Louise and I and the Valkyrie – all headed west near the end of a long hop, flying into the setting sun with half an hour to go before reaching Big Bear Lake in Southern California. We had left Louise’s office at Texas A&M about 1130 Central time, refueled on the west side of El Paso about 1400 mountain Time, and now we were looking at the lower limb of the solar orb just touching the horizon as we crossed over Blythe, the shadows of the rugged, rocky terrain laying flat and long across the desert. The moon, two or three days from full, was providing fill light; silvery and dull in contrast to the orange glow streaming from the west, and the gypsum sands provided an extraterrestrial quality to the scene.
The sky had been cloudless most of the day, but a low pressure area spinning slowly down from the north and west showed itself with high clouds whose edge was still north of the Antelope Valley as best we could tell. Out to sea, beyond the LA basin, the same system was sweeping around, flanking the Southern California area, eventually to provide the first snow Louise and I would see this season on the following day. Cruising comfortably at 10.5K, the cockpit now becoming cool as the solar heat disappeared, I watched the distance clocking down to my first post-sunset mountain landing, comfortable in the equipment I had on board – as well as the knowledge that I could easily retreat to flat lands to the east if there was anything that I didn’t like. Synthetic Vision, multiple moving maps, terrain warning – I had no problem sliding down in to the Big Bear valley.
My mind filled with descent rehearsal, approach procedures, and mental math, I was almost surprised when Louise exclaimed “look at that Sunset!!” I looked up and was amazed. Spread out before us, and slightly to the left, we could see past Palm Springs, through Banning Pass, and out over Los Angeles. The high clouds were turning the sun’s fading light a bright glowing red, and reflecting off the haze and clouds within the basin to provide the illusion of a molten red layer, like lava flooding across a plain. As the miles ticked down, the view got even better, the sky fading to deep blues, indigo, and in to the black, but the molten lava remained; glowing the deep dark red of a dying ember. The eastern slopes of the San Bernadinos were black as pitch, the lights of Yucca Valley to the east the only things giving perspective as we approached the mountains now silhouetted by the last of the sun’s rays. The moonlight, so apparent in the desert, could gain no purchase in the forest, and it appeared that we were flying into a deep black hole in the sky. The instruments all agreed that we were safely on our protected path, and indeed, the lights of Big Bear City came in to view just as expected, but this didn’t diminish the otherworldly nature of the beautiful western sky.
It was one of those nights where you wanted to applaud the show, to stay in the air as one would stay in an emptying theatre to feel the afterglow of a great performance. As the power came off to capture the artificial glide slope, it was if someone else’s hand was pulling on the throttle, for despite the long day of flying, I was hardly ready for it to end. We’d crossed half the country to see this magnificent display, and it deserved a quiet moment of contemplation before returning to the world of man with a chirp of tires and the smell of cold mountain air. Once again I am thankful for the magic that is an RV – and doubly thankful for the full bubble canopy of the RV-8….
Paul
The sky had been cloudless most of the day, but a low pressure area spinning slowly down from the north and west showed itself with high clouds whose edge was still north of the Antelope Valley as best we could tell. Out to sea, beyond the LA basin, the same system was sweeping around, flanking the Southern California area, eventually to provide the first snow Louise and I would see this season on the following day. Cruising comfortably at 10.5K, the cockpit now becoming cool as the solar heat disappeared, I watched the distance clocking down to my first post-sunset mountain landing, comfortable in the equipment I had on board – as well as the knowledge that I could easily retreat to flat lands to the east if there was anything that I didn’t like. Synthetic Vision, multiple moving maps, terrain warning – I had no problem sliding down in to the Big Bear valley.
My mind filled with descent rehearsal, approach procedures, and mental math, I was almost surprised when Louise exclaimed “look at that Sunset!!” I looked up and was amazed. Spread out before us, and slightly to the left, we could see past Palm Springs, through Banning Pass, and out over Los Angeles. The high clouds were turning the sun’s fading light a bright glowing red, and reflecting off the haze and clouds within the basin to provide the illusion of a molten red layer, like lava flooding across a plain. As the miles ticked down, the view got even better, the sky fading to deep blues, indigo, and in to the black, but the molten lava remained; glowing the deep dark red of a dying ember. The eastern slopes of the San Bernadinos were black as pitch, the lights of Yucca Valley to the east the only things giving perspective as we approached the mountains now silhouetted by the last of the sun’s rays. The moonlight, so apparent in the desert, could gain no purchase in the forest, and it appeared that we were flying into a deep black hole in the sky. The instruments all agreed that we were safely on our protected path, and indeed, the lights of Big Bear City came in to view just as expected, but this didn’t diminish the otherworldly nature of the beautiful western sky.
It was one of those nights where you wanted to applaud the show, to stay in the air as one would stay in an emptying theatre to feel the afterglow of a great performance. As the power came off to capture the artificial glide slope, it was if someone else’s hand was pulling on the throttle, for despite the long day of flying, I was hardly ready for it to end. We’d crossed half the country to see this magnificent display, and it deserved a quiet moment of contemplation before returning to the world of man with a chirp of tires and the smell of cold mountain air. Once again I am thankful for the magic that is an RV – and doubly thankful for the full bubble canopy of the RV-8….
Paul
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