St. Albert’s Mission, Zimbabwe’s premier site, on the extraordinary Zambezi Escarpment. We arrive as the first cumuli are popping overhead. It’s the dry season, no rain has fallen here for months, and below us the flat valley floor has been burnt by the sun until only various hues of brown remain. Visibility is poor and the panorama fades into the haze at about 35 km’s. Thermals are ripping up the cliff in front of the launch area. Surrounding us, the mud huts with their thatched roofs blend into the dry and dusty landscape. Children are gathering to watch, chattering and laughing at our pre-flight antics.
As we set up, the wind increases, and the lulls between strong cycles become significantly less. The gusts continue to increase. I chat with my tandem passengers, advising them that conditions are too strong for a safe and comfortable flight. I drag out my crispy, new After competing successfully in the Zimbabwe Open last week, I am keen to explore the Brontes XC capabilities.
In the rush to get ready I forget my emergency kit, my water and my food. Desperate to get off before the wind increases further, I pull up in a momentary lull and soar skywards. Nudging the speed bar keeps me forward of the hill, climbing vertically. So begins one of the roughest and most challenging flights of my life.
I slip over the end of the ridge and run downwind, working a weak thermal. The drift is phenomenal, but the lift is bumpy and broken. At best I am maintaining height while drifting steadily down the range. Five minutes, and five kilometres later, I find my only normal thermal of the day. A steady 2 m/s climb, drifting into the foothills. The sky is littered with clouds bursting into life like hyperactive cauliflowers, before drifting rapidly with the wind and fading away. My steady climb suddenly disappears into broken bubbles, then the god of wind whispers nasty thoughts in my ear. The slapping, when it comes, is harsh. The glider bucks and kicks, rocketing all over the sky, but, with some active piloting and a fair amount of verbal expression, I keep the Brontes overhead. In the back of my mind, I am trying to work out how rotor can extend more than a thousand metres above the foot hills. It doesn’t make sense, but I’m not bold enough to stay and argue the point. Pushing out from the hills, I encounter seemingly widespread lift under a strongly developing cloud. This monster is boiling and twisting like the smoke from a demonic witches cauldron. My apprehension is fully justified, I am bounced, shaken and rattled around. Yet strangely, each time I am brave enough to turn the lift vanishes. I push cross wind, away from the hills, and towards the far side of the cloud, now only about 150m away. But this, like the lift, is one of life’s illusions. The cloud is expanding so quickly that I can never reach the edge. The cloud twists, rolls and boils like a scene from the movie Back Draft. Frustrated, but finally at base (2000m agl) I turn again and run before the wind. With ground speeds exceeding 70 km/hour progress is quick. Hopping from cloud to cloud fills me with an exhilaration tempered only apprehension that accompanies the sickening lurches and soggy, sinking twisters as I pop out of the broken wind-ravaged thermals. Regular tactics are useless, so I wander about, following random lines of lift. There is no co-ordination, no pattern, and no sense to my flying, but it keeps me airborne, and the km’s continue to bounce past.
Under yet another promising looking cloud, about 40 km’s from take off, and the day throws in another twist. Sink. Big sink. My vario emits cries of distress at the continuous 5 m/s down. Three minutes later and I feel as though I have fallen out of the sky. More than a thousand metres of valiantly (in my opinion) and hard won altitude have disappeared into thin air. Speed bar, turns, verbal abuse – no tactic makes any difference. I continue to plummet earthward. Eventually the sink gives way to a small bubble, and I can finally hold my own against this invisible demon. Clawing back up through the turmoil of more wind shattered thermals, I pass over Bakasa, and realise that today might be a 100 km day.
By now I am hot, tired, thirsty, and feel like I’ve taken a fair battering. Lining up for the next obstacle, I face a big blue hole. The golden rule ? don’t fly into it. It’s a hole. But with no other viable options, that’s where I am going. The ridge is on my side, and keeps up a steady supply of small, incoherent, but desperately needed thermals. I break through the gap and cross the river to face the days final obstacle? nothing. Just that! No roads, no easy retrieves, few landing options, but hopefully no wild animals. One final climb under the last remaining cumulus, mark the GPS, then turn into wind. Mission accomplished, now glide as far back towards the road and civilisation as I can. Going onto full bar gives me some forward speed, and shortens my walk by almost 4 km’s. Ninety minutes of hiking through the bush and exuberant bird life and I’m back at St. Cecelia’s Mission, with it’s cold drinks and friendly retrieve drivers. The Brontes and I have taken everything that’s been thrown at us, and have come through with memories of a wild ride, a flight that is more enjoyable now, with two feet on the ground.