For The Birds
Finding inspiration from these heavenly creatures
Then there was a brush with a condor in South America. I once read that a condor had been spotted by the crew of a 737 over the Peruvian Andes at an amazing 33,000 feet, but my sighting was slightly lower. I was ferrying a heavily loaded Cessna 207 from Oakland, Calif., to Neuquén, Argentina, far south in the Patagonian desert, and that required crossing the Pan American pass east of Santiago, Chile. The pass is just south of the continent’s highest mountain, Cerro Aconcagua, but the low point of the rocks is still 13,000 feet high. As heavy as I was flying that day, the C-207 was totally tapped out at 12,000 feet.
Just when I was ready to give up and fly the long way around down the Chilean coast, I spotted a huge black condor circling lazily near the ridge. I figured it knew the local terrain better than I did and changed course to fly directly toward it. It was an impressive bird, with perhaps a 10-foot wingspan, and it seemed totally unconcerned about this strange, new, metal bird sharing its updraft. The rising air wasn’t strong, perhaps 100 fpm to 200 fpm, but it seemed to last forever. It took about 15 minutes to elevate the two of us to 14,500 feet before I bailed out of the lift and headed for the ridgeline. The condor continued on up, drifting higher without any visible effort. The last I saw of it, it was a thousand feet above me and still climbing toward the 23,000-foot peak of Aconcagua.
Several years later, I flew a Comanche 260 from Anchorage, Alaska, to Palo Alto, Calif., for an engine change and had migrating geese and ducks for company on practically the entire flight. The weather all the way to Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada, was at or below 2,000 feet overcast with good visibility underneath, and both general-aviation and bird traffic were operating beneath the clouds, with airplanes trying to stay above 1,000 feet and birds at 500 feet or lower. Birds are smarter than to fly in ice, and Alaskan pilots follow their lead.
Despite the geese and ducks’ obvious talents as fliers, they didn’t have the benefit of 260 hp, so they couldn’t hope to stay with me, but I had to look for airports, whereas the birds could land anywhere they wished. I flew above a succession of bird flights for 1,000 miles, admiring their characteristic V formations. They often seemed to fly a few inches apart, holding position close enough to make even the Blue Angels envious.
More recently, I was returning from a hamburger flight in my Mooney with frequent passenger, fellow pilot and premier Hollywood recording trumpeter Gary Halopoff in the right seat. As we approached the busy Los Angeles Basin, we were both monitoring the Garmin 330 traffic uplink for other airplanes when Gary looked up just in time to see a large bird go whizzing by our right wingtip. “Gee, I wonder if he was squawking,” quipped Gary with a slight smile. I’ll bet he was.
Bill Cox is entering his third decade as a senior contributor to Plane & Pilot® and provides consulting for media, entertainment and aviation concerns worldwide.
E-mail him at
This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it
.
Share this page.
0 Comments