Nice and easy … the Epsilon 4
“So, there I was, having just started a gentle left hand turn when the nice sedate little DHV 1-2 I was flying decided to enter a spin on about 6cm of left brake. I thought, but not a problem. Hands up, and it’ll stop. It didn’t!” Cross Country’s Ian Blackmore goes for a little twirl.
I’d been invited out to the Alps near Interlaken along with several other journalists from the free flying world for a sneak preview of the new Advance Epsilon 4. And, before I go any further, I would just like to make it clear that this little trauma had nothing whatsoever to do with the wing, and everything to do with my own complacency. Advance went to great lengths to make our three-day trip a memorable one.
Needless to say, despite their efforts, the weather failed to co-operate and by day three we’d had only two short flights, taken lots of pictures, visited their offices and spent a night with all of us snoring away in the hay-loft of a traditional mountain farmhouse.
On the last afternoon we went to a small site halfway up a mountain in the middle of a pine forest. The launch was a small grassy area, and although quite short and narrow looked like a pleasant place to take off. We could see several gliders thermalling and as Kari Eisenhut gave us a short briefing about the Epsilon, I started to look forward to the possibility of a nice flight.
With limited space and keen not to delay anyone else, I do confess I took rather less time inspecting my lines for knots than I usually do for a forward launch. This, however, was a nil wind – four paces and you’re off type of launch – with barely enough time to check the wing before your feet leave the ground.
Feeling the wing rise cleanly, I accelerated, checking left and right to see both wingtips nicely inflated. At this point, one of the guys from Advance shouted: “Stop, you’ve got a bloody great knot in the middle of your wing!” Which, due to my total lack of German, I interpreted as merely encouragement and I accelerated away to glide out through the corridor between the trees.
Twelve years of paragliding experience immediately alerted me to a very slight left hand turn, which I correctly assumed to be caused by a knot. Gently countering the turn I lay back in the harness and scanned the wing for tangles.
Now, I’m not one of these people who’s blind as a bat, but I do have to wear glasses to see clearly, and during my launch run they had steamed up a bit. Add a dark blue glider, a dull overcast sky and I couldn’t actually see most of the lines above: my inspection simply showed a glider with a clean profile and no obvious dents or wrinkles. Seen from below that is. Clearly visible from the side (I found out later) was a massive dimple just left of centre where the C and D lines had pulled a large chunk of the centre of the wing down by about 40cm.
Assuming I had the smallest and most insignificant of knots, I ignored it, and headed for the closest glider I could see that was actually climbing. I should have scuttled off to the landing field, brakes up, with one hand firmly planted on the reserve handle. I didn’t of course.
So, there I was, having just started a gentle left hand turn when said nice sedate little DHV 1/2 decides to enter a spin on about 6cm of left brake. ‘Unusual’, I thought, ‘but not a problem. Hands up, and it’ll stop. It didn’t. ‘Hmmm…OK, quick check, 400 feet over the trees, plenty of time, ‘I’ll give it one rotation and then try again’.
I braked fairly hard on the right to slow the rotation at the same time as releasing the wrap from my left hand and making sure the brake was actually touching the pulley. Releasing the right brake I dropped its wrap as fast as I could.
As planned, the glider dived in front of me, regaining both energy and forward motion. Well, the right hand side did. As soon as I started to pendulum back under the wing, left brake firmly pinned to the pulley, off she went again. Certainly not the result I was hoping for.
With the lake as a reference, and sneaking another quick peek down (300 feet now), I gave it the benefit of the doubt and waited another rotation before hauling down again. Just before the right tip dropped into a stall I released again and was once more rewarded with a very respectable dive, but again with the left side lagging behind the other.
Swinging underneath I hopped back onto the merry-go-round, or rather, the Waltzers. I was now in a bit of a corkscrew, the wing no longer directly above me, and oscillating badly, I decided there was just enough time for one more attempt and then maybe a full stall if needed.
People say that time slows down in situations like this, but for me it was as if time continued at its normal pace but with my brain running not only on adrenaline, but nitrous oxide and with a supercharger kicking in as well.
Spin number four – wrongly assuming myself to be now down to around 200 feet, I had a look over my right shoulder to where I suspected the beast was lurking somewhere behind me. Sure enough, there it was, in a sorry state indeed. Even the flying side now had a small cravat and was looking a) to be at a very poor attitude b) to be distinctly devoid of air, and c) still spinning.
Time for drastic measures. I hauled down on the brakes and the wing obliged by dropping right back from its already somewhat disturbing location. To avoid doing the rock in a hanky impression I needed to release the brake only when the wing returned to its right and proper location, i.e. above me. Not being completely certain where ‘above me’ actually was at this stage, I poked my head forwards to try and spot the horizon.
Trees, only 60 feet below. Big trees. Sod the brakes, where’s the reserve? I’d always wondered when (and if) the time ever came to throw my reserve, whether I would hesitate. I dropped the brake as if it was a piece of molten lava and was peeling the reserve handle off its Velcro when the Epsilon re-appeared in front of me diving earthwards at a great rate of knots. This was such a dynamic dive that it was obviously, now, knotless.
So low that the reserve was only going to slow my descent through the trees rather than towards them, my scudding synapses decided to give better odds by trying to regain control of the wing, rather than chancing it with Mr Reserve. Dropping the reserve handle I found the brakes at first grab and hauled hard to damp the dive while simultaneously weight-shifting to avoid a particularly tall conifer.
Spotting a tiny triangular clearing directly ahead and a power line to my right, I just missed the edge of the tree line, dived into the clearing and turned hard left up the hill towards the point of the triangle, experiencing just what it’s like for a hang glider to do a fly-on-the-wall. Flaring hard as I converted up the slope, I did a perfect no-run landing within a metre of the gate in the corner. Behind me the wing fluttered peacefully down between the trees.
Standing stock still I heard the birds and the sound of a nearby stream. I listened to my heart rate. Normal. I listened to my breathing. Normal. Did I feel sick? No, but I probably would soon. Oh, well, might as well pack up before my legs begin to give way and I start vomiting in shock.
The whole event was over and done with in about 12 seconds, which is probably all it would have taken to properly check my lines before launch.
Some of my friends have always said I am the luckiest person around, and after that little incident I am finally inclined to agree.
Oh, and I liked the glider.
• Got news? Send it to us at news@xccontent.local
Subscribe to the world’s favourite hang gliding and paragliding magazine
