Another Year of TC is Finished

It's over.  Everyone has packed up their wings and headed home to Washington, New York, Ohio, Michigan, Florida and many other distance places while us locals shake our heads and wonder what went wrong with the weather.  We can normally count on a few good days during any week in the early fall, but this year was tough!  We ended up with two flying days, but only one of them counted for toward the competition.  The first, as previously mentioned, was a day for launching and landing clinics in which we all had a lot of fun and learned a lot, but the other was the reason that we all took time off from work, packed up our gear, and spent hours (days for some folks!) to travel to the beautiful Sequatchie valley:  Cross Country Flying!

The two ridge-gaps before
Dr. Dales.

It was Thursday and it was windy.  So windy, in fact, that the safety committee was tempted to call the day off a couple of times, but the gusts subsided and safe launch windows were available.  Everyone, about sixty pilots, got off the mountain safely and into some moderately ridge-soarable conditions.

The task for C pilots was to fly 8.3 miles south and to land at Dr. Dale's field, which is a huge field with two crossing landing strips cut into the soft, green grass.  The B pilots were to go a bit past Dr. Dale's, then turn around and make the trip back to Henson's Gap and land in our primary LZ - about 18 miles all together.  The A pilots were to go to Dr. Dale's, then back north to Buc's Knob, then all the way back to Dr. Dale's again for a 36 mile flight.  Wow!  

I launched about halfway through the pack, following my team leader, Jeff Nibbler, into what should have been easily ridge soarable conditions.  The plan was to run the ridge south to the first gap and then take stock of the situation, leaning on Jeff's experience before attempting to make the first jump.  It turned out that the ridge, for reasons I don't fully understand, was barely working at all, so what should have been a stroll turned into a bit of a chore.  I got lucky and found some light but workable lift lines early on that gave me enough altitude to make it to the first gap easily, then another light climb that got me across.

Feeling confident, I charged  ahead of the pack until I reached the edge of the second gap.  Whoa, Nelly!  This thing did not look so big on the topo map in the clubhouse!  Something about the way that it was laid out, maybe the way the trees seemed to flow outward into the valley like water, made the 2nd gap look a LOT bigger than the first.  Or maybe it was just that I was so much lower.  I knew that getting too deep into one of those gaps could be dangerous if I didn't have the altitude to get back out again.  

I could see that I didn't have enough altitude to cross the gap and I didn't want to risk getting stuck in the middle and not making it out of the large, forested area that extended around it in all directions, so I scraped along the ridge for about 10 minutes trying to find a way up.  Our team leader, Jeff, saw me scratching around and called out some lift behind me, so I turned back to see four other gliders climbing in it.  How did I not notice that on my own?  Well, that's why I'm a "C" pilot and Jeff is an "A" pilot and our team's leader!  

GPS Log of my flight.  It was 8.3 miles, straight line,
and very fun!

I turned back to the lift and quickly climbed up to 5200' MSL before Jeff suggested that I turn out to the valley and glide to the target LZ.  I didn't want to leave the climb, but knew that Jeff needed to get me and Brandon, the other C pilot on our team, to our goal as quickly as possible so that he could head back to Buc's Knob before it started to cool off, so I did as directed.  

My first Hang Gliding trophy, created by
Eric Donaldson.

I arrived at Dr. Dale's with around 2000' of altitude to spare and enjoyed a nice, casual descent to the massive landing zone, where my nice, no-step landing was met with hoots, congratulations from my lovely girlfriend, and some high-fives from my teammate and flying buddy, Brandon.  It was Brandon's first Cross-Country attempt, and both of our first time making goal.  We were both very happy as we broke down our gliders and watched as seven other C pilots made goal.  In the end, nine of the twelve C pilots in the competition made goal that day and it was amazing to be a part of it!

That was the only scored competition day of the week, but it was a great day for almost everyone.  My team, "Team Challenged", managed to take second place in the competition, thanks almost entirely to Jeff's patient and wise leadership, and we all went home with some amazing trophies made by our friend and fellow pilot, Eric Donaldson.  Eric's team, incidentally, took first place.  Again.  

We spent the evening with Dennis Pagen and Mike Barber reviewing the day and sharing stories and observations.  We also reviewed the days launches, most of which were very well done!  

Mike Barber and Dennis Pagen review the day's
flight reports and discuss flying conditions.

All in all, it was a good week.  I do wish there had been more flying, but I'm incredibly happy that the one day we had was such an amazing experience and I can't wait for next year.  Until then - happy flying!

Day Three - Still Nothing to Report

What happened to day two?  Rain.  Rain happened.  Day Two was spent most definitely, most depressingly, and most decidedly not flying.  So on we go to Day Three!

Day Three had some hope and some potential, but when the sun came up it revealed another grim situation.  The entire valley was filled with clouds.  The people in the valley probably called it "fog", but from our lofty vantage it was clearly a massive, unbroken cloud.  When clouds or fog keep us from flying we call it being "socked in", but I'm not sure where the term comes from.  Maybe it's because, when your drowning in fog, everything looks pretty much the same as if you were wearing a sock over your head.

Task committee calling the day off.

The Team Challenge is a competition centered around thermal soaring and thermals are formed by the sun heating the earth, then that hot air swirling upward through the atmosphere's natural temperature gradient until it reaches the dew point and condenses into clouds.  Puffy, white cumulus clouds, which are an excellent sign of lift.  There wasn't much hope of any of that happening, but the task committee decided on a few goals for the day anyway and met repeatedly as the day went on to delay the start-time for the meet due (or "dew"... ha!) to the fact that the clouds in the valley just weren't burning off.

At about two in the afternoon the committee decided that the day over and all tasks were cancelled.  Bummer.  There were more than fifty gliders set up in the grassy area behind the Henson's Gap launch and more than fifty pilots eager to do some kind of flying at this hang gliding meet so something had to give.  Luckily for us, the fog eventually did burn off and the wind slowed down to a very safe, comfortable level (even though it was cross) and we were able to get a little practice in.  Nobody expected to have very long flights, but even a short flight is better than no flight at all!

A pilot launches at Henson's Gap.

The meet directors turned this into a "launching and landing" clinic by setting up video cameras on the launch and in the LZ (landing zone) to document our launching and landing techniques.  Later in the evening we all sat in the pavilion and participated in reviews of every single launch made for the day.  It was a fabulous learning experience - Mike Barber and Dennis Pagan can spot a potential launch problem from a thousand miles away!

The landing zone filled up as about fifty pilots enjoyed short
 flights in the mild conditions.

There were a few less-than-perfect launches, including my own during which I let my nose get too high, and a few less-than-perfect landings (mine was fine) that resulted in a couple of broken glider parts, but, thankfully, no broken pilots.  We will review the landings in detail tomorrow night, as it took about two hours just to go over the footage of all of the day's launches.

At the end of the day, because it was not an official competition day, my team gets to retain it's coveted position just right of the launch ramp, so we piled up our gliders and sheltered them under JC's UltraSport.  We'll be back out there in the morning, and the weather is finally starting to look good!  

JC's UltraSport - aka Mother Hen

Day Zero, Day One - Move Along; Nothing to See Here

Ready to Fly - The day before
the competition looked
great!

Registration day went well enough and plenty of people showed up early to get a little bit of pre-meet warmup flying in.  I managed two short flights, but it was good to have a chance to test out my glider after having had to replace one of the leading edges.  The new patch on the sail looks great, too!

Pilot Registration &
Team Assignment

Team selection went quickly and I ended up on a team of all local friends with whom I have flown many times before.  Our team's name is "Team Challenged", which was proposed by J.C. (and pre-proposed by the infamous Rex of Lookout Mountain Flight Park if I have the back-story right).  Flying with friends is what hang gliding is all about (and beer... friends and beer), so I think we have the perfect team!  I'm very excited for the comp to start, but there is just one more obstacle to overcome:  The weather.

The first day of Team Challenge 2011 dawned with some hope as the morning numbers on the computer forecast site showed a lot of potential for soaring, but as the sun came up it quickly became clear that it was not about to become clear.  The clouds weren't going to cooperate.  They looked, in fact, a bit like the defensive line from a prison football team, all in drab, gray uniforms as they shoulder into each other and work hard stop every single, thermal-generating ray of sun from ever getting to the ground.

Linked form
http://www.icelandphotoblog.com/index.php?showimage=214

Then we got the wind forecast and realized that there were not going to be any places for good, safe launches in the Sequatchie Valley so the flying day was called.  Canceled.

Instead of flying, everybody piled into the clubhouse to listen to a great seminar about soaring in the Sequatchie Valley by hang gliding legend Dennis Pagen.  It was very educational and I hope that the weather cooperates soon so that I can put some of what I learned from Dennis to the test... but tomorrow's forecast just came in and it looks like rain.

Rain.  Ugly little wads of water shooting toward our heads like evil, bullet-shaped drops of thermal-killing hate......

Team Challenge 2011 - Back for More!

Inventory check: XC bag, camel-back, vario, GPS,
two radios, spare parts, helmet, video camera,
and some bolt-on wheels for my glider.

It's been a year since my first hang gliding competition and things sure do look different.  I've changed jobs, moved to Chattanooga to be closer to my kids, and my soul-mate has moved down from Michigan to be with me.  Life is good.

Since I'm now only about an hour away from Dunlap, TN, the Hang Gliding Capital of the East and home of the Tennessee Tree Toppers Team Challenge, I'm not going to have to camp out!  The competition is only about an hour from my house, so I'll come home to sleep.  It'll mean long days and short nights, but it'll be good to sleep in my own bed.  Another thing that will be different this year is that my girlfriend is going to drive the retrieval vehicle for my team.  It's going to be really great to have her involved!

Gloves - coated with silicone for extra grip
on the glider's down-tubes.

Last year I didn't do very well in the competition.  I had a lot to learn and didn't get a lot of time to practice or study due to a pretty demanding work schedule.  This year has been a little bit better, but my flying has had different challenges.  Namely, two crashes and the loss of a friend and flying buddy.  The first crash was due to a landing that didn't go as planned, the second was a launch that didn't go as planned, and the friend was Tim Martin, who got caught by a passing storm front.

The most important hang gliding
food of all:  Beer.

All of these incidents were frightening, humbling, and educational, and I think that I learned more from them than I did from all of the rest of my flying experiences together, but when I think back on the year it's the fun times that I remember... not the scary or sad times.  I had so much fun flying with my friends and, if you've never done it, you just can't understand how amazing it is to be 7,000 feet in the air with nothing but the wind in your face while you, literally, play in the clouds.

The cold-weather gear.  I probably
won't need the hat or pants this early in
the season, though.

I'm a better pilot now than I was a year ago and I'm looking forward to this year's Team Challenge even more than I looked forward to last year's.

So... it's prep time.  I've been flying all year, so there wasn't as much to do as there was last year.  Charged the radios, changed the batteries in the GPS and Vario, cleaned my helmet and washed my cool-weather clothes (they were a little stinky).  Cleaned my harness and fixed (hopefully) a broken hinge housing on the lower part of the back-plate.  I cleaned out the jeep and loaded in my spare tip-wand and down-tube... now it's time to go to bed and dream sweet dreams of out-flying my good friend, Dr. Barry.

 

Blown Launch

August 3rd, 2011

First of all, I want to thank God for looking out for me. Again.

Secondly, I need to give a huge, all-caps THANK YOU to Steve, Channing, and Ollie for being such incredible friends and flying buddies. These guys didn’t even hesitate before giving up one of the best flying days of the year to hack their way through the dusty, thorny, tick-infested undergrowth in order to help me get my equipment off of the side of the ridge. You guys are amazing.

So, if you haven’t guessed yet, I crashed yesterday. Blew a launch at Whitwell and ended up in the trees maybe sixty feet below launch and to the left where, luckily, there were plenty of trees to catch my glider. The whole thing was over in about four seconds, so fast that I didn’t even have time to get scared. My life didn’t flash in front of my eyes and I didn’t shed a dramatic, solitary tear for my soon-to-be-lost loved ones right before impact, but there was a very distinct moment when I realized that I was probably going to die. That brief instant in time was captured as a snapshot, an engram, with all dimensions in perfect clarity, and now I find that my mind keeps returning to it, searching it, repeatedly probing it the way a person’s tongue might keep poking at a sore tooth. I wasn't hurt, but I’m still going to carry this with me for a long, long time.

The sequence of events was as follows: I approached the edge of the cliff in light winds under the guidance of a wire crew that I knew and trusted. I settled the wing on my shoulders, set my angle of attack, walked out to the edge, and heard calls of “neutral” from both sides. I launched. My wings were level and my attitude was good. My launch run was a little too aggressive and I could have been a step closer to the edge of the cliff, but I didn’t pop my nose or get nailed by an unexpected updraft. It seemed to be the opposite, in fact. Instead of flying away from the mountain, the glider seemed to settle directly downward, my left wing dropping a bit faster than my right wing. Only a slight imbalance, but it was enough for the left wing to scrape a bush and initiate a weird, low speed, nose-down turn that ordinary control inputs could not correct. I might have been able to save the launch if I’d climbed into the right corner of my control frame, but I’ll never know that for sure. Anyway, I tried to correct the turn and realized that I was not in proper control of the glider. It was only a few seconds, but it really seems like a lot of things happened. I pulled in and tried to roll out of the turn (though not aggressively enough), but the glider didn't respond. I saw that the trees below me were very close. I saw that I was pointed back toward the mountain realized that a crash was unavoidable. I pulled in harder for the last half-second of my brief flight then pushed out as hard as I could into the face of the cliff right at the moment of impact. I’m not sure what, exactly, happened right after I collided with the terrain, but the glider didn't actually connect with the rock face so I assume that my wings caught in the trees and stopped my forward motion. I swung forward on my hang strap as the glider slid down a few feet before catching the base tube on a 5” thick tree while pinching the right wing between that tree and another that grew up at a slightly different angle. I opened my eyes and stood up on the base-tube, checked myself for damage and making sure that the glider was secure before calling out on the radio that I was all right. Completely fine, in fact. I kept waiting for something to start hurting, but I really was fine… Thank God.

So, what went wrong? I think that it was a few things. First and foremost, I did not take the launch seriously. My attitude was that I had done it before, conditions were good, and I knew what I was doing. It wasn't a conscious attitude at all, I wasn't strutting around all puffed up and cocky, but looking back I can see that my internal attitude toward the launch and conditions was somewhat dismissive. I am a mountain pilot and cliff launches are a simple, basic skill, right? To be completely candid, I even recognized that other pilots, most with vastly more experience than I have, were having weird launches. I even went so far as to comment on those launches to a friend before my own launch... I *knew* something was off and that I should pay attention to it, but still didn't let that affect my launch procedure. Why? Because I thought I knew what I was doing, I guess. I have to think about that some more and come up with some way to temper my confidence with my ignorance and lack of experience. It's not always easy to realize when we were being foolish until after the dust has settled. Intermediate Syndrome in a nutshell, right?

From a technical perspective, the biggest problem was that my wings were not loaded when I launched. This is what Ollie, one of my wire-crew, saw and later told me. I had the wings balanced and level, but not loaded. I thought that I would fly from the cliff, but instead I did a Mary-Poppins launch and tried to use my hang glider as an umbrella. Because there was a head wind, I didn't focus on aggressively diving from the cliff’s edge at all, but launched as if I my wing were already flying. That accounts for the settling sensation that ate up my ground clearance and put me in contact with the bush that started my turn.

If I could do it over again there are, obviously, a few things I would change. Since I still haven’t managed to figure out time-travel, I will have to settle for adjusting my behavior in the future:

• I will force myself to take a moment to recognize the risk involved with launching a hang glider. To paraphrase Ollie: This isn’t a game we’re playing and if we don’t take it seriously it’s going to kill us. I never thought twice about it before launching yesterday and commented later that it was one of the first launches that I wasn't afraid of... that should have been a pretty big warning sign.
  
• I will always, always, every time, talk to my wire crew before launching. I knew both of the guys on my wing yesterday, I knew that they were going to follow the standard wire crew dialog that we had rehearsed before, and I saw them perfectly wire off half a dozen folks in line before me. Even so, I should have taken the time to make eye contact with each of them and to review the procedure. They did absolutely nothing wrong, but that’s not the point. I didn't need to take the time to review the procedure for their sake, but for my own – the extra 15 seconds on the ramp would have given me time to connect with reality, stop rushing, and helped to remind me that launching a hang glider was a serious business deserving my full and deliberate attention.
  
• I will take a few seconds to pause at the "red line" before calling clear. I’m not talking about loitering on launch while I get my courage up – just holding still for enough time to feel what the wing is really doing before I call clear. Yesterday I walked forward, felt in control, felt level, had a good nose angle, and went for it. I don’t think that I was on launch for more than three seconds, total. No hesitation, no fear. I don’t want to ever linger on the ramp, but I do need to be sure that every aspect of my body, wing, and crew are ready to launch and doing that is going to take a little extra time. If I’d taken a few seconds to stand there making sure I that I knew what the wing was doing, I think that I would have recognized that it was resting heavily on my shoulders when it should have been lifting in the light head-wind. I would have known to either wait for the lull to pass, to get the wing into the wind and under load, or to dive from the cliff in a no-wind launch. Instead I launched as if I were already under load and it nearly killed me.That’s it. I learned an important lesson from a mistake that many pilots don’t live long enough to make twice and I’m happy to have the opportunity to share it. If it helps even one person avoid making the same mistake, then I think the whole ordeal will have been worth it. If anyone would like to comment, offer advice, or share helpful suggestions then please do. I am always glad to have criticism and advice (and praise!!) about my flying.
  

Yesterday seems like it should have been a pretty bad day for me and I certainly would have preferred getting high and going long, but in a lot of ways that I came to realize last night over dinner (thanks again, Ollie), I think that yesterday may have been one of the best days of my life. It could have so easily been the worst, or the last, day of my life, but instead I am sitting here, one catastrophe wiser than I was a day ago, writing, drinking coffee, feeling thankful for my friends, and listening to my girlfriend sing while she paints the upstairs bedroom.

Life is good.

Days Six and Seven - Blown Out, Rained Out, Done.

Day Six - Pretty, but dangerous.

Day six was called due to unfavorable wind conditions and a dangerously turbulent landing zone.  It looked like it could have been a great cross-country day (and it was - epic for some of the folks who launched from Lookout Mountain), but during the Team Challenge we tend to be a little bit more conservative. 

Day seven was a long, cold, rainy mess.  We held out for as long as we could in the hopes that the weather would turn and that we would be able to squeeze in one more competition day, but the cool drizzle never really stopped.  Many of us launched and landed in the heavy, buoyant air, but nothing was scored and there was no chance at really going up.

Day Seven - Yuck.

Saturday night ended with live music, an award ceremony, pulled-pork sandwiches, and beer.  Lots of beer.  A whole keg of it!  I stayed for the awards ceremony then headed home as the band started up again.  I was tired and the forecast for Sunday promised rain, so I decided I'd be happier in my bed and that I could use Sunday for unpacking, washing, then repacking in preparation for my move to Chattanooga.

All in all, it was a wonderful learning experience.  I didn't score very well and never made goal, but my first two attempts were pretty amazing and I know I'll never forget the cows!  Special thanks to my team ("The Ollie Oops!") driver, Lori, for being awesome, to Dennis Pagen and Mike Barber for invaluable instruction, to Ollie for being an incredible mentor and team leader, and, most of all, Dean Funk for going out of his way to help me figure out why I wasn't thermaling well.  Dean - you rock. 

I am disappointed that we only had three competition days, but I did learn a lot and I plan to be back up in the air to apply that knowledge as soon as I can be.  Next year is only a year away and I can't wait!  Hopefully I won't qualify as a "C" pilot again...

Thanks for reading.  If anyone is interested in learning more about the sport of hang gliding please send an email to kreebog@gmail.com and I'll gladly answer questions, find a school for you, or help you in whatever way I can. 


James Dean
H-3
kreebog@gmail.com
KJ4RPB

Day Five - Cow Town



The fifth day of the competition showed a great forecast for Whitwell so we loaded up, piled in, and headed over.  The winds were strong, but not quite enough for ridge soaring.  Ridge soaring is when the wind comes into the cliff face with enough velocity to be deflected upward into a lift band that is strong enough to carry a glider up above the ridge.



A view from Whitwell launch



The task committee met on launch and decided that the C pilots should head for Galloway airport, which was about 11.73 miles away.  It it was a relatively easy task for those who are good at thermaling.  In case you're wondering, I'm not good at thermaling. 

We all got set up and our wind dummies (they prefer to be called wind "technicians") started to launch ahead of the competition pilots to give us an idea of what the wind was doing.  The first couple of test pilots sank out into Castle field (visible in the picture above), but the next couple managed to stick so our competition pilots lined up for launch.

Keith and his wreckage



We were all getting geared up and ready to go when  the unthinkable happened:  A pilot crashed on launch.  It was Keith and he was attempting to launch an Exxtasy.  He called "clear", took two tentative steps, then tried to stop, then he started to slide down the cliff.  One of the wire crew (a safety team that helps control the glider on the launch ramp) managed to hold onto Keith's right wing as he fell.  As the glider picked up speed the free left wing started to fly.  The entire glider, pilot included,  rotated around the secured right wingtip and the nose of the glider plowed into the cliff just to the right side of the launch.  The spectators, dogs and bunnies that were watching launches from the little shelf there dove for cover as the glider slammed into the rocky wall.  A second after impact there was an eerily pleasant bonging noise caused by the aluminum keel snapping under tension.  Keith and the glider settled on the little, rocky out cropping just a few feet below launch height and half a dozen pilots rushed to secure the wing while Keith unhooked and climbed out of the wreckage, shaken but not really hurt.  In the end, the only real damage was to the glider, which suffered the aforementioned broken keel, but even that turned out to be a pretty easy (and blessedly cheap) fix.

Me and Ollie

Once we got Keith safely settled with a fresh pair of underwear and a cold beer the launches resumed.  I was fourth or fifth in line on ramp when my team leader, Ollie, who had launched 10 minutes earlier, called on the radio that he'd found lift just left of the ramp.  If Ollie calls you off the ramp you go, so  I shouted "PUSH!" as loud as I could.  Jeff Nibbler was on launch and chose to back off.  The line of pilots before me parted like the Red Sea before Moses and his staff so, within seconds, I was on launch and ready to fly.

"Clear!" I shouted, diving from the cliff's edge with confidence and authority.  It was a beautiful launch!  My airspeed quickly increased as my wing started flying and I turned left into some light lift, but didn't find anything worth turning in.  I continued floating up the ridge in a nice tail wind, turning a couple of times when I thought I found something workable, but slowly sinking and slowly moving further away from the ridge.  I turned back to the south and passed Dean Funk.  Dean was working the ridge with about as much success as I was having, but his better glider gave him more range than I had.  While Dean continued to search I turned out into the valley because I was below the ridge and running out of altitude.



I'm red, Dean is white, JC
is blue (but not 3D)

While I was on the way out into the valley I hit a pretty good thermal.  I turned in it and started going up, which was great.  Then Dean saw me and charged in my direction, hoping to take advantage of the lift I'd found.  He hooked the thermal I'd found while I flew out of the back of it.  Jen caught up and joined Dean in my thermal so I turned back to search for it, but I didn't account for the wind drift and ended up searching too low.  I lost more altitude and had to go into the valley and land at the church (the church is our primary landing zone for Whitwell).



Oh well, I had a great landing, broke down, rode up, set up, and launched again.  This time there was a wonderful cycle of wind that lifted me up and left, immediately soaring, downwind, above the ridge.  I rode this wonderful breeze along the ridge, stupidly passing up on a couple of nice thermal climbing opportunities in my quest for distance.  I eventually got close to Star Gap, the first big jump on the ridge run north toward Galloway, and realized that I wasn't going to be able to make it across.  I had to turn back upwind and head out into valley to look for thermals and landing zones. I didn't find any thermals, but I did find a landing zone.  I call it Cow Town. 



First flight is the green

line, second flight is the

red line

Cow Town is a nice looking field in the middle of a bunch of other nice looking fields that are pretty close to the geometric center of absolutely nothing.  I call it Cow Town because, well, it's full of cows.  It might not have been the best place to land, but it was a good, long field, it was into the wind, and I knew I could safely land in it.  So that's exactly what I did...  With absolutely no thought to how I might get back out again.

The field was large, clear, relatively flat, and free of power lines.  It was bisected by a fence and I could clearly see cows grazing on the northwest side of the field while the southeast side was vacant.  I'd been told that landing with cows was fine, but should be avoided if it were safely possible to do so.  I aimed for the southeast side of the fence - why disturb the cows if I didn't have to, right?  Also, from the air it looked like there was a little road leading out from the southeast corner of the field.  There wasn't.

The field I landed in was ringed by three things:  Trees, a creek, and a barbed wire fence.  Did I mention the cows?  My landing was a beautiful no stepper and as soon as the glider settled onto my shoulders I marched to the edge of the creek, unhooked, and looked around for some evidence of a gate, road, path or some other means of egress.  What I saw was a single, lonely cow staring at me from the other side of the field.  Uh oh.

 

A hornless bull?

 Now, let me tell you something else I learned about choosing landing fields when cows are involved.  A general rule of thumb is that you can safely land with cows, plural, but that a single cow should be avoided no matter how big and pretty the field is.  Why?  Because a single cow, in its own, lonely field, is probably a bull.  Bulls are bad, mmmkay? 

 

I squinted at the thing, big, black, and far away, trying to see if it had horns.  I couldn't tell, but it was just standing there staring at me and not charging.  I quickly took my harness off of the glider, removed the expensive instruments from my downtube, stuffed them into my helmet, stuffed the helmet into the harness, and tossed the whole bundle across the creek.  If the bull charged it might wreck my glider, but me and the rest of my gear would be safely on the other side of the creek trying to scramble over the barbed wire fence.

I looked up again and was surprised to find not one, but six... bulls?  No.  They were clearly cows and they were coming my way.  The fence I'd seen from the air was really just a line of fence posts with no wire between them.  I sighed with relief and called Lori, my retrieval driver, and told her that I had no idea where I was or how she was going to get to me, but that I'd text her my coordinates.  Verizon rocks, even in the middle of Cow Town, and I was able to load up Google maps and fire off the text message in just a couple of minutes.  When I looked up again, I was completely surrounded by cows. 

 

I fell into a burning ring of... cows.

I don't know anything about cows.  I mean, yeah, I know that they produce milk, meat, and baby cows, but really that's about it.  I think that they are nice animals and I've never heard of anyone being attacked by one, but when I looked up to find myself ringed into the corner of the field by thirty or more half-ton, fly covered animals, all of them staring at me with passionless, black eyes I got a little bit nervous.  Was I standing in their favorite place?  Were they mad at me?  There were baby cows, too... maybe the momma cows would beat me up for scaring the babies.  What if they wanted to eat my glider?  What if they stampeded me into the dirt for some reason?  I did the only thing I could think of:  I tried to talk them down. 

 

"Wow," I said, forcing confidence into my voice.  Could cows smell fear?  I don't know.  "You guys sure are pretty.  Yep.  Big, pretty cows."  I walked around to the back of my glider and started pulling out the battens.  After a couple of battens I turned around and noticed that the ring of cows seemed to have closed in on me a bit.

"Big, pretty cows," I cooed.  "Nice cows, right?  Nice cows?  I'm a pretty nice guy myself, so I think we'll get along ok as long as you don't try to eat my glider."  I pulled more battens.  "You don't eat my glider, I won't eat you.  Or your babies.  Deal?"  The main battens were out so I turned to look again and, this time, I was certain that they were closer.  Every time I turned my back on them they were moving closer.  Like the haunted topiary in Stephen King's "The Shining".  I stared at them suspiciously, trying to figure out what they were up to.  A forlorn sounding "Mooooooooooo" drifted up from somewhere in the back, lonely and pleading.  Nobody answered. 



An annotated, aerial view of Cow Town.

One of the cows (The "boss" cow?  Or maybe it's called the "alpha" cow?), was braver than the others and actually took a step toward me when my back wasn't turned.  The thing was so close that I could almost hear the flies buzzing around its face and I think I caught a grassy whiff of its fetid breath.  I had to do something or it would be right on top of me - and my wing!  The sheer weight of it would certainly be able to crush my glider as if it were made of foil.  I picked up my battens, raised them over my head, and shook them as loudly as I could while yelling "Ooga booga booga!" and taking a deliberate step toward the lead cow.  Thinking back on it now I wish I'd tried a nice, cowboy-like "Heeeya!!" or something, but nobody was there to see me and "ooga booga" seemed to work just as well because the alpha cow and her herd backed off a few feet. 

At some point during my dance with the cows Lori, my retrieval driver, called. She was on a road and as close as Google could get her to me. I couldn't see her and she couldn't see me so I asked her to honk the horn. I could barely hear the flat blatting noise over the oppressive silence of the staring cows, but it was there.  "You're close," I told her.  "I'm in a field to your south, behind a creek and a line of trees." 

"Ok," Lori replied, "I'll try to find a way in."

I was almost done breaking down my glider when I heard Lori's voice calling to me through the trees.  I could barely see her through the dense undergrowth as I explained that there was a creek and a fence on this side of the trees and that I didn't see any clear way through.  Lori said she'd go have a look and walked away, following the tree line while I continued working.

 

I had to ooga-booga the cows a few more times while I broke down before they, either bored with me or intimidated by my ferocity, turned their backs on me and ambled back the way they'd come with cat-like indifference.  I finished packing up my equipment just as the phone started to ring.  It was Lori.




The other side of the fence.

 "I think I found a way through."

 

"You RULE!  Where is it?"

 

"Follow the cows."

 

I looked up and saw the cows slowly walking along the treeline about a quarter mile away so I picked up my equipment and followed them.  When I got to the place that Lori was talking about, which was just a thinner spot in the trees with a drier bit of creek, I dropped my gear and went to look.  Lori was down in the creek bed laying sticks and branches across the trickling water so that I could cross without getting my feet wet.




Head 'em up and move 'em out.

 With Lori's help, I was able to to feed my glider through a hole in the fence then slide my equipment (and body - farmers really don't like people climbing their fences) through the same hole.  With a little careful maneuvering we were able to move the glider through the trees and out into the freshly mown hay field just on the other side.  From there it was an easy thing to put the glider onto Ollie's expedition and drive off into the sunset, just like an episode of Rawhide. 



Get along, little doggies!  Heeeya!!