David Palmer - Emergence

Dear God — please let her be all right…!

Hello, Posterity…! Great life, isn’t it?

Sorry; being silly. Please excuse. Euphoria betrays intensity of relief on finding self still alive.

Quite unexpectedly so: Surviving events of this morning brings new depth to expression “cheating odds.”

Granted, details of flirtation with Grim Reaper, viewed objectively, probably of interest to participant only (was indeed; heart surely stopped couple times from thrill factor alone). But data valuable to Adam; understanding cause of problem key to preventing repetition — and truly in favor of that: Airplane engine failure contains potential for more than passing inconvenience!

Shan’t bother with introduction, history review this time around. Don’t anticipate spending much time on this volume: Shall merge with Vol. III immediately upon rejoining party (tomorrow morning, with luck). Could make record then, but events best recorded while fresh in mind.

(Originally planned to use this pen, pad to make notes, draw map en route. Instead, will discharge duty to history during twilight hours, plus entertain self.)

Trap sprung during this morning’s first reconnaissance flight while heading generally east over Sierra Nevadas, studying roads en passant, reporting back via helmet radio.

USGS map suggested possible logging/fire-trail pass over mountains, through Sequoia National Forest. Overflight confirmed hard-surface and/or graded roads intact to ruts’ jump-off into wilderness. Passable trail led thence into forestlands, over mountains. Barely discernible as break in solid forest cover, through which could observe ground here, there; verify no landslides, earthquake damage existed on scale likely to block rig.

Intended to follow, inspect tracks until fuel limitations necessitated turning back. Never got that far.

Lacked probably 15 minutes of turnaround point when engine went sour. One moment howling merrily, as good ex-motorcycle engine should; next moment sputtering, tachometer dropping toward idle; total shutdown threatening, imminent.

Until then reveling in sheer joy of flight (“O bliss!”); mindlessly wallowing in freedom of motion, endless visibility. Occasionally essayed snap roll, or some other aerobatic excess, just for fun of it. Having wonderful time, with never a thought toward potential consequences of mechanical failure.

Sudden power loss restored focus on reality. Jarringly so. Nothing in sight to raise hopes for safe emergency landing: Nothing but endless sea of conical treetops stretching uninterrupted every direction to mountainous horizon and beyond.

Abruptly conscious of chill fingers tickling pit of stomach.

Cut back power immediately. Knew from lawn mower, outboard motor experience: Sometimes possible to keep distressed engine running by nursing throttle; often continues operation under partial load, even though won’t take max or cruise settings.

Relieved to note similar response from ultralight engine: Exhaust note smoothed out as revs dropped. Quickly edged throttle forward again, feeling for critical setting. And found it…

Lower than hoped, well below point at which altitude maintainable.

Felt cold fingers tighten grip on liver lights.

Fiddled with throttle again, trying to learn more about problem. Soon assembled picture: While only about quarter throttle available for sustained use, could get as much as five seconds’ full power or about 15-18 seconds at minimum cruise after idling just shy of full minute.

But positively engine’s best offer. Increasing idle time produced no further change in power-on duration.

Even as explored parameters of problem, already on radio, alerting Adam; banking, searching for mapworthy, recognizable landmarks. Relevant chart section sandwiched between sheets of plexiglass these days (Adam so clever), mounted to fuselage tubing over knees, edge-on to slipstream. Took only seconds to match peaks in vicinity with those on chart, pass on bearings by radio.

Adam acknowledging, reading back coordinates, when voice, already weak from distance, faded entirely as I dropped below mountaintops.

Well, would have been nice to have company on way down; feeling pretty lonely just then. But upcoming forced landing promised to demand full attention; likely too busy for idle conversation anyway: Terrain below really rugged; nothing visible but solid treetops as far as eye could see — emphasis on “solid.”

Unbidden, characteristics of forest’s namesake came to mind: Have heard sequoias described as industrial-grade redwoods. Plus saw photograph of General Grant tree in old set of Time-Life books Daddy kept around house: 260-odd feet high, trunk alone 40 feet in diameter — considered only “pretty big” by local standards.

Debated chances of achieving successful treetop landing. But already apparent, even at this altitude, that big trees’ foliage skimpy in proportion to overall bulk; also that major limbs thick, visibly unyielding. Attempting to find, manage touchdown amidst, branches springy enough to absorb impact without damage to self, yet strong enough to trap airframe, hold tightly, prevent fall to forest floor, surely constituted unreasonable demand on luck. And failure meant long fall.

Barely 500 feet above tallest treetops when spotted opening through foliage. Not big hole, but ultralight wingspan only 25 feet; maybe big enough.

(Not that ducking through hole automatically eliminated risks. In fact, only in sequoia forest could question arise at all; trees much too close together in normal woods even to think about trying to dodge between, around trunks long enough to reach ground intact. No idea what might find down there; from this altitude, in bright sunlight, details invisible in shadow.)

But losing altitude steadily; decision imminent, clearly of either/or nature. Would have to make up mind. Soon.

Question proved self-answering: Once down at treetop level, true scale, scarcity of limbs, evident. Successful landing in those branches not question of mere luck; would take no-holds-barred miracle.

With decision made for me, turned full attention to opening. Down this close, could make out some details with certainty — and news not all bad!

Portal lay probably 150, 200 feet below treetops, at bottom of chimney created by missing foliage, broken limbs. Horizontal clearance inside shaft limited to perhaps 100 feet in tight spots, but usually more. Hole itself about 50 feet across, roughly circular; framed by lowest tier of branches projecting from surrounding trees.

Pretty close quarters, even at ultralight’s minimum controllable speeds (22-knot level-flight stall), but not impossible.

Enough woolgathering; moment of truth at hand.

Tried to ignore damp palms, suddenly racing heart; set up short-field landing configuration: Carb heat on, engine back to idle, flaperons full down in maximum drag/lift setting, nose-up trim (extra tug on harness, helmet chin strap). Turned radio volume all the way down to eliminate possibly distracting static.

Slowed to 30 knots; eased into spiral, radius dictated by trees’ spacing; alert for preliminary aerodynamic buffeting, warning of incipient accelerated stall induced by steep turn’s gee forces (even experienced pilots occasionally trapped that way). Then in shaft, committed to descent.

Hard to tell, as trees rose on all sides, whether sink-rate really gentle as felt (or perhaps time-sense perception again listening to own drummer) but seemed to take forever.

Tried to divide attention as descended: Vital not to allow hitherto-unnoticed projecting branch to snag wingtip; but also needed to see what lay below, catch earliest possible glimpse of conditions below foliage. But shadowed details still undiscernible; would have to wait, see; rely upon native resourcefulness, inborn determination, vaunted H. post hominem reflexes — plus yeoman-caliber assistance from old friend Luck.