Love Story: In The Web of Life Ken Renshaw (the best novels to read TXT) 📖

I was feeling butterflies in my stomach. Iwas sweating in the ninety-degree heat as I stuffed my sweaterbehind the parachute.

Tina was fussing with my shoulder straps andtelling me where my lunch and water were. I loved it. Shevolunteered, "You will be home late but very happy. Can you acceptthat prediction?"

"Gladly" I gave her a nervous kiss goodbye,closed the canopy and, gave 'thumbs up.' Tina held the wingtip offthe ground, Dan started the Pawnee and we were soon airborne. Wecircled once around the field to gain altitude and then turnedtoward the mountains. There was no significant lift until we gotover the Punchbowl. It was there, but weak. I released the towcable, Dave dove away and I started to circle in about a hundredfeet per minute lift.

I loitered there barely gaining any altitudefor about ten minutes, and then I shifted to a thermal coming froma white mountain in a valley to the East. It was stronger, and Igained a thousand feet in a half hour. Somehow, flying wasdifferent now: I was not getting uptight about getting away on mycross-country trip. I was enjoying the scenery, the joy of flying,and a quiet sense of freedom. High performance sailplanes make nonoise as they fly. They have mirror-like, highly polished wings andsnug fitting canopies. Anything that whistled would waste preciousenergy. Stealth is important when you don't nave a motor

As I looked North to the Sierras, the Mojavewas what soaring pilots call a "blue hole," a large expanse of airwith no clouds, and therefore no thermal activity. It was still tooearly to leave.

When I reached nine thousand feet I looked atmy watch and saw that it was 11:15. I was joined in the thermal bya hawk, which made one circle with me and then turned and begansoaring out into the Mojave.

I said to myself, "If the hawk says it is timeto go, it is time to go," and turned my sailplane to the North,starting my journey. It is always easier to let someone else makesuch decisions.

I picked my way from weak thermal to weakthermal for forty-five minutes and found myself down to fivethousand feet, only fifteen hundred feet above Rosamond Dry Lake.Despair was settling in.

'I'm going to have another visit with anotherMason jar down there,' I thought. Then, I saw a dust devil movingtoward the lake and thought, 'I'm saved!' Over the dust devil Ifound a very strong, narrow thermal requiring me to execute nearlyacrobatic fifteen-second turns pulling a couple of g's. At first, Ibarely gained any altitude, but by a half hour later, I was up toten thousand feet. Saved!

I had been flying for an hour and a half andonly gone about thirty miles with two hundred eighty to go. Ahead,cumulus clouds were forming above hills and mountains. Things werelooking good. About fifteen miles farther north I found a powerfulthermal over a small blood-red cinder cone mountain, the home ofthe Silver Queen Mine.

As I circled, I remembered the time I had beenforced to land near Silver Queen and had been greeted by a miner,the kind of rusty pickup driving, shaggy bearded, grimly clothed,shotgun–carrying kind. He had that wild look in his eyes, like oneof the attorneys at my firm, which comes from a life driven byselfish greed. I had to pay him fifty dollars and a six–pack ofbeer for "crop damage" to his dry, barren field before he would letme remove my sailplane.

I topped-out in the thermal at fourteenthousand feet and sped north. The crisp air at high altitude mademe feel good, and I was having fun. I put on my Cannula oxygenfeed.

I passed the Mojave Airport on my right. Icould see the rows and rows of a graveyard for airplanes; mostwearing the paint jobs of the airline they retired from. They werestored for scrap and salvaging parts. Here in the dry desert airthey age slowly, like ones' discarded toys fromchildhood.

To the West of me, the barren tan Mojave Desertends at the up rise of the Tehachapi Mountains. The area was calmtoday, a good sign for soaring. Most of the year the Northwest windis funneled through the Tehachapi pass to make this one of thewindiest places in the state. I could see hundreds of powergenerating wind turbines, row after row, lazily turning, waiting todo their thing.

I was now at the southernmost end of theSierras. The lift was getting stronger, and steadier, rising fromthe barren east-sloping faces of the low mountains. I didn't haveto search for thermals; I could easily maintain altitude. When theair was going downward, I sped up to get through it. When it wasrising, I loitered.

To the right, in the distance I saw CaliforniaCity, sprawling, still waiting for the boom times of the lastcentury to return.

To the north of California City I saw the Hondaautomotive test center, dozens of laboratory buildings and theseven–and–half mile high–speed oval track where people had drivenautos 24 hours a day in high speed life tests. It was nowabandoned, for sale, a suitable major industry for CaliforniaCity.

Now, I was flying over low mountains stippledwith green trees. Ahead, I saw Owens Peak. Judging by the clouds,it would be a great source of lift today. I sped up, now flying atseventy knots. I circled in the vigorous lift, looked at my watch,saw it was now 1:30, and heard my stomach complain. I had been toobusy to think of lunch. I ate my sandwich and enjoyed the views,Lake Isabella to the West, nestled among low mountain ranges; andthe magnificent Owens Valley to the North.

The Sierra Mountains are a massive block thattilted up eons ago. The Sierras rise slowly, over a hundred milesor so, on the western slope, On the eastern slope they fallprecipitously, going from high points at Mount Whitney (14,000feet) and surrounding mountains, to the Lone Pine in the OwensValley (3,700 feet) in only fifteen miles. A couple of dozen milesto the East, two ranges of high mountains arise, the Inyos and theWhite Mountains. Their highest peaks are only a few feet lower thanMount Whitney. Death Valley, the lowest place in the United States,is only a few more miles to the