EMERGENCE (30 page)

Shan't bother with introduction, history review this time around. Don't anticipate spending much time on this volume: Shall merge with Vol. III immediately upon rejoining party (tomorrow morning, with luck). Could make record then, but events best recorded while fresh in mind.

(Originally planned to use this pen, pad to make notes, draw map en route. Instead, will discharge duty to history during twilight hours, plus entertain self.)

Trap sprung during this morning's first reconnaissance flight while heading generally east over Sierra Nevadas, studying roads
en passant,
reporting back via helmet radio.

USGS map suggested possible logging/fire-trail pass over mountains, through Sequoia National Forest. Overflight confirmed hard-surface and/or graded roads intact to ruts' jump-off into wilderness. Passable trail led thence into forestlands, over mountains. Barely discernible as break in solid forest cover, through which could observe ground here, there; verify no landslides, earthquake damage existed on scale likely to block rig.

Intended to follow, inspect tracks until fuel limitations necessitated turning back. Never got that far.

Lacked probably 15 minutes of turnaround point when engine went sour. One moment howling merrily, as good ex-motorcycle engine should; next moment sputtering, tachometer dropping toward idle; total shutdown threatening, imminent.

Until then reveling in sheer joy of flight ("O bliss!"); mindlessly wallowing in freedom of motion, endless visibility. Occasionally essayed snap roll, or some other aerobatic excess, just for fun of it. Having wonderful time, with never a thought toward potential consequences of mechanical failure.

Sudden power loss restored focus on reality. Jarringly so. Nothing in sight to raise hopes for safe emergency landing: Nothing but endless sea of conical treetops stretching uninterrupted every direction to mountainous horizon and beyond.

Abruptly conscious of chill fingers tickling pit of stomach.

Cut back power immediately. Knew from lawn mower, outboard motor experience: Sometimes possible to keep distressed engine running by nursing throttle; often continues operation under partial load, even though won't take max or cruise settings.

Relieved to note similar response from ultralight engine: Exhaust note smoothed out as revs dropped. Quickly edged throttle forward again, feeling for critical setting. And found it . . .

Lower than hoped, well below point at which altitude maintainable.

Felt cold fingers tighten grip on liver & lights.

Fiddled with throttle again, trying to learn more about problem. Soon assembled picture: While only about quarter throttle available for sustained use, could get as much as five seconds' full power or about 15-18 seconds at minimum cruise after idling just shy of full minute.

But positively engine's best offer. Increasing idle time produced no further change in power-on duration.

Even as explored parameters of problem, already on radio, alerting Adam; banking, searching for mapworthy, recognizable landmarks. Relevant chart section sandwiched between sheets of plexiglass these days (Adam so clever), mounted to fuselage tubing over knees, edge-on to slipstream. Took only seconds to match peaks in vicinity with those on chart, pass on bearings by radio.

Adam acknowledging, reading back coordinates, when voice, already weak from distance, faded entirely as I dropped below mountaintops.

Well, would have been nice to have company on way down; feeling pretty lonely just then. But upcoming forced landing promised to demand full attention; likely too busy for idle conversation anyway: Terrain below really rugged; nothing visible but solid treetops as far as eye could see—emphasis on "solid."

Unbidden, characteristics of forest's namesake came to mind: Have heard sequoias described as industrial-grade redwoods. Plus saw photograph of General Grant tree in old set of Time-Life books Daddy kept around house: 260-odd feet high, trunk alone 40 feet in diameter—considered only "pretty big" by local standards.

Debated chances of achieving successful treetop landing. But already apparent, even at this altitude, that big trees' foliage skimpy in proportion to overall bulk; also that major limbs thick, visibly unyielding. Attempting to find, manage touchdown amidst, branches springy enough to absorb impact without damage to self, yet strong enough to trap airframe, hold tightly, prevent fall to forest floor, surely constituted unreasonable demand on luck. And failure meant
long
fall.

Barely 500 feet above tallest treetops when spotted opening through foliage. Not big hole, but ultralight wingspan only 25 feet; maybe big enough.

(Not that ducking through hole automatically eliminated risks. In fact, only in sequoia forest could question arise at all; trees much too close together in normal woods even to think about trying to dodge between, around trunks long enough to reach ground intact. No idea what might find down there; from this altitude, in bright sunlight, details invisible in shadow.)

But losing altitude steadily; decision imminent, clearly of either/or nature. Would have to make up mind. Soon.

Question proved self-answering: Once down at treetop level, true scale, scarcity of limbs, evident. Successful landing in those branches not question of mere luck; would take no-holds-barred
miracle.

With decision made for me, turned full attention to opening. Down this close, could make out some details with certainty—and news not all bad!

Portal lay probably 150, 200 feet below treetops, at bottom of chimney created by missing foliage, broken limbs. Horizontal clearance inside shaft limited to perhaps 100 feet in tight spots, but usually more. Hole itself about 50 feet across, roughly circular; framed by lowest tier of branches projecting from surrounding trees.

Pretty close quarters, even at ultralight's minimum controllable speeds (22-knot level-flight stall), but not impossible.

Enough woolgathering; moment of truth at hand.

Tried to ignore damp palms, suddenly racing heart; set up short-field landing configuration: Carb heat on, engine back to idle, flaperons full down in maximum drag/lift setting, nose-up trim (extra tug on harness, helmet chin strap). Turned radio volume all the way down to eliminate possibly distracting static.

Slowed to 30 knots; eased into spiral, radius dictated by trees' spacing; alert for preliminary aerodynamic buffeting, warning of incipient accelerated stall induced by steep turn's gee forces (even experienced pilots occasionally trapped that way). Then in shaft, committed to descent.

Hard to tell, as trees rose on all sides, whether sink-rate really gentle as felt (or perhaps time-sense perception again listening to own drummer) but seemed to take forever.

Tried to divide attention as descended: Vital not to allow hitherto-unnoticed projecting branch to snag wingtip; but also needed to see what lay below, catch earliest possible glimpse of conditions below foliage. But shadowed details still undiscernible; would have to wait, see; rely upon native resourcefulness, inborn determination, vaunted
H. post hominem
reflexes—plus yeoman-caliber assistance from old friend Luck.

Cracked throttle briefly about halfway down to clear spark plugs of potential fouling after long minutes' idling (Adam says two-strokes touchy that way); then again about 30 feet above opening itself to provide moment's crisper response to controls: Necessary for final steeply banked turn, dive-and-duck squeeze through shaft's narrow bottom.

Plunge from early midday sunlight into relative gloom beneath foliage precipitated only momentary pupil accommodation crisis, but blindness persisted long enough to supply genuinely ugly thrill before vision returned.

Looked around quickly; simultaneously raised flaperons to 50 percent, reducing aerodynamic braking effect without substantially affecting lift. Also brought power back up to maximum available. Amounted to maybe 25 percent, but not complaining; appreciated every little bit: Even partial throttle improved glide characteristics; and every second remained airborne boosted odds on spotting safe landing site.

But not encouraging picture: Beyond small glade in which found self, dimly green-lit cavern beneath foliage extended out of sight in all directions; roof supported by massive columns, fairly regularly spaced; most closer together than would prefer under circumstances; by and large offering just about enough room for ultralight's passage. Alert, skilled pilot might stave off disaster for several whole minutes before inevitable caught up. Dyed-in-wool ultralight freak probably wax ecstatic over challenge.

And welcome to it! Own interests much simpler, more basic: Just wanted to get down in one piece—and immediate outlook less than reassuring: Lesser trees obscured forest floor between sequoias, plus intermittent underbrush furnished dense ground cover.

Became, therefore, engrossed in feverish search for any approximately level, unobstructed surface on which stood remote chance of setting down relatively intact before unwinding altimeter closed off debate.

Search not instantly productive. Nothing visible beyond what already described. Nothing anywhere but vast, unyielding sequoia trunks above; smaller trees, bushes below, all capable of snatching fragile plane from air, smashing to ground out of control.

Finally looked straight down and—
behold
!—Heaven-sent solution . . . !

If
pilot enough to bring off.

(Heaven apparently not big on sweeping, all-encompassing fixes. Maybe concerned that doing too much for supplicant erodes self-respect, destroys incentive, is somehow demeaning. Perhaps. But at that moment trading self-respect for tangible assistance would have seemed bargain.)

Hole through which descended, plus clearing, both created when enormous sequoia toppled sometime in recent past. Carcass sprawled along ground for hundred yards, splintering smaller trees, crushing other vegetation beneath incredible bulk. Resultant clearing possibly 100 feet wide at crown end, 50 at root.

Trunk diameter uniformly at least 35 feet from base halfway to top; first 150 feet unobstructed by branches. If could line up approach, would be ample room to land flying flea on fallen giant's curved upper surface . . .

If
could line up approach:

Room to circle available in widest portion of clearing only: over crown, lowest, most massive branches of which projected upward, blocking glide path to trunk from that direction. Impossible to descend steeply enough after clearing branches without building up prohibitive velocity before touchdown. Never get stopped before colliding with gnarled roots.

However, to land other way along huge log required approach from out amidst trees: First entering forest, completing 180-degree turn amongst Brobdingnagian sequoia trunks, reentering glade on final—all without becoming oversize bugspot on tree trunk . . . .

Hoped Adam would take good care of Terry.

Well, no point dwelling on possible unpleasant side effects; obviously only solution at hand.

Eyeball reconnaissance, strategy review, subsequent conclusion, occupied only couple plane lengths after clearing opening; greenery still almost in reach overhead as juggled what probably would be last relatively unhurried decision before reaching ground: Selection of left- or right-hand approach pattern—euphemistic description of brief-but-agonized nail-biting over where trees more closely spaced.

Bore off toward monster tree's root end. Intended to set up basic 180-degree approach. Hard to beat for simplicity, plus should minimize exposure time in forest. Would parallel log; penetrate forest just far enough to execute 180-degree turn; emerge from trees on final, right over root end, ready for flare-out, touchdown, routine quick stop.

Debated briefly, unhappily, before settling on airspeed of 35 knots, 13 over normal stall. Would have proceeded even more deliberately if had druthers; but cushion essential safeguard against accelerated stall should circumstances require sudden high-gee vertical bank or the like. As well might.

But ought to be all right. Only about twice flat-out running pace, after all; slow enough to permit noting trees as approached, evaluate separation, make deliberate go/no-go decision, take evasive action as necessary. Sure. Probably. (
If
alternate route accessible.)

Besides, 35 knots efficient airspeed: Optimum glide angle; maximum flying time available before ground intersected glide path. Maybe several whole minutes.

Had time for single deep breath as exited clearing; then learned whole new meaning for word "busy":

Glided between first two massive columns with room to spare. Bore slightly right to clear still another monolith; then initiated gentle left bank to circle it—when bark-covered wall unexpectedly materialized in path, appearing suddenly from behind one already using as pylon.

Huge trunks separated by 12-15 feet. Barely.

Slammed stick against left stop, then yanked back hard. Craft jerked upright on wingtip, warped violently into turn, structure trembling under gee loading. Skimmed inner tree so closely, wondered briefly why rudder tip didn't drag. Shot through slot like watermelon seed; then leveled, angling toward wider gap visible ahead.

Considerably lower now, of course. Elementary aerodynamics: Only so much lift produced at given airspeed. Turn increases induced drag, causing speed loss. Lower nose to get speed back, sink-rate increases. Turn steeper, sink faster. Straightforward energy exchange.

High-gee maneuvers grossly wasteful. Couple more episodes like that, find self on ground ahead of schedule.

Plus noted compass now useless: Violent maneuvers had it spinning merrily.

Glided straight ahead between two other trunks, watching compass with peripheral vision to see if might stabilize in time. Apparently not; dead-reckoning time for Kamikaze Kid—assuming own orientation not equally scrambled by now, as well could be.

Grazed safely past, between several conveniently placed trees, trying to get headed back toward where thought clearing lay. But before completed turn, had to duck around still another bole.