Mist Retreats to Morning
With a tug, the slack is taken out of the tow-line and the Grob G103a Twin II sailplane aligns for takeoff. There is no radio aboard, but a signal by cycling the tail rudder from side to side alerts the pilot of the Pawnee AgCat tug that you’re ready to go. 260 horses from the tug’s engine is more than adequate to pull both aircraft to the separation point at around 3000 feet AGL (Above Ground Level). The Grob’s efficient design actually has it airborne within seconds, way faster than the powerful AgCat tow plane as it claws for speed down the narrow runway at the Whitsett, North Carolina, glider park... it’s that efficiency that you count on as you cut away from the tug. The tow pilot angles down and left, while you rise up and right. The air smooths out and so does the ride out from behind the backwash of the tug’s propeller, but it’s not time to sit back just yet. The first order of business is situational awareness... to take note of where you’re at and what’s around you. Next, trim the aircraft for best rate of climb... then look for some rising air. There is no electrical system aboard the Grob, but its instrument panel is complete with artificial horizon, altimeter, airspeed indicator, clock, compass, and vertical airspeed indicator... that’s the instrument that glider pilots rely on to find the rising air that takes them to their ultimate destination... up!
There is yet another important instrument that helps to get you up there, but it’s not in the panel... it’s a three-inch string attached to the front center of the canopy. If you’ve trimmed the craft properly, that string flows straight back from the canopy... if it flows left or right from center, you’re side-slipping, which is an excellent way to lose altitude. After trimming the aircraft to its most efficient profile, I look to another indicator for “best flight” that isn’t to be found in the cockpit... circling buzzards. Buzzards have an innate ability to find thermals, shafts of rising air that keep them aloft for hours. Some of the best lifts I ever got were from taking cues from some of nature’s most prolific flyers. The airframe of a sailplane like the Grob is so effectual that they will easily go to the upper limits of thermals. Around these parts, that’s usually around 10,000 feet AGL, though there are areas here in the states where thermals can reach 20,000 feet or better... and that can be dangerous.
Thermals not only rise... they also track across the landscape, and sometimes pretty fast. The highest I flew in these parts was around 9,000 feet. I often had to hop from thermal to thermal to stay within sight of Whitsett. You didn’t want to be too far away, especially in conditions of sinking air. The destination was always up, but journey’s end was always safely stopped at the park... “journey’s end” is critical in an unpowered aircraft... part of the skill in flying it was putting it back where you found it. That was always on my mind, but so was going up, and it never seemed high enough. My question to myself on nearly every drive home after a flight was how high is high enough?
There are many conditions in life where people accept poor standards of belief, especially when it’s just within themselves, where they strive and claw to the stratosphere only to find there’s nothing there... their expectations let them down. I've listened to skeptics who rely on their place in life as a random collocation of atoms... that's an even worse condition, as it leaves one with no understanding to even reach for the top, much less knowing when they have.
Even while flying the Grob, I realized the joy was in the journey, not in the heights. This image was taken the same morning as that of my last post. It gives a better view of the overall wildness of Linville Gorge from the tip rocky ledge of Hawksbill Mountain. Where I’m standing is about 4,000 feet (1220 meters) above sea level, looking over a remote landscape that stretches to the coming morning... and it makes me appreciate that there are times that the highest you need to go may be exactly where you are... particularly if it takes you to a beautiful place. After a night of rain, mist retreats to morning... there's hope in that.
The pink flowers here are Carolina rhododendron separated by blueberry bushes that are also in bloom... you can see them here, a pinkish white and rather small bell-shape.
Mist Retreats to Morning
With a tug, the slack is taken out of the tow-line and the Grob G103a Twin II sailplane aligns for takeoff. There is no radio aboard, but a signal by cycling the tail rudder from side to side alerts the pilot of the Pawnee AgCat tug that you’re ready to go. 260 horses from the tug’s engine is more than adequate to pull both aircraft to the separation point at around 3000 feet AGL (Above Ground Level). The Grob’s efficient design actually has it airborne within seconds, way faster than the powerful AgCat tow plane as it claws for speed down the narrow runway at the Whitsett, North Carolina, glider park... it’s that efficiency that you count on as you cut away from the tug. The tow pilot angles down and left, while you rise up and right. The air smooths out and so does the ride out from behind the backwash of the tug’s propeller, but it’s not time to sit back just yet. The first order of business is situational awareness... to take note of where you’re at and what’s around you. Next, trim the aircraft for best rate of climb... then look for some rising air. There is no electrical system aboard the Grob, but its instrument panel is complete with artificial horizon, altimeter, airspeed indicator, clock, compass, and vertical airspeed indicator... that’s the instrument that glider pilots rely on to find the rising air that takes them to their ultimate destination... up!
There is yet another important instrument that helps to get you up there, but it’s not in the panel... it’s a three-inch string attached to the front center of the canopy. If you’ve trimmed the craft properly, that string flows straight back from the canopy... if it flows left or right from center, you’re side-slipping, which is an excellent way to lose altitude. After trimming the aircraft to its most efficient profile, I look to another indicator for “best flight” that isn’t to be found in the cockpit... circling buzzards. Buzzards have an innate ability to find thermals, shafts of rising air that keep them aloft for hours. Some of the best lifts I ever got were from taking cues from some of nature’s most prolific flyers. The airframe of a sailplane like the Grob is so effectual that they will easily go to the upper limits of thermals. Around these parts, that’s usually around 10,000 feet AGL, though there are areas here in the states where thermals can reach 20,000 feet or better... and that can be dangerous.
Thermals not only rise... they also track across the landscape, and sometimes pretty fast. The highest I flew in these parts was around 9,000 feet. I often had to hop from thermal to thermal to stay within sight of Whitsett. You didn’t want to be too far away, especially in conditions of sinking air. The destination was always up, but journey’s end was always safely stopped at the park... “journey’s end” is critical in an unpowered aircraft... part of the skill in flying it was putting it back where you found it. That was always on my mind, but so was going up, and it never seemed high enough. My question to myself on nearly every drive home after a flight was how high is high enough?
There are many conditions in life where people accept poor standards of belief, especially when it’s just within themselves, where they strive and claw to the stratosphere only to find there’s nothing there... their expectations let them down. I've listened to skeptics who rely on their place in life as a random collocation of atoms... that's an even worse condition, as it leaves one with no understanding to even reach for the top, much less knowing when they have.
Even while flying the Grob, I realized the joy was in the journey, not in the heights. This image was taken the same morning as that of my last post. It gives a better view of the overall wildness of Linville Gorge from the tip rocky ledge of Hawksbill Mountain. Where I’m standing is about 4,000 feet (1220 meters) above sea level, looking over a remote landscape that stretches to the coming morning... and it makes me appreciate that there are times that the highest you need to go may be exactly where you are... particularly if it takes you to a beautiful place. After a night of rain, mist retreats to morning... there's hope in that.
The pink flowers here are Carolina rhododendron separated by blueberry bushes that are also in bloom... you can see them here, a pinkish white and rather small bell-shape.