Soaring in Arizona

Uncle Sam should begin immediately a program designed to train 50,000 or more glider pilots a year for national defense, and Phoenix should be one of the centers of such training.

SO READ THE opening paragraph of an article in the Arizona Republic dated June 9, 1941 less than six months before Pearl Harbor. It was given as the opinion of Lewin B. Barringer, then holder of the World Two-Place Altitude Soaring Record (14,960 feet). (The present record is over 44,000 feet.) He was the former holder of the American Single-place Distance Record and was one of only three Americans at that time to hold the Golden C, then the highest international rating in the sport of soaring. He was the author of Flight Without Power (Pitman, 1940), which became the textbook for the Army Glider Training Command, and he was the first paid manager of the Soaring Society of America.

AT 8 O'CLOCK on the night of June 9, 1941, Lewin Barringer presided at the first meeting of the Southwest Soaring Club, held in the workshop of Phoenix Junior College. Adrian O. Riggins and Fred C. Riggins of Phoenix were present. One of the organizing directors was Mr. Donald F. Stone, then of Phoenix Junior College, and later for many years the principal of West Phoenix High School. Mr. Barringer read a letter to James J. Smiley, Jr. of the Frankfort Sailplane Company of Joliet, Illinois, ordering a Cinema II training sailplane which was to be delivered about the middle of July. Thus began the first organized motorless flight activity in Arizona.

IT WAS NOT the first soaring done here. On June 21, 1939, Peter Riedel of Germany made the first soaring flight across the Continental Divide when he flew a two-place Kranich from Winslow to Magdalena, New Mexico. This flight was far ahead of its time, and highlights from Mr. Riedel's report in Soaring Magazine are very interesting: “At 11:50 a.m., I was towed up by the car. I released at 600 feet above the ground. A few minutes before the takeoff, we had seen some tiny white clouds forming over the National Forest, some twenty-five to thirty miles to the south. But over the Winslow area the sky remained clear blue.

“I hit an up current of six feet per second climbing speed immediately after releasing the rope and climbed steadily to several thousand feet above the ground. Winslow Airport is 4,878 feet above sea level. During the first half hour. I saw the big Meteor Crater not far away, which we had visited the day before, and the strange-looking red rocks scattered around all over this lone plateau Fortunately, I had filled up the water bag of one-gallon capacity, which was hanging in the passenger's seat of the Kranich. Later, knowing that, I decided to dare the flight over the deserted stretches between Winslow and the Rio Grande in New Mexico. “I had taken off just for a short ride, in shirt sleeves, without any food, having only water, a compass, and matches on board the ship. My maps were Standard Oil or Shell auto maps which showed only a very few roads of second rate down there to the south and east “After flying for two hours, already in altitudes between 12,000 and 14,000 feet, circling around in steep banks many times in bumpy up currents, and feeling already a little bit cold, I was not very enthusiastic about the chance to climb up to such high altitudes But now since I had decided to go on farther, I had to go through with it. It was getting freezingly cold, and I started to feel again the effect of lack of oxygen. A few minutes more, and for the first time in my life the altimeter of my soaring plane was standing between 16,000 and 17,000 feet above sea level. I had a wonderful view all around over the dark mountains covered with forests to south, east, and west. and over the lone plains of the plateau in the north “In the plains I had seen here and there a tiny little house with a corral for cattle not far away, obviously ranches or houses for cowboys. In the forests there seemed to be quite a number of open spots to bring the ship down without a crackup, but the lone trails which I could see here and there seemed to be far from being used every day by automobiles or even horseback riders “I did not like the idea of blind-flying in this enormous altitude because I expected icing conditions which might ice up the turn-andbank, or the speed indicator. If I should have had to bail out with the parachute over such lone country, the situation would have become critical. And at the same time, the longer I was flying in these altitudesbetween 16,000 and 18,000 feet the less I was inclined to do anything daring, for being frozen, hungry, and lacking enough oxygen, my great enthusiasm was slowly diminishing. I started to watch myself to prevent, in time, any signs of becoming unconscious, which might happen in such a situation. I found out that it was a good thing to talk to myself loudly and energetically, using some strong expressions to pep myself up again. I tried to sing but found that it was not at all advisable, because one has to breathe often and deeply at such altitudes. "The whole flight, for more than five hours in these altitudes, is now concentrated in my memory into a very short experience, more similar to a dream."

SOARING

THE SOUTHWEST SOARING CLUB experienced a long delay in getting its initial training sailplane, but in the autumn of 1941 it arrived, and on the day before Halloween the Arizona Republic announced:

NEW SAILPLANE READY FOR AIR. FIRST ARIZONA GLIDER ASSEMBLED BY CLUB.

While awaiting delivery of this aircraft, Donald F. Stone and Fred Riggins had gone to Glendale, California, where they took their initial glider training. This training was given by automobile tow in a lowperformance glider. Mr. Riggins was called into military service before he could finish his necessary complement of flights, but Mr. Stone finished his. He qualified for a private glider license when he passed his written and flight tests. This was Arizona glider license No. 1. When the Cinema II sailplane was delivered, flight training operations began at Thunderbird Field No. 1, north of Glendale, Arizona. The flying there was done by automobile tow. On Sunday morning,

IN ARIZONA

the seventh of December, 1941, Mr. Stone was out at this field giving instruction. The news of Pearl Harbor was received shortly before noon, and the whole training operation had to leave the field because civilians were no longer permitted on that military installation.

EARLY IN 1942, the flight training operation was moved to Cactus Field, on North Sixteenth Street, Phoenix; then later on to an L-shaped field north of Cactus, where launching was by means of winch tow. Winch towing of gliders may be compared with rod and reel fishing. A powerful automobile engine replaces the finger power turning the reel, which is a big drum. A heavy wire or tow cable is the "fishing line," and the fish becomes a sailplane. The winch "reel" takes in cable at forty to seventy miles per hour, getting the sailplane airborne with astonishing speed. Depending upon the length of tow cable used, altitudes of 1,000 to 1,500, sometimes even 2,000 feet can be attained by use of a winch. Far more frequently this method of towing gives only a few hundred feet of altitude, but is very satisfactory for launching sailplanes at the top of a soarable windward ridge. At the new field there was some thermal soaring, and a small amount of ridge soaring was done, but the main purpose of all flying was for training. Consequently it was important to make as many flights as possible. Training went on at the field north of Cactus until the Army bought their glider. Later on, the operation moved to Thunderbird No. 2, north of Scotts-dale, and then moved again to an auxiliary field west-northwest of Mesa's Falcon Field, on a strip just north of the canal. Here flying went on until early 1946 with a Baby Albatross and a war surplus Laister-Kaufman sailplane.

ONE BLUSTERY SUNDAY morning in March of 1946, Mr. Stone instructed at this field. Because of the wind he stopped flying at noon and went home. That afternoon one of the members of the club talked his friends into giving him a tow in the Baby Albatross. This was done against the advice of some of the members present. An automobile tow began, and the Baby Albatross climbed sharply to an altitude of approximately 400 feet. Evidently the pilot was unable to release the tow cable. People in the tow car felt a tremendous jerk and they released the cable from their end, but it was too late. Some of the fuselage was pulled out of the sailplane and apparently a wing came off. The aircraft fell to the ground like a rock.

The dead pilot had two packed parachutes in the back of his car, but had refused to use them because he wanted to be as light as possible.

This fatality killed sport soaring in Arizona for nine years. A group in Mesa had a two-place sailplane, but their interest dried up. An interim club operating on the west side of Phoenix began and stopped without significant achievement. Over the five years of the Southwest Soaring Club's life, it had done some good training. The number of people involved in the actual program was limited. No big altitude flights were made and no cross-country soaring was attempted. This effort ended with a fatal crash, like so much early American soaring, where enthusiasm outran knowledge, caution, and careful training.

DURING THE EARLY WAR YEARS there was a glider training operation at an air base fourteen miles west of Wickenburg. It was doing very well when suddenly it was discontinued. One emergent figure served there during the war - Kempes Trager, who became U. S. National Soaring Champion in 1955. He made note of the remarkable soar Having potential in that area and spoke about it years afterward. On one flight he soared up to cloud base and flew from Wickenburg nearly to Prescott, then down to Glendale and back to his home base without ever making a turn to gain altitude, once he had his initial height. Another man who flew at Wickenburg was Loy M. Clingman.

During THE EARLY SUMMER OF 1946 Robert A. Sparling arrived in Prescott, Arizona. He started working in the aircraft repair shop of Dave Johnson, older brother of the famous Dick Johnson, now seven times U. S. Soaring Champion. Late that summer Dick Johnson paid a visit to his brother and Bob Sparling in Prescott, and on the eighth of September, 1946, they flew a wartime two-place training glider out of Prescott. The flight began under extremely difficult circumstances. Just as the sailplane got airborne, its tire blew out. Dave Johnson could not even get them up to normal tow height, 2,000 feet above terrain. After releasing, they circled across the wide valley between Prescott Airport and Mingus Mountain, flying very low. They did not have enough height even to clear Mingus Mountain, and had to work around the end of it, but conditions improved over the Verde Valley, and the flight ultimately carried on to Winslow, across the Painted Desert and the Chuska Mountains, south of Farmington, then to a ranch near Governador, New Mexico: 309 miles. This flight established a National Two-Place Distance Record which was to stand for twenty years.

Back in 1937 Bob Sparling had won the Mid-west Open Soaring Contest in a gull-wing secondary glider. This contest was at Frankfort, on the border of Lake Michigan. That year he also helped build the Yankee-Doodle I, prototype of one of the most famous training sailplanes used in World War II. In 1947 he competed in the National Soaring Contest at Wichita Falls, Texas, where he earned the Silver C. In 1949 he brought out his own sailplane from the east, which he flew in Prescott for several years until the fabric got too old to be airworthy.

In recent years Bob Sparling has been a tremendous help to all people who go to Prescott with the idea of attempting big flights. He is convinced that due to the rapid rise of terrain to the west and the prevailing west-southwesterly winds, that Prescott is as good a soaring site as any in America.

SHORTLY AFTER THE CLOSE OF World War II, local interest in glider training shifted from the Southwest Soaring Club to Paradise Airport, then located on Nineteenth Avenue, northwest of Sunnyslope. In early 1946 this field had been taken over by Bill Ralston and Earl Pylant. Mr. Ralston stayed there until 1950. For many years now he has been running Sky Harbor Airport, to which he brings great per-sonal charm and tremendous competence in aviation. At Paradise Airport, in late 1947, Bill Ralston opened the only GI-approved glider training school in the United States. Loy Clingman had been working at the Wickenburg Airport as a fixed-base operator. This was during the starvation period of general aviation, although a good bit of flight training was still going on under the GI Bill of Rights. Wickenburg was suffering from a chronic lack of students, and Mr. Clingman brought down one of his three gliders to Paradise Airport. He and Earl Pylant were both good mechanics. They worked out a public address system which was installed in this glider. It was powered by a gasoline-driven generator. They checked out Bill Ralston as a tow pilot, and, flying an old Piper Cub with an 85-horsepower Continental engine, he spent many hours towing this barking monstrosity over Phoenix. Bill Ralston went around selling advertising for this unique "medium" and, although he reports it was a business disaster, there was one political campaign during which they had good success. Often they were airborne for hours at a time, exhorting people to vote for their candidate who was keeping this oddly assorted team of aircraft flying.

Gliders, pilots and crews await their turn on the flight line.

The advertising glider is undoubtedly unique in the history of United States soaring. During the six-month period this aircraft was in operation, Loy Clingman brought down his other two gliders from Wickenburg and established them at Paradise Airport. In late 1947 the GI-approved glider flight school was established. Mr. Clingman was the original instructor, and he gave ratings to Bill Ralston and Earl Pylant. Later on, all three of them instructed in gliders. They had a total of eleven students, one of whom came all the way from New York to learn soaring. The glider training operation lasted something over a year and a half before it was closed down for lack of students.

During that period there were soaring flights which carried up to eight or ten thousand feet above the ground, but no cross-country flying was attempted.

THERE NOW COMES a break of several years in which nothing of great consequence took place. Here and there sailplanes were active, as they were for a time in Tucson and at Marana Air Field, but although soaring was done, no big flights were accomplished and no permanent club or training operation was established. This changed when Don Barnard emerged on the scene. In Soaring for Diamonds he is described with this paragraph: "In Arizona, several previous efforts to get soaring started had come and gone. The spark of interest was turned into a flame in 1955 when Don Barnard came over from California. He crystallized local interest, became one of the founders of the Arizona Soaring Association and its chief instructor. Weekends and some weekdays he was out at the airport deeply tanned, slender as Mahatma Gandhi, with the face and moustache of a British Air Force Officer, deep musical voice; he was everything in soaring; teacher, disciplinarian, humorist, errand runner, poet, and pilot."

The soaring roots of Don Barnard go deep. He has been active in the game on and off ever since 1928, when he built a Northrup Primary Glider. For those whose memories go back to the 1920's and early 1930's, the Primary was one of those little gliders with an open bridge-like truss for a fuselage; the tail feathers were secured at the back end, and a tiny open pilot seat was fastened on the front, forward of the wing. It had a single fabric-covered wing, braced top and bottom, fore and aft, with miles of piano wire flying wires, landing wires, guy wires. The pilot strapped himself onto the seat. Then his feet were placed on a rudder bar. The stick operated conventional ailerons and elevators. Every red-blooded American was going to fly, and the cheapest way to get started was to buy or build a Primary. They were sold as sporting goods in large department stores. All the popular mechanical magazines had sets of plans for them. If one became seriously interested, he took these initial plans and then wrote off to Northrup, Waco, or one of the other companies for a complete set of blueprints, which might cost $15. Results of this early enthusiasm were lethal and disastrous, and they gave American soaring a black eye from which it has only recently recovered.

In the hands of a knowledgeable pilot, the Primary Glider was not inordinately dangerous. Don Barnard flew his first bird from a hill in Portland, Oregon. He was launched by shock cord, a technique which closely resembles firing a stone from a modern rubber slingshot, and he glided roughly the distance of ten city blocks in flights that lasted up to sixty seconds. In 1930 he moved to Seattle, where he had a two-place Primary. Two years later, Don was back in Portland, and he built his second glider, which he designed himself. He estimates he must have made 1,000 flights in this aircraft, and he graduated from the shock-cord launch to automobile tow. Sometimes he gets as high as 500 feet. He had no instruments, but he has never forgotten when he flew through his first thermal: "I could feel and hear the change in the wind."

After World War II, Don started a flying school in Marysville, California, fifty miles south of Sacramento. He bought the prototype Bowlus Baby Albatross from its designer and builder and flew it more than 150 hours at this school. Things prospered, and he bought a two-place wartime sailplane, then got one of the only two Bowlus Super-Albatross sailplanes which were ever built in this country.

In APRIL OF 1955, Don Barnard became active in Phoenix. He bought an LK-10A the following month. Photographs were taken while the new club was operating at Thunderbird Field No. 2. These appeared in a Sunday supplement one rainy spring morning of 1955. Don's telephone rang and he went out to the field with his wife. Between them they took down fifty names of interested people. Many charter members of the Arizona Soaring Association were on that list.

Later they scraped out 7,000-foot runways for automobile towing and then, in the summer of 1955, Don bought a Piper Super Cub for airplane towing. From May until November they worked at Thunderbird Field No. 2. Then they moved to Cactus, where the earlier Southwest Soaring Club had been. During this period the Arizona Soaring Association was organized. The club lasted only through December at Cactus before being kicked out by objecting neighbors. They moved to Air Haven Airport, which used to be in the crook of road formed by West Indian School Road and Grand Avenue. After one month there, the operation was moved to Falcon Field, east of Mesa. The operation lasted there more than a year when it went to Rittenhouse, an auxiliary Air Force field southeast of Chandler; then, in the autumn of 1957, the operation moved to Turf Paradise, and after a period there of two or three years it moved again to Deer Valley, where the club now operates every Sunday except in the hotter part of the summer, when flying is done in Prescott.

DURING THE AUTUMN OF 1957, with the Arizona Soaring Association well started and on its feet and growing, Don Barnard had to sell his towplane and sailplane. The organization is still benefitting from the prodigious effort he put into it and from the early training that he gave so many pilots. He still keeps in touch with and hopes eventually to return to soaring.

"It's really a great feeling to go out there now and see wing after wing. Remember how it was in the old days, when we had four ships and had them all in the air at the same time? In those days that was a great thing, y'know."

He has reason to be proud. In addition to being father of the Arizona Soaring Association, he has seen students of his win the Barringer Trophy and go on to Diamond C rank. Through his years of training he ran the operation so well that no one has ever suffered a serious injury.

RUTH M. PETRY is the chief tow pilot of the Arizona Soaring Association. She has been in soaring since the summer of 1941, when Professor R. E. Franklin gave her no less than fifty automobile tows between 2:30 in the afternoon and sunset, during one of the days of a National Soaring Contest at Elmira, New York. In 1949 she competed in the National Contest at Elmira, and then in 1950 she took the Wurtsboro, New York, Club's Laister-Kaufman sailplane out to Grand Prairie, Texas, where she won the National Feminine Championship. That year she became a Silver C pilot.

During her early years out here, she did a good deal of crewing for various pilots. She crewed for me on my Diamond Distance flight from Prescott to Albuquerque and towed John Ryan aloft on his flight at Bishop, which carried to an altitude of 35,000 feet. In 1958 her sailplane was brought out from New York, and in 1959 she began her steady work as tow pilot for the Arizona Soaring Association.

CHARLES R. DOTY moved to Phoenix in September, 1958, and took a job with the General Electric Computer Equipment Department, where he works as a field service representative. He started soaring out here in mid-1959, and had his first ride with Don Barnard, then started taking instruction from Professor Jim Turnbow. In September of 1959 he soloed the club Schweizer trainer, and in the poor soaring month of November, 1959, he got his C badge soaring over a county dump near Turf Paradise. The dump was on fire and the heat from the fire gave him enough lift to keep the flight going.

The soaring contest crew chief has the least known and hardest working job in the sport. The crew chases after the competition pilot with a car and empty trailer, hoping to be close to the soaring pilot when he lands, which might be over 400 air miles from the takeoff site. Then he helps take the sailplane apart, loads it onto the trailer, and starts the endless drive home, while the pilot sleeps in the back of the car. A good crew can keep a pilot going. With a poor crew, there is no chance of victory or even high placement in a modern soaring contest. Charles Doty is Arizona's most distinguished crew chief. In 1961 he crewed for John Ryan at the Mid-winter Soaring Meet

The transport trailer is of special design combining compactness and quick access and securing facility.

At Torrey Pines, California, just north of La Jolla. That same year he bought a sailplane. In 1962 he crewed for John Ryan again at El Mirage, California, in the high desert north of San Bernardino. In February, 1963, he crewed once again for John Ryan when he was flying in the World Championships in Argentina. Charles became the treasurer of the Arizona Soaring Association in 1962, a director the next year, and the following year became state governor for the Soaring Society of America. In 1965 he qualified for the Silver C pin on the last weekend before he left for England, where he crewed for Dick Johnson in the World Championships.

JOHN D. RYAN of Scottsdale has the most remarkable career in Arizona soaring. He began here in the autumn of 1958 during the dead season, when it was not possible to soar, and all his training was in downhill glides. Despite this, he ordered a new Schweizer 1-23G, a medium high-performance, one-place sailplane. He also bought a station wagon, which was outfitted as a first-class retrieve car, and brought these out in February, 1959, by which time he was a solo student.

Just to list his soaring accomplishments after that time sounds like the ambitious dream of a young man who has never experienced the pitfalls or difficulties of a sport which depends upon the uncertainty of weather: March, 1959. First cross-country soaring flight. Turf Paradise Airport to Los Caballeros Ranch, just outside of Wickenburg. Silver C Distance and Altitude. April, 1959. Prescott, Arizona. Silver C Duration, five hours. Completed Silver C. May 16, 1959. Prescott. Third soaring flight across the Con tinental Divide. Almost into Albuquerque. Diamond Distance and Golden Altitude. Golden C Pin complete; one Diamond added. Summer, 1959. First National Soaring Contest at Elmira, New York. September, 1959. Diamond Goal Flight. Prescott, Arizona to Gallup, New Mexico. March, 1960. Diamond Altitude flight at Bishop, California. Alti tude of 35,000 feet above sea level; 24,000 feet gained. This com pleted requirements for a Diamond C. He was the sixteenth U. S. pilot and the 140th pilot in the world to gain Diamond rank. Spring, 1960. Crewed for Dick Schreder at the World Cham pionships in Germany. Summer, 1960. Competed in the National Soaring Contest at Odessa, Texas, finishing twelfth. Autumn, 1960. Elected director of the Soaring Society of America. 1961. He won the Barringer Trophy. His flight was 454 miles from Kingman, Arizona, to Santa Fe, New Mexico. He nearly won the National Soaring Contest at Wichita, Kansas. On the last day he went down four miles short of the goal, dropping from second to eighth place. 1962. U. S. National Soaring Champion. 1963. Re-elected director, Soaring Society of America. Competed in the World Soaring Contest at Junin, Argentina. 1964. Started Rainco, which stands for radio and instrument company, the first complete radio and instrument shop for sailplanes in the country. 1964. National Soaring Contest at McCook, Nebraska, where he turned in the fastest speed flights of the meet. January, 1965. Elected president of the Soaring Society of America. Flew the National Soaring Contest that year in Adrian, Michigan. 1966. Re-elected president of the Soaring Society of America. Came in fourth place in the National Soaring Contest held at Reno, Nevada, beating a former world champion. 1966. Won the Eaton Trophy, the highest U. S. soaring award. This was in recognition of his leadership as president of the Soaring Society of America; especially in honor of his consultation with the Air Space Usage Authority of the Federal Aviation Agency. The inscription on the plaque in his office reads: "For outstanding contribution to the art, sport, and science of soaring flight in the United States." John Ryan is a quiet man. Concerning the sport which is so much of his life, he said very simply: "The thing that interests me most about soaring is its unlimited challenge, its friendships, and its beauty."

On the first of January, 1957, command of the Sperry Phoenix Company was taken over by Robert Roe. Back in 1938 he had done some towing at famous Harris Hill in Elmira, and for years he had been a highly experienced instrument pilot. He began soaring in Phoenix in February, 1965. In September of that year he bought the old Laister-Kaufman owned by Bob Sparling in Prescott. By this time the LK's fabric was crisp and tattered. The ship had not flown in ten years and a storm had blown water in, under a roof, where for a time it stood on one of the wing spars. A long and complex rebuilding job lay ahead.

BOB ROE had the good fortune to be able to call upon the services of Dr. James W. Turnbow, engineering professor at Arizona State University, and for large parts of the work they used the shop and the assistance of S. Harry Robertson III, of Scottsdale. During the autumn of 1965 and the early part of 1966, the wings and fuselage of this aircraft were in the shop of Harry Robertson, where a great deal of surgery was performed on the wood, removing dry rot and weak spots. In mid-May, 1966, the wings of this LK were moved into the living room of the Roe house in Paradise Valley. A new era in Arizona soaring was then born.

The presence of those wings in the living room had a strange and unpredictable effect upon guests of the Roes and over the whole neighborhood. Cars were seen to drive by very slowly; then, after disappearing down the street, they would turn around and drive by the house again, even slower than before. The postman who always previously had been content to put his mail in the mailbox out on the road came up to the house one day and rang the bell. "I keep thinking that's an airplane in there. Is it?" he asked Chashie Roe.

One of the sheriff's cars was seen going by the house with steadily increasing frequency. Each time it went by it seemed to be moving slower than the time before. Finally the car nosed rather timidly into the driveway, where the deputy parked and turned his radio up to a volume that could be heard a mile away. The deputy walked up to the Roes' front door.

"I thought there was an airplane in there. Then I saw the "N" numbers on it, and I was almost sure, but I wanted to make real sure. Is that really what it is?"

WORK ON THE WINGS carried on through the hot summer months. The young Roes were always playing Tijuana Taxi. Bob Roe had planned on calling his new bird some elegant name like "Gull," or "Cirrus," a monicker that would signify the lonely grandeur and exhaltation of the sky. But, as the summer wore on, a vague apprehension grew. His beautiful sailplane had picked up the name of Tijuana Taxi.

People kept dropping in some to help; some to be astonished; some to admire; some to be appalled. Gallons and gallons of iced tea were served. The air-cooled atmosphere was a pleasant mixture of conversation, the unending strains of Tijuana Taxi, and the mixed smells of glue, airplane dope, iced tea, lacquer thinner, and sawdust. "This whole plan was really very practical," explained Bob Roe in the calm didactic tones of an engineer. "We had very good temperature and humidity control. We really had a tremendous gluing job on our hands, and had thirty-six clamps going all the time. We glued early in the morning before I went to work, and by suppertime thoseglue joints would be dry so we could take off the clamps. Then we would glue again after supper and put the clamps back on, and these joints would be finished by morning. Thirty-six clamps going all the time and two gluing sessions every day! It wouldn't have been at all possible to do this without the good humidity control which was provided by the air-conditioning system."

"The air-conditioning system also did a great job wafting the scent of lacquer thinner all through the house," commented Chashie.

"Oh yes, I had some foul-smelling lacquer thinner which I used just because we had it," said Bob Roe. "Once real late at night I started to use it and Chashie came staggering out of the bedroom. She was pretty mad."

"Stop that smell," she demanded.

"Oh, I thought you were asleep," said Bob Roe.

Later on that night Bob Roe, Jr. came out of his bedroom, a little red-eyed and gray.

The barograph is a recording barometer, calibrated in altitude. Flight and personnel data is scribed and the instrument is sealed before flight.

IN OTHER WORDS A BASIC GLOSSARY

GLIDER-An aircraft made for either gliding or soaring. A term sometimes used interchangeably with sailplane; however, the troop carrying gliders of World War II were certainly not built for soaring.

SAILPLANE-An aircraft specifically designed and built for soaring.

GLIDE-To fly forward through the air while losing altitude; the aeronautical equivalent of sledding.

SOAR To fly a heavier-than-air craft without engine power, flight being sustained by upcurrents in the air. To gain altitude in a sailplane.

STABLE AIR-Air without any vertical motion.

DEAD AIR-Air without vertical motion.

AIRSPEED-Speed of an aircraft through the air. In a level flight, no-wind condition, airspeed and groundspeed (speed over the ground) are the same. Flying straight upwind, airspeed minus windspeed equals groundspeed; straight downwind, airspeed plus windspeed equals groundspeed.

FLYING SPEED-Minimum airspeed necessary for the wings to support flight.

G FORCE-Gravity force. A man standing on the ground is exposed to 1 G, one gravity force. If he weighs 200 pounds and gets on a scale, it will indicate 200 pounds. In an aircraft making a turn or pulling out of a dive, his effective weight is increased by centrifugal force. If the effective weight is 600 pounds, the man is being exposed to 3 G's, three times the force of gravity. If it goes up to 1000 pounds, he is exposed to 5 G's. In sitting position a few seconds of this drains blood from the brain and causes blackout, which if continued will cause unconsciousness an inconvenient thing when flying alone.

Many modern sailplanes are "stressed" or built to stand more than 10 G's before they break up. This is far stronger than most power planes or airliners.

LIFT-Upward motion of the air..

SINK-Downward motion of the air.

THERMAL SOAR-To soar, usually by circling, in rising bubbles or masses of heated air. Thermal soaring requires atmospheric instability but is independent of wind and terrain. Most present day soaring is done in thermals.

RIDGE SOAR-To maintain flight by using the upcurrent on the windward side of a ridge, cliff or mountain. Most early soaring was done this way; hence the inevitable question: "Does it take much wind to keep them things up in the air?" When wind stops the upcurrent stops and the sailplanes come down.

WAVE SOAR-To soar upwind, gaining altitude in the rising side of an atmospheric wave or mountain wave. The world altitude record was made this way at Mojave, California. The sailplane got over 46,000 feet high.

ZERO SINK-Upward motion in the air which exactly equals the minimum sinking rate of a sailplane. When flying at zero sink there is neither gain or loss of altitude.

"Dad, will you please stop that drill. I've got to get some sleep."

The work went on happily. "We finished the wings and moved them out of here into the shop of Harry Robertson in mid-August of 1966," Mr. Roe said.

"In September the fuselage was moved into the living room," said Mrs. Roe.

"Yes, I had it here for a little while, but then in late September, we took the fuselage over to Harry's place, where it was sprayed along with the wings," Mr. Roe said.

"It came back into the living room in early December," said Mrs. Roe.

"Yes, we had it back in here for some final work. It was just here a little while," admitted Bob Roe. "It stayed through Christmas."

At the ready stage the line-slack is tightened behind the towplane. Towplanes are equipped with special "climb-pitch" propeller for a sharp angle of lift at a slow steady speed NOW AND THEN this world produces a man with broad streaks of greatness. Such a man is Doc Turnbow, quiet Texas gentleman, brilliant engineering professor, a gifted technician whose services have been extensively used by the Aviation Crash Injury Research Institute of the Flight Safety Foundation. He is one of the leading aircraft woodworkers in the United States. The Doc is a perfectionist, and the longer he worked on the LK wings the more faults he uncovered. The work schedule got behind; then the schedule got lost; finally it was abandoned. Month after month of steady labor went on. Time after time the Doc would look at some woodwork which Bob Roe had spent many careful hours doing; then he would take out one of his razor-sharp chisels and start removing the work, after shaking his head with quiet sadness and remarking, "This isn't quite good enough, Bob. Won't do."

One evening Doc Turnbow and Bob Roe were working on the wings in the living room that earthly paradise of wing ribs, clamps, glue, fabric, airplane dope, sawdust, lacquer thinner, and iced tea a perfection made all the more perfect by the thundering strains of Tijuana Taxi. Suddenly the Doc was transfixed by something he saw, and Bob Roe stopped work with dread in his heart. Doc Turnbow had seen a small cracked block on the wing. There was a pause while he said nothing and Bob Roe waited.

"Y'see this block here?" a long pause, tapping with a chisel. "Well if it was mine I think I'd cut that block out," quietly drawled Doc Turnbow.

"Oh, but Doc, let's leave that one it doesn't carry any load," protested Bob Roe.

"Well... we could make two blocks," said Doc Turnbow. "We need one on the other side anyway Believe if it was mine I'd cut that block out."

"No, let's leave this one. We can get twice as much done this evening," Bob Roe said with decisive firmness.

Twenty minutes later Bob Roe was in the kitchen filling up the pitcher of iced tea for the third time. With cautious forbearance he asked one of the girls if it would be all right if she turned the volume down on Tijuana Taxi. He explained that he could no longer concentrate. This was done and just at that moment he heard a loud snapping out in the living room that sounded as if it might come from a wood chisel being energetically driven by a mallet. He rushed out into the living room: "Hey! What's going on here?"

Doc Turnbow looked up a little sheepishly and said, "Well... I just chopped out that block so we wouldn't be tempted again to leave it in."

At last the work was done. Bob Roe had one triumphant comment about his experience: "A new precedent has been set. No longer is it necessary for a man to freeze in the winter and boil all summer, working on his sailplane out in the garage."

Thus Bob Roe became the first Arizona man to get famous in soaring before really getting airborne. He had a sailplane in his living room for seven months, and he is still married.

One morning in mid-December the Roe telephone rang and Chashie answered. A furious feminine voice was on the line. The voice belonged to Nancy Hume.

"You're at the top of my list now. With me your name is mud."

"Oh? What did I do?" asked Chashie Roe, a little surprised and hurt.

The voice at the other end of the line quickly explained, "Now Al wants to bring his 1-26 into my living room. He says it's too cold to work out in the carport."

At take-off the glider leaves the ground before the towplane, but at only a minimum degree higher, so that it will not lift the plane's tail. During tow there is a prescribed "rule of the road" relation maintained until release

The Flight Line

NORTH SIDE OF THE RUNWAY at Deer Valley Airport, Nineteenth Avenue, half a mile north of Sperry Phoenix Company: Two LK sailplanes are on the ground with one wing tip touching earth; the one of Charles Doty, blue and white; and the one Bob Moore has just bought from Doc Turnbow, colored chartreuse with red trim. The stubby Schweizer 2-22 trainer is there waiting for a student. Al Hume's 1-26 single-place, temporarily out of the living room, is on the ground beside a little Cherokee sailplane belonging to Van Grunsven. Bob Roe's newly rebuilt and refinished LK is working on automobile tow. The automobile tests are presently finished. Now it goes off on aero tow. Bob Roe flies the towplane and Doc Turnbow is in the glider. Half a dozen sailplane trailers are lined up haphazardly around the flight line three open ones and three enclosed box trailers. Wives are sitting in a circular group on canvas chairs and cushions, talking and laughing. The day is stable: there is no vertical motion in the air, so there will be no soaring. This is emphasized by a light smog which covers the valley. Sound of voices from the spectators is frequently drowned out by the accelerating roar of aircraft taking off; the quiet whistle of a landing Beechcraft Bonanza just before the squeech of tires hitting the runway. Across the field at the hangars there is the propeller chatter of idling aircraft. Overhead one hears the knocking purr of our Champion towplane. The shining LK is on tow, a flight test the towline visible from 1,000 feet below. Now comes a whirring swish from a landing Tri-Pacer.

SISU, an advanced design sailplane, owned by Harry and Jerry Robertson of Phoenix. Only 24 planes of this model were built, one of which holds world distance record There is slanting sunlight of afternoon, and many parked aircraft in the transient area. This is a lazy day an afternoon for a long nap or power flying. To the north-northwest are the Bradshaw Mountains with a few good cumulus clouds over them. To the east one sees the upper end of the McDowell Mountains. South-southwest there is the faint skyline of the Sierra Estrellas; only the skyline is visible the lower part of the range is highlighted by smog to the same color as the lower sky. Southeast by south on the horizon one can see Squaw Peak and Camelback Mountain. Two thousand feet above the field the LK sailplane releases, the towplane comes in, flies low over the takeoff area, drops the towrope, and then sideslips over to land on the runway. A new flight is made ready on the line. The pilots climb in and put on shoulder harness and seat belts. The towline is connected to the sailplane; the release mechanism is checked; O. K.; the towline is re-connected, then hooked up to the towplane and a new flight is off, the sail pilot navigating through a cloud of dust raised by the towplane. One of the pilots is going to take up his girl friend. He has forgotten to tell her to wear jeans, and is now undergoing the astonishing but scenic perplexity of getting a parachute on a lady wearing a skirt. A quiet, exciting whisper of wings Bob Roe's magnificent LK sailplane is landing; the spoilers are pulled erect from the top of wings. High up in the sky there is the sound of a passing jet. The breeze is warm and for the first time in January there is a harbinger of spring and great soaring days to come. Bob Roe comes over after Doc Turnbow has stopped rolling in the newly tested bird. You can tell from his look he is happy, with a happiness that goes clear to the bone; the reward for a year of very hard work. "Well, Joe, she flies!" The sky beckons.

continued on page 28 Almost 40 percent of licensed sailplanes are homemade and are marked EXPERIMENTAL (below) until certified by government inspection