PG Site Record at Tollhouse

By Tom Moock - April 21, 2002 (36 miles - Tollhouse to Eastman Lake)

Tom Moock - Flying South over Millerton Lake

There was much discussion among our group whether to join everyone at Spud Heaven, or go back for yet another attempt at Tollhouse.  Burk, Cheryl, Ryan, Eric, Steve, Kim and Mike, Pam and Tin arrived at Tollhouse around 10:00.  The air was crisp and small cummies were already sprouting. It looked like the day was going to take off early, so we headed up the hill soon thereafter.  On launch, at noon, cycles were already strong, so we readied ourselves right away.  I wasn't the first off the hill but I didn't want to wait either, and after one abort I was in the air.

In previous trips to Tollhouse, due to stable conditions or to over development, we never got much higher than 5000 feet (1000 over launch), and even that took work.  But Saturday was different.  In little time I passed the 6000 foot mark and was headed for 8000. Eric and Cheryl were up there too, and a large cloud formed above and behind launch.  I took my altitude out front and trolled for lift over the valley, getting into position for a big move.  To my right was Eric, who apparently had the same idea, and still behind launch and quite high was Cheryl.  When I got to over 8000 again the moment had come.  Eric and I discussed our options and we decided to head south, the direction the local hangies fly when they go large.  Cheryl was still behind launch.

Eric and I passed out of the valley and onto the next set of hills southwest of Tollhouse.  He found a big thermal feeding a cloud and climbed; I was lower and behind.  I found a weak thermal but kept going further, trying to steal whatever it was that Eric had.  It was frustrating.  I spent a long time working smallish, slammy lift while Eric blinked into the heavens.  But there was something we agreed on, and that was the drift of the thermals; we were flying into a headwind.

Eric turned around and headed back, not for Tollhouse -- we were already west of the valley -- but north toward Black Mountain.  I continued working the rubble but eventually turned and ran north as well.  Waiting for Eric was Cheryl, who had taken her altitude from launch directly to Black. I was busy scratching my way up so I can't say what happened next, but by the time I approached the peak Eric was just below and to the west of me, while Cheryl had climbed to cloud base and was speeding north toward Prather. Eric tried, but failed, to find my thermal and landed near Tollhouse Road. My thermal firmed up nicely and I topped out just under the cloud at 8500 feet.  By then there was extensive cloud development toward the east, where the Sierras rise toward Shaver Lake, but to the north toward Prather and Table Mountain it was blue with just an occasional puff of cloud. At my altitude everything looked possible, so as I left to chase Cheryl, I radioed that my real goal was Table Mountain Casino, further west than Cheryl's route.  When I snapped a few pictures above Black I had been in the air for an hour and a half.

I got my next thermal just west of Prather, and by the time I went on glide again, I drifted back over the town.  This became a continual theme throughout the flight.  There was now a northwest wind, so each thermal pushed me backward, and between the thermals lay strong sink.  It became routine to leave lift and fly through several minutes of 900-1100 fpm down. In spite of the big lift and high altitudes, progress was slow. Meanwhile Cheryl passed Prather, then went further north over Auberry.  She flew deep into the forested and granite-faced mountains and soon came to a stop at a steep gorge on the San Joaquin River.  Too low to pass, she turned back toward Auberry and landed.

My next goal was Table Mountain, a south-facing rim that follows the road west toward the Central Valley.  The collection of buildings I thought was the casino was nothing more than a bunch of buildings.  The real casino, I realized, was around and behind Table Mountain.  I arrived at the rim, barely above the terrain, and began climbing again. As the casino popped into view, and then became small, and as Millerton lake blew up into full panorama, the next big decision presented itself.  The ballsy move would be to cross the lake rather than go around, and I considered it as I climbed. I was near a pinch point in the lake, and just to make sure there were no problems I circled all the way to cloud base at 9000 feet.

On the ground, Burk had collected Eric and Cheryl in his van, and all were headed toward the casino.  I called back my intention to cross, and reported a road on the north side of the lake.  I was two and a half hours into the flight.  During the crossing I lost almost 3000 feet before the midpoint. The second half was not as bad, and by the time I neared the opposite shore a thermal was waiting.  From there I went north, following the base of the foothills as they rise from the central valley.  At my altitude the difference was subtle, however.  If the valley weren't so completely flat I wouldn't have noticed the little hills at all.

I saw a large highway further north (41, on its way to Yosemite), and that became my next radioed goal.  Just after I skipped over I saw another lake (Hensley) ahead, and again set my sights.  But soon my luck ran out, and half way between 41 and Hensley I started getting low.  I radioed to Eric and friends the directions to a valley subdivision with lots of landing options, and watched the ground come up around me.  When I had narrowed the choices and still had 800 feet for an approach, a weak thermal appeared and I started my turns again.  Within a few minutes my intrepid and underpaid retrieve crew saw me high and realized that, no, I wouldn't be stopping here.  I kept at it long enough to eek out a 6000 foot climb and I was back in business!

From there I had Hensley within a glide, but still I stopped for every piece of weak lift. Each time I climbed I drifted backward, and each time I headed forward again an even stronger thermal was waiting.  It was a typical pattern:  go upwind and the first thermal you hit is the weakest, because it drifts the most.  As you press forward, you find the stronger thermal, because it is drifted less.  It wasn't until I had spent a half-hour in front of the dam at Hensley that I remembered Chris Santacroce's advice:  get high and go, and don't turn in anything that isn't big.

Beyond Hensley my route northwest looked grim.  At first view I didn't see any roads between myself and the next goal, Eastman Lake.  I could see Burk's van below at an intersection, and I studied the landscape as I climbed, but finally I found it:  a road route to Eastman.  I radioed
the directions and set out again.  Their access road was far to the west of me, so as I went on I faded left so that I could make the road if I got low. It wasn't necessary.  I plowed through the weak stuff, found a thermal midway that handed me Eastman, and I was on my way.

As I approached the lake I looked beyond, and not only were there no roads that followed the foothills, the road from the valley to Eastman seemed to stop at the boat ramp.  I had been in the air for five hours, without drinking or peeing.  I was tired and headachy and losing my
motivation.  The sun was low, and as I dropped down toward the lake the ground looked better than it had all day.  I told Cheryl, Eric and Burk about a nice spot I picked out for landing, and as I came down they were already parked and waiting outside the car.

Now, before I describe my landing, I should say that I sprained my ankle on Friday playing ultimate Frisbee.  It was a wonder I was even flying, and any doctor worth his prescription license would have advised me to spend the weekend lying at home consuming heavy narcotics.  So I say with little guilt that as the ground came up I put my best foot forward (my butt) and skidded to a stop.  Around us were several cars and a few people, none of whom showed the slightest interest in what had just happened.  While we were packing a Sheriff's car came along, slowly, but barely looked at us and cruised by without saying a word.  It was as if people drop from the air around there every day.  I had just flew in from 36 miles away, and boy were my arms tired.

Map of Flight

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