James Rush Manley – Writer

When I started flying in February 1972, life suddenly became complex. There was a lot to learn! For example:

Aerodynamics—I knew my little trainer wouldn’t fall out of the sky, but still, how did ¾ ton of metal, gas, and people stay up there? And how did I get up there in the first place? Once there, how did I steer, climb, or descend? Or, more importantly, how did I land so I could walk away, leaving the airplane capable of further flight?

Navigation—How did I go where I wanted to go? Or, a more basic question: How did I figure out where I was right then? read more ...

I was MAF’s (Mission Aviation Fellowship) Ecuador Program Manager stationed in the Andean mountain city of Quito, Ecuador when a mission director asked for a special flight. Two days earlier, he sent a large team down into Ecuador’s coastal jungle to minister in a small town.

“But,” he explained, “a government official summoned us to a critical meeting tomorrow morning. I need three of the men on that team for this meeting and there’s no way they can get back here in time. Could you fly there today, spend the night, and bring them back as soon as possible in the morning?” read more ...

Clouds really like mountains—or maybe mountains really like clouds. Either way, the ceiling lowered the closer I flew to the badlands. A dark grey layer pressed down, obscuring all peaks and ridges. I dared not climb into the murk above. Soft, wispy grey hid solid granite. It was too far to go around to the left or right. Thick forest punctuated by a rock-strewn river set the lower limit. A narrow canyon offered the only way through the rock wall.

I configured the airplane for terrain flying by slowing to 80 knots and setting the flaps at 20°. Lower speed meant a tighter turning radius. Extending partial flaps gave more margin above stall speed. It also lowered the nose for a better view of what lay ahead. Setup like this, the airplane would immediately climb if I added any power, not that that was an option now. read more ...

Our plateau jutted out the sudden eastern edge of the Andes mountains. It ran east 10 more miles, almost flat, until it dropped over a cliff 2,000 feet into the Amazon Jungle below. Weather from the northeast hit the cliffs first, accelerated upward, then smacked against the massive peaks behind. So, it rained. A lot. Twenty-one feet per year. We called three rainless days a drought—broiling sun and oppressive humidity. Lumbering trucks and packed buses morphed dirt roads into towering billows of fine, choking dust visible from the air as undulating brown ribbons. read more ...