Air Safety – Tiger Country

But it hadn’t worked out. The war had ended before he turned 18 and with his one aim in life suddenly snatched away, he’d had to set about earning his living in a different way. Only last year, with the overdraft on his business finally paid off, had Steve been able to realise his long treasured ambition. For six months on end he spent almost every weekend down at Cootamundra learning to fly. And with a Restricted PPL of little use to him at Tarraburra, Steve kept up his weekly forays until he’d gained the long awaited licence entitling him to be pilot- in-command of an aeroplane anywhere he wanted to go.

A Tiger Moth, enroute from Victoria, had dropped into Tarraburra one day soon afterwards, and Steve had driven out to look at it. Its young crew, authentic in flying suits with leather helmets and goggles, had been friendly and, at the sight of the Tiger’s lovingly restored struts, its functional Gipsy Major engine and wooden propeller, its open cockpits – even the well remembered smell of fabric and fuel, the old captivity had returned. He knew then he must have a Tiger of his own as compensation for what he had missed all those years ago. Eventually he’d bought one from the Royal Newcastle Aero Club at Maitland and a member of the Tiger Club had delivered it to Tarraburra for him, staying on for a few days to give Steve a thorough checkout in the old techniques peculiar to unbraked, unflapped open cockpit biplanes.

That was now two months ago. It had been fun flying the Tiger locally, but now he was taking his prized possession on its first major trip. The occasion for Steve’s family, was notable for an entirely different reason. A niece was being married in Bega and the clan was gathering. But they were hardly enthusiastic about what was for Steve a good excuse to gain some worthwhile experience.

Jenny and their younger daughter who still lived at home, failed to see why Steve couldn’t drive down with them.

“You might get held up by the weather,” his wife had warned. “And then what’ll we do? You’re needed and I want you there. Do be reasonable and come with us – you can fly your aeroplane anytime you like. ” “I’ll be there as soon as you are,” Steve had tried to assure her. “It’s too good an opportunity for me-I can’t often get away from the shop like this. ” They had left it at that and the family had driven off at first light that morning.

Now, as he made his final preparations, he did his best to forget the disagreement and concentrate on the task ahead. Yet, as he wheeled the Tiger out of the hangar, he wished he felt as confident as he had made out. The forecast from Wagga wasn’t encouraging – cloud and scattered showers over the Dividing Ranges. Mentally, he kicked himself for not getting away early too.

Securing his overnight bag in the luggage locker, Steve primed the engine and strapped himself in. The aerodrome groundsman, an aircraft hand from Tarraburra’s EFTS days who had married a local girl and settled in the town, swung the propeller for him and took away the chocks. As Steve opened the throttle to taxi, the groundsman took the wing tip until he was clear of the tarmac and rolling easily over the grass.

Despite his anxiety over the weather, an immense satisfaction filled him. Here he was after all these years doing just what he had watched his boyhood heroes do-the same aerodrome, the same hangar and tarmac, the same type of aeroplane, even by some stroke of fate, the same aircraft hand. But now the aeroplane was his own and he was free to fly it whenever and wherever he liked.

An hour later, after an uneventful flight beneath patchy cumulus cloud, Steve was descending into the circuit amongst the hills around Tumut at the foot of the Divide. Approaching to land into the fresh southerly, he made a reasonable three- pointer and taxied in to the fuel bowser. As he shut down the engine, a young flying instructor walked out to the aircraft, set up a step ladder and climbed up with the refuelling hose.

“Nice Tiger,” he remarked, looking the aeroplane over with approval. “Where are you heading?” “Bega,” Steve answered, trying hard not to appear as though it was his first real adventure in the machine.

“Bega! You’ll be lucky to get through this afternoon with all that stuff on the ranges. It was alright earlier but a fisheries pilot from Merimbula came through in one of their Shrikes half an hour ago and said it was IFR nearly all the way from the coast. ” Steve’s heart sank. It was just what Jenny had feared. Well he wasn’t beaten yet – and he wasn’t going to take no for an answer as easily as that. This young fellow couldn’t know everything. Besides, he’d lose his wife’s confidence in flying forever if he didn’t make Beg a in time for the pre-wedding party tonight.

“Well I’ll give it a go and see what it’s like. I can always turn back if the going gets too rough. I need to get through today if I possibly can. ” The young instructor shrugged.

“Well it’s your decision. But I wouldn’t let our club members try if after what Allan had to say. If you do go, stick to the Blowering Valley as far as Talbingo and follow the highway to Kiandra and Adaminaby. The country’s a little lower that way and you’ll at least know where you are if you have to turn back. The ranges are pretty rugged further to the north and unless you’ve got clear weather you can easily lose track of your position. ” Steve paid for the fuel and taxied out without wasting time. But as he set course over the town he was dismayed to see the weather deteriorating directly to the south beyond the Blowering Valley. In fact Talbingo Mountain was already obscured by cloud or rain. Still, further to the east conditions looked decidedly better. What was more, that was the direct track to Bega. That young instructor no doubt meant well-but with things as they were, the track to the east of the Bogong Range was the obvious way to go.

Climbing at full throttle to clear the serried ranks of mounts that crossed the aircraft’s track- seemingly only a little lower than the soaring peaks of the Bogongs now lying just ahead and to starboard, Steve noted with misgiving that the instructor was right on one point-the terrain was as inhospitable as he’d seen.

Apart from steep-sided rocky outcrops, the mountains were completely covered with heavy timber-if the engine gave up there’d be nowhere to go-the only relief in that wild landscape was the long swathe cut through the forest where the steel powerline pylons marched across the mountain tops and val- leys in an unending line to the south.

At 5000 feet he levelled out and, more than usually alert for the slightest hesitation in the healthy beat of the Gipsy, cautiously leaned the mixture. At this altitude he was still below some of the spot heights on his WAC chart. But he was obviously getting close to the base of the big puffy Cu’s that covered most of the sky and it would be safer to pick a way through the ranges at a height he could see, rather than risk being caught in cloud.

Concentrating on his compass heading and the unyielding mountain country sliding slowly beneath his wings, Steve gave scant attention for the next few minutes to what was happening outside the aircraft. Only when the Bogong Peaks emerged fully into view behind the wing, did he notice that their tops had become enveloped in cloud. Alarmed, he yawed the Tiger to view the weather ahead. The dark grey cloud and misty rain was gradually engulfing the landscape from west to east.

Puzzled as well as concerned, Steve pulled his forecast from a side pocket. Of course the wind at this altitude was , not southerly as it had been on the ground at Tumut, and the moist airstream was producing these conditions across the continent. He should have given it more thought before leaving Tarraburra.

What was he to do? To go on now would be asking for trouble. There was nothing for it but to swallow his pride and turn back. At least he could have another go from Tumut first thing in the morning- and all being well he’d still get there in time for the wedding.

Rolling the Tiger into a turn back on to a reciprocal heading. he was aghast to see the same thing happening over the route he had just flown. The hills back in the direction of Tumut were already lost to view in the pervading misty greyness much so that it was difficult to be certain just where the town lay. The featureless mountain country directly below the aircraft would be of little help in retracing his flight path and he didn’t fancy trying to find the way back amongst the hills in such reduced visibility. He’d be better off following the instructor’s advice and intercepting the highway back to Tumut. But that was down in the valley on the other side of the Bogong Range-and if he was going to get over there he’d have to be quick.

Though the peaks of the range had their heads in the cloud, there was adequate room to fly between them. Once through it should be simply a matter of dropping down into the valley and following the highway.

Swinging the Tiger round to port, he headed for the widest of the three gaps, passing through with a comfortable margin on either side. He had a bad moment when the aircraft entered cloud for a few seconds, but with bated breath he held on until it emerged into the clear again.

Yet now that he was through, he was hardly better off. Certainly the valley lay before him, but on this exposed side of the range it was raining and hard to see any distance. Reducing power, he began a gentle descent, straining with his head out of the cockpit to sight the highway. A moment later he had to bank to starboard to avoid a patch of nimbo-stratus and so he throttled back further to increase the rate of descent.

More stratus – this time a great sheet of it! He kicked on rudder again and put the stick over, but not quickly enough. In seconds the aircraft was once more enveloped in the wet grey opacity he had encountered in the gap.

Now flying completely blind, he applied opposite rudder and centred the stick to straighten out the turn. But the compass needle was still swinging. He shot a glance at the turn and bank indicator. Both needles were close to full deflection – but in opposite directions! In his rising panic his mind refused to function and he was unable to tell which way he should stop the turn. The airspeed was unstable too, but he concentrated on keeping it under control at around 75 knots.

Still the compass swung and the turn and slip needles wavered, but at least he wasn’t winding up into a spiral dive- thanks no doubt to the inherent qualities of the old biplane. Then, as suddenly as he had entered it, he was out of the cloud, flying in the mist beneath the overcast in an ominously dark sky.

Steve glanced at his altimeter – just coming down through 2700 feet – and peered with difficulty at the compass. The aircraft was heading east again – he must have done a 360 degree turn in that cloud and come out the way he went in! But he’d continued descending all that time- in fact he must be heading straight for the valley side! Even as the realisation dawned and Steve desperately flung the Tiger into a steep turn to port, the steep sided valley side materialised out of the gloom. As he hauled the aircraft round, the scrub covered slope, frighteningly close, seemed to fill his whole field of view.

For a moment Steve though he was going to make it as the Tiger, its angle of bank almost matching the valley slope and its throttle wide open, skimmed the tops of the low wattles and began to climb away.

But slightly to port a lone straight standing pine was rushing out of the mist. At the insane angle of ground and aircraft, there was no way he could avoid it. There was a splintering impact as the frail wings connected with the tree- and the Tiger was cartwheeling down the slope. Then the nose dug in and the aircraft fell over on its back and there was only silence.

Steve had been made reasonably comfortable on a stretcher by the time the ADF Squirrel arrived from Fairbairn to winch him to safety. He’d been fortunate. One of the valley rangers had seen the Tiger go in and raised the alarm by radio, and they’d got a ground party to the spot in less than half an hour.

Apart from a good deal of bruising and abrasions and possible mild concussion, the RAAF medico at Fairbairn could find nothing seriously wrong with Steve and they were content to admit him to the base hospital for observation.

For his part, while castigating himself for being such a fool, Steve was counting his good fortune at still being alive. How ironic it was that, after all his striving to recapture the elusive hope of his youth, he should finish his brief flying career being rescued by an ex-RAAF helicopter and treated in a RAAF hospital. It was as though fate had turned the clock back after all! “You’ve got a visitor,” the nurse told him next morning, showing in an officer a year or two Steve’s senior. On his sleeve he wore the four rings of a Group Captain and below his pilot’s brevet was a row of medal ribbons.

“My name’s Mike Dennison,” he began informally. “I felt I had to come and see you. I believe you flew a Tiger into a mountain on a flight out of Tarraburra?” Steve nodded, fearful of what might be coming.

“Well it might cheer you to know you’re in distinguished company,” he went on, his eyes twinkling. “I learnt to fly in Tigers at Tarraburra in 1942-and did just what you did on my second solo cross country. Only we didn’t venture as far afield in Tigers in those days-I pranged mine on the Weddin Range near Grenfell – the only bit of rock anywhere near Tarraburra. I hope you’ll let us know if we can do anything to help. ” Steve grinned back at him.

“Well there is actually,” he said, eyeing the ribbon of the officer’s DFC. “My wife’s coming up from Bega this afternoon -she’s even missing her niece’s wedding to see me. You might have a word to her about it. “