The Gila River - flying down in the canyon
... The aerial equivalent of two lane blacktop
For me, there’s a sense of secure isolation in my Cessna’s cockpit. It’s comforting. For the moment, my life concerns are reduced to a few gauged indicators and the view of changing textures of the land below. The steady engine drone is like a white noise mantra.
I’m heading back to Santa Monica after a gathering in Phoenix. Everyone else is driving or taking commercial flights. I’m in no rush to get home, so I take a circuitous route. The aerial equivalent of two lane blacktop, following the Gila River which winds like a seductive snake thru the desert sandstone, carving its own narrow canyon.
I glide down into it. The Yucca trees and cacti glow like signposts in low sunlight.
The occasional shack speaks of some isolated life. Who lives out here? Why?
With a light finger touch, the control yoke rolls the wings to the left and the hand of the air pulls the 2,000 pound airplane in that direction. Below the rim, toward a yucca tree, anchored there like a magnet.
The rocks and trees pass close by. The metal airplane is moving at 150 miles per hour, 220 feet every second. Look ahead, way ahead. Don’t let your glance dwell on the stationary.
I have always been good at the solitary perseverance that gets me to these ecstatic experiences. Yet now I wish that I could share this with someone. Disparate aspects of my life have always kept me somewhat fragmented. I have few friends who are pilots, I have few pilot friends.
In a few miles the sun disappears behind the canyon rim, the orange light turns to a faded blue. Only the river surface shines with reflected skylight. It’s time to climb back into the amorphous and traditional space of flying. Time to head home.
Suddenly, some disparate diagonal contours break the edge of the canyon rim. Like an array of swords swiping at me, four power wires materialize in the air. The slow dance of flying instantly becomes an emergency leap. Thinking is too slow, only intuition now. Push forward, dive to get under. Almost. One wire catches the right wing. A horrible silent slewing of the entire plane as if some giant hand grabbed that wing. The engine, without being told, growls and surges in an effort to be free of the restraint.
But…yes. We’re still flying.
When I take a bad fall skiing, after the explosion of snow and twisting of limbs, I get up and feel for what’s still working. This is like that. Slowly add power; the engine still works. It’s straining, but it works. Controls: left, right, up, down. The right wing seems to drag, I have to add more left rudder. But it’s impossible to assess the damage.
My first thought: get the plane onto the ground, while it’s still in one piece. The bottom of the canyon, in the sandy wash. Get it on the ground. I have no idea what part of the airplane is now just hanging together by a thin piece of torn metal.
But then my bifurcated mind begins to think of the inconvenience. The plane will probably flip over in the sand on landing; I’ll be all right, but what a mess to deal with. Maybe I can get it up to a road.
Slowly I climb the Cessna out of the canyon, look for a straight section of road. My projection: land the plane on a highway, police reports, broken airplane disassembled, chaos...
Given a few moments, my mind walks the thin line between denial and optimism. Maybe it will make it to some airport. Gila Bend is about thirty miles back. Then the paranoia side shouts "get this thing onto the ground right now, you have no idea what's still holding it together...”
I can see most of the wing, but no idea about any damage to the tail section, the rudder and stabilizer. I open the window and lean out to look back. Instantly, the wind plucks my glasses off my head. In an image that I'll recall forever, I watch them spin down thru space glittering in the sunlight.
I make it back to Gila Bend and put the Cessna onto the narrow runway. It’s almost dark... the place looks abandoned.
As I’m looking for the first time at my wing, the leading edge of which is torn off, a man emerges from the solitary hanger on the field. Old and grizzled, the Ratso Rizzo of airports. We say nothing. Then, after a silent perusal of my plane, he mentions casually, "looks like you hit the wires...”
This man, my first human contact since leaving Phoenix, which seems an eternity ago, suddenly becomes my compatriot. He pulls and tugs on the wing, and proclaims, "looks bent, but not cracked. It'll fly.”
That’s about all we say to each other. Later I wondered who he was, and how he thought he knew of the integrity of the wing. Wishful thinking made me believe it I suppose.
I walk the mile into the town of Gila Bend, check into the Palms Motel, have a solitary beer and, strangely, think very few thoughts.
The next day, I wrap the front of the torn wing with gaffer tape and flew my airplane the 385 miles to the Van Nuys airport. There was occasional turbulence.
Not a wise decision. But I made it home.
Bringing us into the experience …
Ouch! Had a few of those moments doing air to air....