On 5/24/2012 8:14 PM, wrote:
I personally at the beginning of every flight figure I will futz up in at
least a couple of ways and consciously try not to stack too many of those
in row.....

Another example of good thinking, in my book...

Kinda-sorta related...as Bill D. has recently pointed out several times,
there're some piloting actions of negative consequences so catastrophic
"stacking" isn't an option. I got away with one of those once. Off the top of
my head, it probably ties for the nearest I've come to self-induced heart
stoppage.

On my home turf, on my "usual" pre-evening delayed slide toward the pattern, I
decided it would be fun to whoosh across the last ridge before the Great
Plains begin, zoom up into the usual gentle ridge lift typically to be found
there-n-then, and rack around into a 270 to whiz along the ridge top, burning
off altitude. Surely any late-hiking ridge toppers would appreciate the visual
treat. (You can rationalize anything, if you try hard enough.)

All went as planned until about 120-degrees into the approach reversal as I'm
looking back over my shoulder to pick up sight of the ridge top (which I'd
crossed at an obtuse angle) so's to fine-tune the bank angle to ease on around
and roll out parallel, close abeam the ridge top. The heart-stopping moment
was realizing the ridge top wasn't the expected several hundred feet below the
glider, but WAS SEVERAL HUNDRED FEET *ABOVE* THE GLIDER!!!"

I'd "pulled up" into sink, of course. (Guess I shoulda considered that
possibility beforehand, huh?)

So "there I wuz", descending from a chandelle turn, simultaneously sinking
like a rock toward the rocks, hundreds of feet lower than "planned", directly
above the lumpies of the *much* wider lower ridge, still "an angular ways"
from heading directly toward the ridge. The compelling question of the moment
was would I smash into the rocks I could *feel* below, or smash into those I
could see, ahead? Compounding the terror was the need to *DO* something if I
was to have any hope of avoiding either undoubtedly fatal consequence. I
needed to "instantly" decide whether chances were improved by reversing or
tightening my turn. The former tempted by seemingly shortening the time at
which horizontal clearance from horizontally distant rocks could possibly
begin increasing...but those weren't rocks I could possibly hit. The latter
meant I'd continue curving TOWARD the ridge...not an inviting prospect.
Hobson's choice.

Reversing probably maximized chances of hitting rocks below; tightening, those
more or less ahead (assuming I didn't induce an accelerated stall). You'd
probably have to know the ridge for my attempted description to make sense,
but rest assured, it was ugly.

I opted-for/got-away-with tightening the turn. Once definitely clear, I
promptly slunk off toward the home field (hoping to not die of embarrassment),
settled myself down as best I could, then landed...so thoroughly ashamed of
and embarrassed/angry at my complacent stupidity that I've never told anyone
about the incident. Until now. It remains one of those life situations that
gives me the shakes each time I relive it.

Kids, never forget the "luxury of stacking" *may* not be an option!!!

Knowledge beforehand in conjunction with pre-answering the question, "What's
my 'out' if this doesn't go as planned?" is Joe Pilot's life insurance policy
against "non-stackers." Some of those 0'beer-thirty stories contain "insurance
lessons" worth identifying/heeding...even if told only for laughs.

Bob - nuthin' funny about this one - W.