THE FAT LADY DOESN'T SING 'TILL SUNSET (a five part serial)

Eight thousand feet above sea level, four thousand over the valley floor and another four lower than the neighborhood’s highest peak. Still plenty of lift up in the sun, but slopes down here all face away and for the first time shaded ground becomes a problem. Best choice at this moment is to crawl if we can up a jagged spur leading to the main ridge, no progress in any particular direction except, hopefully, up.On such a perfect soaring day, why are we in this pickle? ‘Cause we asked for it. More later.As we slowly rise above timberline, from the ether comes a call. “Glider low at Olancha, that you Delta Mike?”“‘Firmative.”“Tango Whiskey here, approaching southbound at twelve five. What’s your altitude by the way?”“Not much.”“No kiddin’. Thought we were low ‘till we spotted you. If we find what you’re lookin’ for we’ll letcha know.”“Same to ya buddy.” Since leaving home with Tango Whiskey well before noon, our flights have gone very differently. The two aircraft are identical except for TW's wingtip extensions giving her a 13% flatter glide — but only at moderate speeds. Our higher wing loading gets better performance in the upper range, a welcome advantage with strong conditions like today’s. Shorter wings also allow more maneuverability in tight spaces, where we like to play.The first leg from Crystal was a forty-mile descent onto a naked little nob called Silver Queen. We arrived there low and had to climb while TW’s longer wings carried them right on by into the next mountains.Before we got moving again TW was already miles ahead, but improving lift along the way called for higher speeds-to-fly and with that speed advantage plus more aggressive tactics, a half hour later we overtook them 80 miles from home.Well, more like we undertook them. They were leaving a thermal above Boomer Ridge when we arrived a mile below. As they glided away, smaller each time we circled, the thermal they left us remained so potent, they were below our horizon before we lost sight of them!The conventional route was marked by its usual chain of teensy cumulus five to ten miles apart, jogging north along the Sierra crest. Each one marks near certain booming lift, but what about the miles between? Fact: Navigating blue stuff is how we make our bones.With faster inter-thermal speeds at higher altitude we catch them again an hour later 140 miles out at 15,000 feet, only in time to part ways once more. From Cottonwood Lakes, beyond which the very ground rears up to flight level, Tango Whiskey veers off across the Owens Valley, rushing further north. We, responding to entirely different motivations, slow down - and go down - to explore the big relief.Why run away from this? TW can rack up all the miles they want but they’ll never find a sweeter place to play than right here in the forty eight’s most dramatic soaring terrain.And that’s how we managed to get so low…TO BE CONTINUED