The field was littered with gliders, with two tow planes hoisting the lineup as fast as they could. There for my second annual pilgrimage to the Estrella Sailport near Maricopa, Arizona, I expected to zip through my recurrency check-out ride with my instructor when I finally got to the front of that line, and get on with a weeks worth of soaring in various aircraft.
Bad assumption. The check-out flight revealed a serious amount of rust and sloppiness. It was like I was flying a boxcar, rocking wings left and right as I overcontrolled wind gusts, and porpoising as I wrested with pitch control. The tow pilot loved it, as his tail was dragged left and right, up and down. I was trying to catch up with the glider as I reenacted my first training flights since getting back to slipping the surly bonds of earth four years ago.
It took another seven flights around the patch before I flipped the switch. I remember that from my lessons leading up to achieving the glider rating this same time last year. Struggling for a number of flights until, within one flight, it all came together, with precise approaches and pinpoint landings. Where had that competence gone? Isn’t this like riding a bike?
Apparently not. Which I should have known. Resuming flying after a twenty-seven year absence, following retirement, I committed myself to flying at least twice a month. From previous experience I learned that recency maintains above the shoulders muscle memory, making basic stick and rudder flying an automatic reflex, leaving all remaining mental processing capacity for the host of other simultaneous demands. Any pilot needs to have most of his attention focused on what comes next and what’s going on outside the cockpit, not on what he should be doing to get to or stay at the right altitude, speed, or configuration. With a year having past since last sitting in a glider, my field of vision narrowed to the altimeter and airspeed indicator, slowing my reaction to other inputs, and tossing the seat of my pants (an expression use to represent where most of the sense of what is happening to the aircraft is located) on the ground.
Finally, on the third day, the switch flipped. Suddenly I handled the bumpy air with aplomb, and on landing put the glider exactly where it needed to be - right next to the flagpole marking the center of the field as it came to a complete stop.
The first solo flight after release by my instructor lasted 1-1/2 hours. We corkscrewed up to just over 6,000 feet in strong but compact thermals, then would lose it to sink quickly to the next thermal, and back up. That cycle repeated about eight times, allowing me to survey the mountains from up high, traveling between what are called house thermals (landmark areas where thermals can often - but not always - be found). Some of the lift was downright exhilarating, ranging from 6 to 8 knots, or about 600 - 800 feet per minute. I’m usually delighted to find 4 knots. And you certainly knew it when you left the thermal, when the rate of decent would be about the same, on occasion separating my newly recovered seat of pants from the cockpit seat.
This year, instead of a hotel, the bunkhouse, at $25 per night looked like a better deal. It turned out to be a great place to relax and reflect after a good day of flying. Aptly named, the unique structure was located right on the field, with a common area and bathroom downstairs, and eight bunk beds in two rooms upstairs. I can’t imagine where everyone would put gear and stretch-out if all 16 bunks were occupied, but I ended up sharing the place with only one other pilot. Tomieta-san was from Japan and, like me, was there on his individual flying vacation. In his case, however, he was spending two weeks on his twentieth annual visit. It was the only flying he would do all year, since it’s very expensive, if not impossible to do in his home country. We didn’t talk much, since his english was very limited, but that made for a nice, quiet respite in the desert.
His Japanese radio got a bit old after a while. Not the brand of radio, though that was Japanese too, but rather the Japanese radio shows he listened to. Multiple voices, many female, yammering about something very entertaining. Not sure where or how he got the programming, whether recorded or live, but it was broadcasting whenever he was in his bunk - which was most of the time, day or night. And all night.
Fortunately I slept soundly, a bit of a surprise given how old the mattress looked. In fact, everything in the place looked like it had been around for a while. The mouse I met opening the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink when I arrived, along with the old and less than sparkling microwave and hot plate (“please don’t turn multiple appliances on at once”) convinced me to drive the five miles to Maricopa for my breakfast and dinner.
Early mornings and evenings were beautiful, though, with the sun glow filtering through the desert dust in bright oranges, reds, and gold as it rose and set down over the mountains. Winds in the Sonoma valley typically blow east in the morning, west in the afternoon, and not at all at night. Sitting on the porch in stillness was very therapeutic, especially after those first two days of glider wrestling.
To live there as the instructors do is another thing. Three or four instructors, who second as commercial pilots that give rides to the public at $150 to $400 a pop, live on site in their personal RV or house trailer. Water is only available by truck, stored in large tanks, and sewage stored in pump-out tanks. Each day is pretty much the same, sun almost always, with (very) occasional rain and high wind gusts. It’s the reason we come, because the chances are very good that you can fly every day. But it reminds me of how much I appreciate our four seasons (even when the cold one hangs around too long), and diversity of daily climate. They’re a hearty bunch, all fairly senior bachelors with deep and long aviation histories. My instructor on this trip was a farmer from Michigan who spends the entire off-season at Estrella flying every day in various capacities, only to return to Michigan for planting and harvest. He’s very happy with the routine, having done it for several years now, but does long for the Michigan spring about this time of year.
Though I shortened my stay on the forecast of high winds for the final two days of my agenda, I got a lot of good experience learning how to find and keep thermals, with most flights an hour or more - up to two and a half hours on one occasion. Finding altitude, especially when the thermals are still weak, is kind of like fishing. You hunt and hunt for evidence of lift and, when you find it, you circle at a steep bank to stay in it, with luck providing enough strength of lift to get you up and up. Each flight consisted of several extended ascents and descents, starting from about 3,000 feet, at which I’d part ways with the tow plane, to as high as 6,500 feet. We’d climb and climb, making small adjustments and finding successive thermals to eventually find a big area of sink that would take me back down. Rinse and repeat, from three to eight times per flight. It made everything worth it. Scott Anderson, a retired Air Force and Delta Airlines pilot who has soared in his high performance glider for forty years. was in the sky with me on my longest flight circling below for what seemed like an hour. He commented that he spent a lot of time looking at the underbelly of my old, yellow, single place 1-26 Schweizer. He added that he hadn’t seen someone fly a 1-26 with better symmetry and speed of ascent, or with as much total altitude. Maybe he was just talking, but I’ll take it. It made up for the initial time relearning how to ride the bike.
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