I've had two especially memorable experiences with lightning over the
years - one of them in a glider, and the other one on a motor bike. If
I may I'll relate them both, for there is a common theme and any lessons
may be reinforced in so doing. In each instance I was taken completely
by surprise at the speed with which events developed and in effect
"caught me out". It's a situation which others have also mentioned in
this thread.
The gliding event occurred back in the last days of January 1968 when
after a launch from Whitwarta, I set off on a vulgar, self indulgent
downwind dash to the east in our ES Ka6 VK-GNQ. The intention was to at
least try to reach Lake Cululleraine (300 km), or if things were still
good, to continue on and see if I could cover 500 km or more. There was
a very strong north westerly wind, and I made good time to just east of
Eudunda where I worked a thermal to around 7,000 feet and set off in the
general direction of Waikerie where the first enticing Cu's were
building quickly. In the next 15 minutes things went out of control;
the sky ahead of me simply exploded, and rain started to fall ahead as
the Cu's billowed with unbelievable speed. I speculated about deviating
to the north around Morgan where huge clouds of dust where being whipped
up by local gusts. However I elected to continue on through an enticing
5 mile gap in the showers, but somewhere over the River Murray, serious
lightening bolts started to appear from the rain shower areas. They
were extending from above my level to the ground below - one of them was
far too close for comfort. This grim observation was accompanied by
the appearance most horrendous sink I have ever experienced, the
primitive non sensitive rate of climb indicator on the panel indicating
over 2,500 f.p.m. down.
There was no real escape from this. To turn back was to confront the
possibilities of landing in difficult mallee country back towards Mount
Mary. I continued on towards the cropping areas west of Waikerie hoping
that things would improve and that the lift which must be somewhere to
balance the bad news on the varios would be encountered. It wasn't and
I soon found myself setting up for a circuit into a convenient paddock
with house close by adjacent to the road from Murbko to Waikerie. The
landing was uneventful, and I was surprised to discover that there was
only a moderate wind on the ground, which gave me enough time to safely
tie down my stranded bird trying not to think about the excess of
electricity all about me. I made a dash for the safety of the house.
However the gap in the rain now to the north and south did close in
and soon there was rain - lots of it and plenty of lightning and
thunder, along with with some quite dramatic switches in wind
direction. At that time we only carried enough tie down gear to pin
one (into wind) wing to the ground, and so I felt obliged to make
several trips away from the relative safety of the farmhouse to change
wings and make sure that the poor old '6 didn't come to any harm. I
estimate that some 2" (50 mm) of rain fell in that period, and indeed we
elected to leave the retrieve car and trailer on the road when it
arrived and pass the derigged aircraft bits over the fence. I later
found out that on the other side of this cell Waikerie gliders reached
heights well in excess of 10,000 feet.
The second event occurred in the late spring of 1973 in the Artimore
Station area of the Flinders ranges in isolated country north east of
Blinman. I had set myself up for a few days of serious photography and
motor cycle exploration in this area using the car and trailer to take
the bike as far as I could, and then loading the photo gear on the back
of the bike and exploring further. It was a beautiful morning, the
lighting was good, it was only about 11:00 am and I was busy try to
capture the beauty of nearby Mt. Patawarta. With three different
cameras to keep me busy, I became preoccupied with the task in hand, and
the appearance of the first generous Cu's in the sky added to the
excitement and photographic possibilities. Out came the green and red
filters for the monochrome film and the polarizing filters for the
colour shots. Once again in a matter of only 15 minutes the sky went
from interesting to explosive. I had decided to travel to an area
closer to the base of Patawarta when I noticed that rain had started to
fall only a few miles to the west. Since there was no real shelter
amongst the old stone ruins at Artimore I decided to head away from the
rain, back to the car and trailer about 8 miles away along the extremely
rough bush track I had used on the way in. This proved to be the
wrong decision!
I didn't get all that far before the rain reached me; it was heavy with
huge drops, and the gloomy surrounds began to be lit by increasingly
frequent lightening flashes. I could hear the thunder over the revs of
the bike and each new gutter and creek I crossed had more and more water
gushing down it. One flash was very, very close with the explosive
thunder clap in almost the same instant - most unhealthy! I think I
probably stretched the throttle cable on the Yamaha during this episode.
It probably took about 20 minutes to get back to the car, and I was
saturated, frightened and angry. It would have been better to weather
this lot out back at Artimore rather than risk what I did. I could have
fallen, broken a leg and lain there for days! I was also annoyed that
with all my weather experience as a farmer and glider pilot I didn't see
this coming. I also got moisture into one of my cameras from which it
never really recovered. Interestingly the balance of the week
produced similar over-development and thunderstorms, but only in the
very late afternoon and evening. I did eventually get some very good
photos, including some back in the same area just two days later. (It
was to be another twenty eight years before I ventured back to
completely slay the dragon and climb Patawarta itself).
There are many lessons here in each of these episodes, but the main one
is obvious - Always keep an eye on what is happening around you These
days we probably have much more weather prediction data to tell us when
a given day might turn ugly very quickly. There was none of that in
earlier days, and I have to say that in each of these instances there
really was very little indication that things would work out as they
did, and as quickly as they did. In looking back over the photos
taken in the Artimore episode, there is absolutely no hint that things
would turn to porridge in the next 30 minutes or so.
The other common thread in each example, is that they occurred in an
area where I wasn't familiar with the local weather. I imagine that
those who fly regularly in the mountains would probably be more astute
in these matters than others amongst us who live and fly only over
relatively flat earth.
Finally a reflection on the very valid question which Emilis poses .....
In Country Fire Service training these days we stress over and over
again the concept of 'Situational Awareness'. There us a similar
implied priority in our gliding training and operations without perhaps
isolating or identifying it as such. However I doubt that the concept
of such rapid weather changes as this can ever be really demonstrated,
learned, or confidently predicted. Such a situation is - for most of
us - relatively rare, and it's not until it's dumped upon us that any
training for this is likely to 'kick in'. Even then such a situation
cannot be always 'standardized' and will need cool and rational
assessment of the available options for a satisfactory outcome. I
probably failed in this in both examples. Perhaps the best outcome lies
in contemplating and applying the tag line below.
Terry
"Try and learn from the mistakes of others. You're probably not going
to live long enough to make all of them yourself ..." Anon
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