Not too far north of Chattanooga, near the small town of Benton, Tn., hides one of Chattanooga’s best-kept adventure/tourism secrets. An invitation for a glider ride was an opportunity I would not miss. A pilot myself, I sport a wide variety of aircraft in my log book - from crop dusters and tail draggers to fixed gear and retractables…but never a glider.

Saturday dawned hot and humid. By 10:30, temps had already reached 90 degrees and the sweat ran down my back. My pilot friend, Enrique, was an hour late, but I had eaten a stack of pancakes at McDonalds on the way, so I was doing fine. Pilots talk of their adventures and he encouraged me to bring my logbook so he could log in an hour of instruction. I was pumped.

By the time we finished pre-flighting the airplanes, the temp had risen to 94. I slid into the front seat and he buckled me into the most complicated harness I had ever seen. At 6’2” I had plenty of leg room, but the control stick did hit my knees as I tried the ailerons. As he climbed into the back seat he continued to give me the 101 course on glider safety. I quickly located the spoilers, the altimeter and the airspeed indicator. The tow plane was already in place about 250’ ahead of us. The line boy was making sure that the tow rope was attached properly. Enrique lowered and latched the canopy bubble as the line boy lifted the wing level and gave the high sign to the tow pilot. Soon we were lurching down the grass runway, bouncing and jolting along, gaining speed and attempting a takeoff in the extreme heat.

We had used up more runway than desired, but everything seemed normal and we climbed out, headed to 3,000 feet. It would be a “sled ride” today because there was absolutely no thermal activity. That meant that when we released from the tow plane we would immediately start to descend at about 1 meter/second.

We had made sort of a plan before takeoff. If Enrique said, “My airplane.” He would fly it. If he said, “Your airplane.” I would fly it. On the way to 3,000 feet he had repeatedly given me the airplane and let me attempt to fly in a correct attitude behind the tow plane. More than once he had to yell, ”My airplane” as I either got too high, too low or too far left or right. It had been 18 years since I had entered anything into my logbook and my loss of flying skill was showing.

As the altimeter swung through 3,000 feet he yelled in my ear, ”Pull that handle.” I reached forward and pulled the “T” handle in the dash in front of me. Immediately he yelled, “Not that one!” Too late. I could see the thin, yellow tow rope snaking away as the tow plane, free from its burden, rose sharply, banked to the left and began to descend. He immediately laughed and said, “Just kidding.” Sweat snaked down my face as we went into spins, hammerhead stalls and wingovers. The anticipated “loop”, thankfully, never came.

Then, 45 minuets later, out of altitude, we made our approach to the wide, welcoming, grass landing strip. At this point in the flight, everything happens quickly because without an engine it is like a dead stick landing in an “engine out” situation. You only get one shot at the landing. Noisily sweeping through the short grass, our craft lurched along the ground until we lost all forward speed. Our wing gently lay over and touched the ground.

Enrique told me that he likes to take pilots up for a spin because “giving rides to girls gets boring.” At that point I wished that I had kept the fact that I was a pilot to myself. As I struggled to keep my pancakes on the inside of me instead of the outside, I realized one thing. If you want more than your money’s worth… just tell them you’re a pilot.

Additional Info:

Location: Chilhowee Airport

Benton, Tn.

Best Time to go: weekends

Cost: $40-60

Contact: 423 338-2000

Roger Curtis
mail@stbespresso.com