I pull back on the stick and the light sailplane soars upwards. The cloud base is low today and white, and it is sunny. Looking around at the clouds, it is as if like angels' wave as the glider turns and banks with the sun. The plane thrums as the glider searches for thermals, the heat rising from sun warmed flat areas of open ground. The wings bend and arch like a hawk's wing as the glider catches the rising air and brings the plane into a slight climb. Five thousand, six thousand, seven thousand feet, then break left and head for the next thermal. The birds watch as the plane dances with them.
Plunge into the mountain valley and gain airspeed, and thus lift. The mountain valley spins by as the plane twists and banks seemingly by itself, the instruments moving, altitude slowly falling as the glider glides. The stick is light and moves easily between fingers and thumb, a caress to move the controls. An opening in the valley wall beckons and the sailplane darts through it and bucks with the turbulent airflow mix. The plane banks and it heads out with direction to the open path of red sand with large raptors circling to gain altitude. The glider joins them in the dance to the god of altitude.
The compelling song of the air past the canopy sings hymns in the key of lift. The plane is small, compact, cramped, tiny in the widest room in the entire world. The open patch of red ground recedes and again five thousand, six thousand, seven thousand feet and break out and find the next thermal. A potential good one west of the ridge the plane surmounted seconds ago, the birds circle gently upward. It takes a few minutes to drop down in a right and left huge sweep and gentle bank to enter the thermal at the base, a hard grass patch a half a mile across. This one is stronger and tosses the little glider upward quickly, going higher, seven thousand, eight thousand, nine thousand, dive out before oxygen becomes a problem.
In the west, a line of thunderstorms begins its march across the desert, and the wind picks up. It's in the wrong direction and it becomes a fight to head back. Lift is no longer a matter of thermals as the plane dives to gain distance and climbs to gain altitude. It's going to be close, the refuge of the ridge and the private airfield in the valley a dangling mobile toy, just out of reach. The plane porpoises to quickly cover ground and all it takes is a small miscalculation to have to put the glider down where the wind can pick it right back up and blow it away. The clouds begin to swell into immensity and a black line crushes the ground in front of it, rolling through the landscape erasing all the scenery behind.
Two more climbs and dives and then the approach, ten minutes. It's going to be close, really close. The weather radio goes off, as the plane turns after the second climb, lining up on the white line in the middle of the black strip. The rain is behind me, pushing me on as I dive for the runway to gain airspeed for the landing, a quandary of forces that just is, and makes no sense. The count begins as the glider passes over the outer marker and the caution bars pass under the nose. On ten the plane flares, bucks like a horse and drops to the asphalt.
