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| First Cross-Country Soaring or (You Ain’t John Wayne - Robertson) | Dec '05 |
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| By Cliff Robertson |
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Years get slippery in midlife. They slide away like thieves in the night. Last week I was reminded of this as I dined with Tom Stowers and his lovely wife, Janice, in Minden, Nev. Tom and his brother, Bill, operated High Country Soaring for two decades at Minden Airport, Douglas County, Nevada. A glider pilot's Shangri-La, located at the eastern base of the High Sierras, 45 minutes drive from Lake Tahoe and 38 miles south of Reno, it affords glider pilots some of the world's greatest soaring conditions.
Indeed glider pilots from around the world flock like lemmings year round to ride the eastern Sierra ridges--to rise on powerful thermals and to catch a tertiary "wave." This is "the stuff" that glider pilots dream of. Indeed, they follow their dreams from around the globe.
World champions are invited every two years to attend Barron Hilton's famous soaring camp just 38 miles further east. Barron is more than a generous host. He flies balloons and gliders, and vintage and aerobatic aircraft and hires Tom to facilitate his two-week summer championships. Being invited to soar this event is like being invited to play in Wimbledon, the Super Bowl or the World Series. I consider myself one of the luckiest of pilots (and hardly deserving) to attend--also so fortunate to be a friend of one of the world's greatest innkeepers. A friendship I value greatly.
I was introduced to soaring some 20 years ago. As a fixed-wing commercial pilot, I had long flirted with the idea since my first ride in a Schweitzer 2-32 in beautiful Elmira, N.Y. And so it was predictable that I land my Baron at Minden one bright, sunny morning. I had flown from East Hampton, Long Island, N.Y., to Santa Paula, Calif., parked my Beechcraft in my hanger next to my French Stampe biplane, zipped down to Hollywood to film and on completion flew up to the High Country.
Having already soloed in Vermont, I was eager to fly my first cross-country solo. Tom assigned me a trip to Stead Airport north of Reno and return to Minden, for a total of some 90 miles. I was very eager-beaver and apprehensive. This was my very first cross-country solo glider flight--over unknown (to me) territory. Headed north at the eastern slope of the Sierras, I was able to maintain altitude at 8,000-11,000 feet ASL.
Arriving at Stead, I circled, took my corroborative photos and headed back toward Minden and (I hoped) a minor congratulatory reception. In my excitement on reaching Stead, I had failed to notice a developing fog bank sliding down the banks of the Sierras behind me. Now it was dead ahead. I tried to assure myself that it would quickly disappear.
Alas, best laid plan of inexperienced glider pilots! It seemed I had no recourse but to continue straight ahead to and through the developing fog bank. Taking one last look at the mountain range--before entering the approaching fog bank--I estimated that at my altitude and rate of descent, I could fly into the fog bank and maintain heading for approximately two minutes before turning southward 90 degrees. If I continued southwest more than two minutes, I would surely crash into the mountain slope and add another statistic to glider fatalities.
Suddenly I was in a world of white--no visibility! Nothing to reference my direction and speed. Just as suddenly I heard a voice in my cockpit. A familiar voice! My voice directing me in strong confident tones: "Needle...needle...needle. Ball...ball. Airspeed...airspeed. Concentrate on needle...needle...instrument. Keep ball in center. Airspeed...airspeed. Maintain airspeed. Don't look outside. Look at instruments only!"
Trying to keep my voice calm and strong like all good instructors, I couldn't help but notice some of my friends, Chuck Yeager and Bud Anderson's professional nonchalance creeping into my voice. A false bravado. But any old "port in a storm." I mixed my needle-ball-airspeed mantra with an occasional "steady son--steady," just as Chuck's West Virginian voice would intone.
The two minutes in the fog seemed like a weekend. A very long weekend! When I finally emerged, it was apparent I had maintained a fairly safe course. At least I wasn't inverted! It was also obvious that at my rate of descent I would never make it back to Minden Airport. Two questions. One: Where could I land safely? Two: How long did I have at this rate of descent? A quick look below gave the frightening answers. At best I had 10 minutes and there was no place to land!
I found myself suddenly silently praying--like a contrite school boy: "Lord, I need your help." Puleeze! Suddenly, as if in answer, I spotted two herds of dairy cows two miles dead ahead. And--God's answer. A perfect smooth swath of green grass 200 yards between the two herds of Hereford cows. Perfect! Now if I can just stretch my final glide to avoid that clump of rocks and wire fence. I should be able to make it. God and glider willing!
Complete concentration was required and was given as my sleek German twin Astir leveled out and headed for the 200 yards of green heaven! "Steady as she goes," I could hear Chuck Yeager's reassuring voice. "Steady. Maintain landing speed--55 mph. Steady. Level her out. Steady there!" My big silver bird rolled to a perfect landing. She and I were safe. God and glider were willing and I was able to fly again--another day.
Thank you, Lord. Thank...What is that.up ahead--on both sides? Two trotting columns--advancing toward me and my glider. The Herefords were on the march! Dozens to the right of me. Dozens to the left of me. Two thundering herds headed for me and my hapless glider!
"Where are you, Cliff.Where are you?" scratched Tom's voice--still loud and clear on my glider's radio.
"I'm not sure, Tom," I shouted back. "Somewhere north of Minden. I landed out--I'm safe.Except for the cows"
"Except for the what?" shouted Tom.
"The cows--the cows," I answered. "They're headed this way!"
"Well, for God's sake--keep em' away from the glider!" shouted Tom. "They'll eat it!"
"Why?" I asked.
"Cause they like the dope," said Tom.
"I'm the dope," I thought, as I looked for stones to throw. Unbelievable--there wasn't a single stone to be thrown. Only "cow pies." The cows were still advancing on both sides. I looked for dry cow pies and started throwing and shouting. They stopped and seemed to wonder what alien from outer space had invaded their territory--and why was he attacking them with their own dung?
Tom kept shouting on the glider radio. I kept shouting at the cows and throwing every cow pie around the glider. I felt like John Wayne defending the Alamo. Finally Tom's voice asked, "Do you hear me, Cliff? Why don't you answer?"
"I'm too busy fighting the Herefords," I explained between throws. "Too busy fighting the enemy."
After 20 minutes, I had run out of "pies." I was exhausted and my voice had gone--the cows had not. They stood their ground--albeit pelted with their own excrement. Some quite fresh. Both forces were at a standoff when a large state vehicle pulled up and herded the herds away.
Out stepped 6'4" of uniformed authority under a large Stetson, walking like Gary Cooper. He came up to me as I gasped for breath, and in a deep authoritative voice asked, "What seems to be the problem, son?"
"I'm lost. I mean I was lost."
"Any idea where you are now?" he asked.
"No, sir. Somewhere north of Minden."
"You're on government property son. Sign here." He handed me an official-looking government property paper.
"What am I signing, sir?" I asked.
"A release to get you out of jail."
"Is this a surreal game of Monopoly?" I thought to myself. "Jail? Why do I have to go to jail?" I asked the big man.
"You're in jail, son. You wanna get out? Sign here!" As he reached his pickup, he turned and said, "Nice meetin' you, Cliff. Seen a lot of yer movies. Some of "em aren't bad." A small smile creased his weathered face as he paused, and said, "Some of 'em."
Later, driving back in the trailer truck with Tom, not much was said. Finally, Tom reassured my spirits.
"Good landing," he said. "Good defense against the cows."
I didn't answer. My voice was gone. I was covered with dung--and I sure as hell didn't feel like John Wayne!
Copyright Cliff Robertson - Academy Award and Emmy Award winning screen star Cliff Robertson has owned and flown a wide array of aircraft, including a Spitfire MK IX, a Messerschmitt ME-108, a French aerobatic Stampe SV4 biplane, a Grob Astir glider (in which he still holds a distance record) and a Beech Baron 58. A holder of single, multi, instrument and commercial licenses, as well as balloon, the pilot of many thousands of hours has accumulated many aviation awards, including EAA's highest Eagle award and the AOPA Sharples award. Cliff was recently voted and honored as the Veteran of the Year by the American Veteran Association. His columns will appear in his soon-to-be published book.
Sherry Barnett
April 2, 2010 16:03 | I have followed Cliff on cross country flights with my husband in his ASW20 glider, and in his Nimbus glider. Cliff tells the story well |
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