Thrilla in Manilla — Chasing the ‘epic’ flight
The biggest Paragliding State of Origin (SoO) event in history was over and red Manilla dust had penetrated every every nook and cranny of our tents, cars and nostrils. The SoO had offered some great flights but a few keen members of Team 4Q (Quirky Queenslanders of Questionable Quality) had stayed behind chasing that elusive ‘epic’ flight.
With a panoramic backdrop of The Mountain, we’d flip through weather forecasting websites every morning and make plans for the day. Plans that would go out the window as soon as we launched.
The forecast for today showed strong wind from the west, building throughout the day. A rumour floated around camp that this was a front blowing in from the west. Often, these are often accompanied by very strong winds without any visual cues. Not something you’d want to encounter in a paraglider. For fairly new and keen pilots, the hardest decision is whether to fly, but this information quashed any lingering doubts.
Still, the Mt Borah weather station was showing a very light westerly and Syed, a new pilot, was interested in an early sleddie. What else is there to do in Manilla other than flying? So we piled into ‘The Beast’ and bounced up the dirt track to the West launch. As indicated by the weather station, we found light thermic cycles rolling in from the dusty red plains.
I’d recently upgraded to a Phi Maestro from my trusty Gradient Golden glider. Not wanting to give up an opportunity to test the wing in light conditions, I decided to launch along with Syed. I promised myself I’d land as soon as the wind picked up. In any case, with the currently light breeze there was a high chance I would end up in the bomb-out anyway.
A wedge tailed eagle helpfully marked a thermal in front of launch. It was quite narrow and barely strong enough to maintain height. I appreciated the greater feedback from the new wing and the ability to turn tightly to stay in the thermal. My new XCTracer vario also proved very helpful in the light lift with hardly any lag between feeling lift and the vario sounding — very useful in small thermals where a lag of half a second can mean falling out of the other side.
All quiet on the Western Front
Rowan kept an eye on observations from weather stations out west. Any changes in wind strength would be reported on these stations before it reached us.
After an hour of exploring light thermals, I noticed a cloud popping to the north and the wind also picked up around the same time. This was my cue to land. I was happy with the hour of thermalling I’d been able to get way with on a ‘non flyable’ day.
As I flew over the back to land, I couldn’t resist another developing CU popping off near the farm and thermalled up for one last climb. By the time I reached cloudbase, a few more clouds had popped to the south. Two hangies were flying towards Manilla and I considered following them. If I could make it to the pub, it’d be a good place to spend the rest of the ‘rest day’.
About half way to Manilla the intensity of the pub suck had increased. Indeed the force of pub suck has been scientifically calculated to be
While my attention had been focused towards Manilla, I hadn’t noticed the clouds building in the east. Turning in a thermal, I saw solid cloud streets as far as I could see!
The pub would have to wait. I was going on an XC!
It’s an XC
Flying east over the range, I tried to intercept the thermal feeding a large cloud at the beginning of the cloud street. My vario groaned in the ever increasing sink rate as I neared the cloud. A thermal was close, but would I find it in time? I searched the area desperately for the core. I was quite low.
A wave of relief washed over me as the low pitched depressing growl of the vario changed to happy beeps. Turning in the thermal I became aware of my tensed abs and bunched shoulders. Letting out the breath I’d been holding in, I reclined back in the pod and focused on staying in the strong core of the thermal. I’m sure the repeated stress caused by the thought of bombing out cannot be good for us.
Paragliding is funny. When you’re down low, you desperately search for any lift. When you finally locate the invisible thermal, you try your best to stay in it. With altitude everything becomes easier. The lift is strong, the thermals are wider and you really start enjoying it. Until it becomes too easy. And then you’re climbing even when you’re trying not to.
I soon reached the ‘too easy’ stage. The vario was going nuts as the dark base of the cloud grew closer. I pushed the speedbar to get out from under it — 70 km/hr and the vario still beeped excitedly. The previously sunny day was now scarily overcast as my wing grew hazy, getting sucked into the bottom of the dark cloud.
Soon I emerged from the cloud back into the sunlight and the vario calmed down. The sun’s warmth reminded me that I’d been shivering. I had launched wearing a shirt and a vest, totally unprepared for the cold. Thankfully, I had gloves on.
Most flights from Manilla tend to be to the north or west, I had no idea what lay to the east. I radioed my friends, but they were busy preparing to launch. They’d asked Godfrey for weather advice and ‘the God’ had responded “What gust front?!! It’s a great day to fly. You should be up there!”
Cloud streets stretched eastwards over forested hills with only a few dirt tracks and vast areas with long walkouts. I considered threading through a valley to the north to avoid the hills, but I’d be leaving behind a nice cloud street and risking bombing out. If I wanted to continue the flight, I’d have to commit to flying over the forest . From here on in, I’d have to focus on the clouds and not worry about the terrain below. Confident that my adventurous friends would retrieve me from whatever remote spot I’d land in, I continued on.
I needn’t have worried — the hills triggered one thermal after another, making for very easy flying for the next little while. Easy enough that at one point I allowed myself the distraction of recording the magnificent clouds.
Flying through wispies, the sky was billowing in every direction. It’s hard to judge distance to clouds by looking at them, but by looking at their shadows on the ground I could pick out the next closest cloud and fly to it.
Stalked by an aerial predator
Climbing in a thermal I noticed a wedgie diving down at me. With the wings tucked in and massive legs dangling underneath, a diving wedgie is an intimidating sight. A previous encounter with a foul tempered wedgie had ended with rips in my wing, so I kept him in sight, wishing I’d brought my air horn. Thankfully, it disappeared after following me for a few kilometers. Another one appeared later but also left without incident — my new wing would stay rip-free a bit longer!
About 40 km out from launch, I was at the end of my current cloud street and two more streets lay ahead. The one to the south, lit up by the sun, seemed more welcoming than the dark and scary one to the north. I found out later that it’s better to fly on the sunny side of cloud streets because there tends to be more lift than the shaded side. The shadows of the south street also seemed to be more closely spaced. So following my intuition based on photogenic quality of sunny clouds, I sped my way to the south cloud street.
The next 30 km were some of the easiest and most predictable flying I’ve yet done — find the thermal on the upwind side of the cloud, core it to cloudbase, speed ahead through sink to the next cloud and repeat. With each thermal, my coring got better and I felt quite pleased with my glider. I was almost constantly on bar, except when thermalling, and the wing always felt solid. The lack of fluttering or any sign of instability while on bar on this wing was very confidence inspiring.
The hills I had been flying over gradually transitioned to flat farmland as I approached the small town of Uralla. The shiny roofs of a much larger Armidale occasionally glinted on my left. I was now 80 km in a straight line from launch. I’d avoided thinking much about distance, but with 20 km to go, beating my PB of 101 km from the previous year’s SoO seemed like a real possibility. A small problem however — there was a large cloudless blue hole centered over Uralla. Looking at the size of this blue hole, I readjusted my expectations and 90 started looking like a good distance.
So Close!
I topped up the fuel in the glider by climbing as high as I could and started the glide into the blue hole. To maximise the distance, I streamlined my body as much as I could, making adjustments to my flight path by weight shifting. It was a very smooth glide with just a few bubbles here and there. The flight seemed to be coming to an end as I flew over the New England Highway. I was low enough to hear the road trains driving to Armidale. My last hope for lift was a farmhouse. Tin roofs can generate thermals and buildings can be good thermal triggers, separating hot air from the sticky ground and deflecting it upwards.
I sailed right over the farm without any sign of a thermal, but a row of trees along the field were shaking violently, indicating strong wind on the ground. I flew over the trees and turned into wind, hoping to catch a thermal released by the trees. Above, my wing snapped and jerked around in turbulence as I bounced in the same spot a few tree heights above the ground.
My feet were out of the harness and I was leaning forward in case the wing collapsed. Thankfully, behind me was a huge ploughed field and the wind direction would keep me away from the railway tracks to the right. I still hoped to climb out of there, although the pessimist in my brain tried to distract me with vivid visuals of getting dragged in a dust cloud down the field.
Looking around for options, I noticed the row of trees on the left edge of the field were better aligned with the wind. Still maintaining altitude in the gusty wind, I slid sideways to get there. The situation here wasn’t any better and the erratic bouncing and the stress of hanging around in the turbulence was starting to wear me down.
Even lower now, I noticed a clump of gum trees behind me in the next field. From this low angle I could see that they were actually growing on a small hill. I let the wind push me backwards towards the middle of this mound, realising that landing backwards in these trees would be less than ideal.
The shallow slope didn’t provide any lift, instead, I was getting pushed over the hill. The trees on the hill made the air even rougher. I’ve never been in a rodeo, but I did jump on a donkey’s back once as a kid for a wild two-second ride — this seemed very similar, but longer.
At 92 km from launch I was just one thermal away from beating my PB. Like a cricketer nearing a century, the last few km weren’t going to come easily.
The track log shows I spent about seven minutes searching for lift here, but it felt like an eternity. The wind was intent on punishing me. It seemed as if I was being tested to see how badly I wanted to beat that PB.
Behind me, the menacing leafless gums with their pointy branches threatened to snag my wing. With every passing moment I was getting closer to giving up. Finally, the risk of ending up in the trees was too much and I slipped sideways to land beside the hill. The PB would stand for another day.
What happened next couldn’t have been scripted better. Just as I conceded defeat and turned, the elusive thermal materialised unexpectedly out of the side of the hill. The wing pulled up suddenly as one of the tips entered a 3 m/s ripper. Cranking hard into it, I couldn’t contain my excitement let out a few loud whoops! Thermals this close to the ground are usually not that strong and increase in strength with height, but as soon as I entered this thermal, I knew I was going back up to cloudbase. And getting a new PB!
Beyond the PB
Comfortably in a solid climb, I looked up and thanked the Maestro for performing so well. I was never that keen on the bland design of the glider, but nothing would’ve looked sweeter than this orange wing against the blue sky at that moment.
After firing off a quick message to friends, I started a long buoyant glide eastward. Ahead the open fields slowly changed back to undulating hills and dense forests beyond. Having beaten the PB and feeling quite cold, I was now getting a bit ambivalent about distance.
My glide had subconsciously veered towards a road. Beyond the road was a small rocky outcrop. To the east of the hill was a long cloud street, the first on this side of the blue hole. I thought to myself that if I could make that cloud street, I could get to 150 km.
Emboldened by the successes in predicting thermal triggers earlier in the flight, I was confident the rocky outcrop I was aiming for would produce a thermal. Sure enough, it did and I was soon at cloudbase again!
The sun was getting lower and flying in the shade of the clouds was chilling me further. Every so often I’d shiver uncontrollably. All day I’d tried to reach cloudbase before going on glide, but now I was happy to go on glide when I got too cold. Thankfully the air seemed to become more buoyant and the glides stretched longer each time.
For the last hour my bladder had also grown incessant in its reminders. Having a full bladder can be a surprisingly strong factor in decision making. I tried not to think about it, but the streams flowing below didn’t help.
Still flying the cloudstreet, I marveled at the scenery. I’d been watching for a while what had initially appeared to be upside down mountains to the south. I now had some time to admire these deep canyons forming intricate fractal patterns on the ground. The sunny side of the deep fissures stood out strikingly in the long shadows of the evening sun. Below me, rolling hills appeared stunningly three dimensional in the low evening sun. Past a farmhouse, a stream meandered through the valley flanked by trees with brilliant yellow leaves. In a country where trees don’t change colour in autumn, it was a picturesque sight. It wouldn’t be a bad place to land and hike out from, but I was now only one valley away from 150 km.
Continuing the long glide over a ridge I scanned for landing spots ahead. The ridge where I needed to find a thermal to get to 150 was fast approaching.
And then I was there. About five hours after leaving the hill, I had covered 150 km!
Immediately afterwards, beep..beep..beep…I was back at cloudbase! At almost 2500m (8000ft) ASL, it was the highest I’d been all day, but the ground had also climbed up to 1200m. Ahead, densely forested hills stretched farther than I could safely glide. Beyond the forest, the ground dropped away and connected with a hazy horizon in the distance. I realised I had reached the Great Dividing Range! The haze in the distance was the sea!
Another cloud street tantalizingly pointed towards the sea. Normally I’d be ecstatic, but this time there was cause for concern. I couldn’t safely cross the hilly forest, but the strong tailwind was still pushing me towards it. I could risk a crossing, but if I missed a thermal, a tree landing was certain. Remembering that I wasn’t flying with my satellite tracker (I had anticipated a short local flight) cemented my decision to land.
In a irony familiar to paragliders, it can sometime get really difficult to get down when you really need to. I turned into the wind and with full speedbar on, the wind was still intent on blowing me back into the mountains. For a sparsely populate area, the terrain below had surprisingly large number of power lines. As I got lower the turbulence worsened. Hanging out of the harness, one foot pushing the bar, big ears pulled in and expecting a collapse at any moment, I drifted sideways into a large clearing. Thankfully, the turbulence subsided as I slowly dropped below ridge height into a sheltered bowl. A downwind turn around a large gum and then a smooth landing in a grassy paddock followed. I was safely back on the ground.
Constantly studying the changing environment, making decisions and staying focused for hours at a time is mentally exhausting. The relief of landing safely after a long day and emptying a bursting bladder is indescribable. As I stood in the beautiful paddock, awash in a flood of endorphins, I couldn’t be happier.
Watching a little video I recorded on landing, a friend commented that I sounded like I was on E! I certainly felt like that!
My Maestro got a nice, neat pack after serving me so well during the day. You can really get attached to the piece of fabric overhead that keeps you alive.
Thanks to live tracking on skylines.aero, my friends had been able to follow me without requiring me to report my position constantly. Within an hour of landing, Jaevis and Rowan arrived in the retrieve car. When you’re waiting in pitch dark with only the sounds of frogs and crickets for company, seeing friends pulling up in a car is a most welcome sight. We celebrated with street food and drinks in Armidale before continuing the long drive back to Manilla. It would be almost six hours in the car for Jaevis and Rowan by the time we’d get back to camp. A heartfelt thanks to both of these paranuts!
On the long drive back I reflected on what an amazing day it had turned out to be despite the discouraging forecast. I got to experience cloud street flying for the first time along an unusual route, a spectacular low save and a day where everything seemed to work out in my favor. I couldn’t have asked for a better flying day!
