(Beau)
The Wild Canyons
Most people don’t even realize that the wild urban canyons of Southern California exist, much less appreciate them for the marvel they are. But the canyons and the hills that surround them are an essential part of the terrain. The wild canyons are remnants of the natural landscape, preserved in the midst of sprawling cities. They are usually surrounded by steep walls that discourage casual entry. Though homes and neighborhoods may cover the outer walls of some hills, there is no construction in the wild canyons. No homes, no roads, no playfields. A few have hiking trails; many do not… just sage, cottonwood, eucalyptus, oak, and an occasional seasonal stream. The canyons are home to rabbits and raccoons, foxes, mule deer, skunks, and sometimes coyotes. Sometimes eagles soar over the aeries they have built in the wild canyons.
There is very little to indicate to an observer on the canyon floor that just over that rim is a city of millions. In the case of Sycamore Canyon, there is only a dirt road at the bottom of the canyon which roughly follows the stream. It passes by groves of sycamore of course, as well as black willow and a few of the walnut trees for which Whittier is famous. Sycamore Canyon has a fire road on the rim, leading from the developed areas on the southwest where we live, up the undeveloped higher hills to the east. At the peak of one of these hills there is a helicopter landing station standing alone, commanding some of the most awe-inspiring views in Los Angeles County – views of city on the one side, and wild canyon on the other.
The Beginning – The Crash of the Bumblebee
Our recent escapade began on a sunny Sunday afternoon in Whittier. It was one of those beautiful late summer days – bright, hot and uncharacteristically clear. From our front porch on Grand Vista Drive in the Whittier Hills I could see Catalina Island in the distance, rising from the sparkling waters of the Pacific thirty-some miles away.
A lot of people were sitting inside this afternoon, with their air conditioners blasting away, ruining a perfectly good Southern California day. I didn’t understand those people. Days like this were the reason I moved to the Los Angeles area in the first place.
Staring out to sea, I felt the hot breeze on my back. The soft wind, born out on the Mojave, welled up from Sycamore Canyon. It topped the rise a block beyond our uphill neighbors, and drifted down gently, full of the scents of sycamore, pine, damp rocks, and hot sand. The canyon was one of the reasons I loved our home.
I sighed with contentment, put down my hedge clippers, took a long drink from the cup in my hand, and sat down in my favorite place to watch the world for a while.
Ten or twelve pleasant minutes followed. I was beginning to move into a deeper level of awareness of the land and wind and sea, when the world of civilization imposed itself in the form of a buzzing sound, distant at first, but growing… and growing… and coming closer.
Reluctantly, I opened my eyes. Against the backdrop of the blue summer sky a very noisy yellow ultralight flying contraption was pitching about. The machine – can you call something that small a helicopter? – was flying laboriously up the hillside from the lower neighborhoods of Whittier toward Grand Vista Drive. My first impression was how much it looked and sounded like an overgrown bumblebee with a high-pitched buzz. My second impression was that this bumblebee was in trouble. It was far too low for safety, and the situation was getting worse as it tried to move in an uphill direction.
I opened the front door and shouted for Bambi. She came out to the porch quickly, and immediately understood the impending danger.
The buzzing became more shrill, strained, as if the little aircraft was pushing itself to the limit of its ability. But even as it gained a bit of true altitude (above sea level), it was losing absolute altitude (height above ground). The little helo continued to struggle upward, but if the pilot didn’t take action soon, it was going to crash.
The volume became painful as the dying bumblebee passed over our house, painstakingly clearing the peak by no more than ten or fifteen feet. We waved at the pilot to get his attention. He was seated just under the rotor and forward of the engine in the open air, with no protecting cockpit, on a seat no larger than you might expect on a riding lawn mower. Come to think of it, the seat and the engine of this little vehicle might’ve been scavenged from a riding lawn mower. We motioned for him to turn around or land, but he did not respond. He was totally absorbed in the task of keeping the machine in the air and ascending above the steep terrain. His eyes darted intently from the controls to what lay ahead, apparently oblivious to the deadly danger posed by the crash of even a small helicopter.
Bambi and I ran around the house and uphill. The pilot engaged in some dramatic activity with the controls. The ultralight sank a few feet then seemed to bounce upward, over the trees in the yard of our uphill neighbors. But the dramatic action was at a great price, for at the moment the ultralight cleared the trees, the engine began to sputter.
Bambi and I immediately realized that the danger had just increased radically. The pilot struggled to slow a choppy descent as he powered across the upper portion of Grande Vista Drive, across the lawns of the homes at the top of the hill, and toward the rim of Sycamore Canyon.
The absolute altitude of the ultralight was no more than twenty feet as it approached the rim. The pilot had to know that once he crossed that rim the ground would fall away, that within a few seconds his absolute altitude would be hundreds of feet. He had to know what would happen if his engine stopped working over the upper slopes of the canyon at that height. His only slim hope of survival was to get on the ground before going beyond the rim.
My years on board a US Navy carrier had made me dreadfully aware of the danger involved in any helo crash. I grabbed Bambi by the wrist, pulled her back to keep her from running after the aircraft. At first she tried to keep going. Then, realizing why I held her back, she stopped. We took cover behind a large alder. The ultralight began to bounce, dropping then rising, losing altitude with each bounce. When it came within a few feet of the canyon rim we braced for the inevitable crash with flying blades and engine parts and perhaps a fireball. Then the helicopter made what we expected would be its final bounce… and kept going upward. We hadn’t considered the effect of the updraft from the canyon. The wind pushed the ultralight up rapidly, to a height of fifty feet or more above where we stood… and the pilot directed his failing aircraft out over the canyon. We had expected a crash just short of the rim, but now the bumblebee and its human rider were out over the open abyss. The aircraft continued outward. Then it moved out of the updraft and fell rapidly below the rim and out of our sight.
The waiting must not have been long, really, but it seemed interminable. When the helo dipped below the rim the sound decreased dramatically; at first, it almost seemed silent. As our ears adjusted, we realized we still heard the buzzing of the engine in the distance. Whether from caution or inertia I’m not sure, but we stood still for fifteen or twenty seconds. The buzz sounded low and far away. Then it grew louder… and closer. Bambi and I looked at each other with amazement. Surely he couldn’t really be doing what it sounded like he was doing… could he?
In a heartbeat the yellow aircraft shot up past the rim of the canyon, caught in the updraft once more. The blast of engine noise made us cringe, and the pilot leaped. Pushing away from the ultralight with his feet, he dove onto the lawn at the edge of the canyon, grasped frantically at the ground, and hung on. The thrust from his jump pushed the small helo away from the rim. It continued upward for a few seconds, then slowly tilted outward and began to tumble. Bambi and I rushed to the pilot. As we were pulling him away from the edge we heard the blast. We dropped to safety and watched a tiny cloud of shrapnel blown upward up by the force of the explosion. It was safely deflected by the canyon rim.
I crawled to the edge. There was no yellow aircraft in sight, but there was a line of debris scattered down the steep incline, ending at a smoking mass nearly halfway down. Bambi was checking the pilot. He was unconscious, but alive.
That is the story of how my peaceful Sunday afternoon came to a dramatic end… and that is how we became involved in this whole complex series of events.
Beau
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