THE FAT LADY DOESN'T SING 'TILL SUNSET (PART SIX)
We’re lofting up from Olancha into the same great lift we rode outbound, now eager to hightail it home. Sure enough, this main shearline has continued migrating east all day and now sits almost exactly above the crest, easy to tap into from straight below. As we climb through 15K, clouds that mark lift every few miles ahead seem smaller each time we look. Does this mean the day’s already winding down, or simply that the air's drying out? Maybe both. Either way, the lift is still terrific, and flying toward the sun reveals haze domes that mark sweet spots just as surely as cumulus.Tango Whiskey, a few miles behind, witnessed our struggle and saw where we finally scored. They had the legs to follow suit, and rushing through sink got them here so quickly they’re joining the bottom of our thermal even before we leave it, same as at Boomer Ridge hours earlier only in reverse. Life’s a beach.And living is eeezy along the Sierras’ tailbone, the only uncertainty being whether to cruise higher and slower or lower and faster. Having soured on digging around near the surface, we choose the high road and settle in averaging seventy knots indicated = true airspeed at this altitude 100 MPH. (Just think, it’s been booming like this up here the whole day! Amazing.)Being ahead for the first time has its usual effect and I lapse into the old habit of leaving good lift early and running too fast between climbs. In racing terms, every second climbing unnecessarily is time wasted; once you've got a glide in the bag you'll never get there sooner by climbing higher first and then diving faster. This, however, is not a race — except in regard to sundown…As terrain gradually descends to the south, so do we. Now comes that gnarly stretch abeam Little Lake, and no clouds at all. The shearline seems to have disappeared. Did it snake away to the east or just plain quit? Before we can suss this out we’ve fallen through the floor into another desperation dash. Bouncing off one hill after another and diving to the next was fun for a few hours, but now it’s getting tedious.Crawling over the rocky spine of Five Fingers below Owens Peak, I figure this is it. We only have juice for a three-mile glide to Boomer Ridge, and if we fail to reach the sunny side a retreat to Inyokern will put us on the ground eighty miles from home.Like many pilots, I can honestly say that Boomer Ridge has never failed me — but I’d never had reason to work the north side… And? Like they say, seen one miracle, you’ve seen ‘em all. Dear ol’ Boomer comes through in typical fashion with a bailout far easier than we deserve and in a jiffy we’re back on top again. Now though, both mountains and sky flatten out ahead, demanding another decision.Silver Queen, where this story started, is also where we expect to make our last climb before final glide. It waits forty-five miles away with mostly flat ground between. Following hills on our right would probably keep us higher, but how much farther would that be? Our brains say take the long way but our minds say not to bother. And those pesky angels? This time neither one seems to have an opinion — which is not the same as them agreeing, I now know. Anyway, having the leg made with a modest safety margin, we decide to just go straight.Ten minutes later Tango Whiskey opts for the mountains, and manages to almost keep pace while indeed staying higher. When we arrive at Silver Queen, lower than we’d hoped for, they’re still ten miles back but several thousand feet higher.…and closing fast, because at this point we’re treading water again. Nothing here but lots and lots if gravity surrounding this one lonely little nob. Fair enough, looks like they win.If there were lift here doggone it, we’d be tanking up right now and likely beat Tango Whiskey home. Our mistake lay in assuming certain lift here, and treating it as a finish instead of a turn point. Well there isn’t and it ain’t, and now we’ve nowhere left to go…TO BE CONTINUED