Falling to Earth (22 page)

All of us in the NASA training team assembled to have group pictures taken with the country’s prime minister. Since we were training out in the field, he flew in especially by helicopter for the photos; the country was very proud to have us there. After what seemed like dozens of photos taken, we were about to finish when one of our guys called out to stop. He had noticed that the photographer forgot to take the lens cover off his camera. We all had a good laugh about it and then retook the pictures. I’m glad we spotted the problem, otherwise there would have been one annoyed government leader—and a photographer out of a job.

NASA also sent us to explore Alaska, home to valleys of fumaroles that steamed scalding gases into the cold air. Our planet is a living, changing, dynamic place, and learning this amazed me. We also tried to have a little fun. Brooks River was a favorite spot to enjoy the state’s outstanding natural beauty. We were there in the salmon-spawning season, with fish so thick that it looked like we could walk across the river on their backs.

But we were not the only salmon hunters there. Dozens of brown bears were in the river gorging themselves. They were not afraid of people; in fact, one night we had a bear come by, stand up straight, and clean his claws on the roof of our cabin. His front claws must have been thirteen feet off the ground. We treated the bears with a great deal of respect.

We decided to head upstream away from the bears, where there were trout. We found a natural log dam about a quarter of a mile from our camp, and my old officemate PJ Weitz wandered up there as often as he could, wearing enormous hip waders and carrying his fly rod. He was fishing alone on a gravel bar in the middle of the river one day and noticed the water was deeper in front of him, so he began to walk backward to remain in the shallower water. He thought he heard a grunt behind him. Turning around, he found himself twenty feet away from a huge brown bear. Remembering his father’s advice about what to do if you encounter a bear in the woods, PJ waved his arms and yelled, trying to scare it off. The beast responded by making a threatening, throaty roar back at him. Evidently it wasn’t scared.

Cursing his father’s advice, PJ wheeled around, as the bear continued its roaring, and tried to run across the river, which was almost impossible to do in hip waders that soon filled up with the icy water. But PJ managed to make it to the riverbank, creating a hell of a wake. We were sitting at the camp chatting when he came sloshing around the corner, his waders still spraying water. He was such a hilarious sight that we could not help but burst out laughing.

We later presented PJ with a small bear statue for providing us with so much entertainment—but in truth, he had had a narrow escape. Luckily, the bear had not been too interested in him and never took chase. Presumably the fish looked more appetizing than poor old PJ—and NASA didn’t have to announce another astronaut death. It was one thing to say that an astronaut died in an aircraft; it would have been quite another for NASA to announce that an astronaut had become bear food.

We also explored regions in Mexico, California, New Mexico, and the majestic volcanoes of Hawaii. It was a magical experience to walk across the throats of active lava flows in the early Hawaiian morning, as steam rose from cracks in the fresh rock. The surface was solid, but broken into an otherworldly mosaic of polygonal shapes. When I looked down into the fissures, I could see the redhot glow of molten rock. The areas we walked over were gradually rising into a dome, and not long after we were there they erupted into a fresh lava flow, which made us appreciate how fast some natural features can change.

Other places that we visited had their own special majesty. We explored ancient lava flows in Oregon that looked like expanses of jagged black glass, more alien in many ways than the moon. We journeyed to Meteor Crater in Arizona which is, as the name suggests, a huge impact crater in the desert east of Flagstaff, with all of the classic signs of impact-crater land folding. By sampling down through the debris left on the crater rim, and seeing if the top layers were older or younger, we practiced techniques that could be used on the moon to differentiate volcanoes from impact craters. For comparison, we’d visit calderas in Texas and see how volcanic lava could create a crater that on first glance looked quite similar to an impact crater.

If I hadn’t already been awed by natural wonders, the long trek down to the floor of the Grand Canyon would have done the trick. Almost a mile deep, the steep cut carved by the Colorado River exposes layer upon layer of geological history, going back millions of years. Hiking down from the top of the canyon rim, we examined the layers of rock all the way down to the primeval crust. The experience taught us little about the moon. Nevertheless, it exposed us to more geological processes and examples. We were better prepared, because we were seeing things in context, a whole awe-inspiring mile of context.

This sense of context was particularly important for me. I already knew I wouldn’t be walking on the lunar surface. Instead, when I made my flight, I would have an incredible view of the grand sweep of lunar features from only a few miles up. I would be looking at the big picture, and that could often tell us much more than standing on the ground in one place.

We were fortunate, in a way, to have the extra time to train because of the Apollo 13 crisis. And yet the delays also concerned me, because as time went by, the more it seemed that the remaining Apollo missions came under threat. One lunar landing mission had been axed just before Apollo 13 flew, and in September of 1970 two more were cut from the roster.

The American public was losing interest in Apollo, even as NASA grew in confidence and carried out some amazing lunar exploration. People would ask me, “We landed on the moon once on Apollo 11, so why bother doing it again?” NASA had flown missions repeatedly, and they had been generally successful. When you do that often, people lose interest.

Strangely, the rest of the world still seemed fascinated by Apollo’s continued explorations. They bought into the concept of Apollo 11 being just a first step and loved the idea of extended explorations on the moon. But back at home, interest waned sharply. The American public thought if they had seen one moon flight, they had seen them all. We astronauts knew how exciting and important our missions were, but it was hard to convey that to the nation at the time. With public enthusiasm for the space program fading, NASA quietly scaled back its plans.

For their part, many NASA managers did not resist cutting missions. They needed the money, they said, to develop the space shuttle. I also believe there was another unspoken reason: all Apollo flights were risky, and Apollo 13 had been riskier than most. But the crews always made it back. It was only a matter of time, our bosses fretted, until we lost a crew in flight. Thus, at the only moment in history when humans had the chance to explore the moon, with the spacecraft and rockets already built and paid for, we abandoned great plans and missions before they ever had a chance.

I was personally saddened, of course, as I watched my chance to command a lunar flight slip away. My goal had been to rotate into an Apollo command position after Apollo 15, but as they canceled more and more missions, I could see there weren’t enough flights left for me to have a chance. Unless I waited for the space shuttle, I realized Apollo 15 would probably be my only spaceflight, and that realization made me more determined to make this flight perfect.

Although I was completely focused on my flight, I didn’t live like a monk. I dated when I had time. It wasn’t always easy. Fresh from my divorce, I had little interest in a long-term relationship, yet I knew I would always be a one-woman guy at heart. I didn’t want to get too tied up with one person, but I hated the idea of wandering into a bar to find some friendly but meaningless companion.

It was usually easier to stay single or to stick with longtime, trusted friends where I could just be myself. I especially trusted and liked Beth Williams, the widow of astronaut C.C. Williams. The little free time I had was usually spent with her and her daughters, cooking meals at their home and going waterskiing. She was an anchor and a comfort in a hectic time.

I knew that I always needed to be careful with my personal life. As the flight grew closer, I continued to keep my nose clean and out of anything that could get me into trouble with my bosses. I wasn’t going to give them any excuse to pull me from the mission. I also took the time to think more about what had happened to Donn Eisele. In retrospect, I decided, Donn had provided me with a great lesson in what
not
to do.

I’d been sitting in my office in Houston one Wednesday afternoon in the summer of 1969 when Donn came by to talk. He had just divorced his wife, Harriet, the week before. And now he was asking me if I would fly down to the Cape with him the next Saturday and be the best man at a quick wedding to his longtime girlfriend, Susie. I thought he was nuts. “Donn,” I told him, “I can’t believe you are getting married right now. You just got your divorce, and you are jumping right in again?”

I told Donn he should slow down and think about what he was doing. Don’t make any decisions for at least a year, I suggested. If she is the right woman, I said, she will still be there in a year’s time. Donn, however, didn’t want to listen.

As it turned out, Donn made the right decision when it came to his own personal happiness. He and Susie had a loving and successful marriage that lasted until the day he died. But professionally, he was shunted to the sidelines and never flew a mission again. I was relieved that my divorce had been much quieter and simpler, and as my flight neared I tried not to do anything that might put me in a bad light. With Dave Scott as my commander, I felt I had a good mentor, and I’d be safe while the Apollo flight opportunities dwindled around us.

The NASA cutbacks meant the remaining missions really had to count. The lunar landing missions before ours were known as “G” and “H” missions and were simpler. Our flight, the first of the “J” missions, was significantly more daring. Dave and Jim would spend three days on the lunar surface, twice as long as anyone before. They would spend much longer outside the lunar module exploring the surface and even take an electric-powered car, called the lunar rover, to speed the journey to interesting sites nearby.

Instead of exploring the relatively safe lava plains near the equator like previous missions, our mission planned to land well north of there. Dave and Jim would need to drop over a steep mountain to land next to a distinctive feature called Hadley Rille. As our mission time was stretched, NASA reworked the lunar landing equipment to enhance its performance. Our lunar module had a better engine, bigger fuel tanks, an improved power supply, and was significantly heavier than earlier models. The spacesuits were also improved: they were more flexible and could endure a longer time exploring the surface.

We were delivering more than President Kennedy had ever asked of Apollo. We were really hitting our stride and showing NASA’s full potential when it came to lunar exploration. After the dangers of Apollo 13, there would be one more of the simpler lunar landing missions: Apollo 14 would carry out the mission Apollo 13 failed to complete. Then we would take Apollo way beyond its original intentions. It was a strange irony, however. Right as we grew in confidence and potential, budget cuts were chopping the program out from underneath us.

Our crew felt ready to take on the extra work of an enhanced mission. Not only did we have extra time to train because of the delay after Apollo 13, but we had already been training together for several years. We had an edge. Dave, Jim, and I were already confident in our ability to fly those spacecraft. In fact, as a necessity, we overtrained. We spent a lot of time practicing all of the malfunctions and problems that might happen during a flight.

In the simulators, our training instructors would repeatedly take us through all of the major moments in a mission. The simulator game was just that—a game, with astronauts on one side and the operators on the other. The first couple of times, the instructors gave us a free ride and allowed us to fly as if everything was normal. Then they started to throw simulated malfunctions at us. They hit us with more and more crises until it all got a little crazy. Just as we finished one procedure, they hurled another malfunction at us. Our crew tried to solve multiple problems at once, and the first few times we killed ourselves. The malfunctions overpowered us, and we crashed and burned. That was the beauty of a simulator: we could die and still walk away to try another day.

Whenever you fly in space, the potential of death is always there. There was always the possibility that I might have to return from the moon alone. If something went seriously wrong on the surface for Jim and Dave, then it would be my only choice. I’d have no way to save them. It was something we never discussed, either as a crew or with the trainers. We didn’t have to; I trained to make the same spacecraft maneuvers to return to Earth whether I was on my own or not. Nevertheless, we all knew it was an unspoken possibility. We did train for other rescue options, where I would do everything possible to rescue a crew in trouble. If Dave and Jim were able to launch in the lunar module but were stuck in a crazy, eccentric orbit, I was trained to find a way to dock with them and rescue them if I could.

The intense training taught us that in a spacecraft you don’t do anything fast. Only a few things, such as a hole in the side of our spacecraft, required really quick attention. At that point, we would do something
very
fast. So we focused on the events that could kill us and prepared for them. We instinctively memorized the actions to take, knowing they could save our lives. If a problem were not immediately life-threatening, however, we would get out our malfunction books, methodically go through them, and follow the procedures. By the end of the training we’d memorized most of these procedures, too, but we still pulled out the books, just to double-check ourselves.