Katabatic Winds

Pedaling viciously, I looked out beyond the wooden rods and canvas on which I sat, down at the end of the barren strip of land that I had just taken off of. The plateau was brushed smooth down the middle, meticulously picked clean of all rock, brush and weeds. Short torches burned along the eastern and western edges of the landing strip. Beyond the northern face of the plateau stone spires towered above the distance fogs, twice again as tall as the plateau home of my village. The wind was calm that morning, mist still hung along many the distant peaks, I hoped the wind would pick up only enough to blow off the low clouds, though the puffy cumulus that hung in the otherwise clear sky told me it wouldn’t.

The wind flag fluttered gently to my left, indicating a quartering headwind at the far end of the strip, beyond which the cliff face fell off into the mists below.

It was my first solo flight. My instructor, Marcus, stood far behind me beside the side of the landing strip, my parents and younger sister were there too. Nervous grins likely plastered on their faces as took my first pedal strokes alone in the sky. I had flown often with Marcus before that day, I thought I knew everything I needed to accomplish the day’s flight. My knowledge was more than adequate when it came to weather, the local terrain, aerodynamics, and the lighthouses peppered about the steep mountain tops surrounding our plateau. I knew of the other local strips and had landed with Marcus on a few of which during my training in the dual seated bi-wing before. Most importantly, I knew my flier.

The craft was constructed of lightweight cedar and double layered canvas, with a multitude of pulleys, levers, and hempen cables throughout. I’d meticulously honed each and every piece together with hours of precision engineering to make sure there would be no structural failure under flight. A series of cable, rope and pulley systems controlled my flaps, rudder, ailerons and elevator, those mechanisms which controlled the horizontal, vertical and lateral axis of the aircraft. The twin propellors on either wing were controlled by a series of gradually growing cogs controlled by my rapidly spinning foot pedals.

This was the maiden voyage with myself at the helm in the craft. I had built the contraption myself, as everyone did upon reaching their fifteenth birthday in my village and on the surrounding plateau villages that occupied our high altitude homes. At least everyone that didn’t want to be locked in place on their plateau of birth did.

I had long hours pedaling in the sky with my instructor. Glancing back, the tower waved me the green flag, the universal beckon call to return for land, the sign that no other of the flying wooden beasts would impede my way.

Once out of eyesight of the flag signals from the tower, I would be on my own. With only my eyes and the ever burning flames of the lighthouses that stood proud atop the mountains and stone spires surrounding the local plateaus to guide my way. But on that first solo I was to remain in the pattern, proving to myself and my instructor that I could do it safely without his guidance.

Marcus had taken my bi-wing out in the pattern for a test flight yesterday. He'd given me a few things to work on that afternoon but said overall it was well built, I had nothing to fear.

I turned crosswind still climbing slowly. I was an aviator. A wave of relief and newfound stress of flying the bi-wing without the backup of Marcus washed over me like distant sea shores.

Past my home plateau, stone columns and arches pierced the sky from the foggy depths. The spires were known to appear as though out of nowhere in the clouds, blending into the shadows and mists and only reappearing at the last second to even some of the most skilled aviators. Many good men and women had been killed by mountain top elusion, it was not to be taken lightly.

Gale force winds ebbed and flowed in my ears, coming in waves not unlike the boiling rock river flowing thousands of feet below me. Pedaling with a ferocity of a man literally fighting the sky for his life. I glided along the updrafts spit from below the plateau. Higher I soared, controlling pitch and yaw with levers and pulleys connected to ailerons and elevators, the tail rudder behind me angling this way or that as I saw fit.

I’m doing it, I’m actually doing it.

The thrill of the solo near blinded me to the many tasks at hand. Shifting my weight, I pulled the yoke that connected hand to aileron. Beginning the turn downwind and heard a vicious snap. Turning my head I saw what I feared, a hempen cable torn loose. My aileron control has been cut free, the two boards hung slack from the rear of wings, swinging with the wind.

Shit.

I fumbled with my elevator and rudder trying to regain directional control. Glancing to the field I was still within gliding range, relief blows over my anxiety ridden self. There’s still hope.

I did not turn back toward the runway, for one I had little control over where my flier would take me without ailerons; and two, I knew that sharpening a turn decreases lift and to lose altitude then may as well have been suicide, positioned over the ragged cliffs and lava flows as I was.

I dared not look down, focusing on my instruments and flying the shoddy aircraft of my own making. It's funny when one's life hangs in the gentle balance, all unnecessary thoughts are pushed aside, a level of focus is found that I can only dream of achieving without death being on the line.

As I fumbled to keep myself a-flight, pedaling furiously, I saw standing lenticular clouds hanging still above far off peaks. High winds, and cruel turbulence that way.

Propelled by a sudden updraft, I took advantage of the natural lift and risked the turn downwind with only rudder and elevator control. Shifting my weight into the turn I felt the soft increase of gravity upon my body, the pedal strokes became more difficult, the hold on my yoke and levers more forced as I fought against the increased gravitational pull in the turn. Still am I surprised by the amount of forearm strength required of those who conquer the skies.

The winds shifted, vertical then horizontal, shearing into my flier to send me careening near upside down in the turn. Only at the last moment did I manage to right my wings, propelled then by the aft wind. Flying parallel to the plateau much too fast, I contemplated deploying my flaps early in an attempt to slow myself. Though immediately I quelled the fool’s notion. To drop flaps then would be to decrease lift and increase the surface area of the wings. The lowering of my flaps would have only give more purchase to the unexpected high winds propelling me too quickly down the length of the field.

I crossed abeam my landing point, having reached this point faster than ever with my instructor. Scrambling as I was I soon passed the threshold, and then the plateau altogether.

Shit. Shit.

I attempted to turn base then, for if I waited until the standard angle at which I should turn I feared the wind would push me beyond gliding range of the field. My fears were well warranted as the lack of maneuverability of my craft and the turbulent flows lashing against the bi-wing didn't allow me to turn base at all.

I continued downwind far aft of my turning point, and with all finality realized that I am beyond boned.

Away I went, propelled along by gale force winds so loud I could scarce hear my own petrified thoughts. Straining to return logical thought, I recalled our neighboring plateau had a runway of their own, I’d landed there before with Marcus. I decided to alter my course southeast, aiming for our distant neighbors.

Brother Nature, being the cruel bastard that he sometimes is, had others plans for me. Instead of the south and eastern course I attempted, I was propelled due west by another shearing of the wind. Toward the barren peaks and oceans of mist that stretch for miles and miles. The unexplored territories.

All before me stood sharp mountains and thick fogs that concealed the lava flows and who knew what else far below. Resigning that I wouldn’t be landing on any well made or maintained strips, I began desperately searching for the rare flat patch to put my bi-wing down on.

Within the sea of roiling clouds and midnight peaks I saw nothing that resembled a safe landing zone, let alone any area flat enough to make an emergency descent onto. Regardless of the dire circumstances I kept on pedaling with all the adolescent vigor I held in my leg muscles, for to stop pedaling then would certainly have been to give in to my demise. A thin sheen of sweat began to cover my face and arms, dripping down my ribcage uncomfortably, but I dared not wipe the perspiration from my eyes or back for fear of what should happen if I were to take my hands off the controls.

I have known many flyers during my days on Aetheran, many of which were fine aviators. Many were fools. Pushing their limits too far.

Some had flown into treacherous terrain, some into the clouds or at night, when even the ever burning flames of the lighthouses could disappear in the fogs. Where an aviator can get so disoriented they don’t have even the slightest guess as to where they are. Some of these fliers had attempted to fly over the distant ocean at the base of my people’s mountain home, or fly to theorized distant plateaus that even the strongest legged aviator would be unable to pedal to. Slowly denying their prop the needed power to spin as their leg muscles gave out, losing all lift and not being able to maintain their craft aloft from sheer exhaustion. They'd glided or plummet into the abyss below.

Further I flew, trying not to think too hard about the many failed flights of my predecessors, unable to change course I went literally where the winds took me. Atop one shale peak I saw a family of goathas searching the rocks for the rare vegetation amongst the heights. A falcon circled overhead, the sigil of far distant kings.

Onward the wind took me, past onyx and obsidian spires, geologic temples of crimson and amber stone, shades of flames and burning things. I began to wonder then if the wind would push me forever onward, beyond the plateau realm of my people, to distant lands, to the farthest reaches of Aetheran, where the drakgarohans fly and the mighty spinatrous roam the plains. I pondered my own existence, destined to glide ever onward amongst the brutal peaks and milky fogs. To fly until my legs finally gave out and the lapping rivers of molten stone and fire below enveloped me and the aircraft I’d spent so many long hours and days assembling.

The fiery rivers of boiling stone, weren't my only worry about the mysteries below, burning so hot that even standing near could sear the skin like that of a roast goatha on the spit. Many a legend were spun of what dwelled deep below the mists. Between the peaks where great beasts capable of eating grown men whole lived.

I didn’t believe any of the myths, the tales of vicious things. Why would there be anything different in the valleys below than that which was above? Wouldn’t the world look the same regardless of elevation? Pondering on what lay below the mists when one flew between plateaus was foolish, I'd known people dumb enough to stand upon the edge and look down the thousands of feet to the abyss below, two of which had been wrenched off balance by the up and downdrafts climbing the sheer cliffs. To fall that great and unknown distance, to tumble for so long you had time to contemplate your own impending demise, was terrifying. But to fly thousands of feet in the air? No problem.

Far, far away floating on the wind I heard a roar echoing amongst the spiraling towers of stone. For a brief moment I thought I saw wings shadowed on the mists beneath my pedaling feet, but I quickly shook the notion aside. Fear, it appeared, was giving me the gift of hallucination.

Then, as suddenly as the shear winds had forced me past any point of safe landing, did they cease.

Before me lay a great blanket of cloud broken by no more landable plateaus for as far as I could see. With the treacherous tailwind gone, at last I attempted to turn homeward. Hope glimmering on the horizon once more. Shifting my weight into the turn, I gently actuated my rudder and elevator. Then heard that same horrid sound which I had heard at the start of my flight. The harsh snap of hempen rope tearing through. My flier shuddered, and the normally fluid feel of my rudder control disappeared. I was left only with elevator.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The turn abruptly ended as I was left with only minor pitch control. I determined then my fate to be sealed, I wasn't gonna make it home.

In a final and desperate attempt to keep my wings level I over strained the already stressed hempen rope connected to my elevator and they too snapped. It was not the cruel sound of those first tears, this was sound of resignation, as though my flier itself has given up all hope.

Great.

My pedaling grew all the more desperate then, faster and faster my legs burned under the strain, but I couldn’t allow myself time to pause. I searched through the sea of mist beneath for any island of stone that I could attempt to land on, or at least ditch my flier and jump. Futile was my search, though I knew somewhere hidden underneath the fog lay land, I knew not what terrain the land would look like.

I thanked the gods then that I had managed almost a complete 180 degree turn before I’d lost all control of the bi-wing. For flying directly into the wind slowed my airspeed. Had I lost coordination during the turn, had I entered a spiral, an uncontrolled spin, well I’d probably be boiling alive in the rivers of hell below.

Cloud level approached as I continued to glide out of the sky. Down I went, feeling the cool kiss of dew on my face as I passed into the deadly white walls of fog. Full immersion into a cloud layer and incredible disorientation one feels is in my experience taken all too lightly by the non sky conquering masses. The mind plays tricks on you. When accelerating you feel as though you are falling, to attempt a level turn by feel you are sure to gain and lose altitude throughout the maneuver. To get lost is easy in the evaporated ocean, to experience the lie of the inner ear is even easier.

This is why I am forever thankful that I soon burst free of the clouds before being pummeled by one of the many unseen cliffs and peaks hidden in the mists. Ground loomed not twenty feet below me, rock and fallen debris, further below and to my left lay the molten river, boiling and churning so hot I could feel it even at such a distance.

I decided to gamble then, taking my life into my own hands for the first time since that initial rope had ripped. Seeing it as my best and likely last opportunity for survival I did what I had to do.

I jumped.