a true story
It all started innocently enough with a Usenet posting by Brent Sullivan that reminded me of a longtime travelling trophy shared by the Soaring Club of Houston (SCOH) and our club – the Fault Line Flyers (FLF), of Austin.
[snip…]
Oh, and you
guys at Faultline Flyers--we're still holding the traveling trophy that goes
between our clubs.
To both Faultline Flyers and GHSA, SCOH
recalls the history of the Great State of Texas and the battle at Goliad when
we say to you "Come and Take It!"
Brent
Such a challenge could not be ignored. A mere 126 miles away I thought this flight would be innocuous at best. The summer had been good, with weather allowing us flights well in excess of 400 miles. I immediately notified my usual wingmen and explained that it was imperative we went and claimed the trophy that very weekend. Jamie Shore, a fearless and very skilled aviator decided to join me.
Cross-country endeavors at FLF traditionally take us west, to the happy land of 10 – 12 kt thermals, 10,000-foot cloudbases, and magnificent streets. A land that is sometimes called Uvalde. This task was unique, however, in that it would take us east towards terra incognita near the Gulf of Mexico. An inhospitable plain filled with sinister traps and high security state facilities we were about to uncover.
The plan was to fly to SCOH on Saturday, spend the evening there, and triumphantly bring back the trophy to FLF the next day. We stuffed sleeping bags, a change of clothes, and other essentials in the gliders. I took the first tow in Big Bird (EE) and released at 1,200 feet in a good thermal. The day seemed unusually strong for mid-October with abundant 6 – 8 kt lift to 5,300 MSL. “An auspicious beginning” I thought. By 1:30 we were en route, blissfully unaware of the dangers lurking in the distance. We flew together at first but soon separated, as the little Pegasus (TW) imposed a slower speed on Jamie.
Forty-five miles out our victory was almost tangible. At 50:1 all I needed was one more climb and I could reach SCOH. But this was not to be. Suddenly the cloudbases started dropping at an alarming rate. It became necessary to fly around the clouds in order to avoid them. Minutes later I found myself flying over the tops. I could even see my aeroplane’s shadow encircled by a rainbow on the clouds below. Then I came upon a large blue hole, perhaps 20 miles wide. I radioed Jamie to report the conditions and to suggest he climb as high as possible before entering the area. After crossing the seemingly endless blue hole I was under the clouds again, but the bases were very low and the clouds were dilapidated. My altimeter indicated 1500 MSL or about 1000 above the dirt. I started seriously considering the fields below. My GPS showed the nearest airport to be SCOH, only 10 miles away. Alas too far to reach over unfamiliar terrain. It was safer to remain over the plowed fields to see if lift developed. There were 3 or 4 fields that looked suitable for a gentle reencounter with the ground and, in fact, I had already selected one that had a clear approach, furrows conveniently lined with the wind, a small access road, and most importantly, no sign of bovines, so well known recently for trampling over, or worse yet, making amorous advances on hapless unattended gliders. My inevitable descent continued. I lowered the landing gear, deployed landing flaps and radioed my intentions to Jamie while on downwind. As I turned base there was a small upward surge. Immediately I retracted the landing gear and tried my gentlest hand at centering the lift bubble. Two circles. I gained 50 feet. Then 100. Then 200. After a few minutes that seemed to stretch for hours, I lost the lift and the pervasive sink returned. I flew upwind to see if I could find the bubble again. It was there, and I repeated the pointless exercise with the same results. I had been there for 30 minutes trying to save the day but the ground was too close for comfort now.
Despite 1,400 hours of mostly XC flying I was extremely concerned since this was to be my 4th off-field landing and only my first in Big Bird. For the third time I lowered the landing gear and flew an abbreviated landing pattern. One last chance to check for fences, wires, ditches, poles, or other hazards that could potentially ruin an already questionable day. The path was clear. I was on final approach. As if in slow motion, Big Bird floated in ground effect, its 75-foot wing gracefully arched upwards by the full spoilers. The tall main landing gear touched the soft dirt with minimum energy. Suddenly all 5 points of my safety harness were at work. I could feel them vividly, especially the fifth one. Two hundred feet later, the 1,100-pound beast had stopped next to the dirt access road. A small cloud of dust settled. I opened the canopy. Despite my pounding heartbeat, the silence was overwhelming. I had survived the landing, and so had Big Bird. I paused briefly, thankful for not having been catapulted to another (perhaps less entertaining) world by the landing. I jumped out of the cockpit and briefly attended to bodily functions that could no longer be ignored. Then I followed the access road towards a railroad where some houses were visible about a mile away. I passed some trees along the road. Still distracted with my handheld GPS and radio, I failed to notice a sign facing the other way. It read “DO NOT TRESPASS! Property of the Texas Department of Corrections”.
Jamie was still airborne ten miles to the northeast. He had been low near the Brenham airport for nearly 45 minutes hoping that some lift would develop. My radio call confirmed that there was no lift in the area. Opting for the safety of an airport landing, he touched down on the runway. We could no longer communicate using our radios.
There was an old fellow walking aimlessly in the distance across the railroad. I approached him and explained my predicament and need for a telephone. But he was more interested in finding a USGS marker that someone had placed there back in 1905. To my amazement we found the marker after searching for a while. Satisfied, Lou drove me to a minister’s home where the nearest phone was. I dialed our club’s number but there was no answer. To no avail I tried to call Rich, another pilot who was flying earlier that day. What to do now? I waited several minutes and re-dialed the clubhouse. Still no answer. So I called Rich again and left the news on his voicemail, complete with phone number and directions to the minister’s house. The two men asked me how I was going go get my ship out of the cotton field. I explained that this was a simple and common procedure with gliders; that my friend would bring the trailer, we would disassemble the plane, put it in the box, and take it back home. “People cannot drive in there. The guards won’t let you in.” said the minister. “What guards?” I asked puzzled. Only then did I realize that Big Bird was actually in jail!
Jamie secured TW at the Brenham airport and found a ride to SCOH. Once there, he explained the situation to the local pilots. Eduardo Iglesias immediately fired up the Pawnee to go search for my downed glider. He found it readily and even landed on the access road to see if I was there and offer help. Big Bird seemed abandoned so he returned to SCOH. A gracious host, he offered Jamie accommodations for the evening in his airport bungalow.
We arrived at Lou’s house but not before showing me the place where he was born, the school he had attended, the old post office, and several other local places of interest. I continued calling FLF until Ian finally answered and agreed to give up his evening plans to come get me. He seemed a bit reluctant to perform the retrieve using his car, which I understood since Big Bird had earned an infamous reputation after having allegedly ruined a Ford truck’s transmission, a Honda’s clutch, and a Toyota’s transmission and clutch in the past 2 years alone.
Until now I remained unsure as to Jamie’s precise whereabouts so I decided to call the local airport. We couldn’t find the Navasota airport number, so Lou called one of his friends who lived near the airport, explained what was happening, and asked if he had the number. He did not. Unbeknownst to us, his friend then decided to call the police to see if they had the number. He also chose to mention the fact that a plane had crash-landed at the jail and that some other pilot (Jamie) was missing. This regrettable indiscretion triggered the unfortunate chain reaction in several law-enforcing agencies which soon began calling Lou’s house incessantly, asking for details such as precise crash-site location, N-numbers, name of the pilots involved, name of the jail, etc. In a frustrating effort, I emphasised each time that there had been no crash, that I enjoyed remarkably good health and physical integrity, and that it was unnecessary for them or anyone else to be involved. Adding to the communication mayhem, the minister called to say that Rich had phoned and was on his way to pick up my trailer. Luckily I was able to contact him to clarify that Ian was already on his way.
The Waller County Sheriff’s Department had contacted the Grimes County Sheriff’s Department as well as several airports in their search for Jamie. Finally they found someone at the Brenham airport who told them that Jamie had landed there several hours before and had gotten a ride to SCOH. They sent a squad car to go find him. Being past 10 p.m., Jamie was the only person at SCOH. He was already dozing off in Eduardo’s bungalow when he saw police searchlights outside. He came out to see what was going on. Victim of aremarkable real-life case of broken telephone, the officer explained that he had to take him to the station because his crew was going to pick him up there. Soon thereafter they called me at Lou’s house to provide directions to Jamie’s new whereabouts so that Ian and I could pick him up later. I was also instructed not to move or even approach my plane since this had to be treated like a crash and was now under jurisdiction of the Highway Police. We were told to report to the prison’s headquarters before proceeding. Tormented by visions of official personnel dismantling my beloved sailplane I continued waiting for Ian.
Several nieghbours had been spending the afternoon at Lou’s house. His wife, a charming Southern lady, invited me to join them for dinner. Ian arrived shortly thereafter with my trailer. I thanked my hosts for their kindness and hospitality. Lou’s wife was on the phone when I walked out. “Wait, wait!” she said, “My friend wants to know if you are single!”
Several official vehicles awaited us at the jail’s headquarters. After a short interrogatory they led us to the field where Big Bird was.
The area had not seen rain in 2 months. That late afternoon, however, it rained abundantly, soaking Big Bird and turning the plowed field into a giant and very sticky mud-pit. The officers examined the cockpit carefully and were suspicious of the many zip-lock bags in one of the side pockets. I explained that they were necessary on longer duration flights, and that their number tended to be inversely proportional to the pilot’s bladder capacity. We disassembled the heavy aircraft not only in near total darkness but also precariously balancing ourselves in the deep furrows which the mud made very slippery. Finally, with Big Bird secured inside the trailer, we bid farewell to the officers and drove off to find Jamie.
Following the directions I had written down earlier, we arrived at a well-lit building surrounded by a double row of 15-foot fences with coiled razor-sharp wire on top. Another jail! Jamie was in the Waller County Jail. As it turns out, he was on the side of the bars reserved for law-abiding citizens. In fact, he had simply been waiting there, lounging and eating prison-issue tamales that a warden had offered him.
The folks from SCOH said they would aero-tow Jamie out of Brenham the next day, so we drove him back to Eduardo’s bungalow where he would spend the evening.
Finally around midnight we were on our way back to Austin on a small, foggy, pitch-dark county road not 10 minutes from SCOH, when suddenly a woman appeared in the middle of the road, frantically waving her arms. We stopped to see what was going on. She could barely control herself asking whether we had a cellular phone. She kept saying “There’s a dead man on the road!” It was not immediately clear what she was referring to, but, as we moved forward, a motionless person with semi-torn clothes, appeared in our headlights, face-down on the pavement, perhaps dead. We had to get help fast. A few yards away was the vehicle in question, a full size truck that had been reduced to a heap of smoking twisted scrap metal. As if this was not sufficient, a huge longhorn emerged out of the fog kicking and jumping wildly down the middle of the road. We told the woman that we would go find a telephone, and continued as quickly as we could. “How much more surreal is this going to get!?” protested Ian. Just then, an unlucky armadillo crossed our path. Silently, I accepted that we were caught in an extended Twilight Zone episode with no possible escape and David Lynch as the guest director.
We continued until we saw some lights. Loud Mexican music emanated from an establishment that I would normally stay away from. We stormed in looking for a phone and, to our surprise, found several policemen inside. Still very agitated, we told them of the emergency. “Oh, and be careful” warned Ian. “There’s a crazed longhorn dancing in the middle of the road.”
The next hundred miles seemed dull by comparison until the Highway Patrol stopped us near Austin. Due to a faulty ground wire my trailer resembles a huge road-going flashing Christmas ornament. The officers asked us the usual questions. Then, suspecting the presence of adult beverages in our vehicle, they asked Ian to step out of the car. He proved to them that the crushed cans were really from heavily caffeinated refreshments, which we had consumed to help us finish the trip. While the officers did their routine checks in the blinding lights of their two cruisers, Ian’s consternation became apparent to the policewoman. She looked at him inquisitively. “It’s been a hell of a day,” he said, to no one in particular.
It was about 2:30 a.m. when we arrived at his house. We collapsed.
On Sunday morning one of the SCOH tow planes flew to Brenham to give Jamie a tow. The weather was good and easily allowed him to fly back to FLF. Ian and I arrived at the airport to drop off my trailer in the early afternoon. Jamie and I had failed in our attempt to capture the elusive FLF-SCOH trophy. If nothing else, this had been an extraordinarily exciting weekend. Perhaps not quite at the level of the 1998 Colombian nationals in South America, when I had to land in guerilla-infested territory on an airfield that had been bombed and was full of craters. But that is another story.