We’ve been fighting the wind along the entire second leg of
the trip. The pilots putting in long hard days and risking dangerous takeoffs to
keep pushing towards Toowoomba, to keep the kilometres piling up. The Outback
is as flat as I’ve seen any part of the Earth’s surface, creating magnificent
sun rises and sets, however the daily grind down the straight flat highway is
becoming tedious. However, at least it’s much easier to find the Paragliders in
the sky, no hills or tree’s obstructing our view.
The pilots are in view as they set down 60 km from the town of
Winton. Known for the cache of dinosaur bones as well as petrified tracks of a
pre-historic dino-stampede left in the red bed rock of the Outback. I finally
get my first proper Aussie meat pie at the local bakery in town, and a rare
chance to check internet, something that is even rarer than water out here.
After a quick beer in the Tatts hotel, we head back out to the Paramotors and
put Glenn back up into the sky. Pushing forward back to town, we fill the
tanks and top up on groceries then wait for him on the outskirts of the town.
After a good half hour, still no sign of the floating jellyfish in the sky. We
push down the road even further, calling them on the radio as we go. Still no
sign or call, we figure he must have bypassed the town and we missed him
while in shopping.
We rocket out of the back side of town hoping our decision
is the right one. I begin to do the math in my head, the average speed that has
been traveled in headwinds that is usually around 35 to 45 kmh over the two
hours that we’ve left him, he must have already passed, and made a large cut
bypassing the town and getting a run on Longreach. We make the call to pursue down range; however, both Craig and I have an uneasy feeling. That is what
most likely happened, however, if we are wrong and he had engine trouble,
then we are driving away from him, rather than catching up. With the sun
sinking, the seriousness of the situation increases. Before we go, we give one
last hale on the radio that goes unanswered. The radio has a 25 km range, so he
most certainly has bypassed the town, and we missed him.
We first check the airport 3 km
out of town, just in case. No Glenn. We then shoot down the A2, Craig and I
fixated on the horizon, looking for any sign of the Paraglider. Over the first
crest, no wings, over the next crest, no Glenn, past the forest, no Glenn
We don’t worry too much, as conditions have calmed down significantly, and he
would be able to get 70 kmh out of the wing, and knowing the charge he's been
on, he's likely trying to make the most of a rare spot of luck. However, soon
the crests become farther and farther apart and our anxiety of seeing the wings
over each increases with each failure. We are now 50 km out of town and the sun
is now down. I’m still trying desperately to raise Glenn on the radio to no
avail. Now it’s getting serious, we’re in the middle of the Outback, the sun
has gone down, and we’re missing a man. We result to trying to hail down
oncoming vehicles to ask if they’ve seen the floating Paramotors fly by.
However, there are no cars on the road, only three Road Trains, all three
refusing to stop in our aid, despite being pulled over, with hazard lights
blinking, flashing our high beams and I out in the middle of the road waving my
arms, pleading for the big trucks to stop; all three rush by.
At 60 km out of town, I do some more math, and he
shouldn’t be this far out. He must have had issues at the beginning of the
flight, several hours ago. Hopefully he's caught a ride back into town, and
is sitting at the bar, drinking a beer and chuckling with the bar tender and
patrons about how his ground crew left him for dead. We turn around and race
back towards town, still trying to raise him on the radio. About ten
kilometres from town, I give one last call out into the radio waves, and still
get no return. If Glenn is in town, he would have heard this call, and our
hearts start to sink, as morbid possibilities run through our heads. Hopefully
his radio just ran out of juice, as this has been an issue.
As we enter town, I’ve been gazing the side of the road the
entire trip, hoping that Glen was just slow and set down at the road side. To
my relief, I see the distinctive silhouette of the Paramotor and wing all
folded up beside the highway. I call to Craig, “I see him, stop.” Just then, a
whistle comes from a nearby house, where a local has been keeping an alive Glenn company
for the last couple hours.
The story goes; Glenn was working the hardest winds that he had
seen yet on this trip, only managing to eke out a measly 22 kmh, half of what
we figured he were capable of. When we worked our way 10 km out of town and
made the call on the radio, he was still fighting the winds, just over 25 km
away, and would set down due to the turbulence not too far from where we
stopped. After a long wait while we were racing in the opposite direction, Glenn, waiting by the roadside starting to realize no one was coming. So back up
into the air he went, fought his way to Winton, buzzed the town and landed
near a park, just on the far side of town where we would find him several
hours and a tank of fuel later.
Predictably, the usual flow of profanity spewed from Glenn’s
mouth; however it was a cockup of unreliable radios, no phone, no phone numbers
and the ground crew loosing rearward sight of the pilot that all lead to what
could have been a fatal situation.
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