AOPA Pilot Magazine - July 2019 - 99

P&E

NEVER AGAIN

A monumental
mistake
Winds through Monument Valley

SARAH HANSON

BY ALAN COCKRELL

GEOLOGY AND AVIATION usually don't
mix well unless the steadfast boundaries
between the two are judiciously respected.
My hangar mate, Tom Kahlert, and I knew
this, but we had a mission. We planned to
fly in Monument Valley, Utah-one of the
most colorful, awe-inspiring, windswept,
and even mystical places on the planet-and
we weren't going to be deterred by a few little wind gusts.
For months we had brainstormed,
researched online, and hovered over planning charts. Carefully we had tweaked
our airplanes for the 1,500-mile trek to
reach the Navajo wonderland, and now
having finally arrived we hungered for a
sunset flight among the giant sandstone
sentinels-dazzling backdrops for more
than 100 Hollywood films. Monument
Valley is not a U.S. national park with

its attendant altitude restrictions. It is
Navajo land. FAR 91.119 prevails.
We sat fidgeting on the porch of our
rented cabin near the airport eyeing the
distant monuments, watching the shadows grow and the vibrant colors come even
more alive with a blazing intensity. Back
and forth our gazes went between the burning buttes and the windsock down at the
airstrip. It whipped about like a frolicking
mustang's tail. "I'm afraid it's not going to
die down much," Tom muttered. "It will be
too rough to enjoy the flight." I agreed and
we ambled down to tie our birds down for
the night.
I stood holding a tie-down rope looking
around. We only had three days. It seemed
now the first one would be wasted. But
then, maybe it was smooth up higher. "Tom,
let's fly!" I yelled. He hesitated, looked up

and around. I saw him drop his rope. We
mounted up-me in my Van's RV-6, him in
his Cessna L-19 Bird Dog. With a 60-knot
airspeed difference, we had dubbed ourselves the Hare and Tortoise Tour.
Tom was seasoned ex-Army aviator
with a Vietnam combat tour under his
belt in the same type of airplane he now
owned. I had both U.S. Air Force and
airline wings stashed away in my retirement accoutrements. If any were able to
handle a few gusts it should be us. So we
figured.
The takeoff is always to the north at
Monument Valley Airport (UT25), a private strip that requires permission from
the resort that owns it. Vertical cliffs rising hundreds of feet above the field hug its
west and south sides. The nearest AWOS
was 60 miles north; the windsock was all
we had. Tom went first, and then I started
my roll. As soon as the wheels left the
asphalt our airplanes began bucking and
rolling, causing both of us to profoundly
regret the decision.
The gusts slammed us so brutally my
head hit the top of the canopy and sent my
headset whirling into the baggage compartment behind me. While I tightened
my harness and fished for the headset
with one arm behind me, Tom wondered
why I wasn't answering his radio calls telling me what a sucker he was for falling for
my suicidal suggestion to fly. He turned
back toward the field with me in trail.
His taildragger had a well-known reputation of not suffering clumsiness on its
rudder even in calm air, and so did mine
to a lesser extent. Onerous winds multiplied that threat enormously. I could have
easily passed him and landed first, but I
gutlessly pulled my throttle back to let the
L-19 make the first attempt.
We saw the folly in our decision to
fly when we turned back west. The setting sun exposed the pale yellow layer of
dust above the desert floor-a certain sign
of stiff winds, gusts, and low-level wind
shear. By the time we reached the traffic pattern, the shadow of the mesa had
advanced over the runway, cloaking it
in an ominous darkness. I circled while
Tom made a low approach. "It's rough," he
transmitted. "But I'm gonna try it."
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AOPA Pilot Magazine - July 2019

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