Every year at this time I think about that hang gliding trip that I went on to Utah with Roger (Black Weasel), Dan (Dangerous Dan), Robbie (Mr. Natural) and his dog Kona (Frisbee Scumbag). My moniker was Jon Boy. That trip was full of brotherhood, adventure, chills and thrills. September spurs us to get in touch to reminisce and this year we ask ourselves, “Could it really have been 41 years ago today”?
So many stories and new acquaintances came out of our time together and many of the pilots we met told us of amazing flights that were being had at Big Southern Butte in the Idaho desert. We had read stories about the place and knew that there had been some fatalities there but we always rationalized that pilots who died had done something stupid that we would avoid. Since Big Southern Butte wasn’t too far out of our way we decided to stop there and fly.
Driving north beyond Pocatello we turned onto a secondary highway. It was dark and after a while we turned off onto a dirt road and followed it, dodging jack rabbits and potholes. I would guess that it took about an hour on that dirt before we came to Frenchman’s Cabin where we would crash for the night. All we could really see in the headlights was a ragged log cabin, and an even raggedier shelter for livestock, a couple of piles of junk and log fence. It had to be the place and we were beat so we grabbed our sleeping bags and started for the door.
We weren’t sure what awaited us inside but were pretty sure it might be snakes so, respecting the concerns of the community, Black Weasel kicked the door open and screamed “No snakes!” That apparently did the job as in no time we had our sleeping bags rolled out on the snake-free dusty floor of the empty cabin. The Windows were covered with torn, sagging screen and deteriorating plastic curtains that fluttered in the sage-scented desert wind that blew through the night. Thai Stick was twisted, whiskey was opened and passed around. Black Weasel cranked up his boombox and it sounded amazing laying there on the floor. I can recall it blasting Jethro Tull and Dixie Dregs. Being a lightweight I didn’t last too long but made it through “Living in the Past” only to slip away during “Night of the Living Dregs”. Mr. Natural and Black Weasel raged on into the night.
Frenchman's Cabin
I awoke at first light to find Dangerous Dan already up and about. He was looking at the walls and studying the pencil scribblings that covered them.
“Jon Boy, come look at this” he said.
He pointed out a detailed drawing of a glider and an account of an epic flight signed by “Larry Tudor”. If you flew at that time you recognized that Larry was to hang gliding what Eric Clapton was to the guitar. The walls of the cabin were a veritable Who’s Who of hang gliding super stars. Everyone who was anyone in the sport had been in that cabin. An uncomfortable number of those pilots had died at the Butte and their friends had acknowledged their passing through eulogies and warnings of objective and subjective dangers. It was clear that high winds and being blown back into the rotor of the Butte were things to be avoided.
A bit shaken, we rousted Mr. Natural and Black Weasel from their slumber so that we could get to the top and launch before the desert warmed up and the wind started blowing too hard. Black Weasel needed time to clear his head and Mr. Natural never flew before his breakfast of Granola with Blueberries. Neither were ready to receive the messages in the writings of the Oracles that expressed confidence, glory, fear, ecstasy, depression, joy and sorrow but after some study The Weasel spoke in that esoteric and eloquent way of his and said:
“This has the feel of an old church that has baptized many babies and said goodbye to many souls. It has the faint scent of the bride’s bouquet being thrown to the future”.
Black Weasel
Dangerous Dan and I looked at each other while trying to figure out if The Weasel was super deep or if he had finally lost it. He always seemed to walk that edge, you know. Dan turned to him and said:
“Wait. What? What are you saying? Are you saying that if we fly we are going to die or that we are the Frenchman’s little bitches? Tell you what. You can fly and I’ll drive the car down”.
Dangerous Dan Challenging Laws of Aerodynamics
It was 9:00 AM when the question of vehicle retrieval was out of the way and we arrived on top. Exiting the Bronco we were greeted with a south wind blowing in at 15 MPH. Totally soarable but we had to carry our gear up a little trail to the face where we would launch and when we got there, we were greeted by a very official warning sign.
Mr. Natural and I mugged for the camera but I had spent the morning reading accident reports and obituaries written on the walls of Frenchman’s Cabin so I was taking it seriously. The view was spectacular, though, and the desert sparkled from what I assumed was low angle sunlight reflecting off of bits of Obsidian. It was surreal.
Launch was easy and a climb to 1400’ over was fast and clean. The ridge lift was silky smooth and we could just drive around at will. After about 30 minutes, though, the first thermals of the day started mixing with the ridge lift and introducing some turbulence. About the same time the wind began to increase and it became harder to stay out in front of the Butte. After an hour in the air I could no longer penetrate. I could crab slowly back and forth but I couldn’t move forward. I watched Black Weasel crab to the end of the ridge and finally be blown over the edge to scream downwind toward Frenchman’s Cabin. He had had enough. One minute he was there and then next minute he had disappeared. I hung on as long as I could but when I found myself drifting behind the top of the Butte I started thinking about the dire warnings and obituaries. In particular I was thinking about someone called “Newlie” and someone else called Jer-Bird Randall who had perished in the hungry rotor of the Butte. I hoped that Black Weasel was OK and decided that it was time to run.
The 3 miles downwind to Frenchman’s Cabin went really fast. I still had at least 3500’ of altitude when I arrived and turned into the wind on what would be my final approach of the airstrip. I could see Black Weasel’s glider still assembled in the lee of a structure. I was pleased to see that he had made it safely to the ground but I couldn’t fly forward and throwing a 360 to lose altitude would take me downwind and out of reach. From 3500’ I could have probably made it 18 miles to Arco. Instead, I stuffed the bar and tried to stay pointed into the wind.
My Oly 160
I was flying an Oly 160 which looked like it ought to be fast but wasn’t. It had a tendency to “wing-walk”, or yaw back and forth, when flown as fast as it could go so my survival strategy was pulling myself forward past the control bar in order to fly even faster by gripping the front control wires and maybe move forward. It wasn’t working, though, and I was on the verge of losing control. Normally I would have used a standard aircraft approach with three 90 degree turns and four straight legs starting at the upwind end of my intended LZ and culminating with an upwind final approach. At 3500’, though, it was made clear to me that I couldn’t afford to turn at all if I wanted to land anywhere in the vicinity of Frenchman’s Cabin. I was losing altitude in the area where I hoped to land, so that was a bonus, but I wasn’t able to make any forward progress. Finally, I was within earshot of Black Weasel and still unable to penetrate. In fact I was moving slowly backwards and he shouted up to me to just continue to dive at the ground and that he would catch me.
“What? Catch me? WTF is he talking about, catch me?”
No other options seemed viable so I did it. I was flying as fast as I could and was still moving backwards at a walking pace so as I approached the ground going backwards I rounded out just a hair and Roger, walking at my pace, grabbed my flying wires and pulled me safely down to the ground. We carried my glider over behind the structure and tied the nose to the outer wall.
I’m not ashamed to say that my knees had been shaking since I had left the Butte and that I was very grateful for Roger’s help. I asked him how he had managed and he said that he had just backed in and flew it into the ground as any sort of a flare would have been disastrous.
Soon, Robbie appeared overhead so Roger and I ran out to shout directions and help him land. In typical Mr. Natural fashion He flew in and landed like it was no big deal. He didn’t mind help carrying his glider but he hadn’t paid attention to our yelling. He always was the best of us. Just another day in the air for Robbie.
Once Dan returned from the top and our gliders were broken down and bagged we went into the cabin to add our names to the “Wall of Legends”. It seemed such a cool idea to have our names be part of the same story as told by and about Lloyd Short, Rich Finley, Dave Muehl, Trip Mellinger, Joe Greblo, Larry Tudor, Ed Cesar, Roy Haggard and many others. I don’t recall what Roger, Robbie or Dan wrote but, when the pencil was handed to me, I realized that I couldn’t tell a story of confidence, glory, ecstasy or joy. I didn’t want to tell the tale about my knees shaking in fear. If I told the truth I wouldn’t want my name on it.
Dan had been right and since I didn’t die there was only one other possibility. If I told the truth all I could write on the wall would be:
“I’m Jon Dawkins and I am The Frenchman’s little bitch”.
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