by David Palmer
However, if the coordinates are correct, she went down in an area that is both rugged and heavily forested with mature sequoias.
Jason was a Civil Air Patrol volunteer and participated in many high-country air searches. I have seen the CAP's film on recommended techniques for ditching in trees. The theory is that if you land in the treetops in a full stall, impacting at about a forty-five-degree nose-up attitude, you touch down at the slowest possible speed, and present as broad an area as possible to the foliage, so that kinetic energy is used up in smashing through the branches on the way down. It is not uncommon for trees' resistance alone to stop the descent, the ship ending up trapped in the branches. This is preferable to falling all the way to the unyielding ground, which entails a substantial impact even after deducting the retarding effects of the foliage. But either way, chances for surviving such a landing are better than one might expect.
Unfortunately, the film dealt with normal forest conditions, with trees between fifty to eighty feet tall. A mature stand of sequoias ranges between two and three hundred feet in height. Sequoias generally resemble enormously outsized pines: Trunks are massively thick, as much as forty feet in diameter, and lower halves are usually bare of branches. Top halves are sparse Christmas-tree parodies, with gnarled limbs immensely thick for their length, and little secondary and tertiary branching.
The structure of a sequoia forest offers little hope for a successful treetop ditching: There is nothing resembling the approximately level "roof" of an ordinary forest; a stand of sequoias is a sea of huge, upward-jutting cones. And as bigger trees crowd out lesser neighbors by blocking their sunlight, victors in the competition are usually less closely spaced than normal trees. Foliage generally overlaps, obscuring the sky from the ground and vice versa, but only down in the mid and lower reaches; and the branches which accomplish this are far too thick to break and absorb energy from impact with so light and fragile an object as a falling ultralight, except out at the very tips.
If Candy manages to locate a relatively closely-spaced stand of sequoias and achieves a letter-perfect pancake landing in the upper-middle branches, and if they slow and trap her plane without undue damage—and they might, as light as it is for its size—she has a chance.
Of course, that will strand her at least a hundred feet above the ground, at whatever point the branches cease. Her survival kit includes many things; but rope is heavy, and when dealing with ultralights, compromises must be made. So even if she is uninjured, getting down will be a challenge.
If she did not succeed in remaining in the treetops, however, I see no likelihood that she could have survived the passage through the branches, or the final free-fall to the ground. Repeated collisions with those huge, unyielding limbs on the way down would have demolished her miniature airplane like a balsa model. What remained would have plunged the last hundred feet like a stone.
I don't know how much of this Adam is aware of. I have not discussed it with him yet. I can't even think about it without crying.
Besides, this has not been a good time to discuss anything with Adam. Since this morning I have helped where I could and remained quiet and out of the way otherwise. Adam has been an absolute wild man: I have never seen anyone so quietly, intensely, efficiently, and constructively hysterical.
In the space of two furiously busy hours he located a generally undamaged private airfield, found an old Cessna 180 still intact, and, working like a one-armed tornado, with my small assistance, got it running.
During the next hour, operating the control yoke with his good arm and the rudder pedals with his feet, with me serving as his other hand to operate the mixture, throttle, prop-pitch, trim, and flap controls, he taught himself to fly the big old taildragger, accustoming himself to the considerable handling differences between it and the tricycle-geared ultralight. Then we assembled provisions, medical supplies, and survival equipment, including lots of rope, loaded it aboard, topped up the tanks, and took off—all five of us; we couldn't leave the animals.
We found the location that Candy had triangulated for us. From that point we extended a ten-mile radius, and within that area we began a careful search, flying slowly only a few hundred feet above the treetops.
At the outset I risked suggesting to Adam that he not waste time trying to make out anything on the ground. Chances of spotting her there were minimal to nonexistent. From the air we could see only a fraction of the actual surface; the trees were just too thick. More likely was picking up a flash of color from that brilliantly rainbow-hued wing fabric snagged in a treetop.
Adam nodded absently. He was flying by conditioned reflex, his entire concentration below us, but I think he heard me.
We crisscrossed the area repeatedly, the three of us scanning the terrain until our eyes smarted, endlessly trying to raise her on the radio. After scouring the initial twenty-mile circle without detecting a sign of her, we doubled the radius. Later we tripled it.
I think Adam would have had us out there yet, peering down through the darkness, had we not begun to run low on fuel at about the same time that we ran out of daylight. As it was, even I forgot that it was going to take close to half an hour to get back to the field, and that sunlight lasts longer at altitude than on the ground. It was still possible to make out landmarks below us, but I was glad the old plane's landing lights worked. We touched down in a gloom hardly distinguishable from dead of night. Utilities are out in this area so the runway lights no longer work, even if someone had been here to turn them on.
While I made dinner, Adam sat and glared unseeing into space. The intensity of his feelings was almost palpable. I have never seen an expression so bleakly, ragingly frustrated. His features contained no remnant of boyishness.
He ate what I put in front of him without, I think, knowing that he did so, and with no change in expression.
After dinner, Tora-chan vaulted into his lap and butted him in the stomach. When that failed to produce the desired chin-scratch, the cat upgraded his effort to a full formal head-dive. Still nothing. Then he sat down in Adam's lap, gazed up at his face with a puzzled expression, and said, "Mee-ow-oo. . . . !" But the boy never twitched; he remained where he was, immobile, unresponsive to outside stimuli.
I debated jolting him out of it physically, and was on the verge of giving it a try, when suddenly, unexpectedly, he stood and, in a firm, decisive, completely rational tone, said, "Come on, let's break camp. We can be at park headquarters by midnight, if those roads Candy reported really are passable."
I was caught completely by surprise. I thought he was in shock withdrawal, but he was thinking, furiously, accurately; evaluating every facet of the situation, together with our options.
Almost incidentally, as we prepared to leave, he brought me up-to-date on his thinking: "Searching by air is a waste of time. It would take a miracle to spot her in those trees. And even if we did, we couldn't help her from the air, anyway. So we'll save time by getting there on the ground as quickly as possible. The landmarks she used are unmistakable, and my RDF line hits the intersection of her compass bearings dead center, so we have an accurate fix on where she went down. We'll get right up there and conduct a ground search.
"We'll get some bullhorns at a police station—there are bound to be some still operational—and pick up trail bikes from a motorcycle shop. We'll pull the trailer in as close as we can get it; then push on in the van. If necessary, we switch to the trail bikes. Or we walk—
"Oh . . ." Adam broke off, looking concerned in a preoccupied sort of way. Obviously this was the first time all day that my presence had even partly registered, beyond my potential usefulness in prosecuting his search-and-rescue mission. "This is going to be rough. I can't drag you and Lisa into it. I'll leave you at the park headquarters in the trailer, and come back for you as soon as I find her."
He was still only half-aware of whom he was talking to or he never would have suggested anything so stupidly sexist. My reply put a stop to that right then, and got
his full attention, as well:
"You and what SWAT team are going to leave us behind . . . !" I snapped.
Adam's eyes focused suddenly. He saw me. I heard Lisa giggle behind my back.
"What . . . ? Oh, no-no, I didn't mean—"
"I know you 'didn't mean,' " I replied more gently. "But Candy's my friend, too. I'm entitled to help."
"What about Lisa?"
Adam tends to be a little conservative, not to say naïve, when judging the fragility of those whom he considers "children." Lisa was only slightly less forthright than I was about correcting him. "You'll never find her without me," she announced solemnly.
Adam stared. Then he smiled wanly. He interpreted her declaration to mean that he'd better not try to leave us behind, and thought she was trying to cheer him up.
But I know my daughter. That was not bravado or sloppy syntax; Lisa meant it literally. I found myself studying her thoughtfully. She pretended not to notice. She and I will have to talk about this, very soon.
We did arrive at the park headquarters shortly after midnight; Candy's advice about the roads was accurate.
I ordered Adam to bed as soon as we stopped. He didn't argue, and he let me put him under, using the trance-induction formula that Candy had implanted. Once the trance had taken hold, I converted it to normal, deep sleep.
I wish someone could do that for me. One reason I'm making this entry is that I can't sleep. I keep seeing Candy, riding that gossamer-and-toothpicks ultralight down into the sequoias, the airframe breaking up into smaller and smaller pieces as it bounces off those huge upper branches, one after another—finally plummeting unimpeded to the ground.
Another reason is that I write a pretty fair Pitman.
But the main reason I'm doing it is common decency: Adam can hardly be allowed in Candy's journal while a chance remains that she's alive. It wouldn't be fair to let him peek at her intimate reflections, especially her opinions of him, when she may have to face him again. Yes, he would swear never to violate her confidence by looking anywhere but the page on which he's writing, and he'd mean it and believe it himself as he promised. But I'm curious myself about what she's written about me, and I'm not In Love with her; though I doubt if I could feel any closer to my own sister, if I had one.
Dear God—please let her be all right . . . !
* * *
VOLUME IV
Destiny
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 u
p 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.