THE FAT LADY DOESN'T SING 'TILL SUNSET (part 8)

With the day essentially over, ground speed is no longer important. Now it's all about altitude. Time for the numbers.Still forty miles out, we can count on five miles for every thousand feet of height lost. Forty divided by five, that’s 8000. Add to that at least 5000 for a normal arrival, can we get to 13K? Not likely, so late. Good reason to assume this is all she wrote and hang in till it’s gone.Nice idea, but the day’s weakened drastically and gravity seems to be holding about normal. At 10,000 feet the lift weakens. Hmm. At 11,000 it quits. Bad angel says fudge the safety margin and she’s almost in the bag. Good angel stares him down. Already I'm wishing I'd saved that last dram of backwash.We need to clarify options and decide. The only remaining alternate between here and home is a wide dirt strip called Harmon, thirteen miles short. Either that or have the tow plane meet us at whichever airport’s most convenient near hear.We call to ask about a relight from Harmon just as the tow pilot’s securing for the night, and he says he’s willing to wait… a few minutes. Alright, we do it! The wait won’t be long either way.Once committed to a go-for-broke glide all dilemmas fall away except the central one: what flight path is best? Even this single choice may be torturously convoluted, but not tonight. As it happens, Harmon lies right on a course line between our position and Crystal. While shy of height for a proper final glide we still have maybe twenty minutes to stumble across a stray evening thermal, and for the first time we’ll have a tailwind. Outrun it, and that’s where we might find this puzzle’s final piece.Miles and minutes pass.Horizons all around are turning pastel, our chance for any more ups sunken with the sun. Three thousand AGL crossing over Harmon, still another thousand feet of height to bleed before turning back. We have Crystal in sight, but it’s staying way too high in the canopy. So exactly when do we bail and retreat? Good angel says now.A sag in our glide means we've almost overtaken the original shearline after all. It's not that we’re too low to reach almost certain lift less than a mile ahead, but if we miss it again we’ll be crash landing in brush moments later. Bad angel shrugs.We have to turn back. Now everything is focused on successful retreat. Head directly for the new objective, hold speed-to-fly plus at least five knots for what's again a headwind, and think. And LOOK. Only one option left, and one is never enough. THINK!Scanning to visualize the best approach, we spot a tiny puff of dust disappearing a quarter mile from the strip… Fleck of gold in the gutter? Gem in a cow pie? Enormous haystack with one silver needle poking out? As that first whirl fades another sprouts just beyond. Eyes widen, chins drop, and bad angel (oddly) growls, 'NOOO, it couldn't be.'Miracles are called that precisely because they seem impossible, yet somehow happen anyway. And weirdly this means there's always time for more. Do we deserve another miracle? Of course not. Didn’t deserve all those others today either, but I’ll keep ‘em. And not too proud to accept one more if that’s okay, thanks.But will it help us, or get us into even more trouble?Good angel says let’s see.TO BE CONTINUED