying off Mt Duncan on it. The flight was a success with my test pilot declaring it a “beautiful machine to fly“ (idiot!). I embarked thereafter on a strictly controlled acclimatisation process whereby I would patiently put in twenty or thirty hours airtime of conservative flying before getting my skills assessed by a competent professional and then moving onto the topless glider. The programme was going well until on my third flight, when Chris Shaw out-climbed me to an embarrassing degree. I decided to accelerate the acclimat isat ion process, by abandoning it entirely. It was with some trepidation I charged into my first Aeros launch off the Mt Duncan take-off ramp. I kept the bar in for a few seconds to make sure I had plenty of airspeed then eased out. I wasn’t prepared for the lack of bar pressure and as a consequence actually kept the bar a fair way in. My speed built up to an alarming degree until I was doing a fair impression of a World Speed Gliding Champs run, a la John Smith. I was luckily aware of the term “pilot induced oscillation”so had no problem correcting it once it became obvious, but it definitely got the old pulse racing. I had a ridiculously conservative flight plan that day (and for the next 20 flights) so it wasn’t a problem, but I would not recommend getting onto a topless like mine without sound advice on how different it will feel. I’m being serious. I did get a lot of advice from all sorts of people before that flight, but none of them prepared me for the reality. It wasn’t a major problem by any stretch, but it was a complication at a time when it wasn’t welcome. The other major difference in the Aeros was how hard I had to work to correct any turn inadvertently caused by a bit of strong lift or sink on one wingtip. I would be flying along, a wingtip would kick up and then I would kind of lock into a turn for what seemed like ages before I could finally wrestle it back on course. I had made all my early flights miles away from the hillside (see, I can be sensible) so this was never a safety issue. But if I had been hugging the ridge in some of my early flights I may have come perilously close to “unintentional contact” because of this difference to my previous gliders. I believe the technical term is “roll inertia” and it is caused by the amount of weight out towards the wingtips you get with the big heavy carbon cross bar necessary when you don’t have a kingpost. Of course it could be a case of that other technical term: “crap pilot”. These small things aside, I can report great pleasure in my move up to topless technology. Those first few thermals in the Aeros were a revelation. My best attempt to describe the difference is by using kayaking terminology (oh, yes, did I forget to mention I’m an expert paddler, as in, way better than Chris Shaw?); If a thermal is a piece of moving water, the Aeros feels like dipping a beautiful carbon fibre paddle straight into it at speed, every nuance of blade angle instantly transmitted to the hands as a violent bucking energy, whereas the old Fun 190 used to feel like the same manoeuvre but using an old barnacle encrusted bit of four-by-two: you kind of got the vague feeling whether you should push out or in but it didn’t really matter either way. Landing was obviously another source of stress in my accelerated training programme, but it really wasn’t an issue. I’ve had about 40 flights on the Aeros now and even without wheels (which I‘m too tight to buy), I’m still using the same downtubes. That’s even with my patented “truncated” landing approach system; Forget about all those confusing “legs” and all that nonsense about “wind direction” just point at a paddock and if you’re going too fast just have faith there will be another one after it. (All those hours on the skyfloater did get me into the habit of starting to think about my landing approach roughly at the same time my toes were scraping the grass.) In hindsight, my anxiety about landing a topless was akin to that of paraglider pilots who write articles about learning to hang glide: “I was waking up drenched with sweat from nightmares about having to do my first landing on the skyfloater, how would I cope with the huge increase in speed!” ...Really, the whole thing is a bit like Linda Lovelace having nerves before going from holding hands to her first kiss. (An apt analogy when you think about it, because she took it all a bit lightly and ended up well and truly f----ed.) Moving right along… I love my Aeros, and after the first 6 months of flying very conservatively, I am now fully relaxed about going where the day takes me, and taking whatever landing paddock and landing winds I get. This was my mindset when I went to the Omarama Cross Country Classic this year. This is a great event that I had penciled in, nay inked in, since the year before. Sadly Chris Shaw couldn’t make it this year, being a loser and all, but this didn’t stop me. I drove all Sunday night, having to camp on the shores of Lake Pukaki before rising at daybreak to race to base camp at the Ahuriri River. It was a bit of a let down when at 9am I discovered everyone was still asleep in their tents. I had nothing to do so I stole a spoon off Tom Knewstubb. Anyway, eventually we headed up Magic Mountain. I have this wet dream that one day I will fly to Mt Cook, so when Niall Mueller asked me at launch where I thought we should fly, I declared Mt Cook without hesitation. Little did I know that the day turned out to be pretty much the best one in living memory (according to the sailplane pilots the next day), and I would end up in perfect position to give it a crack. Yes, much to my surprise, I ended up above Snowy Top at 9500ft, with an easy glide to the Ohau’s, where it should have bee a doddle to at least the head of Lake Ohau. I could scarcely believe my amazing skill as I headed out on my glide to Ohau Peak, only to get there below ridge height and unable to find usable lift. I think it was another unfortunate case of “crap pilot”. Bugger. I abandoned with plenty of height to make a safe landing approach in the light winds, and picked out a paddock beside what I thought was a well used road. Bugger… it was a private farm track on the farm of a well known hang glider hater. I had to walk about 5km over 35 degree savannah to a real road, and retrieving my glider next morning was a minor miracle of diplomacy and gall. Every day in Omarama was sensational, as in get up from takeoff to vast heights, pick a cloud and fly to it, repeat as necessary. But my best day was my third day. I took off third out of everyone, and right behind me was Chris Lawry. Very quickly he was above me (luck) and I vowed to follow him, come what may. Up into the cloud above takeoff I briefly lost sight of him, only to re-sight him as a distant dot heading toward Lindis Pass. Shit! He doesn’t muck around, so bar in and I pin my ears back to try and keep up. Chris was heading straight for Lindis Pass though, to a bit of a blue hole, which I found puzzling as there was a tempting couple of clouds about 30 degrees to his right. With the words of Dennis Pagen ringing in my ears (“If you get only one thing from this book, make it the importance of flying to clouds“), it was, I believe, my finest hang gliding moment when I chose to ignore one of the best pilots in NZ and choose what I thought was a better route. My heart was sinking 15 minutes later when I was still grovelling unsuccessfully well below the “cloud” I had chosen. Eventually I did get up, and then up to the next one a few kms further, but I was nevertheless grieving the loss of my wind dummy who had completely disappeared. Still, here I was in the middle of nowhere, wisps of cloud scuffing my flight goggles ($2 shop aviators), the odd sailplane scaring the bejesus out of me, another cloud forming within striking distance, who could ask for more on a flying holiday… Until, way below me, grovelling in the tussocks, I see the top sail of the very same Chris Lawry. I utilised my radio to abuse him with various terms such as “Loserrrrrr!” and “Lawry takes it up the...” never mind, turns out my radio wasn‘t actually working. I generously waited around at cloud base so I could show him the way forward. Amazingly, he must have decided he could do better without my guidance, and went his own foolish way. Have you ever had the experience where you’re really “coring it” and someone cruises around you in a much larger circle totally out climbing you? No? Well it happens to me all the time and Chris Lawry did it that day as he rocketed away to Alexandra. The good news was I saw the general direction he headed, which was good, because I had no idea where I was going. As I limped from cloud to cloud, two other pilots passed me, and gave me the next place to head. Then I was on my own again. I had plenty of height over a rounded-off mountain range (I discovered later they are called the Dunstans) and had to choose whether to go to the valley on the left or the right. I was totally lost. I wanted to fly a known route. Racking my brains, digging deep, salvation arrived when the geek within reared his smudged-bespectacled face; I told my GPS “find” “Alexandra”. And Lo! A large arrow appeared on the screen telling me “go right young man“! Emboldened by this success I got really carried away, and started creating routes and waypoints mid flight, measuring distance flown and distance remaining etc. I believe I even measured the total area of our home section in Marlborough while I was at it. I was indeed The Man. Up to this point my tactic had been “fly to clouds”, and every time I got to the furthest cloud a new one would miraculously form a couple of kms further along my flight path. This tactic was proving extremely successful, so like any decent pilot, I abandoned it and flew boldly into the big blue hole above the pastoral flats. It slowly dawned on me, when it was too late to return to my last cloud, that I was an idiot. Hindsight really is crystal clear. Why did I do that! Idiot! If I analyse why, I guess I was sick of seeing other pilots pass me, I was getting impatient with my painstaking eking out of the slowly expanding cloud band, a little bored with the nondescript hills below me, and, stupidly, I was hypnotized by my GPS arrow. Whatever the reasons, lift quickly became a rare commodity and I went into landing mode, trying to eke out my glide to get what seemed like endless miles to the main Lindis Pass highway. Feeling a bit dejected at my stupidity, muttering things like “Please God, just one more thermal“, I was snapped back into full battle mode when out of the blue I got a gut-wrenching, snarling, twisting, leaning-right-over, tight little (OK, enough adjectives) thermal for a low save off a ravine. After a very quick religious conversion I started thanking Jesus for this reprise, and promised I would go to church and that I would never leave a cloud ever again without another one to fly to ahead, and while I was up there I would wave at God himself if I saw him lounging on a cloud, and I would never have lustful thoughts ever again. I think Sweet Jesus must have got suspicious with this last promise, because I got spat out of that thermal very unceremoniously about 15 turns into it and couldn’t find it again for the life of me. I atheistically cruised out to the highway and landed near Tarras, 47km and a new personal best. I then employed the most useful flying innovation ever devised by a member of the Dunedin Flying Club. Yes, the landing beer. There is something disproportionately satisfying about lying there in a strange paddock, exhausted, everything brilliantly quiet from the deafness of a big descent, and reaching into your harness for a luke warm Tasman Bitter. One other truly memorable piece flying to report from Omarama this year was on my last day. People were actually struggling to get up at all, and I got above most of them, but still not away properly. My relative height gave me confidence to explore for better lift towards an overdeveloped Snowy Top, but to my disgust I lost all my height and the hill seemed to be shutting off. I was below take-off height and wondering if I would even reach the bombout paddock. Now, Omarama is supposed to be famous for its grunty thermals, and yes, I was impressed, but in eight days flying over two trips, nothing I had experienced up to that moment had been any gruntier than our run-of-the-mill Marlborough thermals. I was beginning to think all these southern men were actually just monotesticular nancy-boys. However, after my fervent praying for lift was answered in the affirmative I have revised this theory. I was flying along and my wingtip was slapped upwards for half a second. If I wasn’t so desperate I would have ignored it for something bigger, but instead flung the old girl into hopefully something usable. After a rodeo buck or two I somehow got into the core and my hang gliding universe changed forever. That thermal was so strong I found myself involuntarily making that primal screaming noise you make when you spew up a dodgy curry. My roll angle felt like about 89.5degrees. I had no idea what to do with pitch but my old “speed is your friend” mantra made me pull the bar hard in. So technically I was doing the very thing for maximum height loss and still my glider was rocketing up so fast I was screaming like a boy scout making his hide-the sausage debut in the scoutmaster‘s tent. It felt like when you hold a piece of fluff over the nozzle of a vacuum cleaner set on reverse and let it go. It wasn’t lift so much as an unplanned explosion. About that time I was wishing I had replaced my dodgy sidewire and didn’t have a 20 year old parachute with fluffy strings. I still have the GPS log on my map software and I can tell you I gained 100m in my first 360. If we assume that tight 360 took 10 seconds that’s 10m/s, or the exact speed and acceleration of an Olympic sprinter. In my memory the whole banked-up, screaming- for-my-life turn only took about 7 seconds If so, that would make it nearly 15m/s, or 54km/hr straight upwards from a standing start! I would love to analyse the log with proper software to find out the actual maximum lift but I’m not quite nerdy enough to know how you do that. I have read about 10m/s (1800f/ min to you people who can‘t see the sense of metrics) thermals in Airporn before, but didn’t realise how much more powerful they were than a normal decent thermal. I have included a screenshot of this thermal as a starting point for what I propose to be a “thermal of the month” centrefold. I’m sure there must be some real juicy ones out there that put mine to shame, that we can all share in. Omarama was definitely the highlight of both my years of hang gliding. If you haven’t been to the Classic, book yourself in for next year because it is brilliant. No person should die before they have cruised alone silently along the shingle peaks of the Ahuriri Valley. Book your tickets. The Southern Men, nay, Giants, nay, Gods of the Sky, will look after you and make sure you have a great time. I’ll be there, hopefully with the same old downtubes…