From: jcg8w@galen.med.Virginia.EDU (James C. Garrison)
Newsgroups: rec.aviation.soaring
Subject: Wave Flights
Date: 22 Nov 92 21:50:17 GMT
Organization: University of Virginia


To Rec.Aviation.Soaring --- 

As Howard Petri noted in a recent post, November's weather does not
usually warm a glider pilot's heart.  However, for those of us lucky
enough to live downwind of a mountain range, the next few months offer
the prospects of wave soaring -- IMO, one of the special treats of
soaring.  In an attempt to stimulate some interest for the Winter
season, I offer the following account of my first real wave flight.
It was made a few years ago in a SGS 1-23 from Warrenton Soaring
Center (sadly now defunct) about 25 miles SW of Dulles International
Airport (IAD).  While I have since made many other wave flights that
reached higher altitudes and covered much more territory, this flight
is memorable because of the spectacular cloud formations (and perhaps
like one's first love, a first wave flight is not easily forgotten).

-----------------START-----------------------------------------

As often as possible, I watch the Weather Channel on Thursday and
Friday night to get a general idea of the weekend's soaring
possibilities.  Normally December's forecast is not especially
cheerful, but the forecast for Saturday, December 5 held unusual
promise.  An area of low pressure over Pennsylvannia and a high in
Georgia dominated the East Coast's weather map and were predicted to
create a strong Northwest flow of air over the entire state of
Virginia.  WAVE?  Perhaps!  Judging by the trees in my backyard, dawn
arrived without much wind and I made little effort to get out of bed
early.  About 9:00 AM the trees were much more antimated, so headed
off to Warenton Soaring Center about 60 miles North of my home in
Charlottesville, Virginia.  

There is a high point on the way out of Charlottesville that offers a
20-30 mile panorama of the Blue Ridge Mountains. That Saturday the
scene was spectacular -- excellent visibility and lenticular clouds
lined up in rows downwind of the mountains for many miles.  About 30
miles farther North, the lenticulars improved and as usual, I began to
wish that I had gotten an earlier start.  Naturally, this thought was
subliminally transferred to my right foot and it was not very long
before I was traveling along at a bit over my best L/D, a bad move as
the State Police were all over the road near Madison.  However, I knew
the day would turn out well when other motorists attracted all their
attention.  Upon arrival, I found that our SGS 1-23 was in use so I
busied myself helping another pilot get ready to fly the 1-26.  Soon
Rich Matsko reappeared with the the 1-23 and the first report on the
wave.  Large cloud decks marking the top of the rotor were beginning
to cover much of the sky.  However, Rich reported that the wave was
piercing the clouds, accounting for the large rectangular holes
running parallel to the mountains.  Lift was weak below the holes but
increased to 500-600 feet/minute in the area between the clouds.  Rich
beamed as he told of leaving strong lift at 11,000 feet to come home.

While we were gesticulating at the sky, The 1-26 took off into more
than a little crosswind (maybe 15-20 kts).  Interesting.  During the
wait for the next tow, I gather up all my gear and start to get
"fitted" into the sailplane.  A cockpit that is normally a little
crowded in a tee shirt and shorts becomes a real mess when dressed in
pants that don't quite fit over my long underware, a ski parka, a WW
II oxygen mask complete with a hose to get tangled in the harness and,
of course, a ski hat that does not quite fit under the canopy.
Naturally, my sunglasses don't fit too well over the oxygen mask
(which doesn't quite fit either) and if I choose to exhale with any
enthusiasm, the glasses fog from the leaks around the mask.  However,
soon the oxygen mask is tight enough, the system is tested, and I am
"ready".  My appearence causes a good deal of mirth among the line
crew who say that I look like a WW II fighter pilot.  I feel a bit
more like Dumbo, but smile and nod my oxygen hose in acknowledgement.
The takeoff roll is normal except for the large crosswind and the
turbulence is not too bad on the climb to 4000 feet AGL about 5 miles
West of the field (about 20 miles downwind of the Mountains).  I
release when the vario is pinned at 1000 feet/minute up and sit back
to enjoy the ride.  The ride turns out to be pretty short as the only
lift I find is a bit of rotor at 2000 feet ASL a bit West of the
field.  Twenty-five minutes after takeoff I am back on the ground with
a total altitude gain of 0 feet!  At least I got some experience with
the shear and turbulence in the pattern.

After a short consultation about where the wave _actually is_, I get in
position for a second try.  I arrange to be towed to the front edge of
one of the holes in the cloud deck and soon we are back at 4000 feet
AGL a bit North the city of Warrenton.  After release, about 200
feet/minute up appears on the vario and I explore a fairly large area
of lift around the front of the closest hole.  Soon I have gained
about 1000 feet and I become aware that the holes are nowhere as
"blue" as they appeared from the ground.  The holes contain some
wispy, scruffy little clouds that shift about between the solid walls
of cloud caused by the rotor.  Visibility deteriorates a little and at
about 6000 feet ASL, I remind myself that I am not an IFR pilot, pull
the spoilers and retreat below the cloud deck.  I take a few breaths
of oxygen and note that I have rejoined the lower world at about 4000
feet ASL about 1 mile Downwind of the Soaring Center. The wind is
strong and very intent on blowing me farther East, so I point the nose
down and head West for the area of lift near the blue hole.  As I sink
to 3400 feet ASL, the lift reappears and I fly back to the edge of the
hole.  The lift increases to 300-400 feet/minute and soon I am back to
5000 feet ASL with a nice notch on my barograph trace (This isn't the
method recommended in books, but a 2000 foot drop is easy to find on
the trace).  The Soaring Center's ASK-21 appears to my right and we
porpoise above and below each other for a few minutes.  Deciding to
attack the hole again, I carefully note every possible visual
reference before flying near each little puff of cloud and soon
realize that there is always something visible to give a reliable
attitude reference.  I relax somewhat and quickly climb to about 7000
feet ASL.  The scruffy little clouds are suddenly gone and I am
surrounded by walls of brilliant white covered by an azure blue sky.
Lift increases to 400-500 feet/minute as I climb to 8000 feet and
break into an incredible world of pure white clouds and deep blue
sky.  While the scene is beautiful, I have never been above the clouds
in a glider before and suddenly have a strong feeling of having
ventured somewhere that I did not belong.  The Hall of the Mountain
King?  Perhaps.  The feeling is intensified when I survey the plateau
of clouds caused by the rotor.  What if the hole below me closes?
About this time the variometer really begins to sing as it indicates
700-800 feet/minute climb.  Still very cautious about the "hole", I
watch 9000 feet go by on the altimeter, decide that 10,000 feet ASL is
a nice round number and pull the spoilers as soon as 10,000 feet is
reached.  I set up an 80 kt decent with full spoilers and drop through
the hole with ease.  

I return to the darker world below the rotor cloud and I am pleased to
note that the cloud deck has lifted to 5500-6000 ASL.  Even better,
the hole has gotten bigger and I can now see a patch of sun on the
ground about 6 miles West and another about 6 miles East.  The air is
drying out and the wave seems setting up with a peiod of about 6
miles.  The second trip into the hole (and Back) has quelled a few
demons and I begin to appreciate the experience.  I wiggle my toes a
few times to be sure they are still there, take careful bearings on
ground features around the edges of the hole and head back into the
lift without much hesitation.  The plan is to stop the ascent if two
of my four reference points become obscured. Soon I am back above the
rotor cloud at about 7500 feet ASL.  I relax a bit and begin to
appreciate the beauty all around me.  As the sun breaks over the cloud
behind my left shoulder, it illuminates all of the variations in the
surface of the one in front of me.  The wind is carving groves in the
surface making it appear like wind blown snow in the high mountains.
Below me the sun illuminates what is left of the scud and causes
little rainbows around the clouds at certain angles to my position.
As I gain height, the rainbows change and provide a kaleidoscope
effect for about 2000 feet of the climb.  Fine ice crystals are being
driven from some of the clouds by the wind and they are illuminated by
the sun as if they were under a strobe light.  Fascinating and
beautiful.  The lift is strong and smooth as ever as the altimeter
passes through 10,000 feet.  I am happy to note that the hole is still
getting bigger and my landmarks remain clearly visible.  I relax even
more and begin to hold the oxygen mask to my face with my left hand to
be sure that I am receiving the flow that the blinker indicates. 

As 13,000 and then 14,000 feet appear on the altimeter, the world is
spread out below me as if I was suspended above a huge lumpy white
carpet.  Off to my right, two large lenticular clouds are suspended
well above the cloud deck like sirens beckoning one to venture
somewhere Northwest of Dulles Airport.  Surprisingly, no lennies are
visible in other quadrants.  Manassas, Virginia looks very small down
below my right wing and the scud in the hole clears completely
allowing a good view of the ground directly below me.  As I near
15,000 feet, the rate of climb slows and a check of the thermometer
shows that the outside temperature is hovering near -5 F.  My feet are
not appreciating the view quite as much as my brain so I begin to
wiggle them as much as possible.  Well below me, a twin engined
commuter plane passes across the hole and I laugh quietly at the
thought of the incredible power of the atmosphere that its passengers
(and possibly its pilots) are missing.  The observation of the
commuter traffic so far below me injects a note of reality onto the
scene and I calculate that I could be 10,000 feet above him.  This
thought re-kindles apprehension that the hole could still close and
although there are many other holes visible from 15,000 feet, I do not
want to enter a hole in the cloud deck over unfamiliar territory.
Therefore, after a final look around, I open the spoilers and set up
another 80 kt decent, easily dropping through the hole about 10
minutes later.

My relaxed state is short lived as I try to close the spoilers and
find that my left arm is not up to the job.  The SGS 1-23's spoilers
are not easy to close at high speeds (a safety feature) but this time
it is a bit much.  I slow to about 50 kts and manage to ease them
closed.  Seems that the lubricant has gotten a bit hard during the
time that I was gawking about at 15,000 feet.  Got to remember to
bring the WD-40 to the Petersburg, WVa wave camp!!  With the spoilers
finally closed, I cruise over to the field at 70 kts and arrive home
about 5000 feet ASL and burn off the excess altitude by flying around
the West end of the field at 70-80 kts.  Soon I drop to 1500 feet ASL
and fly a short, fast pattern landing about 2 hours after takeoff.  The
barograph trace is good, showing a low point of 3200 feet ASL and a
high point of 14,700 feet ASL -- a total gain of 11,500 feet.  All in
all, a memorable and instructive flight.


Jim Garrison
ASW-19B - "Alpha Echo"
jcg8w@virginia.edu