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Aviation History
1962
1962 - 0631.PDF
FLIGHT International, 19 April 1962 629 Georgeson landing after completing the 400 mile out-and-return flight described in the article carried downwind until he was brought back into the rising part of the wave. At 20,000ft over Irishman Creek he called Bruce Gillies again, who said he was still struggling over Benmore, and then flew on into the never-never country of the Two Thumbs. The wave formation was completely jumbled in this area and the country below abso lutely inhospitable. Wind direction was 290° and the course around 030°, so he decided to do a long glide downwind to the first of the series of lenticular clouds reported in Fred Dunn's telegram. Sure enough, he found it, over Methven, and at 18,000ft ran into smooth wave-lift again. Now over 100 miles away, he called Bruce Gillies again—Bruce had struggled up to 14,000ft and then lost it all again and sounded frustrated in the extreme, but full of encouraging words. He called Christchurch Airport and got clearance to pass through Red One, the airway to Australia, and eventually reached the Hurunui River at 25,000ft. Ahead he could see the end of the arch and be yond it a low-down sheet of cloud covering the whole northern end of the island. It looked quite possible that Hanmer was just too far north to be visible from above; if it was under this cloud it would, of course, be quite impossible to photograph the turning point, and the whole enterprise would be vitiated. But fortune (aided by experience) smiled, and the turning point was just short of the cloud sheet. There seemed no chance of covering the last 25 miles, as the air was clear, but extroardinary luck continued and a lenticular tongue formed under his starboard wing and kept pace a little ahead of him—a guardian angel leading to his goal. Two and a half hours after getting away, he photographed Han mer, having travelled 200 miles—a startling average speed, aided by a favourable wind component and the increased ground-speed achieved at the great altitudes at which he had been flying. The inside of the cockpit was a veritable icebox and he had to prise open the window with his finger-nails to see where he was and to take the photograph. He tried to call up Bruce Gillies again and also Stewart Cain, who was flying the Eagle. He got no reply, but gave his height and position in case they were still receiving him (which they were). The return journey was of course much harder, with the wind now adverse. Unless he maintained between 80 and 100 m.p.h. he seemed to make little headway; the down-draughts between the waves were up to 3,000ft/min and so, in spite of his great altitudes, a single mistake could have had him on the ground in a few minutes. At the southern end of Lees Valley, he again called Christchurch control for clearance. A TEAL Electra was climbing out to 24,000ft. By now the Skylark was at 28,000ft so obviously the Electra was in no hazard. He was beginning to feel the need for food. On a flight a few weeks before he had taken a vacuum flask of hot coffee, but the low pressures at altitude had caused the cork to lift, and the coffee had frozen solid and hence been useless. So, on this occasion, he had taken a bottle of lemonade and some sandwiches. Both were useless—the lemonade a mass of ice-crystals and the sandwiches, triangles of frozen rock. In the rush of the take-off he had not put on his full kit and the combination of cold and hunger began to present a serious hazard. The sun shining through the canopy keeps one's body warm enough but not the feet, and after the loss of all sensation in one's feet there is nothing to warn whether or not frostbite has set in. About now, at an altitude of over 28,000ft, he began to feel decidedly odd; he found himself busy trying to call Omarama but on the Christchurch tower frequency. His previous experience immediately led him to suspect anoxia and a glance at his blue finger-nails confirmed the suspicion. He grabbed the oxygen valve and found himself turning it the wrong way—to the "OFF" position. The shock of this realization aroused him; he turned it full on, took several deep breaths, then opened his airbrakes and dived down to 25,000ft and promptly felt better. Investigation showed that his oxygen mask was not fitting tightly, having lost much of its elasticity in the cold. Six hours after take-off he was over Staveley. The cirrus arch was now above him, cutting off the sun, and the cold was intense. He found himself rubbing first one leg and then the other, muttering "The cruel cold, the cruel cold . . ." This kind of flight can be a solitary experience, for the sky is so vast and one is so insignificantly embedded in it. Now he had to move to the west, upwind, and so leave the com forting line of the wave he had been following for over 100 miles. He dived into wind, found the next wave at 18,000ft and repeated the manoeuvre a second time. At 18.00hrs he was halfway across the Fairlie Basin at 13,700ft. In most parts of the world this would indeed be a comforting height, but not in these great wave systems. He thought of abandoning the record attempt, running comfortably along the wave and landing at Timaru with his 500km easily in the bag. But world record winners are made of sterner stuff than that. He rejected the temptation and, although there seemed no visible support to the south, he set off on course and arrived over Burke's Pass at 12,000ft. At 10,000ft over the Tekapo River he encoun tered unmarked and entirely unexpected lift and, for the first time Lake Tekapo photographed by Georgeson from his Skylark 3f at 14,000ft
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