DASH THE DEVIL
The Dust Devil Dash is an informal contest held at Tehachapi every year in early September as a finale for the cross-country soaring season. Pilots launch whenever they wish, go any direction they choose, soar straight out as far as possible and then mail a pre-addressed post card from the landing place. A winner is determined by distance flown, handicapped to neutralize the great disparity in performance between gliders of different generations. The prize, free breakfast and a one-of-a-kind tee shirt is awarded at the next year’s preflight meeting, during which that prior winner recounts what made their flight a success.
One year’s wealthy runner-up flew a supership more than five hundred miles across substantial parts of California, Nevada and Idaho – yet finished second to a kid in a sixty year old military trainer. The kid soared less than half as far, but did so with inspired (and inspiring) brilliance.
I had never flown in any kind of competition, but happened to be the only full-time instructor there at that time and thought maybe we’d have some kind of home court advantage. If such an edge existed though, it would hold only in that local area and for about the first hour of an all-day flight. The plan was to launch first and grab as much distance as we could before faster ships or hotter pilots overtook us. Against some or most of these contestants our hypothetical advantage would amount to nothing, but the strategy of striking first seemed apt either way…
The early worm gets caught. John Igo
The early bird got worms alright. We took off before second-to-launch had even finished getting ready, too early to do anything but flounder... If I’d known better we could have landed in time for a second launch and still been ahead of the pack. But this tow was already paid for and I could hardly afford to spring for another, so we hung on, gradually bleeding altitude while the normal people staged and got underway.
By the time the first batch were up and climbing, or already gone, we were languishing below a hilltop near the airport, far behind (below?) the convective power curve. We could probably hang on however long it took to eventually get moving, but even now a relight might be quicker... Then actually staying aloft began to seem doubtful, so I took the mulligan. Ultimately we were last to start, an hour behind the lineup we’d meant to get a jump on. Tail-end Charlie.
So began my first competitive effort! Finally out on course, I felt like the sousaphone behind a Norman Rockwell marching band: great big zero haulin’ up the rear, huffin’ ‘n’ puffin’, hoping to not fall even further back.
Our one remaining advantage was eaves-dropping on radio calls from the entire fleet ahead of us. Some duffers landed soon after leaving town of course, and we caught and passed a few others, mostly in lower-performance craft, but there’s no denying the greatest influence on this flight’s outcome was my never-so-clever opening gambit. Sure was fun though.
By 4:00 P.M. we were catching the back of the pack somewhere north of Boundary Peak, gold distance more or less. Front runners were spread abreast across an arc more than a hundred miles wide downwind of the start, some now passing out of radio range. We had the height for a conservative glide of more than fifty miles with no lift (extremely unlikely) plus a couple thousand feet in reserve for landing. From north to east lay a selection of sound alternates within range, all leading toward others further and farther apart, off into vast Nevada.
Empty blue overlay several names on the chart but a sporadic line of cumulus led toward one. An hour later the lift out there would be weakening, though still terrific to 17-k or so. After that we could glide on for much of another hour at a ground speed close to eighty with low back sun revealing landscapes ahead that neither of us had ever seen from the air…
Or we could call it quits and retreat to comfy, familiar Bishop seventy miles back.
“Say what!” gasped Pedro, “What about the ‘Never turn back’ mantra?”
I reminded my friend that from here forward every mile would add doubly to the time and cost of our retrieve, getting us home late the next night. Yes we had planned for exactly that, but any chance of a competitive result was blown before we started, thanks to Moi. A retreat from here would shorten the distance by hundreds for crew and vehicle, we all could enjoy a leisurely evening, then get a tow in the morning for a nice easy flight home, and avoid de-rigging and re-rigging the glider as well. While today’s winners endured all-day treks from who knows where, we’d be frolicking home in style. Pedro was disheartened but weary, and reluctantly agreed.
If you chase off your devils, the angels fly away too. Joni Mitchell
Next day, all day, early overdevelopment and afternoon smoke kept us away from a direct route and the best lift. Then a drum brake on our trailer seized, leaving us on our own as noble crew dealt with that nightmare however they could. (Isn’t it odd how mechanical fubars always seem to happen on Sunday when every garage in the world is locked?) We could feel sorry as we liked for our crew, and ourselves for that matter, but until we landed it was each of us for her- or himself.
On we slogged all afternoon through shaded, unkind air, eventually getting low only thirty miles out. Sunset was fading from bloody smoke to icky brown as we limped toward the last airport short of home, Cal City, with nary a beggar’s chance for one more climb.
The tarmac was silent but still hot and we were peeking in the restaurant’s dark windows when two sets of headlights turned off the highway and onto the airport entrance road. They were pilots from yesterday’s Dash who normally kept their ships there, dropping them off for the next weekend. After running away from us one day they’d come from behind and caught us the next, now all set for their own relaxed evenings while we wouldn’t be completing our retrieve until sometime tomorrow at best — with our poor crew still stuck upcountry ten times as far from home! All for a pair of ordeals that netted a total of 23 miles, nowhere in the end.
Nowhere except soaring Nirvana, those majestic ranges that surround the Owens Valley. On two very different kinds of day, neither suffocating frustration nor choking smoke could diminish the grandeur of soaring there. Our human limitations only accentuate the scale of that special place, not just its size and power, but absolute PRESENCE.
Two bad days in Heaven beats Hell on Christmas, you could say. Not that I’m an expert on either, yet, but even striking out can make for fine memories if you do it in Yankee Stadium. Oh I don’t know, that little adventure lies so far back the details are as fuzzy now as my mind was then, yet new lessons still continue to emerge each time I recall it.