Gambian Buchaneer By Andy Buchan - British Microlight Aircraft ...

April 2007 Page 1 

Contents 

Gambian Buchaneer 1 

Where Eagles wouldn't Dare 3 

Flightline 

O n l i n e 

Gambian Buchaneer 

This winter’s December fogs and January 

gales gave me a large back-log of instructional 

and re-permitting work. So when 

the ’phone rang one Friday evening in late 

January and Paul Bennett(1) asked if I was 

available to re-permit an Ikarus C42 it was 

tempting to respond ‘Yes – but you supply 

the weather.’ Paul then explained that 

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the machine was at Banjul International 

Airport in Gambia, a land blessed with 

warm air and light winds rather than the 

snow forecast for England the following 

week. Smooth talker. No decision needed. 

Three days later I was jetting out from East 

Midlands Airport. 

Before I left England I had tried to locate 

Gambia on an atlas. It is the smallest 

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Member of the Fédération 

Aéronautique Internationale 

and the Royal Aero Club 

By Andy Buchan 

country in Africa, south of the Sahara but 

North of the sticky jungly bits. It has a rainy 

season July – September and a dry winter 

climate. The present government has 

been in charge since 1994 giving political 

stability. English is the main language and 

in recent years it has started to become a 

tourist destination with cheap flights from 

many UK regional airfields. No visas are 

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April 2007 Flightline Online Page 2 

From the sublime - 

3.8km of runway at Banjul 

International - all to yourself... 

needed for UK citizens so travelling there is as simple (and possibly 

more reliable) than taking a bus. The country is developing quickly 

and people are friendly – the only time I was ‘hassled’ was when I 

dropped the case of my camera in a market and the stall holders 

started shouting after me. Six hours after leaving EMA I was met by 

my host, Steve Turton, at Banjul. Steve fl ies both 3-axis and fl exwing 

microlights and also runs an air courier business in a souped-up 

Cessna 172A. Acclimatising to the warm dry weather took all of two 

beers, and the next couple of days were spent servicing the C42. 

I now know where they hide the 

lower grease nipple for the front 

forks. Servicing and Inspection 

completed, Steve then fl ew with 

me for the check fl ight. 

I rarely use radio so I was a 

little worried about local RT procedures 

but by the late afternoon 

the airport was very quiet and we 

taxied to the mid-point of runway 

32. I am usually very careful to use 

the full length of a runway but in 

this case it seemed acceptable 

to use only half of the available 

3.8km. The runway had been built 

as an emergency landing site for 

the space shuttle, so, keeping a 

good look out (just in case…) we 

departed for the nearby Atlantic 

coast to check things out. 

The C42 is an amazing bit of kit. At slow speeds (35kts) it just 

wallows around without dropping a wing; as speed increases the 

controls fi rm up and two up it will cruise happily at 80kts on an 

80hp Rotax 912. And all from a simple alloy tube airframe with 

fabric wing covering. 

Our return to the airport was as straightforward as our departure. 

After reporting airfi eld in sight (and with a 3.8km runway 

you could make that call quite early), downwind and short fi nals, 

we fl oated down the tarmac runway in smooth evening air. Repermitting 

work completed! 

... to the ridiculous. 

A bush strip from the air 

Over the next few days I fl ew with Steve to several nearby bush 

strips. Slightly shorter and more bumpy than Banjul International, 

they were also a bit more challenging. And diffi cult to spot. In a 

countryside of fl at brown savannah and no detailed maps the GPS 

rules OK. But even if it had failed the silver ribbon of the Atlantic 

coast to the West and the lush green mango swamps gilding the 

River Gambia would have brought us back to Banjul. 

Over the last 10 years various British instructors have based 

themselves in Gambia(2). Today there is just the C42, an enormous 

underused runway, a hangar and 

schoolroom. What potential! Hopefully 

someone will continue to train 

at Banjul as the locals are very keen 

to see microlights remain there. If 

you are a QFI and fancy a warm 

winter’s fl ying please contact Andy 

Buchan on 01623 883802 or Steve 

Turton at for furtherdetails. 

(1) Paul Bennett must be one of 

the BMAA’s most experienced and 

longest fl ying members. Loosely 

based in the Midlands, Paul will fl y 

and Instruct on just about anything 

and has done so for many, many 

years. He flew the C42 which I 

tested from England to Gambia 

in December 2005 where it now 

resides with it’s owner, Ian Stokes (rtd) – ex Davidstowe, Thruster 

and X’Air guru. 

(2) Julian Crofts started Madox Airsports fl ying tourists and 

instructing from the beach in 1996 on a Cosmos fl exwing. Ian 

Stokes and Will Knowles moved the fl ying to Banjul International 

Airport and by 2004 had a fl eet of 2xQuantum 912 trikes, an AX3 

and a Thruster. After Will retuned to England in late 2004 the 

hangar was empty of British microlights until the C42 arrived. The 

hangar now holds the C42, 2 x Cessnas and an Ikarus C22 which 

is a bit like an AX3. 


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Here’s an article published twenty years ago in Flightline, Mar-Apr 1987. 

Author David Young and chief pilot Simon Baker are still microlight instructors, 

of course, and this first trip up Mount Everest makes for interesting comparisons 

with Richard Meredith-Hardy’s overflight seventeen years later. 

Where Eagles wouldn't Dare 

The buffeting increased and there were birds 

of prey ahead of us. Suddenly, caught in the same 

thermal, we were with them; 12 enormous eagles! 

Awed by their splendour, we sailed on our course 

and they kept on theirs, slowly circling in the warm 

rising air. We had permission to fly at 1000 ft agl, 

and sometimes as we looked straight down there 

would be indeed be 1000 ft of space below us, 

but at other times we would skip just 100 ft over 

a mountain ridge. 

Automatically I worked away at the normal 

flight checks — time elapsed into flight and fuel 

level. I listened to the beat of my 440 Robin. It 

was thrumming away perfectly and the twin CHT 

readings were both constant. I looked for possible 

landing sites — odd patches of terracing and the 

odd sandbank down on a river bend. 

After 70 miles we found the confluence of the 

Sun Kosi and the Dudh Kosi. Where the waters 

met the river swelled to a mighty flow, carving 

further east and out to the Indian plain. Turning 

In the Kathmandu valley, a green sea of space 

surrounded by mountains, the tyres of a Boeing 

707 screech on contact with the tarmac at Nepal’s 

international airport. 

The pungence of burnt jet fuel reaches the 

nostrils of two young flying instructors. Both are 

beginning to sweat in their flying suits as they 

wait for radio clearance from the control tower 

to move out behind the 707’s wake. 

At 10.15 am two tiny bright red microlights 

taxi forward onto the main runway opposite the 

airport complex. It’s 16 September 1986. The 

instructors piloting the craft glance at each other. 

away from this spectacular landmark we headed 

north-east up the course of the river that emanates 

from Everest. 

We skirted storm 

cloud and saw a rainbow, 

first flying in shadow then 

bursting into light. After 2 

h we found our first landing 

site, at Lamidanda, an 

airstrip on top of a 3500ft 

mountain. 

With the noise of our 

arrival, Nepalese came 

scurrying from all directions 

to see us. On the 

ground we made contact 

with our team of porters 

with whom we would, in 

the coming weeks, form 

an association of friendship 

and respect — us for 

The usual airport hubbub and noise seems to disappear. 

At this moment everything is transfixed. 

All eyes are on the aircraft, side by side on the 

runway. Simon Baker, a 32 year-old Australian, 

nods to David Young, 33; there is a burst of noise 

and the two aircraft surge forward, take off in 

formation and disappear towards the hills. 

Daring young men in flying machines are making 

history again. These, the first microlights to fly 

in Nepal, are being piloted into the magnificent and 

notoriously treacherous Himalayas. They will fly 

close to Mount Everest and break challenging new 

ground in microlight aviation. They, and the team 

of which they are a part, are trying to shoot kayaks 

down the white waters of the world’s highest river, 

the Dudh Kosi, using microlights to provide aerial 

support, reconnaissance of the rapids, film work, 

and ferrying of supplies. 

As the airport and the Kathmandu valley 

receded behind us, the truly awesome reality of 

what we were doing started to sink in. The valley 

gave way to spectacular mountain ridges, largely 

cultivated in terraces. A telegraph line followed the 

road below, making even that impossible to land 

on in an emergency. Already cumulus cloud was 

building to the north, hiding from us the view of 

the snow-capped highest peaks in the world. The 

road, the Arniko Highway, also disappeared in 

that direction, towards the Tibetan border which 

was just 40 miles away at this point. Our course 

followed the ridge to Kottimal, 6700ft. 

Well, it looked like a ridge on our tourist map! 

In this mountainscape we were nothing. The 

ground unfolded this way and that and it was all 

too easy to get confused. I stuck to my easterly 

heading, searching for the Sun Kosi river valley 

and thankful that Simon was ahead of me on the 

same course. The cloud thickened and threatened; 

we sped along at 60mph just underneath it, suffering 

the jolts of the moving air masses. Mercifully it 

cleared again, so the way ahead was open. 

With the rendezvous with the river there was 

relief and then pangs of uncertainty as I tried to reconcile 

what I was seeing with the limited amount 

of detail on the map. After some consternation I 

found that by looking ahead some 12 miles I could 

make out distinctly where the Tamba Kosi joined 

our own west-east route. There is a rather isolated 

bulk of 5000ft mountain on the east side of the 

confluence, and this now became our target.



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their skills and they for ours. But for now, all we 

felt was an indescribable elation as we sipped hot 

tea by our tent and admired the view. 

Our epic journey was to be tackled in stages. 

Like mountaineers, we were to stop (at tiny airstrips) 

and camp, then move up higher. We had the 

advantage of speed and would be able to snatch 

the opportunity hi good weather to dash to our 

next camp. Even so, there was the ever present 

fear that cloud would form with the anabatic wind 

and cover our retreat. If our higher destination was 

also in cloud we would be rather embarrassed. We 

would also have to be careful not to jump too high 

too quickly. Altitude sickness can be fatal. Above 

13,000 ft, climbers should only advance at 1000ft 

per day in order to acclimatise to the thin air. 

As we ate our simple meal that afternoon in 

front of our tent we found ourselves spending half 

the time revelling in the wonder of where we were 

and the other half studying the fast-changing cloud 

— watching it build and decay, and swirl this way 

and that. Then we began a new pattern of life, going 

to bed at dusk and rising with the sun. 

After all the preparation in England and the 

last three weeks in Kathmandu it was splendid to 

at last be out here in the mountains. Alas, even at 

this early stage there was something wrong. 

Simon was flying a Series II Raven which had 

been re-engined for the trip with a 600cc 75hp 

three-cylinder Robin, to give him the extra thrust 

needed to carry cameraman and equipment at high 

altitude. The engine had been running properly 

but Simon had discovered a small fracture in the 

exhaust pipe. It was a problem that was to dog us 

for the rest of our journey. 

In his usual quiet way Simon, veteran of the 

1983 Iceland Breakthrough Expedition, considered 

the situation. We were faced with a 90 mile flight if 

we retraced our route to Kathmandu — and neither 

of us fancied taking that seemingly retrograde step. 

There was another option. We knew of the British 

Gurkha army camp at Dharan Bazar, which was 

only 55 miles away, just out of the mountains on 

the northern edge of the Indian plain. What the 

army camp was like and whether it contained the 

welding equipment we needed we had no idea, but, 

at least if we flew there in my 440-engined machine 

it would give us the opportunity to reconnoitre 

the lower sections of the Sun Kosi over which we 

would be flying towards the end of the trip. 

Having removed his cracked silencer, Simon 

now discovered a crack in the engine mounting 

plate. We both take things fairly philosophically! 

Supporting the engine by a rope from the trike 

pylon we started stripping things down only to 

realise that as the mounting plate is aluminium it 

cannot easily be welded. We retire to our camp for 

tea. The sun bursts out of cloud and the temperature 

soars. One certainly couldn’t wish to be stranded 

in a more beautiful place. Just once this morning 

we had a glimpse through the cloud of the high 

snow-covered peaks near 

Everest. 

The man at Lamidanda 

Airport seemed 

over- enthusiastic about 

his work and Simon very 

nearly got upset. The 

man couldn’t seem to get 

it into his head that we 

could actually fly without 

radio. All we wanted was 

to make a VFR flight to 

Dharan Bazar, departing 

at 12.45 pm local time 

and with no return ETA. 

Because this flight was 

not in the original plan of 

our expedition, the chap 

was clearly not happy. Luckily the army camp was 

just inside the latitudes and longitudes specified for 

our operation by the Nepal CANs Notam. 

So we left. Underneath the craft the silencer 

was securely tied along with a rucksack containing 

flares, medical kit, water, basic tools and 

toilet paper. The essential fuel filter funnel was 

also tied in place. The engine mounting plate was 

tucked between Simon and myself when we were 

seated. I called on radio for taxi clearance as Simon 

manoeuvred into position. There is an uphill 

gradient as you face to take-off to the south-west. 

We could see about 50 yards ahead to where the 

hill rounded out. 

We built up speed as the special suspension 

absorbed the shocks. Just before the longer grass 

at the end of the runway, the aircraft skipped into 

the air as a little gust of wind gave us airspeed. But 

then we were down again, the grass tearing at the 

rear-wheel axle wires. However, we couldn’t stop 

now — 20 yards ahead was the precipice. With ten 

yards to go she wallowed into the air, struggling 

over terraced gardens. Then there was clear air for 

1000ft. I radioed that we were clear of runway but 

it was obvious that the tower couldn’t hear me. 

And when Simon shouted into the intercom, ‘Look 

at the airfield’, I realised why. Turning around, I 

saw that the airfield was now actually higher than 

our aircraft! 

The level of humidity had caught us out and 

we were unable to climb. Two minutes into flight, 

instead of being able to make a 90° left turn and 

fly over a ridge and down to the Sun Kosi on a 

simple SE heading out of the mountains, we were 

forced by the valley sides to fly ahead to the south 

west. Simon kept to the eastern side of the valley, 

trying to find some lift. Our second opportunity to 

cross the ridge came and went. We had arced to 

within 100ft of the top in both height and distance. 

‘Bottled out’, Simon called, ‘Too much sink the 

other side.’ There was no desperate problem about 

following the river course except that it made our 

journey so much longer — another 30 miles. We 

pushed on along our enforced track until after an 

hour’s flying we had another opportunity for a 

short cut, at Suntale. 

We turned east up a valley. The cloud was low 

but through the gap at the head of the valley we 

could just make out the lowlands far ahead. As we 

approached the bowl leading to this ‘nick’ in the 

Rapcha Range we were skimming under cloudbase. 

Simon descended toward the lowest point 

on the ridge — the view glimpsed a moment ago 

had gone. I kept putting off a decision, then Simon 

gave a thumbs up and he got an encouraging pat on 

the shoulder from me. There’s no time to discuss 

things here; you have to have total confidence in 

your team-mate. Besides, Simon was in the front 

seat and I couldn’t get to the bar! 

Suddenly children rushed from a school right 

on the ridge. We were actually level with the school 

and ahead there was only cloud. We flashed past 

the children barely 100ft from the ground. Over 

the gap, trees flashing past and down — 2000fpm 

on the VSI — we shot down a tree-lined gorge, 

just keeping our 100-150 ft clearance until, like 

magic, we cleared the bottom of the cloud and had 

the most wonderful view of the plain, way ahead. 

Jumping the last range of hills to the open country 

was not the shortest way to Dharan but we had had 

enough of mountains for the moment! 

It was hot. We descended slowly in the stifling 

humid air until we were 1000ft over the jungle. 

Chatra, our expedition’s finishing point, came up 

and then we looked anxiously ahead for the army 

camp. A group of thatched huts and a British officer 

in a tent? Thankfully no. The Gurkha camp 

is markedly different from the surroundings. Neat 

Microlight pilots Simon Baker (left) and 

David Young. 

Brilliant sun one minute, thick cloud the next — the 

weather can really play tricks in the Himalayas.


barrack blocks, workshops, a hospital, houses for senior men, even tennis 

courts. Finding the landing strip was none too difficult either; the landing T 

was clearly to be seen at the end of number 3 fairway on the golf course. 

We landed and stopped by an amazed officer’s wife, Mrs Say, and a totally 

shocked and stunned Nepalese caddy. The hospitality of Lt Col Mike Kefford 

was exceptional. An experienced mountaineer, he was more than sympathetic 

to our plight and in no time the exhaust repair and the manufacture of a replacement 

engine-mounting plate, in steel this time, was under way. 

Stuck here for two days, we made the most of this little haven of Western 

convenience in the Third World. We showered, had our hair cut, saw a film, 

gave a little talk to the British school children about our expedition, organised 

a supply of fuel and oil and took a couple of people for flights. 

On Friday 19 September at 7 am we took off again, hoping to climb back 

to the mountains while the air was still cool. A great long line of Nepalese 

children gathered along the perimeter fence to watch us as we accelerated 

down the smooth-cut grass and climbed over the tall slender trees of the surrounding 

forest into a perfectly calm morning sky. 

The journey back to Lamidanda was a piece of cake. First, we climbed 

to 2000ft over the Sun Kosi valley. It was magnificent to look up and down 

the river course filled with cloud, bright and crisp and pink to our right into 

sun, a little duller to the left where it merged with distant mists and shapes of 

hills. Then past 4000ft. and it’s a little frightening looking down at the chasms 

carved by smaller streams in sharply descending rock. At the halfway point 

cumulus cloud is building all around the hills ahead, while above us the strato 

cumulus is getting thicker. Could we end up in a cloud sandwich? We push 

on, each immersed in our own thoughts. 

And then at Paharpani, at 7000ft, something magical happened. A horizontal 

cleft of blue sky to the north sneaked into our perception. A dreamed-of 

panorama lay across the sky — the magnificent Himalayas. Simon whooped, 

his eyes sparkled in the light, and a big smile spread across his face. In our 

first view of the highest mountains in the world, all fears were swept aside 

— there was no room in our thoughts for anything other than joy at such a 

magnificent spectacle. A little while later, looking down through holes in the 

cloud, we found Lamidanda and lazily descended through the gap. 

After the completion of repairs we departed for Lulda airstrip, 9000 ft up. 

I had to tuck a bicycle pump down the leg of my flying suit as it had been left 

out of my main pack and I’m still amused by the sight of Simon’s umbrella, 

tied underneath the trike base-tube. 

We worked our way up the Dudh Kosi valley with 20,000ft peaks towering 

around us — this time the journey was really taking us into the mountains. 

The 440 Robin buzzed away merrily — on full power all the time. Little did 

I know how thankful I was going to be next time I saw this airfield following 

an engine seizure at 13,000ft nine miles away! Simon and I both had 

standard microlight altimeters which only read up to 8000 ft — slight lack 

of technical planning there! I guessed my height from the map, assessing 

my position relative to various peaks. Simon had a reserve altimeter which 

went to 18,000 ft. 

From now on the special wing developed by Roy Venton-Walters of 

Southdown International would be put to the test, as would the suspension 

fitted to both trike units. The Series II Raven was specifically developed for 

Nepal with the idea that it might also make a good training wing. With a fatter 

aerofoil section than the standard Raven, it had a lower stall speed, and 

thus a better short take-off and landing performance. Area and camber had 

also been increased. Southdown had produced these two special wings in just 

seven months, once again in red and gold, the colours that Gerry Breen chose 

for the Iceland expedition. 

Lulda airstrip is 700 yards long with a height difference of 60m between 

one end of the runway and the other. You approach over a 1500ft ravine and 

land uphill (and downwind) towards a mountain. I ignored my instruments 

and flew by feel, approaching with excess speed to ensure plenty of energy 


P&M 

Aviation 

Unit B, Crawford Street, Rochdale, 

Lancashire. OL16 5NU. 

Tel 01706 655134. 

Website . 

for the uphill roundout. 

We compared notes about this 1hr flight, our first above 14,000ft. Already 

we had flown among the most magnificent mountains, seen Everest, and 

landed at 9000 ft — we were elated. The villagers flocked to see us and our 

machines. 

Now it was time to meet the canoeing team, who had endured a 24 h 

bus ride and an eight-day walk to get to this same place. The team had been 

cheered at seeing the microlights fly over them the previous day as there had 

been no communication for over a week. They had all been bitten by leeches 

and film camerman Nick Downie said that the walking was beginning to 

‘get a bit boring!’ Simon and I had some fun exaggerating tales of life at the 

Dharan Bazar Camp and asked for next Friday off so that we could go to the 

nurses’ ball. It was all taken in good spirit. 

With all the team together, work really started. Canoeists went off to examine 

stretches of the river in the ravine. Simon had to go back to Dharan on 

my machine for a more substantial exhaust repair. Then the big three-cylinder 

trike was used to transport a team member to Syangboche. Micky Gordon had 

a broken leg and flying him to Syangboche saved him an agonising two-day 

walk — the flight took just 20 min! 

There were minor repairs necessary and preparations to make, like fitting 

camera mounts on the aircraft. We undertook parachute training and then 

decided to do without them, to avoid the extra weight. 

When you turn out from the holding point at Lukla and face down the 

runway, for a microlight without brakes there’s no going back. You roll down 

the hill, quickly gathering speed and start agonising about whether you did 

all your checks properly. I was away, but with only 200fpm on the VSI. 

With the wing-mounted camera and counterbalance, the aircraft seemed to 

be tip- stalling only a nudge forward of trim. I still wasn’t happy with the 

ASI, so I ignored it. 

Below the Dudh Kosi swept quickly out of the mountains. I thought of 

the canoeists: rather them than me. A little cloud floated alongside me on 

the west side of the valley. Ahead Namche was caught in a pool of sunlight. 

Again the time passed slowly. 

By the time Simon was circling the airstrip at Syangboche, I was level 

with the airfield but still three miles south. I kept a constant watch on the CHT 

— it showed 290° F, good. Frantically I took some photos of the views, but 

the overriding concern was flight. Level with the airfield just wasn’t good 

enough to make a landing. I cut left across Namche itself, where there is a 

bowl above the town, and I joined the crows, soaring. 

As I worked my way higher I realised the valley wind was probably increasing, 

so I lined up and sped in. A downwind landing, at 12,000 ft. on a 400 yard 

airstrip ending in a hill — and no brakes! What more could you ask for? 

The mountains were bathed in sunshine, but below cloud was billowing 

up towards us. It was 8.25 am. Ten minutes after I landed the mountains 

had disappeared, we were completely enveloped in cloud and the wind had 

picked up. 

On a better day there was some excitement when Simon made a two-up 

take-off from here with Mary Ganczakowski, the expedition doctor, and in 

the process set a new record. Meantime an advance party of canoeists had 

gone ahead to clear a runway at Pheriche. This was literally to be a landing 

on a mountainside, at 14,600 ft. 

It was Monday 29 September, 9 am. Simon took off from Syangboche, 

dropped a wing, expertly recovered and was away. We couldn’t win here, 

for this time it was a downwind take-off. As I started down the slope two 

yaks appeared trotting towards the runway. Our porters shouted at them and 

I reckoned on getting through. With 30 yards to go before the yaks my visor 

misted up. Pushing the bar right forward, the aircraft leapt into the air and 

promptly stalled, almost recovered but bounced before getting away; I managed 

to catch a dropping wing and headed out over the valley. 

Now it was time to fly over the famous Thyangboche monastery where on 

the recce Simon and expedition organiser Mick Coyne had obtained permission 

from the Lama to land. It was a struggle to get to 14,000ft and I had to 

scratch around the hills to get another 1000ft for the landing on the mountain. 

Simon was down first, inaugurating a strip where canoeists and porters had 

been working for three days clearing rocks. We made it! 

This spot was the stuff of dreams. We called it Camp Raven. The classic 

spectacular mountain Ama Dablam towered above us, its peak at over 

22,000ft, and the view back down the valley was such that we really felt on 

top of the world. 

Mick Coyne was there to meet us, face like a lobster from too much sun 

above the snowline, where he had been already to organise the high- altitude 

strip at 17,000ft at Gorak Shep, just a mile from Everest base camp. 

I was feeling a little peculiar and needed a day and some pills from the 

doctor to acclimatise. That night we had a celebration dinner. It was top paddler 

Mike Hewlett’s birthday and the microlights had been making history every 

step of the way. As Simon said: ‘It was magic — and we thought we might not 

get any higher.’ A porter was despatched to find a lamb for slaughter. This was 

duly walked into town and brought on a lead right up to the cooking pot.


Simon’s exhaust was cracked again, necessitating an epic trip to Dharan 

flying across almost the entire width of Nepal, from 14,600ft down to near 

sea level, a 2h flight and a distance over 100 miles. The exhaust was repaired 

immediately and only 1 h later he was back over Lamidanda. There was 

threatening cloud all around, so ‘I decided to spiral down through a small gap, 

descending 5000ft’, he explained. ‘It blew my ears out — I was deaf for two 

days.’ He managed to get back to Camp Raven the following day. 

We did some flying for film, and then later in the day Simon made a 

downwind landing very fast and just stopped before rocks. Without his 

special front brake and suspension we would have had a damaged aircraft, 

but as it was, all we had was a broken exhaust — again! This time it was my 

turn for the flight out. 

The engine seizure that occured at 13,000ft was the worst moment for me 

on the trip. Syangboche was tantalisingly close but I opted to go for Lukla, 

working the mountain ridges for scraps of lift for 9 miles, with nothing below 

but the ravine. Rocks, trees, and fast-rushing river, but nowhere to land. 

Landing at Lukla had one big plus, in that our spare 440 engine was there. 

I worked on the aircraft for two days before I was prepared to fly again. In 

the meantime I got the exhaust on a helicopter to Kathmandu. Back I went 

to Pheriche. 

Simon and I walked up to Gorak Shep, just seven miles from the summit 

of Mount Everest, and examined the landing strip there on a dried-up lake bed. 

The canoeists and porters had again done a great job. The original intention 

had been for Simon and I to each attempt a landing here, with Simon taking 

off again but the smaller- engined machine being de-rigged and carried out. 

Alas, the exhaust had fractured yet again and there was pressure on us now to 

complete this phase of the operation and start following the canoes down the 

river. So I stepped down so that Simon, the chief pilot, could fly the 440. 

On 13 October 1986 Simon flew a standard 440 Fuji Robin trike with 

a Series II Raven wing to over 20,000ft. He had to get good height, for 

the glacier was ‘a disgusting looking place’. Great hulks of ice, massive 

crevasses, and moraine strewn untidily everywhere. He descended near the 

south col, over Everest base camp, and landed perfectly. Touchdown speed 

was around 80 mph. 

Shortly after this amazing achievement Simon was left to assist the expedition 

on his own. I found myself caught in a freak wind and crashed into 

a mountainside at 14,000ft, a 70 mph impact that left me lying in the wreck 

with severe internal injuries. 

Two American doctors from a mountain rescue centre got to the scene 

within 1½h; they nursed me for another 22h before a helicopter was able to 

ferry me to Kathmandu for emergency surgery. 

I was in pain, but it was not the scene you imagine. The snow line was 

much higher and it was actually quite warm. I couldn’t move and I felt in 

distress a couple of times before the doctors arrived, but after that it was really 

a peaceful experience — there was absolutely nothing I could do, so I 

relinquished myself to fate. 

Bottling up feelings of having let the team down, and frustration at not 

having done the high-altitude photography I wanted, spurred me on to what 

I’m told was an amazing recovery. I walked out of hospital eight days later. 

I wanted to rejoin the team, but I found it impossible to endure the bumpy 

ride in a rickshaw, let alone anything else. My intestines had been split in two 

places where the safety belt had snapped into my gut and there was a lot of 

internal bruising. The body just doesn’t get over that very quickly. 

Back in the wilds the canoeists were making good progress down the 

horrendous white water of the world’s highest river and Simon had managed 

to get his machine operational again. Telex messages flashed round 

the world and suddenly Malcolm McBride from Aerotech was on his way 

to take over the second pilot’s role. Malcolm’s engineering skills were put 

to the test immediately when he made a forge in a Nepalese hut to heat and 

release engine pulleys. 

Mingled in with all that were lots of problems. Flying was cancelled 

because of the accident and new permission had to be sought to resume. The 

leading team of canoeists, tackling some of the most dangerous water, were 

five days overdue for a rendezvous, causing great concern, and when they 

did appear they were hungry and exhausted. But the microlights were able 

to help, taking in a supply of food from the army camp and landing on sand 

banks at the side of the river. 

Believe it or not, this long article is just an extract from my notes. Perhaps 

we can combine the full story with some of the unique colour photos 

to make a book. Personally I would like to remember Paul Vander-Molen; 

his efforts brought the Iceland Breakthrough team together, when kites and 

kyaks worked together for the first time, and led on to this and other expeditions. 

His spirit lives on in the people lucky enough to pursue such challenge 

and adventure. 

Copyright David Young, CFI Pegasus Flight Training, Kemble 1987.

Gambian Buchaneer By Andy Buchan - British Microlight Aircraft ...

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