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September 25, 2007
……..Continued
from August 27, 2007
Since my mission plan called for minimum altitude over the
target, I had wound the trim forward and stuck the nose of the
little airplane down, in order to get to the planned altitude by
my objective. A satisfying hiss of air washed over the airframe
and the little A-65 Continental engine took on a serious note as
the airplane slid down the slope I had created. The whole
airplane took on a vibration I had never felt before as the
airspeed indicator needle reached for the red line that marked
'this fast and no faster', and I wondered if anyone had ever
flown it at this speed before.
About a mile from my
parent's house, the twisting river made an oxbow of its
meandering path toward the Ohio, and as I passed this point,
centered between the stream's grassy banks, something flashed
by, close beneath my wheels, so fast that I couldn't estimate by
how much I had missed it. A power line, I noticed belatedly, now
spanned the river here, and was hanging from supporting towers
that crowned the tops of the hills bracketing the stream bed.
How much I had missed the heavy cables I couldn't say, but I the
image of the windings that were built into the cables during
manufacture remained burned into my brain like a photograph, and
it shook me.
 After
a much-too-late, involuntary jerk on the control stick, I
shakily continued my descent into the river valley. My heart was
pumping what felt like quarts of adrenaline through my system
and my breath came in short pants as I banked the Luscombe
quickly right, then left, to stay over the twisting river. One
last sharp bend remained before the short, straight run the
river made past my parents house, and as I came around it in a
near vertical bank, my altitude was about 200 feet above the
river. A few seconds later the familiar white farmhouse flashed
past my left wing and I was climbing as fast as the little
airplane could, to escape the valley.
I had done it.
My mission had gone like clockwork, if you didn't count the fact
that I'd almost killed myself on the power cable that I had
nearly hit. Now satisfaction joined all the other emotions that
were having their way with my brain. Rising above the steep,
wooded hills surrounding my village, I aimed the airplane back
toward Philippi, to join Route 20 again.
Slowly my heart rate and breathing returned to normal and I
looked about me. With the concentrated effort and the excitement
of finding my way to the destination, I had lost track of the
day's progress. I was as they say, shocked and saddened to see
that the sun had just set. I looked at my watch, as if I could
argue with the sun if I found it was quitting early. No, it was
setting exactly as it should. Where had the time gone? For the
first time I realized that the straight line that my friend had
plotted for my journey had in no way resembled the drunken path
I had scribed through the air above the roads I'd followed. I'd
taken nearly twice the allotted time to fly the distance and I'd
used up most of the precious daylight. Once again my heart was
trying to hammer its way out of my chest, presumably trying to
get someplace where I couldn't kill it. The control stick and
throttle grew slick from my sweating palms. I frantically
reviewed my options and I immediately thought of the warning
from my instructor after I'd soloed the Luscombe from the grass
at Stewart. "Do not land this thing on a paved runway until
I ride with you. You'll ground loop it". That eliminated
almost all of the airports that I could get to before dark. The
few that were left were much shorter than anything I had ever
landed on. Should I go to one of those and crash now, or
continue toward Parkersburg and crash later. My decision was
aided by my penchant for putting things off that I didn't want
to do. Crashing an airplane easily fit into that category, and I
opted to continue on toward Parkersburg.
I felt
trapped, and for the first time in my short flying career, I
wished I were on the ground. By now I was over Route 50, heading
westward toward the glow that the setting sun had left on the
horizon. Aloft I was still bathed in afterglow, but darkness was
spreading quickly on the ground below. Automobiles now had their
lights on, and while I could still make out the path of Route
50, it was getting harder to keep it located beneath me. Salem
passed underneath, the downtown area lit brightly as people
finished up their day and got ready to head home, the street
lights brightning their way.
By the time I reached
Pennsboro the ground was totally dark and now I was following
the lights of moving cars that I fervently hoped were moving
toward Parkersburg. Worse, I had no lights on the airplane and
nothing to light the instrument panel, which at this point was a
just a dark shape in front of my knees. I had never been in an
airplane at night before, and as the visual cues that I had used
in flying, without even thinking about them, slipped away one
by one, I felt like a man being swept by swift waters to a
waiting waterfall. The brassy taste of fear was in my mouth.
The speed of the little airplane over the ground now
seemed reduced to a snail's pace, and the indistinct gloaming
below passed ever so slowly. The sky, still with faint afterglow
on the western horizon, had darkened above me and stars were
beginning to appear. I kept trying to comprehend the fact that I
was flying an airplane alone, through a night sky.
After
what seemed to be an eternity, an indistinct glow of light
appeared at my 1 o'clock position. It slowly grew brighter as I
came on, and in a bit I passed over a lighted service station. I
could see an attendant pumping gas into a pickup truck that sat
washed in the flood of the island lights, and as I looked down
the attendant's white face turned up toward me, no doubt
wondering why no lights showed on the airplane passing over. I
recognized the station as one on Route 50, where I occasionally
gassed up my car. Now I knew I was not far from Parkersburg and
that I was over the right road after all.
Sweet
relief coursed through me as I realized that I wasn't lost, that
I had found home and that I was going to survive this. Soon I
could see the outskirts of the city, well lit by the street
lights and the signs of stores. The huge, orange colored Mr.
Bee's Potato Chip sign that sat above the street leading to the
airport came into view like a friendly beacon, as I made my way
over the now familiar path.
A few minutes later my high
spirits fell, as I reached the area where I knew the airport to
be. There were no welcoming strings of runway lights, only a
large square area of total darkness, contrasting sharply with
the myriad of city lights all around it. My lack of night
experience was complete. Not only had I never flown at night, I
had never been to the airport at night and didn't know the
runway wasn't lighted. Now I had to land an airplane at night
for the first time, do it without benefit of seeing my
instruments, and as a special topping for my flight of idiocy,
also manage to hit an unseen runway.
 As
I flew across the center of the field and looked straight down,
I could see the outline of white airplanes parked on the dark
grass, as they reflected the glow of the city lights. Using that
position as a guide, I turned downwind and pulled on the
carburetor heat, as I'd been taught. With no way to see my
airspeed or altitude in the darkened cabin, I knew I had to rely
on the patterns established by the hours of landing practice
with my instructor. I would have to rely on the feel of the
airplane against my hand and the sound of the air moving past
the ship to gage my airspeed. I hoped my inner clock would let
me time the length of the downwind and base legs of my pattern,
then I'd aim for the square of darkness that was the airport,
once I'd rolled out on final approach.
As I pulled
the throttle back to idle I said a small prayer, asking God to
forgive me for being so stupid and to please let me survive this
mess I'd made. I hoped it was true that God protects drunks and
fools, for I had completely qualified for the latter
nomenclature.
Giving the trim the number of twists I
remembered from my other landings in the Luscombe, the little
airplane settled into my hand and I began the glide. Seconds
passed, then when I thought the time was right I made the 90
degree turn onto the base leg of the pattern, careful to neither
pull the nose up or let it drop. The airplane felt almost normal
in spite of not being able to see instruments or runway. When
the square of darkness filled my left window, I made the last
turn onto the final approach for the runway.
While I
had been over the streets and neighborhoods of the town or
pointing away from the field, the lights on the ground had given
me reference, and made maneuvering the airplane almost like
daytime. Now I was pointed at a dark hole and as I sank lower it
became harder to sense the attitude of the airplane. I
concentrated on not make changes in the controls and listened
intently to the sound clues the ship gave me. I seemed to be
centered on the blackness that I knew was the airport and as
best I could tell, my altitude looked about right. Suddenly I
saw the top of a shadowy hill silently ghost by beneath my
wheels and realized I'd passed the flood wall that marked the
south end of the airport. I was about as well positioned as I
could hope to be and I looked desperately for some clue to tell
me where the ground was, as I sank down into the darkness. When
I could stand it no longer, I broke the glide and started
feeling for the ground. The Luscombe stalled and droped and I
knew I had flared too high. I jammed the throttle forward and
eased up on the stick until I felt the wings gain purchase
again, then pulled the throttle back and began the process over.
This time the ground was just beneath the wheels when the
airplane stalled and we touched and with a small bounce settled
and rolled through dark and the mist that was starting to form
above the wet grass.
As one could imagine, my failure
to return to the airport before dark had not gone unnoticed. As
I taxied slowly in I was met by a mighty contingent of cars and
people, looking to me at the time much like a lynch mob. It was
led by my instructor, a giant of a man named Red Bozo, who
looked ten foot tall in the wall of headlights backlighting him.
When I cast my memory back to that moment, I could swear that
the crowd was holding the blazing torches seen in Gary Larson
cartoons, but they were probably flashlights. A caravan of cars
led the way back to my tiedown and I made my excuses to Red, all
lies, for what could I say?
I
remember driving back my apartment feeling as if I just awakened
from a long and wrenching dream. I knew that I had just
experienced life on the very edge, and I also knew that things
could have so easily ended another way. I was blessed to still
be drawing breath. At that moment life seemed inexpressibly
sweet to me and I vowed that I would never again do something so
foolish. On the other hand, I had never felt so alive…..
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