Hang Gliding and Paragliding Volume 44 / Issue 12:December 2014 | Page 66

The 1

by Richard Nakai

Congratulations to Nate Scales whose name was drawn out of a hat containing the names of the 12 generous
authors who conributed to "The 1" over the past year. Nate will receive a USHPA soft shell jacket for his May, 2014 story.
Let's do it again! We know there was a day when it all worked for you. When your training clicked, the conditions were perfect, the stars aligned, and you soared to new heights (real or imagined.) Send in your tale of “The 1” flight you'll never forget,
and we'll print it right here. You'll be entered into the annual drawing and your story will echo through the ages!

T

he Owens Valley in California
evokes many stories for me, one of
which is the time my wife, Cindy,
and I hooked up with Don Taber
and his wife, Danusia. The following
day, Don and I launched from Walt’s
Point and headed north. Since we
were flying with a mission to make
tracks northward, I didn’t dilly-dally
at Mt. Whitney, even though this time
my camera had film. (The last time I
was at the summit, I had run out of
film while circling over and down to
the level of three dozen hikers on the
summit and talking to them and wishing them a nice hike down!)
Anyway, at the last peak and ridge
before crossing the stunning Onion
Valley, I spotted a small cloud NW of
us, just beginning to form over the top
of the Sierra Nevada. Don, who was a
couple of hundred feet below me and
heading north directly across Onion
Valley, got hit by massive westerly
winds and flushed out into the Owens
Valley miles below and landed. I dared
to venture WNW over this westerly
monster in hopes of connecting with
that forming cloud.
My vario was silent with only an
occasional beep. My toes were pointed.
I carefully watched my glide, knowing
the westerly monster was just below.
I pushed on deep into the Sierra, at
which time the beeps began to get
louder and louder.
I relaxed as I got sucked up to
cloudbase and arrived in a different

66

HANG GLIDING & PARAGLIDING MAGAZINE

air mass over the westerlies. Since my
wife and I were heading to a family
function in Placerville on the western
side of the Sierra, I pushed north to
Bishop, rather than cross the Owens
Valley to the White Mountains.
At Bishop, an immense plateau,
Coyote Flat, makes it awfully convenient to cut the corner and hold a
straight northerly line and fly deep into
the Sierra over Lake Sabrina behind
the plateau. I had heard of pilots doing
that. But it looked awfully intimidating. By local mountain standards, I
had tons of altitude, but this was the
Sierra Nevada. I didn’t have altitude to
spare in the event of monster sink.
So I pushed NE to the foothills
and then ran into a washing-machine
wall of turbulence. From wind reports,
I knew the wind north of Bishop
was WNW, and south of Bishop it
was SE. From flying Pine Mountain,
California, where the northern
desert air can collide with the coastal
southern air, I knew I was in convergence turbulence and needed to simply
hold on tight. After about 1000 feet
of climbing in that washing-machine
turbulence, I popped out into strong,
smooth convergence lift and climbed
fast.
I pulled in and headed north along
Highway 395. I topped out my altitude
before crossing Round Valley just
north of Bishop. The westerlies in
Round Valley bled all of my altitude,
until I was below the level of the

spine to Tom’s Place. The westerlies
weakened northward and, eventually,
were nonexistent. The SE wind must
be holding them back, I reasoned.
Therefore, I ventured back in leeside of
the spine, with no westerlies blowing
over the top. From flying with mentor
Tom Truax in Ventura County along
Santa Paula Ridge, I knew to get to
the top of the spine to catch the flow
coming up both sides. I skimmed onto
the top of the spine, and glided north
along the spine to the very end, where I
hit a booming thermal rocketing me to
16,500 feet.
By this time, my wife had caught up
with me along Highway 395 and asked
where I was. I replied I was at 16,500
feet directly over her. I watched as my
Pathfinder pulled off the highway, and
I saw my wife get out and look up. I
was probably about 12,000 feet above
her. I circled, waved to my wife, and
then headed north again. By now, the
terrain had changed from steel granite
majesty and emerald blue lakes to the
green forests of Mammoth Mountain,
with Lake Crowley below. I could have
ventured east of Lake Crowley downwind in search of the convergence line,
but I had dinner plans. So, instead, I
went on final glide from 16,500 feet
and landed along Highway 395, north
of Mammoth, for about a 110-mile
flight.
By dinnertime, we were at my
wife’s cousin’s house in Placerville,
California.