Google Ragerank Explaination
15 years ago
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
SIDEBOX:
David Barish at the St Hilaire FestivalGuest of honour and president of the jury of the film festival, David Barish delighted everybody he met with his modesty, his kindness and his limitless curiosity. He plunged into many passionate discussions with Gin Seok Song (Gin Gliders), Xavier Demoury (Nervures) and Jean-Louis Darlet (The Cage). When flying tandem with Sandie he immediately asked to fly it himself and was eager to fly again the following day and play with some thermals. Sandie commented "I was very flattered to fly with him. He flew the tandem until the last turn of our approach. On the drive back back up again we talked about skiing in Chamonix, where I am from. One day, he got lost in the fog skiing the Vallée Blanche!" Ever available, he gave interviews and press conferences, and had even brought his high aspect ratio prototype for a few inflations and to ask the opinion of other manufacturers. Xavier Demoury knew the pedigree of David Barish and his Sailwing: "I didn’t think it could fly. It seemed crazy. But David, he made it fly 20 years in advance of everybody else. The long lines, ripstop material, the deformation of the material under the pressure between interior and exterior; his work enabled us to arrive to where we are today. He is a true inventor. As for us, we are only improvers! When I see him, I tell myself that I still have 30 good years ahead of me. It’s reassuring! Outside, David and Gin opened up their gliders. Gin admired David’s incredible wing, with an aspect ratio of 8, and its two rows of lines with pyramid cascades. On the brand new Boomerang prototype, David studied the little plastic rods which reinforce the leading edge, designed for high speed using the accelerator
david story7
David has a daughter from his first marriage. When Johanna met David, she warned Johanna straightaway; 'My father does a lot of mad things, you don’t have to follow him!' Thousands of paraglider pilots, without knowing it, have followed David Barish in their quest to fly like a bird. And it’s Johanna again who has the last word on her many years living with David: 'We laughed a lot!' One of the secrets of life!
But the story cannot be closed here. It is David himself who says: "I wouldn’t be surprised if one day someone finds a Russian or a Japanese engineer who did the same thing before I did!"
But the story cannot be closed here. It is David himself who says: "I wouldn’t be surprised if one day someone finds a Russian or a Japanese engineer who did the same thing before I did!"
david story6
David Barish reports, "higher aspect ratio is one way to increase performance. I would not say it’s the easy way. But it is obvious that the result is a rather sensitive machine." Always discreet, David Barish has never promoted his discoveries. Philippe Renaudin, the Sup’Air importer for the USA, had met him many times with his wing and "homemade" harness, before learning that this amazing old gentleman had invented paragliding 35 years ago! And paramotoring too! And he still has things to teach us. When Phillipe told him that his paramotor mysteriously climbs less well when facing into wind, David replied straightaway that it was to be expected, because the angle of the propeller has been designed for a single pitch angle. The same problem existed for small propeller aircraft during the thirties, and was resolved by variable pitch propellers.
david story5
And in the last two years, David has even started to fly again! When he explains that he only flies himself because he 'ran out of test pilots', you may think he’s joking, but David did actually lose one of his best friends, when his aircraft hit a mountain during foggy conditions. An exciting clip from a video shot by Johanna during the summer of 1999 shows him taking off and flying at 100 m above the ground in turbulent conditions. The wing is an incredible prototype, very flat and with an aspect ratio of 8.
david story4
During a skiing trip to Europe, he noticed how popular paragliding had become at resorts like Gstaad (Switzerland). "I was impressed by the number of companies selling equipment' he says. 'Technically, I noticed the Airwave gliders with their diagonal cells.'
The following year, he visited St. Hilaire in France, where the number of wings laid out on the carpet finally convinced him of the sport's size. At over 70 years of age, he returned to the drawing board and his sewing machine. "I did it to satisfy my intellectual curiosity. I looked at every aspect of current design to maximize performance, starting with a completely closed cell glider, and then adding a 30 degree sweep- but that didn't work out!"
The following year, he visited St. Hilaire in France, where the number of wings laid out on the carpet finally convinced him of the sport's size. At over 70 years of age, he returned to the drawing board and his sewing machine. "I did it to satisfy my intellectual curiosity. I looked at every aspect of current design to maximize performance, starting with a completely closed cell glider, and then adding a 30 degree sweep- but that didn't work out!"
david barrish story3
In 1966, NASA was trying to finalize its choice for recovering the capsule of the Apollo space shuttle. For the next two years, David worked hard on his project, trying to convince NASA of its benefits over the Rogallo design. 'Francis Rogallo came to the wind tunnel one day during my tests', remarks David. 'He didn’t say anything, but seemed very interested. In fact, we had both constructed what would later be called a paraglider. The Air Force had organized a demonstration day for the different projects in California. It was there that the glide ratio of 4.2 of my wing was officially measured.'
But a week after the demonstration, NASA HQ totally abandoned the idea of using parachutes. 'They change their mind sometimes!', David comments with a rye smile. 'Now, thirty years on, NASA has returned to the use of parachutes. The most recent, the X34 or "space life boat", designed for recovering the Space Shuttle crews, is 30 metres across. The same size as Dave Barish’s design from 1966!
"When the contract was terminated I just gave up,' recalls David. 'As far as parachutes are concerned, I have never thought that I designed anything which was really much better than those of Jalbert or Snyder. There were already 30 or 40 companies and as many legal fights. My whole professional career has been rooted in subsonic and supersonic aerodynamics. In the science of low speed flight, there has been little innovation in the last 100 years. Most of what we need to know today has already been written in the books of Ludwig Prandtl, of the German school of aerodynamics. "Slope soaring" was a hobby. In order to develop it, I would have had to dedicate myself to it full-time. I had other inventions which I didn't want to neglect.'
---Closed cells, the profile, trim tabs, spinnaker fabric, flaps, 8 m lines, high aspect ratios, launch techniques, tree landings, the paramotor… it all existed as long ago as the '60s! But the explosion in popularity of the sport wouldn’t happen for another 20 years. During the 1980s, David Barish manufactured another paraglider with semi-closed cells, and then a hang glider for his son. Then, one summer's day in 1993, whilst driving near the site of Ellensville, just outside New York, David spotted thirty paragliders in the air, and suddenly realized that slope soaring had grown into a huge sport. His interest was rekindled.
But a week after the demonstration, NASA HQ totally abandoned the idea of using parachutes. 'They change their mind sometimes!', David comments with a rye smile. 'Now, thirty years on, NASA has returned to the use of parachutes. The most recent, the X34 or "space life boat", designed for recovering the Space Shuttle crews, is 30 metres across. The same size as Dave Barish’s design from 1966!
"When the contract was terminated I just gave up,' recalls David. 'As far as parachutes are concerned, I have never thought that I designed anything which was really much better than those of Jalbert or Snyder. There were already 30 or 40 companies and as many legal fights. My whole professional career has been rooted in subsonic and supersonic aerodynamics. In the science of low speed flight, there has been little innovation in the last 100 years. Most of what we need to know today has already been written in the books of Ludwig Prandtl, of the German school of aerodynamics. "Slope soaring" was a hobby. In order to develop it, I would have had to dedicate myself to it full-time. I had other inventions which I didn't want to neglect.'
---Closed cells, the profile, trim tabs, spinnaker fabric, flaps, 8 m lines, high aspect ratios, launch techniques, tree landings, the paramotor… it all existed as long ago as the '60s! But the explosion in popularity of the sport wouldn’t happen for another 20 years. During the 1980s, David Barish manufactured another paraglider with semi-closed cells, and then a hang glider for his son. Then, one summer's day in 1993, whilst driving near the site of Ellensville, just outside New York, David spotted thirty paragliders in the air, and suddenly realized that slope soaring had grown into a huge sport. His interest was rekindled.
david 2
Of these barnstorming days, David remarks, 'It was probably too soon! At that time, slope soaring, was just for fun. We didn’t know that it might be possible to soar in thermals or dynamic wind. We just pushed the sport as being a fun way to race downhill. We raced down the ski slopes, skimming the ground, rarely more than thirty metres up. I still managed to end up in the trees several times!'
david barrish story2
David Barish comments: "NASA wouldn’t buy a double surface chute. But they also wanted a better glide. That’s why, in 1966, we progressed to the version with 5 lobes. Then, the double surface part was extended to one third of the chord. It was Domina Jalbert who invented the entirely double surface parachute. What else about the design? Well, I thought the enormous stabilizers were necessary. And spinnaker cloth was an obvious choice, if you want a wing, you need the lowest possible porosity. I determined the length of the lines came from the experience of kite-flyers who already knew all there was to know on this subject.'
The first flight, in the company of his son and friend Jacques Istel, took place in September 1965 at Bel Air in the Cats Hills. This is a ski resort two hours from New York and not far from Woodstock (where Hendrix had not yet played 'Purple Haze' and 'Little Wing'!). David often flew the slopes of Mount Hunter, in the same area. A keen skier, David Barish had a crazy idea: a new summer sport which would consist of skimming down the grassy slopes of the ski pistes. The new sport was christened "slope soaring.' At the suggestion of a friend who was a journalist on "Ski Magazine', he and his son did a tour of American ski resorts, from Vermont to California in the summer of '66. The aim was to demonstrate that "slope soaring" could be a viable summer activity in ski resorts
The first flight, in the company of his son and friend Jacques Istel, took place in September 1965 at Bel Air in the Cats Hills. This is a ski resort two hours from New York and not far from Woodstock (where Hendrix had not yet played 'Purple Haze' and 'Little Wing'!). David often flew the slopes of Mount Hunter, in the same area. A keen skier, David Barish had a crazy idea: a new summer sport which would consist of skimming down the grassy slopes of the ski pistes. The new sport was christened "slope soaring.' At the suggestion of a friend who was a journalist on "Ski Magazine', he and his son did a tour of American ski resorts, from Vermont to California in the summer of '66. The aim was to demonstrate that "slope soaring" could be a viable summer activity in ski resorts
david barrish story 1
In the early 60s, the space race was on, and huge amounts of money were thrown into development, and it was this that triggered the invention of paragliders. In 1964, David Barish applied himself to the design of a parachute for bringing space capsules back to earth. To avoid manufacturing parachutes with spans of over 30 metres for carrying capsules weighing 5 tones, he made models of different sizes. He tested them behind his car, or by hand in a steady wind at Staten Island ferry.The first Sailwing was single surfaced, rectangular shaped and made up of three lobes. The front of each panel was turned under and stitched to the undersurface along the seams joining the panels. This formed a double surface of over 30 cm. when inflated, it rigidified the leading edge
david barrish story
David Barish started his flying career at the age of 18-years-old. In 1939 the US government was suffering a shortage of pilots, and was offering a free training programme to new recruits. 'I was soon a co-pilot for TWA, flying transatlantic routes,' he recalls. 'My brother, was three years older than me, was a bomber pilot flying the B17 flying Fortress, and was killed in the Normandy landings in 1944. I joined the US Airforce soon after, and trained as a fighter pilot on the Mustang. But luckily, the day I graduated was the day Japan surrendered. The war was over.'
David then gained a place at the prestigious Cal Tech university, where he obtained a Master’s degree in theoretical aerodynamics. He put it into good use by working for the Air Force's Research and Development division at Dayton. In 1953, he left the armed forces, but remained a consultant for the Air Force and NASA. In 1955, he designed the Vortex Ring, a revolutionary parachute consisting of four flexible wings rotating on an axis, producing the same effect as the blades of a helicopter. With a better sink rate, a reduced opening shock, half the weight, and no oscillation, the Vortex Ring was dubbed 'the perfect parachute.' Another advantage is that on landing, the Vortex Ring immediately folds itself up, even in a strong wind, which avoids being dragged along the ground- which could be quite an advantage for paraglider pilots! It was produced by Pioneer, the world’s leading manufacturer, and is still used today by the American army.
David then gained a place at the prestigious Cal Tech university, where he obtained a Master’s degree in theoretical aerodynamics. He put it into good use by working for the Air Force's Research and Development division at Dayton. In 1953, he left the armed forces, but remained a consultant for the Air Force and NASA. In 1955, he designed the Vortex Ring, a revolutionary parachute consisting of four flexible wings rotating on an axis, producing the same effect as the blades of a helicopter. With a better sink rate, a reduced opening shock, half the weight, and no oscillation, the Vortex Ring was dubbed 'the perfect parachute.' Another advantage is that on landing, the Vortex Ring immediately folds itself up, even in a strong wind, which avoids being dragged along the ground- which could be quite an advantage for paraglider pilots! It was produced by Pioneer, the world’s leading manufacturer, and is still used today by the American army.
3rd June 2000, Manhattan, USA
51st Street, New York. 12th floor. A smiling gentleman opens the front door of his apartment to greet me. "Xavier?", he enquires, stretching out his hand in welcome. It is the culmination of 12 years of searching for the legitimate father of paragliding. And over the next three days David Barish tells me the story of his life and his many inventions, amongst which is the paraglider. In the spare room, where I am staying, David shows me the sewing machine he used to stitch his first designs, now stowed away under the bed. And sat on the shelf lies the wooden propeller, of the first paramotor!
January 1998, Musée de l’Air et de l’Espace, France
Rummaging around in the museum library, I found another book by Dan Poynter, titled "Hang Gliding" and dating back to 1973. What a find! More than two pages are dedicated to "paragliding", which is described as being very similar to hang gliding. They are illustrated with the same photos as were used in the "Parachute Manual". And here, the inventor of paragliding had a name -David Barish - and was described in the captions as being the promoter of the activity, having made several flights in the ski resorts of the USA. I announced my discovery in the April 1998 issue of Parapente magazine in a story titled "Paragliding was born in the USA." But the editor refused to publish my poor photo - the glider was too ugly! Fellow journalist Jean-Paul Budillon picked up on my lead and sniffed out the contact details of Dan Poynter and David Barish. I bought a plane ticket to New York.
January 1992, Melbourne, Australia
After a competition in Victoria, I paid a visit to the meet director who ran a small parachute factory in Melbourne. I discovered his complete year-on-year collection of the Parachute Manual, and I leafed through them, hungry for more information. The 1972 edition carried a description of "slope soaring", described as a method of testing parachutes after a repair. In the courtyard of the factory, I laid the book on the ground and photographed the pages. It served as proof that foot-launching had started as early as 1970! The black and white photographs show an astonishingly shaped wing. This was David Barish’s Sailwing machine, but I would only learn this fact eight years later. I would long regret my blatant lack of curiosity as to who the pilot was. Like me, no-one would push the investigation further.
February 1988, Annemasse, France
Whilst researching my book "La folle Histoire du Parapente", I met a parachutist from Annemasse: André Bohn, one of the three pioneers of paragliding in France. On Sunday 27th June 1978, André had launched from Mieussy and glided all the way down to the football pitch in the valley 1000 metres below. When I asked how he came upon he idea of foot-launching a ram-air parachute, André told that he had seen it described in the "Parachute Manual", a technical magazine by Dan Poynter written for professional parachutists. This was a revelation to me, as it was now obvious that contrary to popular belief, paragliding wasn’t invented in Mieussy, France… even though it was there that the concept flourished through the passion and dedication of pioneers like Jean-Claude Bétemps, Gérard Bosson and the "Choucas" club of Mieussy.
david barrish forgotten father of paragliding
In the early 1960s, the USA and USSR were fully engaged in a race to get the first man on the moon. David Barish, an American aeronautical engineer, invented a new parachute for bringing spacecraft gently back to earth. He tested his new wing shape by self-launching, and was so excited by its possibilities that he set off round the ski resorts of the USA demonstrating his newly found summer sport. During research that has spanned twelve years and three continents, Xavier Murillo has discovered the true birth date of paragliding - 1965 - and went to talk to the man that started it all.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
SIV in Norway
I have never been too keen on doing an SIV course, but my enthusiasm to go to Norway and take part in the Norwegian Extreme Sports week won over. So in June we sailed from Newcastle to Bergen, then continued up to Voss approx. 2hours drive away. Our SIV course was to be run by Alex Loew (Apco chief test pilot) and Rob Cruickshank who I am sure you will all of heard of.
Along with other paraglider pilots (didn’t spot any HGs) we were sharing Voss with Sky Divers, Base Jumpers, White Water Canoeists and Down Hill Mountain Bikers. PLUS the Red Bull Display team The Rodregez brothers, Robby Whittall etc.
After sorting out digs etc. We made or way to the first meeting with Alex and Rob.
Turned out there were about 30 of us on the course... 27 Norwegians, Paul, myself and Julian French from N Yorks (a pilot and a gentleman)So, enter Alex, stocky, sunburnt, arrogant chauvinist-, I knew we would get on, I liked him.........honestly.
First shock. (Plenty to follow) the SIV was to be done without the use of radios..Bloody hell..... ......who’s going to tell me WHAT to pull, WHEN to pull it , and how HARD?
His philosophy on teaching SIV (which he has done for quite sometime) is to talk to you, explain the maneuvers required, talk you through what will occur when its going correctly, and when not going according to plan. Then of course talking you through recovery procedures.
To the hill. We discovered that all the Norwegian pilots need to do this course in order to obtain their pilot ratings. A very good idea I think.We worked under our own steam through. Asymmetric and Full frontal defilations. Spin entry, spins at stall speed and spins at trim speed (ahhhhhh), B line stalls, Full on Spiral Dives Left & Right, Auto rotations and of course Full Stalls. All of which we entered into, and got out of without any outside instruction.
For all of our maneuvers we HAD to perform over water, if anyone started to ‘perform’ over land a severe bollocking was to greet them on landing. All SIV pilots were given a 2ft tall fablon alphabetical sticker to attach to the underside leading edge of their wing so they could be identified by Alex or Rob from the ground. All pilots were marked out of 10 for each maneuver , the Norwegian pilots needed to obtain a 7 average for maneuver and recovery to pass their Pilot qualification. Well....Paul, Julian and I completed and passed all our tasks but not without incident. In fact Julian and Paul were very well placed to win the overall Extreme Week !.
Julian’s first beautifully choreographed water entry was fantastic to watch....With eyes and gobs wide open we watched as he intentionally entered his Auto rotation. Firstly, pull in one side of your wing then lean into the turn. Believe me things then start to happen very fast. How-ever what you are supposed to do after a couple of rotations is release the collapse (pump out if necessary) lean away from the collapse correct and control the turn...back to level flight. But oh no, not the way Julian did it. Collapse..Lean in..Spin......then spin... then spin some more. Then spin right round so facing backwards whist the wing is spinning and trying to fly forwards. The wing does not seem to like this maneuver and was bucking and tucking like a thing possessed. All this time of course Julian had a really fantastic descent rate, so much so he was so engrossed in trying to recover he had no idea how close he was to the water...SPLOOSH..A Lesson learnt.
I think the pictures tell the story..So to Pauls little display. After we had both completed our Full Stalls Paul decided he would like to throw his reserve. By now he was pretty confident. Since learning to fly Paul has always made a dummy grab for his reserve handle whilst in the air, Just so he would know the position in times of need !. So, Alex true to form said fine throw your reserve However, this is the Extreme Week so there is no way you will be a puffter on my course throwing your reserve in level flight. He wanted to see some action. This he got...This we ALL got. Paul went back up the cable car to the top of the mountain whilst we sat with a coffee and a bun (only £19.99 cheap by Norwegian standards). Looking up expectantly to the skies. It was not long before we saw his Pink Sabre flying gracefully and serene out over the lake.
Let the Action Begin..and it did. A couple of tight spirals ..out ..Big wing over, Full Asymmetric collapse , and into the Autorotation. Looking pretty contorted he spiraled violently down, and down and down and down and down and down...I was getting a little panicy on his behalf, although he has informed me since he was feeling plenty ‘uncool’ for him self. He could not find that bloody reserve handle. It had obviously moved from that oh so 100 % reachable position on his right buttock. Very reminiscent of Julian he plummeted towards the welcoming black icy water of the Norwegian Lake.
How-ever in a last ditch effort to try and retain some credibility at about 30ft above the water he managed to recover the glider, wanged the brakes on converting the huge speed he had into height and went on a death glide skimming the water with his toes and landed slap bang in the middle of the floating pontoon that had just been positioned for the Rodregez Brothers and the Red Bull Team for their acrobatic Display.
Huge applause from the now quite large viewing public , and a huge sigh of relief from the platform!
So, quite an eventful holiday. In Summary a lot of very worth while lessons learnt.
If you can, with a reputable instructor Do an SIV course. I do not think you will regret it.
On your harness, if you cannot see your reserve handle whilst in level flight..Change your kit so that you can, Your life may depend on it.
Norway....Fantastic Country, Amazing Scenery, Lovely People unfortunately Bl***y Expensive.
So if your lottery numbers come up between now and June 2003 book a place on Extreme Week 2003 I guarantee you will not be disappointed.
Along with other paraglider pilots (didn’t spot any HGs) we were sharing Voss with Sky Divers, Base Jumpers, White Water Canoeists and Down Hill Mountain Bikers. PLUS the Red Bull Display team The Rodregez brothers, Robby Whittall etc.
After sorting out digs etc. We made or way to the first meeting with Alex and Rob.
Turned out there were about 30 of us on the course... 27 Norwegians, Paul, myself and Julian French from N Yorks (a pilot and a gentleman)So, enter Alex, stocky, sunburnt, arrogant chauvinist-, I knew we would get on, I liked him.........honestly.
First shock. (Plenty to follow) the SIV was to be done without the use of radios..Bloody hell..... ......who’s going to tell me WHAT to pull, WHEN to pull it , and how HARD?
His philosophy on teaching SIV (which he has done for quite sometime) is to talk to you, explain the maneuvers required, talk you through what will occur when its going correctly, and when not going according to plan. Then of course talking you through recovery procedures.
To the hill. We discovered that all the Norwegian pilots need to do this course in order to obtain their pilot ratings. A very good idea I think.We worked under our own steam through. Asymmetric and Full frontal defilations. Spin entry, spins at stall speed and spins at trim speed (ahhhhhh), B line stalls, Full on Spiral Dives Left & Right, Auto rotations and of course Full Stalls. All of which we entered into, and got out of without any outside instruction.
For all of our maneuvers we HAD to perform over water, if anyone started to ‘perform’ over land a severe bollocking was to greet them on landing. All SIV pilots were given a 2ft tall fablon alphabetical sticker to attach to the underside leading edge of their wing so they could be identified by Alex or Rob from the ground. All pilots were marked out of 10 for each maneuver , the Norwegian pilots needed to obtain a 7 average for maneuver and recovery to pass their Pilot qualification. Well....Paul, Julian and I completed and passed all our tasks but not without incident. In fact Julian and Paul were very well placed to win the overall Extreme Week !.
Julian’s first beautifully choreographed water entry was fantastic to watch....With eyes and gobs wide open we watched as he intentionally entered his Auto rotation. Firstly, pull in one side of your wing then lean into the turn. Believe me things then start to happen very fast. How-ever what you are supposed to do after a couple of rotations is release the collapse (pump out if necessary) lean away from the collapse correct and control the turn...back to level flight. But oh no, not the way Julian did it. Collapse..Lean in..Spin......then spin... then spin some more. Then spin right round so facing backwards whist the wing is spinning and trying to fly forwards. The wing does not seem to like this maneuver and was bucking and tucking like a thing possessed. All this time of course Julian had a really fantastic descent rate, so much so he was so engrossed in trying to recover he had no idea how close he was to the water...SPLOOSH..A Lesson learnt.
I think the pictures tell the story..So to Pauls little display. After we had both completed our Full Stalls Paul decided he would like to throw his reserve. By now he was pretty confident. Since learning to fly Paul has always made a dummy grab for his reserve handle whilst in the air, Just so he would know the position in times of need !. So, Alex true to form said fine throw your reserve However, this is the Extreme Week so there is no way you will be a puffter on my course throwing your reserve in level flight. He wanted to see some action. This he got...This we ALL got. Paul went back up the cable car to the top of the mountain whilst we sat with a coffee and a bun (only £19.99 cheap by Norwegian standards). Looking up expectantly to the skies. It was not long before we saw his Pink Sabre flying gracefully and serene out over the lake.
Let the Action Begin..and it did. A couple of tight spirals ..out ..Big wing over, Full Asymmetric collapse , and into the Autorotation. Looking pretty contorted he spiraled violently down, and down and down and down and down and down...I was getting a little panicy on his behalf, although he has informed me since he was feeling plenty ‘uncool’ for him self. He could not find that bloody reserve handle. It had obviously moved from that oh so 100 % reachable position on his right buttock. Very reminiscent of Julian he plummeted towards the welcoming black icy water of the Norwegian Lake.
How-ever in a last ditch effort to try and retain some credibility at about 30ft above the water he managed to recover the glider, wanged the brakes on converting the huge speed he had into height and went on a death glide skimming the water with his toes and landed slap bang in the middle of the floating pontoon that had just been positioned for the Rodregez Brothers and the Red Bull Team for their acrobatic Display.
Huge applause from the now quite large viewing public , and a huge sigh of relief from the platform!
So, quite an eventful holiday. In Summary a lot of very worth while lessons learnt.
If you can, with a reputable instructor Do an SIV course. I do not think you will regret it.
On your harness, if you cannot see your reserve handle whilst in level flight..Change your kit so that you can, Your life may depend on it.
Norway....Fantastic Country, Amazing Scenery, Lovely People unfortunately Bl***y Expensive.
So if your lottery numbers come up between now and June 2003 book a place on Extreme Week 2003 I guarantee you will not be disappointed.
where to go?
Where to go Scotland has many beautiful flying sites there are good clubs all over where experienced pilots meet up and fly together. If you are learning there are three schools in Scotland - The terrain in Scotland is ideal for learning but the weather can sometimes keep our feet on the ground - so its good to take a holiday and be prepared to enjoy doing other things - when the conditions are right there is no where in the world more beautiful to fly.
Here is a series of articles dealing with basic things like take off techniques and accident scenarios: tree-landings, water landings etc. Normally when something goes wrong it is not just one thing but a series of wrong decisions that cascade quickly into an accident scenario. We will tackle one subject at a time and analyze how to prevent it and if it is happening how best to cope with it . It is no good just saying DON'T land in water or in a tree and expect that no one ever will. Accidents happen! we should be looking at how to best prevent them. But we will also look at how best to cope with and deal with the emergency situation to increase your chances of survival.
Here is a series of articles dealing with basic things like take off techniques and accident scenarios: tree-landings, water landings etc. Normally when something goes wrong it is not just one thing but a series of wrong decisions that cascade quickly into an accident scenario. We will tackle one subject at a time and analyze how to prevent it and if it is happening how best to cope with it . It is no good just saying DON'T land in water or in a tree and expect that no one ever will. Accidents happen! we should be looking at how to best prevent them. But we will also look at how best to cope with and deal with the emergency situation to increase your chances of survival.
Paragliding
Intro: You carry your paraglider in a rucksack up a hill, unroll the material step forward into the wind and a wing forms above your head, your feet leave the earth and your shadow flys beneath you over stunning scenary . A different prospective on life. You circle up in invisible air currents centering on the strongest core of the thermal with birds staring at you as they fly wingtip to wingtip.
You chose your site to fly depending on the wind conditions sometimes hovering above a ridge in stable air blowing in from the sea. Other times launching from a hill to circle up to the clouds and fly cross country in a three dimensional game. You look , lean and turn banking your wing with your harness steering with your hands, you take off and land gently facing into the wind.
Paragliding – The Essential Skills Guide to the essential skills every Paraglider Pilot needs to improve and develop within the sport.
Want to get started? If you have always dreamed of flying then do the elementary pilots course which takes 4 to 5 days. You can also try aTandem or a funday with friends, where you learn the basic controls starting at the bottom of the hill having small solo flights which are extended higher as confidence and ability grow. Tandem flights you go up with an instructor which lets you feel the thrill of flight with someone experienced at the controls.
Paragliding is very easy to learn but takes time to master. It is best to do the training as close together as possible or you keep having to relearn the same thing. Paragliding is weather dependant it needs to be dry and the wind less than 15 miles an hour. You work through a series of exercises which teach you how to fly but everybody learns at a different pace. The second stage is the club pilot course which teaches you to stay up and judge conditions for yourself. Equipment is provided but during training most pilots purchase their own paraglider so they can get used to flying it in a school environment. Once qualified you join your local club to fly with more experienced pilots.
You chose your site to fly depending on the wind conditions sometimes hovering above a ridge in stable air blowing in from the sea. Other times launching from a hill to circle up to the clouds and fly cross country in a three dimensional game. You look , lean and turn banking your wing with your harness steering with your hands, you take off and land gently facing into the wind.
Paragliding – The Essential Skills Guide to the essential skills every Paraglider Pilot needs to improve and develop within the sport.
Want to get started? If you have always dreamed of flying then do the elementary pilots course which takes 4 to 5 days. You can also try aTandem or a funday with friends, where you learn the basic controls starting at the bottom of the hill having small solo flights which are extended higher as confidence and ability grow. Tandem flights you go up with an instructor which lets you feel the thrill of flight with someone experienced at the controls.
Paragliding is very easy to learn but takes time to master. It is best to do the training as close together as possible or you keep having to relearn the same thing. Paragliding is weather dependant it needs to be dry and the wind less than 15 miles an hour. You work through a series of exercises which teach you how to fly but everybody learns at a different pace. The second stage is the club pilot course which teaches you to stay up and judge conditions for yourself. Equipment is provided but during training most pilots purchase their own paraglider so they can get used to flying it in a school environment. Once qualified you join your local club to fly with more experienced pilots.
Cairnwell
Scottish Open sitting on top of the Cairnwell with Angie Theodarakis, Peter Rutherford, Len Hull (With the prototype Airwave Kiss) and a few others. The wind was on the north east face and they had set an ambitious task. A 14 mile cross wind leg to a turn point…Then Open XC……Oh yeah no bother then, just 14 miles across the mountains then start your distance….Some chance.
It was one of those days when you wanted to fly, but for some reason you weren’t keen to get in the air. Knowing how rough Scotland can be especially with a northerly air stream your brain was saying “Don’t do it”
A lot of pilots had left having various results but the sky was looking pretty good and by Scottish standards unbelievable. Len Hull had took off earlier and wasn’t having the best of it. Peter, Angie and I took off close together and as soon as you were in the air you knew you were in for something different. It wasn’t dangerous just big strong whopping bastard Scottish thermals with kilts on. By the time we got to the bottom of the valley above the Spittal Hotel we were at 6 grand with the Cairngorms spread out below us, it was mind blowing. About 8 miles into the flight I saw Angie and Len Hull stuck on a ridge far below….Losers. The flight continued to the turn point which was a hotel. You had to get the letter “T” that was behind the building on the lawn. If I said I was 30 feet above the chimney when I got the letter I would be lying. I could have saved Santa time dropping his presents at the same time.
I landed very soon after in the field with a few other hang glider pilots. As I was de-rigging Peter Rutherford walked up to me and surprised me very much he had made it this far…..Have you been getting the bus with your glider again Rutherford? The boy had done well. Just as we were congratulating each other Angie went over our head at what must have been 7000 feet. He was mega high and did very well on the day. Scotland is a fantastic place to fly when you get the weather.
Just a few memories as I don’t want to bore you all to death. I hope you enjoyed.
It was one of those days when you wanted to fly, but for some reason you weren’t keen to get in the air. Knowing how rough Scotland can be especially with a northerly air stream your brain was saying “Don’t do it”
A lot of pilots had left having various results but the sky was looking pretty good and by Scottish standards unbelievable. Len Hull had took off earlier and wasn’t having the best of it. Peter, Angie and I took off close together and as soon as you were in the air you knew you were in for something different. It wasn’t dangerous just big strong whopping bastard Scottish thermals with kilts on. By the time we got to the bottom of the valley above the Spittal Hotel we were at 6 grand with the Cairngorms spread out below us, it was mind blowing. About 8 miles into the flight I saw Angie and Len Hull stuck on a ridge far below….Losers. The flight continued to the turn point which was a hotel. You had to get the letter “T” that was behind the building on the lawn. If I said I was 30 feet above the chimney when I got the letter I would be lying. I could have saved Santa time dropping his presents at the same time.
I landed very soon after in the field with a few other hang glider pilots. As I was de-rigging Peter Rutherford walked up to me and surprised me very much he had made it this far…..Have you been getting the bus with your glider again Rutherford? The boy had done well. Just as we were congratulating each other Angie went over our head at what must have been 7000 feet. He was mega high and did very well on the day. Scotland is a fantastic place to fly when you get the weather.
Just a few memories as I don’t want to bore you all to death. I hope you enjoyed.
Cross Fell
We’d just come back from a washed out Scottish Open. Steve Hall, Peter Rutherford and myself decided to give Crossfell a go. It was raining when we arrived so ended up having a pint and a game of pool in the Shepherd’s.
The weather changed quite quickly and the sky went blue with just the odd cumulus. We rigged on the top all ready together just in case. I took off and flew to Wild Boar. I was met by a mega 10 – 15 up….A mega thermal! I dared to take my hand off the bar to key the mike and say “Get yer arses over here quick” But they were already on their way. We climbed out together and reached an amazing 4000ft above the top of Crossfell summit – 7000ft ASL. The views were spectacular, we could see both coasts it was that clear.
We slowly circled over Jim Clapp the vet’s house as the drift was light. With Garrigal below and the wide expanse of Nenthead moor in front of us it was decision time. There was one cloud shadow right in the middle of the moor but if it didn’t work it was the mega carry again. Oh well nothing ventured and all that I pulled 25 yards of VB on and set off on a glide. I was rewarded with a beautiful climb. Steve Hall joined me below and we climbed out again to a great height. But Peter Rutherford the “Disbeliever” didn’t risk it. Steve and I watched him run along the ground for about 15 miles making sarcastic jokes about his lowly position. He even screamed when six Tornadoes went passed him at 600 knots. That was well worth watching from our lofty position. Steve came on the radio “What’s that big lake in front of us?” Well Steve if you look at the map that’s in your harness pocket it would say Derwent Reservoir. I was getting bored with the slow drift and decided on a very long glide for the cloud over Consett. Steve shouting you’ll never make it, it’s too far away….So why you following then? I got to Consett and could see a woman hanging washing on her line….This was low, but the thermal worked and off I went again. Steve wasn’t so lucky he landed right in the middle of Consett...I kid you not.
It was just at this point that the radio crackled into life…. “Anyone on channel?” It was Clive Bridges at home in Sunderland..... Wallis here. Where are you?......6 grand over the A19 Kamatsu Factory. Oh yeah was the reply..... Please your self, can you not hear the vario going crackers..... Bastards, bastards I knew I should have went flying….Hee hee…Sorry Clive.
Peter had done well to catch up but I couldn’t see him as he was now further south. He eventually landed at Chester-le-street about 39 miles. I still had much height as there was lift everywhere by now. I could easy make the coast crossing Sunderland and maybe a bit more. But……….. a Boeing 737 on it’s approach into Newcastle passed me at the same height (in free airspace may I add) I could see the faces in the portholes it was that close. My bottle was well and truly gone. I wound off 6000 feet of height and landed by Penshaw Monument. Clive Bridges picked Peter and I up and took us all the way back to Ovingham where much much beer was drank…..A cracking day.
The weather changed quite quickly and the sky went blue with just the odd cumulus. We rigged on the top all ready together just in case. I took off and flew to Wild Boar. I was met by a mega 10 – 15 up….A mega thermal! I dared to take my hand off the bar to key the mike and say “Get yer arses over here quick” But they were already on their way. We climbed out together and reached an amazing 4000ft above the top of Crossfell summit – 7000ft ASL. The views were spectacular, we could see both coasts it was that clear.
We slowly circled over Jim Clapp the vet’s house as the drift was light. With Garrigal below and the wide expanse of Nenthead moor in front of us it was decision time. There was one cloud shadow right in the middle of the moor but if it didn’t work it was the mega carry again. Oh well nothing ventured and all that I pulled 25 yards of VB on and set off on a glide. I was rewarded with a beautiful climb. Steve Hall joined me below and we climbed out again to a great height. But Peter Rutherford the “Disbeliever” didn’t risk it. Steve and I watched him run along the ground for about 15 miles making sarcastic jokes about his lowly position. He even screamed when six Tornadoes went passed him at 600 knots. That was well worth watching from our lofty position. Steve came on the radio “What’s that big lake in front of us?” Well Steve if you look at the map that’s in your harness pocket it would say Derwent Reservoir. I was getting bored with the slow drift and decided on a very long glide for the cloud over Consett. Steve shouting you’ll never make it, it’s too far away….So why you following then? I got to Consett and could see a woman hanging washing on her line….This was low, but the thermal worked and off I went again. Steve wasn’t so lucky he landed right in the middle of Consett...I kid you not.
It was just at this point that the radio crackled into life…. “Anyone on channel?” It was Clive Bridges at home in Sunderland..... Wallis here. Where are you?......6 grand over the A19 Kamatsu Factory. Oh yeah was the reply..... Please your self, can you not hear the vario going crackers..... Bastards, bastards I knew I should have went flying….Hee hee…Sorry Clive.
Peter had done well to catch up but I couldn’t see him as he was now further south. He eventually landed at Chester-le-street about 39 miles. I still had much height as there was lift everywhere by now. I could easy make the coast crossing Sunderland and maybe a bit more. But……….. a Boeing 737 on it’s approach into Newcastle passed me at the same height (in free airspace may I add) I could see the faces in the portholes it was that close. My bottle was well and truly gone. I wound off 6000 feet of height and landed by Penshaw Monument. Clive Bridges picked Peter and I up and took us all the way back to Ovingham where much much beer was drank…..A cracking day.
Titlington
Sitting on the top of Titlington Pike with not a breath of wind and a grey sky. Hooked in and waiting for God knows what. We took off one by one drifting to the bottom landing field. Eric Bryson took off in front of me. When he was over the trees at the bottom he started to go up and up and up and up and then out the other side of the thermal without turning once??? I followed him off in nil wind hit the thermal and wound it back slowly to 1700 ATO. Not being too sure what I was going to do with my new found altitude and grey sky I decided to head off cross wind for Hepburn Wood. No special reason just to see if I could make it. Not only did I make it, I was rewarded with a solid 5 up from the corner of the ridge. This got me up to 2500 ATO and over the mast behind the ridge. I noticed a long line of cloud just east of me at about the same height. I wonder what this is? What’s causing it? I flew across to it and was met by the most amazing silky 2 up I’d ever come across. Convergence! On a crap day like this too. With one wing in the cloud and the other out I straight lined it all the way to Berwick. John Miller kindly picked me up and was astonished I made it this far….He wasn’t the only one
And probably my favourite
And probably my favourite
Moneylaws
Flying Moneylaws on a very windy post frontal day with strong thermals. Steve Hall and I got away from the ridge almost together. The climbs were quick and the sink great. Steve lost it going over the moors towards Cheviot, no tracks just a mega carry out. I took a chance and headed for the Bizzle Burn on the North face of Cheviot. I was concerned about the wind strength but didn’t want the same carry out as Steve. I arrived half way up the face of Cheviot and turned east along the ridge instead of west. The wind was more Northwest and although I was going up like a Fenwicks elevator I couldn’t penetrate along the ridge. As I approached the top of Cheviot I was going backwards with the bar to my knees….Oh shit here we are again. I edged along the ridge to the east with the bar to my gonads and got deposited on the shoulder of Cheviot.
It took me a good 20 minutes to get unclipped and get the glider down. I waited “All Day” for the wind to drop and take off again as I had to fly to a road somewhere. The only pleasure I got sitting by myself for hours was watching the white triangle shape slowly making it’s way across the moor….Yes Steve Hall. He had no water and was living off wild berries. When he was picked up later that night after flying off the top of the Yeavering Bell he looked like a man possessed with red stains all over his face.
I eventually took off in what was still a very strong wind and had one of the roughest rides of my life flying low between Cheviot and Hedgehope. I flew over the top of Dunmoor and was then drilled on the lee-side but managed to make the road that went through Ingram Valley. A memorable day with MUCH beer drinking and laughter….After the event!
It took me a good 20 minutes to get unclipped and get the glider down. I waited “All Day” for the wind to drop and take off again as I had to fly to a road somewhere. The only pleasure I got sitting by myself for hours was watching the white triangle shape slowly making it’s way across the moor….Yes Steve Hall. He had no water and was living off wild berries. When he was picked up later that night after flying off the top of the Yeavering Bell he looked like a man possessed with red stains all over his face.
I eventually took off in what was still a very strong wind and had one of the roughest rides of my life flying low between Cheviot and Hedgehope. I flew over the top of Dunmoor and was then drilled on the lee-side but managed to make the road that went through Ingram Valley. A memorable day with MUCH beer drinking and laughter….After the event!
Northumbria Memories
I know a lot of pilots get enjoyment purely from casual flying, but I’ve got to say I’ve had my best and most memorable moments in competition, whether just club or national. I hope you will allow me to share a few of them just as they come into my head.
1 Cross Fell
Club comp on Crossfell 1st task race around a mini triangle. Take off, first turn point left on the corner of Wild Boar Scar. Light wind but everyone keen and hungry. Several gliders made straight for Wild Boar without beating the ridge for some height, they just went for it. We all arrived at the corner below the top. A few of us got into a scrappy punchy thermal that was drifting up the gully to the next turn point, a cairn of stones just below Crossfell. I remember Ron Freeman and I doing some really aggressive and close thermaling up the rock face. Ron made the turn point just ahead of me and set off for the third which was the cars at the bottom landing field. We both had the bar to our toes, he knew I was behind him and I could see him, but I couldn’t make up that couple of seconds. We both made the turn point below the top, raced back to the ridge to get 20 feet of height then in for landing. The time was an amazing 8 minutes…..What a blast that was.
1 Cross Fell
Club comp on Crossfell 1st task race around a mini triangle. Take off, first turn point left on the corner of Wild Boar Scar. Light wind but everyone keen and hungry. Several gliders made straight for Wild Boar without beating the ridge for some height, they just went for it. We all arrived at the corner below the top. A few of us got into a scrappy punchy thermal that was drifting up the gully to the next turn point, a cairn of stones just below Crossfell. I remember Ron Freeman and I doing some really aggressive and close thermaling up the rock face. Ron made the turn point just ahead of me and set off for the third which was the cars at the bottom landing field. We both had the bar to our toes, he knew I was behind him and I could see him, but I couldn’t make up that couple of seconds. We both made the turn point below the top, raced back to the ridge to get 20 feet of height then in for landing. The time was an amazing 8 minutes…..What a blast that was.
for the fastest introduction to the spoert try by tandem flight with alaska paragliding
For the fastest introduction to the sport try a tandem flight with Alaska Paragliding’s team of professional tandem instructor pilots.After introductory paragliding basics and a quick ride up the Alyeska Aerial Tramway you and your instructor will fly together off the side of the mountain! In conjunction with our Tandem Flight Program, we also offer an accelerated Solo Paragliding Flight Training Course. All services available 8am to 10pm daily from May 20th to September 31, and outside this period by special arrangement Reservations are strongly advised!
Tandem Flights: Cost $185 per person about 1 hour total - daily all summer long
Solo Training: Costs vary50 hours - starts July 10th, 20th, 30th etc
LOCATIONAlyeska Resort, one of the AAW's most prized flying sites is located just 35 miles south of Anchorage in the resort town of Girdwood. Drive south on the newly improved and very scenic New Seward Highway. Enroute look for Dall Sheep grazing on the cliffs above the road, beluga whale in the inlet, salmon fishermen at creeksides and the splendid scenery in all directions!
We look forward to flying with you!
Tandem Flights: Cost $185 per person about 1 hour total - daily all summer long
Solo Training: Costs vary50 hours - starts July 10th, 20th, 30th etc
LOCATIONAlyeska Resort, one of the AAW's most prized flying sites is located just 35 miles south of Anchorage in the resort town of Girdwood. Drive south on the newly improved and very scenic New Seward Highway. Enroute look for Dall Sheep grazing on the cliffs above the road, beluga whale in the inlet, salmon fishermen at creeksides and the splendid scenery in all directions!
We look forward to flying with you!
A True Paragliding Story
I had been planning this flight for at least a year. We'd drive up the Twisp River to the War Creek trail, then hike 10 miles to Boulder Butte (7400 feet). After a pleasant flight down to the town of Stehekin we'd catch the 2:00 boat to Chelan, winding up the day with a fly-down from Chelan Butte. It was too inconvenient to check out the launches and LZ's in advance. We'd just use what was there. Bruce Tracy and Dave Verbois were quick to sign up for the adventure, and we planned it for Thursday, July 14. Bruce's wife Marie would pick us up in Chelan.
We started hiking before 7:00, and, after a scenic hike, we arrived at the summit of Boulder Butte before noon. Unfortunately, there were no launches anywhere close--just trees and rocks. We met two Stehekin locals who kindly gave us some hints concerning LZ's, but the prospects didn't sound too good. We decided to traverse north along the ridge toward Purple Mountain in hopes of finding a launch. That scrambling traverse reminded me of my days as a mountaineer, and I was starting to get a little low on energy--my water had disappeared a long time ago.
After half an hour, Dave V. picked out a rocky gully, which he visualized as a launch. Bruce and I continued on then stopped to watch Dave fly out into the center of a large bowl. All looked good until he got to the 4500 foot level and encountered valley wind rotor off the ridge on the north side of the bowl. Unable to exit to the lake, he headed for a patch of low maples at the bottom of the bowl. We watched with fascination as his pink Corrado was completely swallowed up by the trees. "Dave, Dave, are you OK?" After a short delay, he announced on the radio that both he and his wing were fine and that he was looking for the trail, which was fortuitously quite close. Bruce and I decided on a different flight plan.
After another half-hour of traversing, Bruce and I each found excellent launches on the west shoulder of Purple Mountain which continued to form the north ridge of the bowl, with Boulder Creek below to the north. We decided to fly down that ridge to the north end of the lake, neatly avoiding Dave V.'s rotor. Bruce had elected to bring his little Brizair to save weight, but I had my trusty B2. After launching about the same time, Bruce went down, and I went up 2000 feet. I figured I had enough altitude to get well north of the lake end, but I knew Bruce didn't. I watched with fascination as he was swept along the lake shore at an ungodly speed, yelling something like, "My ass is cooked." Soon it would be my turn.
I could have boated around for a while at cloudbase, but I was afraid the winds might actually get worse (if that were possible). I set a northwest course towards the ever-so-tantalizing ranch, but deep down, I knew that the swamp was my destiny. Too soon, my forward motion stopped, and I started to sink. I managed to crab out from the Boulder Creek valley to the Stehekin valley, but by then I was flying backwards, experiencing the full force of the wind. Was I having fun yet? Not exactly. Standing safely in the swamp was more fun.
I carried the sodden wing to a nearby driveway, and a helpful resident, who was a former glider pilot, let me dry it out. He gave me a gallon of cold water and a ride to the boat dock. I know it's hard to believe, but he actually asked me how he could learn to fly a paraglider!
Then it was time for the Great Reunion on the deck of the Stehekin restaurant. Turns out that Bruce came down in deep water after a hairy landing some distance south of the dock. After an invigorating swim, he managed to haul his wing up the steep bank to a trail. His radio and camera survived, but the vario didn't. When I talked to him on the radio from my swamp, he sounded quite shaken, and that's unusual for Bruce. A few six-packs later, with improved dispositions, we told our story to the locals, who, despite their normal skepticism of outsiders, seemed truly impressed. Since we'd missed the boat, we chartered a float plane, which Dave V. co-piloted back to Chelan. So ended another typical flying day in the North Cascades. Oh, I almost forgot, Marie wouldn't let us fly Chelan Butte.
We started hiking before 7:00, and, after a scenic hike, we arrived at the summit of Boulder Butte before noon. Unfortunately, there were no launches anywhere close--just trees and rocks. We met two Stehekin locals who kindly gave us some hints concerning LZ's, but the prospects didn't sound too good. We decided to traverse north along the ridge toward Purple Mountain in hopes of finding a launch. That scrambling traverse reminded me of my days as a mountaineer, and I was starting to get a little low on energy--my water had disappeared a long time ago.
After half an hour, Dave V. picked out a rocky gully, which he visualized as a launch. Bruce and I continued on then stopped to watch Dave fly out into the center of a large bowl. All looked good until he got to the 4500 foot level and encountered valley wind rotor off the ridge on the north side of the bowl. Unable to exit to the lake, he headed for a patch of low maples at the bottom of the bowl. We watched with fascination as his pink Corrado was completely swallowed up by the trees. "Dave, Dave, are you OK?" After a short delay, he announced on the radio that both he and his wing were fine and that he was looking for the trail, which was fortuitously quite close. Bruce and I decided on a different flight plan.
After another half-hour of traversing, Bruce and I each found excellent launches on the west shoulder of Purple Mountain which continued to form the north ridge of the bowl, with Boulder Creek below to the north. We decided to fly down that ridge to the north end of the lake, neatly avoiding Dave V.'s rotor. Bruce had elected to bring his little Brizair to save weight, but I had my trusty B2. After launching about the same time, Bruce went down, and I went up 2000 feet. I figured I had enough altitude to get well north of the lake end, but I knew Bruce didn't. I watched with fascination as he was swept along the lake shore at an ungodly speed, yelling something like, "My ass is cooked." Soon it would be my turn.
I could have boated around for a while at cloudbase, but I was afraid the winds might actually get worse (if that were possible). I set a northwest course towards the ever-so-tantalizing ranch, but deep down, I knew that the swamp was my destiny. Too soon, my forward motion stopped, and I started to sink. I managed to crab out from the Boulder Creek valley to the Stehekin valley, but by then I was flying backwards, experiencing the full force of the wind. Was I having fun yet? Not exactly. Standing safely in the swamp was more fun.
I carried the sodden wing to a nearby driveway, and a helpful resident, who was a former glider pilot, let me dry it out. He gave me a gallon of cold water and a ride to the boat dock. I know it's hard to believe, but he actually asked me how he could learn to fly a paraglider!
Then it was time for the Great Reunion on the deck of the Stehekin restaurant. Turns out that Bruce came down in deep water after a hairy landing some distance south of the dock. After an invigorating swim, he managed to haul his wing up the steep bank to a trail. His radio and camera survived, but the vario didn't. When I talked to him on the radio from my swamp, he sounded quite shaken, and that's unusual for Bruce. A few six-packs later, with improved dispositions, we told our story to the locals, who, despite their normal skepticism of outsiders, seemed truly impressed. Since we'd missed the boat, we chartered a float plane, which Dave V. co-piloted back to Chelan. So ended another typical flying day in the North Cascades. Oh, I almost forgot, Marie wouldn't let us fly Chelan Butte.
Flying at the Other End of Lake Chelan
I'm standing knee-deep in a swamp at the north end of Lake Chelan about 200 feet from the Stehekin road. I'm dry (except for my feet), but the wing's a little damp. Two minutes ago I was flying 10 mph backwards with big-ears, knowing that if I went too far I'd be blown out over the lake, which is 1300 feet deep in places. I don't have a life jacket, and there aren't any boats in sight. My recent experiences with backwards flying came in really handy, but I still haven't learned to like it. Valley winds, however, are a fact of life in mountain flying.
Actually, backwards flying is pretty straightforward. You just use the ears to control your descent to arrive just above the last trees before your LZ. The stronger the wind, the less directional control you have. If the wind is, say 40 mph, you go in the direction of the wind--period. With weaker winds you can crab but not much. When your backward motion stops, you make a quick turn downwind, then you fly back upwind in the lee of the trees. If the tree line is broken, there probably won't be serious rotor--just turbulence. It's comforting having a swamp below because it can break your fall without drowning you.
The important thing in backwards flying is that you have an LZ behind you. You can help ensure this by flying as far upwind as you can before you hit the inevitable valley wind. In most valleys the wind picks up only in the bottom 1500 feet, but today in the Stehekin valley the wind layer is 3500 feet thick. When the lake level is high, there are no good LZ's in Stehekin. There's a big ranch and an airstrip up the valley, but you can't get to them if the wind is from the north, and the boat dock parking lot is too small if the wind is strong. There's a road along the lake shore, but there are wires between the road and the water. Today it's the swamp or worse.
Why am I here when I could be casually (and safely) soaring at Tiger mountain? Well, if you could have experienced the first part of the flight, you might understand. Imagine thermalling at 8800 feet completely surrounded by the North Cascades--Bonanza, Goode, Logan, the Sawtooths. The lake is 7700 feet below, and the Stehekin River meanders north into the distance. I'm in the first party to ever fly paragliders here. (More about my companions later.) Of course, the 5700 foot hike-down alternative had nothing to do with my decision to fly. Sure, I could see the white-caps from launch, but no guts no glory.
Actually, backwards flying is pretty straightforward. You just use the ears to control your descent to arrive just above the last trees before your LZ. The stronger the wind, the less directional control you have. If the wind is, say 40 mph, you go in the direction of the wind--period. With weaker winds you can crab but not much. When your backward motion stops, you make a quick turn downwind, then you fly back upwind in the lee of the trees. If the tree line is broken, there probably won't be serious rotor--just turbulence. It's comforting having a swamp below because it can break your fall without drowning you.
The important thing in backwards flying is that you have an LZ behind you. You can help ensure this by flying as far upwind as you can before you hit the inevitable valley wind. In most valleys the wind picks up only in the bottom 1500 feet, but today in the Stehekin valley the wind layer is 3500 feet thick. When the lake level is high, there are no good LZ's in Stehekin. There's a big ranch and an airstrip up the valley, but you can't get to them if the wind is from the north, and the boat dock parking lot is too small if the wind is strong. There's a road along the lake shore, but there are wires between the road and the water. Today it's the swamp or worse.
Why am I here when I could be casually (and safely) soaring at Tiger mountain? Well, if you could have experienced the first part of the flight, you might understand. Imagine thermalling at 8800 feet completely surrounded by the North Cascades--Bonanza, Goode, Logan, the Sawtooths. The lake is 7700 feet below, and the Stehekin River meanders north into the distance. I'm in the first party to ever fly paragliders here. (More about my companions later.) Of course, the 5700 foot hike-down alternative had nothing to do with my decision to fly. Sure, I could see the white-caps from launch, but no guts no glory.
What are the flights you remember; the ones you enjoyed the most?
Are they the long ones? Of course they are! But I bet you also remember some of the shorter flights; flights where you didn't win the day; flights that don't even seem remarkable, until you look back and remember how everything went so well. I'll even bet that if you sat down and honestly tried to decide which kind of flight was the best you'd find it was pretty much a tie.
Glory is fun, but so is style.
Food for thought, isn't it?
Glory is fun, but so is style.
Food for thought, isn't it?
"Style"
What, you may ask, is 'style'? It's hard to put into words, but I can give some examples.
Style is NOT
· A shaky launch.
· Flailing around in the air.
· Heading out low across unlandable terrain without any real idea what you'll do if you sink out.
· Committing yourself to fields in which you couldn't possibly land.
· Doing things you know are unwise.
· Accepting exposure, not because you WANT to, but because you think it's EXPECTED of you.
· Pounding in an easy landing in a beautiful green field next to an isolated rural college filled with attractive members of the appropriate gender and/or species.
Style IS
· Using your brain.
· Good solid skills.
· Flying well enough to stay high so you can cross unlandable terrain with some margin of altitude.
· Knowing where you'll go if you sink out.
· Making good decisions and pulling them off.
· Recognizing exposure BEFORE you accept it, and only accepting that exposure if you, AND YOU ALONE, are prepared to make that commitment.
· Finishing your flight with a perfect landing in a beautiful green field next to an isolated rural college filled with attractive members of the appropriate gender and/or species who are so impressed by your prowess that they ask you for my phone number.
One of the best XC pilots I know said, "The real question in XC is how much you're willing to inconvenience yourself." It's true. The pilots who fly the farthest are often the ones who accept the most exposure, and you can often tack quite a few miles onto a flight by taking a few chances. Chances that don't pay off can lead to 'inconvenience'.
This 'inconvenience' can take many forms: a long hike out, broken aluminum, an argument with a landowner, a night in the desert, or a ride in a helicopter followed by a day or two in intensive care. All of these things make for good stories, but I ask you again, are these the kind of stories you want to collect?
There's a special kind of glory in flying near the edge of ones abilities, taking chances that later seem foolish, flailing around at the narrow edge of fear, and then saving oneself through determination, will, and the power of one's own living brain. You've done it, I've done it, and we're all going to do it again because we know that nothing can compare with that feeling. What we tend to forget is that there's a different kind of glory -- more subtle, perhaps, but also more satisfying -- in staying within the limits of our abilities but flying extremely well. We might not always fly quite as far that way (though sometimes we fly even farther!) but we get there in style.
Style is NOT
· A shaky launch.
· Flailing around in the air.
· Heading out low across unlandable terrain without any real idea what you'll do if you sink out.
· Committing yourself to fields in which you couldn't possibly land.
· Doing things you know are unwise.
· Accepting exposure, not because you WANT to, but because you think it's EXPECTED of you.
· Pounding in an easy landing in a beautiful green field next to an isolated rural college filled with attractive members of the appropriate gender and/or species.
Style IS
· Using your brain.
· Good solid skills.
· Flying well enough to stay high so you can cross unlandable terrain with some margin of altitude.
· Knowing where you'll go if you sink out.
· Making good decisions and pulling them off.
· Recognizing exposure BEFORE you accept it, and only accepting that exposure if you, AND YOU ALONE, are prepared to make that commitment.
· Finishing your flight with a perfect landing in a beautiful green field next to an isolated rural college filled with attractive members of the appropriate gender and/or species who are so impressed by your prowess that they ask you for my phone number.
One of the best XC pilots I know said, "The real question in XC is how much you're willing to inconvenience yourself." It's true. The pilots who fly the farthest are often the ones who accept the most exposure, and you can often tack quite a few miles onto a flight by taking a few chances. Chances that don't pay off can lead to 'inconvenience'.
This 'inconvenience' can take many forms: a long hike out, broken aluminum, an argument with a landowner, a night in the desert, or a ride in a helicopter followed by a day or two in intensive care. All of these things make for good stories, but I ask you again, are these the kind of stories you want to collect?
There's a special kind of glory in flying near the edge of ones abilities, taking chances that later seem foolish, flailing around at the narrow edge of fear, and then saving oneself through determination, will, and the power of one's own living brain. You've done it, I've done it, and we're all going to do it again because we know that nothing can compare with that feeling. What we tend to forget is that there's a different kind of glory -- more subtle, perhaps, but also more satisfying -- in staying within the limits of our abilities but flying extremely well. We might not always fly quite as far that way (though sometimes we fly even farther!) but we get there in style.
What kind of stories do I want to collect?
Cross country is wonderful, if you do it for the right reasons. Unfortunately, it's all too easy to do it for the wrong reasons. It's easy, all too easy, to fall victim to what I call the 'disease of numbers'; to forget the flight itself and focus only on numbers in a logbook, competition results, or the forms and barograph trace you're hoping to submit to the FAI. This is fine, if numbers are REALLY what you want, but I suspect that most pilots want something else. I suspect that most pilots measure themselves by the distance they fly because it's the only measure that our culture recognizes. Our media, our clubs, and our peers pay attention to distances, times, competition results, and records because these things are easy to measure. Then, in the absence of any alternative, we secretly dream about distances, times, competition results, records.
I want to propose an alternative to the 'disease of numbers'. This alternative can be summed up in one word:
I want to propose an alternative to the 'disease of numbers'. This alternative can be summed up in one word:
Get high and go far!
Get high and go far!
Sounds familiar, doesn't it?
I'll even go one step further. If you're like most XC pilots -- and I know, because I'm one of them -- I'll bet that if you examine the depths of your soul you'll find that you really have only one goal. This goal can be summed up in two simple words:
Go far!
There's nothing wrong with this. Distance is a fine and glorious goal to pursue, and I've pursued it myself. Like the rest of you, I fantasize about taking a summer off to try and break Tudor's record. Like the rest of you, I'm impressed by pilots who can make the commitment, accept the exposure, head out low over unlandable terrain, and pull it off. If nothing else, this can make for some incredible stories. Still, before you go out to collect stories of your own, you should ask yourself this question:
Sounds familiar, doesn't it?
I'll even go one step further. If you're like most XC pilots -- and I know, because I'm one of them -- I'll bet that if you examine the depths of your soul you'll find that you really have only one goal. This goal can be summed up in two simple words:
Go far!
There's nothing wrong with this. Distance is a fine and glorious goal to pursue, and I've pursued it myself. Like the rest of you, I fantasize about taking a summer off to try and break Tudor's record. Like the rest of you, I'm impressed by pilots who can make the commitment, accept the exposure, head out low over unlandable terrain, and pull it off. If nothing else, this can make for some incredible stories. Still, before you go out to collect stories of your own, you should ask yourself this question:
Doing It With Style
Why do you fly cross country?
Have you ever asked yourself that question? I'm sure you must have. And if you're like most XC pilots, you could probably give many answers -- the freedom, the challenge, the beauty, the sense of accomplishment. Still, is this really the whole story? If you're like most XC pilots, you probably have two goals that are less abstract, more concrete, easier to quantify, and more important than all the rest. These can be summed up in one simple phrase:
Have you ever asked yourself that question? I'm sure you must have. And if you're like most XC pilots, you could probably give many answers -- the freedom, the challenge, the beauty, the sense of accomplishment. Still, is this really the whole story? If you're like most XC pilots, you probably have two goals that are less abstract, more concrete, easier to quantify, and more important than all the rest. These can be summed up in one simple phrase:
Dancing With Giants
It was a classic Indian summer day of late September in the Oregon Cascades. The previous evening's coolness had been chased away by the gentle warmth of a sun filtered through thin high clouds. There was a distinct crispness in the air, spiced with the smell of Ponderosa pines and a hint of sage from the desert far in the distance.
This was the last day of my visit to the Bend area along with Lowell Skoog and his wife Stephanie Subak. With us were five others ascending the trail towards the summit of Mt. Bachelor in hopes of ending our three day paragliding adventure with a true mountain flight. The weekend had found us participating in the Cascade Paragliding Club fly-in at Pine Mountain, where we made many new friends and enjoyed a camaraderie that extended from world-class pilots to beginners. There seemed to be no bloated egos here. And the flying was fun!
Joining us on the trail were Steve Roti, Tina Pavelic, Phil Pohl, Frankie Watson and Karen Adams. All five were experienced pilots from Oregon. The eight of us wound our way through tall timber on the lower flanks of the mountain, eventually breaking out into the open, barren world of dark volcanic rock which nestled blinding patches of last winter's snow. The ski lifts were silent, but occasional sounds from construction below drifted up to us, a reminder that we were on a "civilized" mountain, but a mountain nonetheless, along with all the surprises and unpredictability that it entails.
After about an hour and a half we gathered at an elevation of 9000 feet near the top, about 2600 feet above the parking lot where we had started. The winds were light and seemed favorable, and Phil led us to a shallow snow slope that he had used on a previous flight here. As we began to lay out our wings in preparation to fly, the wind (once friendly) now became a little unsettled, at times blowing downslope. However, there were still enough upslope cycles to give us hope. Phil launched first and, other than a small wing tip deflation, had a fine departure. He was soon working thermals away from the mountain over the parking lot. Next Frankie flew and then Karen. We were starting to have problems with launching due to the infrequent and light upslope winds, coupled with the altitude. An occasional swirling gust would wrap a canopy into a ball. Conditions weren't improving. It was time to dance!
Dance, you say? Isn't paragliding really just a dance with giants, a three dimensional ballet with towering columns of rising air? The pilot launches onto the dance floor and tries to find a suitable partner. My first attempt to take the floor this day was stopped short by a line-over on my right wing tip. The second attempt worked although I flew into sinking air, barely clearing the flat bench in front of launch. Now it was time to find my invisible partner, and it wasn't long before I ran into her headlong. I was rudely jolted--my canopy rustled, twisted into unnatural shapes, and popped back out. Hmm, this isn't the one for me, I thought, a bit too rough and too close to the mountain. Let's search some more.
My next encounter was better. I had more clearance from the mountain's slope, and this partner was gentler. Now I began the dance, rising higher and higher, regaining all the elevation I had lost before. Swinging and circling, leaning and turning, lifted upwards till my partner tired, I would then fly away to begin the dance again and again. This was life distilled to its purest form, no distraction from the moment at hand, and a spiritual awareness that seems so hard to attain in our mundane day-to-day world. I drank in the spectacular surroundings, the dark evergreen carpet that was broken by surprising upthrusts of Broken Top, the Three Sisters, and Mt. Bachelor itself. Away to the east spread the hazy yellow desert of central Oregon. And there was Steve, who had launched after me, and he too was dancing the dance of life!
My thoughts were interrupted by a voice on the radio. It was Phil who had landed in the parking lot, and was reporting that a dust devil had just rushed through and things seemed a little "squirrely". I noticed that Steve was now making his approach to the landing area, and I thought it best that I do the same, before the dance below got too exciting. So I left my last partner behind and worked my way downwards, the forest soon appearing as distinct towering trees rather than the smooth carpet as seen from higher up. The sink alarm on my vario (set at 700 feet per minute descent) sounded several times as I approached the parking lot. Funny how such a large clearing in the woods can appear so much smaller from the air. Folding my wing tips for a steeper descent, I made my final turn, dropped below tree level, and reinflated the glider for a gentle landing into the welcoming arms of Mother Earth.
Those who had been lucky enough to fly were now reunited. We soon heard from Lowell over the radio that he, Stephanie and Tina were walking down due to worsening conditions. The wind was coming steadily over the back at launch, and occasional "snow devils" (alpine cousins of the more familiar dust devil) were passing through. Great wisdom was shown by their decision. Awaiting our friends' return, we five excitedly related our flights to one another, and later quietly contemplated our own experiences. And in thinking about it, I realized that the clock time by which we measure these flights (these dances) and write faithfully in our log books were really without meaning, for these parts of our existence are timeless, to be relived over and over and remembered throughout this lifetime in this world.
All around us the giants continued to dance.
This was the last day of my visit to the Bend area along with Lowell Skoog and his wife Stephanie Subak. With us were five others ascending the trail towards the summit of Mt. Bachelor in hopes of ending our three day paragliding adventure with a true mountain flight. The weekend had found us participating in the Cascade Paragliding Club fly-in at Pine Mountain, where we made many new friends and enjoyed a camaraderie that extended from world-class pilots to beginners. There seemed to be no bloated egos here. And the flying was fun!
Joining us on the trail were Steve Roti, Tina Pavelic, Phil Pohl, Frankie Watson and Karen Adams. All five were experienced pilots from Oregon. The eight of us wound our way through tall timber on the lower flanks of the mountain, eventually breaking out into the open, barren world of dark volcanic rock which nestled blinding patches of last winter's snow. The ski lifts were silent, but occasional sounds from construction below drifted up to us, a reminder that we were on a "civilized" mountain, but a mountain nonetheless, along with all the surprises and unpredictability that it entails.
After about an hour and a half we gathered at an elevation of 9000 feet near the top, about 2600 feet above the parking lot where we had started. The winds were light and seemed favorable, and Phil led us to a shallow snow slope that he had used on a previous flight here. As we began to lay out our wings in preparation to fly, the wind (once friendly) now became a little unsettled, at times blowing downslope. However, there were still enough upslope cycles to give us hope. Phil launched first and, other than a small wing tip deflation, had a fine departure. He was soon working thermals away from the mountain over the parking lot. Next Frankie flew and then Karen. We were starting to have problems with launching due to the infrequent and light upslope winds, coupled with the altitude. An occasional swirling gust would wrap a canopy into a ball. Conditions weren't improving. It was time to dance!
Dance, you say? Isn't paragliding really just a dance with giants, a three dimensional ballet with towering columns of rising air? The pilot launches onto the dance floor and tries to find a suitable partner. My first attempt to take the floor this day was stopped short by a line-over on my right wing tip. The second attempt worked although I flew into sinking air, barely clearing the flat bench in front of launch. Now it was time to find my invisible partner, and it wasn't long before I ran into her headlong. I was rudely jolted--my canopy rustled, twisted into unnatural shapes, and popped back out. Hmm, this isn't the one for me, I thought, a bit too rough and too close to the mountain. Let's search some more.
My next encounter was better. I had more clearance from the mountain's slope, and this partner was gentler. Now I began the dance, rising higher and higher, regaining all the elevation I had lost before. Swinging and circling, leaning and turning, lifted upwards till my partner tired, I would then fly away to begin the dance again and again. This was life distilled to its purest form, no distraction from the moment at hand, and a spiritual awareness that seems so hard to attain in our mundane day-to-day world. I drank in the spectacular surroundings, the dark evergreen carpet that was broken by surprising upthrusts of Broken Top, the Three Sisters, and Mt. Bachelor itself. Away to the east spread the hazy yellow desert of central Oregon. And there was Steve, who had launched after me, and he too was dancing the dance of life!
My thoughts were interrupted by a voice on the radio. It was Phil who had landed in the parking lot, and was reporting that a dust devil had just rushed through and things seemed a little "squirrely". I noticed that Steve was now making his approach to the landing area, and I thought it best that I do the same, before the dance below got too exciting. So I left my last partner behind and worked my way downwards, the forest soon appearing as distinct towering trees rather than the smooth carpet as seen from higher up. The sink alarm on my vario (set at 700 feet per minute descent) sounded several times as I approached the parking lot. Funny how such a large clearing in the woods can appear so much smaller from the air. Folding my wing tips for a steeper descent, I made my final turn, dropped below tree level, and reinflated the glider for a gentle landing into the welcoming arms of Mother Earth.
Those who had been lucky enough to fly were now reunited. We soon heard from Lowell over the radio that he, Stephanie and Tina were walking down due to worsening conditions. The wind was coming steadily over the back at launch, and occasional "snow devils" (alpine cousins of the more familiar dust devil) were passing through. Great wisdom was shown by their decision. Awaiting our friends' return, we five excitedly related our flights to one another, and later quietly contemplated our own experiences. And in thinking about it, I realized that the clock time by which we measure these flights (these dances) and write faithfully in our log books were really without meaning, for these parts of our existence are timeless, to be relived over and over and remembered throughout this lifetime in this world.
All around us the giants continued to dance.
A Final Bird Story
Dunlap once again. I was lonely, unhappy, depressed, and my beloved Sport 150E was all I had left in the world. I set up, launched, and sought solace in flight. At 8000' MSL over Delilah Lookout I spotted a golden eagle.
Golden eagles are rare at Dunlap. Dunlap is red-tailed hawk country, I don't know why. Perhaps it has something to do with the terrain -- the vegetation may not provide an adequate habitat for an eagle's preferred prey. This eagle was a curiosity.
It was also directly below me, in the same thermal, traveling at precisely the same course and speed. Only our climb rates were different: as I watched, the eagle grew closer.
She -- I assume the bird was female because of her enormous size -- gave no indication she was aware of my presence. It is possible that she did not see me; eagles fear no predator in the skies, and it is reputed that they, alone among birds of prey, never look above or behind them.
I, on the other hand, could see every detail of the eagle, and stared in utter fascination. I could see her primary feathers shift as she made minute adjustments in attitude. I could watch every movement of her head as she looked over the valley below. I was awed and amazed. I forgot my sorrow, then and forever. The experience was unbelievable, unearthly, almost spiritual, like looking down upon an angel.
The eagle rose until she was only 20 feet below me. A collision was imminent. If we both held our course, if neither of us flinched, we would soon be so close that I could reach down and touch her.
I was tempted -- what a unique experience it would have been, to touch an eagle in flight -- but I felt, and still feel, that we humans go through the world touching too many things. In the end, I was the one who flinched. I was the one who banked away. I looked over my shoulder, rolled right, and when I looked back, the eagle -- if she was, in fact, an eagle -- was gone.
Golden eagles are rare at Dunlap. Dunlap is red-tailed hawk country, I don't know why. Perhaps it has something to do with the terrain -- the vegetation may not provide an adequate habitat for an eagle's preferred prey. This eagle was a curiosity.
It was also directly below me, in the same thermal, traveling at precisely the same course and speed. Only our climb rates were different: as I watched, the eagle grew closer.
She -- I assume the bird was female because of her enormous size -- gave no indication she was aware of my presence. It is possible that she did not see me; eagles fear no predator in the skies, and it is reputed that they, alone among birds of prey, never look above or behind them.
I, on the other hand, could see every detail of the eagle, and stared in utter fascination. I could see her primary feathers shift as she made minute adjustments in attitude. I could watch every movement of her head as she looked over the valley below. I was awed and amazed. I forgot my sorrow, then and forever. The experience was unbelievable, unearthly, almost spiritual, like looking down upon an angel.
The eagle rose until she was only 20 feet below me. A collision was imminent. If we both held our course, if neither of us flinched, we would soon be so close that I could reach down and touch her.
I was tempted -- what a unique experience it would have been, to touch an eagle in flight -- but I felt, and still feel, that we humans go through the world touching too many things. In the end, I was the one who flinched. I was the one who banked away. I looked over my shoulder, rolled right, and when I looked back, the eagle -- if she was, in fact, an eagle -- was gone.
Yet Another Bird Story
Two years later, I was at Dunlap again, flying my beloved old Sport 150E -- proof that I did at one time possess a certain amount of taste. I was at 7200' MSL over Delilah Lookout when I spotted a red-tailed hawk below and ahead of me.
We were in the same thermal and the hawk did not seem to mind my presence, so I decided to follow it. It climbed faster than me, and soon we were at the same altitude -- the hawk soaring effortlessly, me 40 feet behind straining to keep up.
Then the bird got hammered. An unheralded but vicious bit of turbulence flipped it right over on its back. I, a mere second behind, was precisely too close to do anything other than hang onto the control and think: "I have changed my mind! I do not want to be here! I want to be somewhere else!"
While I do not have a particularly clear memory of the events that followed, they do constitute proof that modern hang gliders -- and presumably red-tailed hawks as well -- are sturdy, stable, and can recover from unusual attitudes.
We were in the same thermal and the hawk did not seem to mind my presence, so I decided to follow it. It climbed faster than me, and soon we were at the same altitude -- the hawk soaring effortlessly, me 40 feet behind straining to keep up.
Then the bird got hammered. An unheralded but vicious bit of turbulence flipped it right over on its back. I, a mere second behind, was precisely too close to do anything other than hang onto the control and think: "I have changed my mind! I do not want to be here! I want to be somewhere else!"
While I do not have a particularly clear memory of the events that followed, they do constitute proof that modern hang gliders -- and presumably red-tailed hawks as well -- are sturdy, stable, and can recover from unusual attitudes.
Another Bird Story
For those of you who have not seen it (and also those of you who have), Dunlap, California, is a thermal soaring site in the Eastern Sierra, 40 miles northeast of Fresno. It's a reliable site, soarable the year round, with a launch and landing that are challenging, but not too horribly bad. It's a good place for Novice pilots to gain altitude experience, Intermediate pilots to develop thermaling skills, and more ambitious pilots to start going XC. The best time of year is in the spring -- April through June -- when the valleys are warm, the upper air is cold, and the thermals are big, smooth, fat, and tall.
Dunlap is a very pretty site. Like most ridges in the Eastern Sierra, it gets sufficient rainfall in the spring that the slopes are green, the meadows are filled with flowers, and the mountains to the west are covered with snow. Spring also brings clouds of harmless insects: mayflies, dragonflies, moths and the like. These insects are food for flocks of swifts, that climb, bank, turn, and dive with superlative skill in pursuit of their diminutive prey.
It is with one of these swifts that my tale is concerned. The year was 1988, the month was May, and I was cruising high over launch in my beloved old Eclipse-17. (Yes, this happened long ago, when men were men, birds were birds, and inexperienced pilots learned to fly on gliders with neutral roll stability). A flash of movement caught my eye. I looked up, and saw a swift headed straight towards me.
The swift was traveling at full speed, like a miniature combat aircraft, in lethal pursuit of some hapless bug. It was also on a collision course with my left wingtip -- a fact of which it appeared to be completely unaware. There was no time for me to react; all I could do was watch with horrified fascination.
At the last moment, just as collision seemed inevitable, the swift appeared to realize that something was terribly wrong. It rolled level, pulled up hard, and cleared my wingtip by inches...
...then it hit my wingtip vortex.
The results were impressive. The poor creature got clobbered -- rolled more times than you can imagine in much less time than you would believe possible. It finally recovered and flew away, a dizzier and one hopes a wiser bird.
Dunlap is a very pretty site. Like most ridges in the Eastern Sierra, it gets sufficient rainfall in the spring that the slopes are green, the meadows are filled with flowers, and the mountains to the west are covered with snow. Spring also brings clouds of harmless insects: mayflies, dragonflies, moths and the like. These insects are food for flocks of swifts, that climb, bank, turn, and dive with superlative skill in pursuit of their diminutive prey.
It is with one of these swifts that my tale is concerned. The year was 1988, the month was May, and I was cruising high over launch in my beloved old Eclipse-17. (Yes, this happened long ago, when men were men, birds were birds, and inexperienced pilots learned to fly on gliders with neutral roll stability). A flash of movement caught my eye. I looked up, and saw a swift headed straight towards me.
The swift was traveling at full speed, like a miniature combat aircraft, in lethal pursuit of some hapless bug. It was also on a collision course with my left wingtip -- a fact of which it appeared to be completely unaware. There was no time for me to react; all I could do was watch with horrified fascination.
At the last moment, just as collision seemed inevitable, the swift appeared to realize that something was terribly wrong. It rolled level, pulled up hard, and cleared my wingtip by inches...
...then it hit my wingtip vortex.
The results were impressive. The poor creature got clobbered -- rolled more times than you can imagine in much less time than you would believe possible. It finally recovered and flew away, a dizzier and one hopes a wiser bird.
Days 7 and 8 - Wrap up
Airtime is Golden by Lowell Skoog
For most pilots, the Canadian Paragliding Championships at Golden, British Columbia are not about competing. They are about exceeding your personal best, about pursuing dreams.
Willi Muller knew that. As organizer of the 1994 event, he announced in advance that the first two days would be open distance, any direction, any launch time. The emphasis was on each pilot flying as far and as well as they could, rather than racing the other pilots. The third day would be a race to goal so participants could head home early.
I flew at Golden two years ago. At that time I had less than a year of paragliding experience. I managed one 32 kilometer cross country flight, but mostly I was intimidated by the place. This year my goal was to fly cross country without scaring myself. If I improved my personal best, that would be great, but not essential.
Golden is superbly suited for cross country flying. The town is located in the Rocky Mountain Trench, the great valley that runs northwest to southeast between the Columbia Mountains and the Canadian Rockies. From Mt. Seven, the peak rising above Golden, the front range of the Rockies extends south at around 9000 feet for hundreds of kilometers. The 2500 foot valley has many fields within gliding distance of the range and a paved road provides easy retrieval.
This is not to imply that flying at Golden is trivial. The thermals can be as strong as anywhere and the mountains are very rugged. There are many places along the range where you simply DO NOT want to go down. Even if you survive a crash landing on the peaks, you may face a full day of difficult travel to hike out. The Canadian Rockies are wild mountains. If you don't fly with a wide safety margin, you're likely to scare yourself, or worse.
Day 1 - Wildfires
Steve Stroming and I left Seattle on Monday, July 25. My plan was to fly for five days (through the first day of competition) then join three friends who were driving up from Seattle for a week of climbing in the Selkirks.
Driving the Coquihalla Highway toward Kamloops, we saw the first of many forest fires. Thunderstorms on Sunday night had started wildfires throughout the Northwest. The Kamloops fire looked like an A-bomb. Grey-orange smoke billowed up from the flames. When the superheated air condensed it triggered a cumulus cloud that boiled skyward like something out of Dante's Inferno.
Day 2 - Windblown
There were only a few pilots at the Golden campground when we arrived. Most would arrive later in the week. We met a group of Vancouver pilots--Gary, Darren, Peter, Matt and "Airtime Pat"--and coordinated a ride up the mountain. Pat was easy to find. He drove a beater Toyota with a red and white bullseye on the hood that said, "SPOT LAND HERE!"
At the 7500 foot paraglider launch it was windy--too windy to launch paragliders. We arrived at noon and settled in for a long wait. In mid-afternoon a hang glider flew from the lower launch and headed south, dodging some scary looking black clouds. We heard later that he flew over 200 kilometers that day.
Pat and Darren hiked down around 7 PM. The rest of us waited until for 9pm for Flying Down. At the Nicholson landing zone the mosquitos ate us for dinner.
Day 3 - Dream flights
The forecast on Wednesday was excellent and we hiked to the paraglider launch with high anticipation. Airtime Pat psyched himself up. "I wanna get spanked!" he said. "I wanna go far!" Pat had made several long flights the previous week and obviously didn't mind a bit of turbulence.
Around 1:30 PM a couple of experienced paraglider pilots flew from the lower hang glider launch and worked their way up to our level. Peter MacLaren of Vancouver and Eric Oddy of Golden didn't need to hike to the upper launch to make sure they got up over Mt.seven. Several of our group launched and joined them.
As I was laying out my glider, I heard the call, "Reserve deployment!" I looked up and saw Airtime Pat at least a thousand feet above Mt. Seven, floating down under reserve. He later described being in a 2000+ foot per minute thermal when he suffered a big collapse and spin. One of his trim-tabs slipped, making recovery difficult and prompting his deployment. Luckily he landed in a brushy gully behind the mountain with absolutely no damage. In a moment he was on the radio in an excited voice asking if anyone on launch knew how to repack a reserve. He eventually hiked back to launch, stuffed the reserve in his backpack, and flew down to Nicholson. Only one of his wishes had come true.
With trepidation, I launched and worked hard to get above Mt. Seven. I spent a solid hour getting to 11,700 feet before gliding across the gap to the next peak. I think the difference between this flight and my previous ones at Golden was patience. I didn't pass up any usable lift. I knew from experience that if I hurried downrange hoping for a better thermal, I would find myself scratching in places that I didn't want to scratch. I resolved that if I couldn't maintain adequate clearance from the cliffs, I would fly out and land in the valley.
This strategy worked. Several times I glided over a peak feeling for lift and thinking to myself, "If that last spur doesn't work, I'm outta here." And it worked! I kept plugging away, setting what I thought must be a record for slowness, and eventually landing near the town of Edgewater, about 75 kilometers from where I started.
My wrist altimeter recorded the flight: 5 hours, 30 thermals, 12,700 feet maximum altitude, 38,400 feet of climbing. I had encountered 1300 feet per minute lift but had only one minor collapse. I was worn out, but I hadn't gotten into any scary situations, so I felt very good about the day.
Any delusions of sky-godhood were put to rest when we got back to camp. Peter MacLaren and Eric Oddy, last seen impossibly high east of Mt. Seven, had flown ACROSS the Canadian Rockies to Lake Louise. They had reached 16,000 feet, jumped enormous gaps, and flown two thousand feet over the summit Mt. Temple, one of the monarchs of the Rockies. After Eric landed near Lake Louise, Peter continued across the Bow Valley and flew another 80 kilometers southeast to Canmore. The mountaineers in our group just shook their heads in amazement. It might not be a distance record, but it was the most spectacular paragliding flight we had heard of in North America. Truly a dream flight.
Day 4 - It wasn't a fluke
Friends from Washington and Oregon were rolling into town. Thursday was very hazy, the result of the worst forest fires in decades. 150,000 acres were burning in central Washington alone.
The winds at launch were light again, but the haze suppressed the thermals until later in the afternoon. I launched after 4 PM and climbed quickly above Mt. Seven. I figured it was unrealistic to hope for another good flight, but I got one nonetheless. I followed the same strategy--be patient, get high, stay away from the rocks. I managed about 50 kilometers in about three hours.
Several memories stand out: Being joined south of Mt. Kapristo by my friend Steve after he made a great save. Flying with Marty DeVietti of Ellensburg on his first cross country flight past the "Coke bottle," a surreal looking radio tower in the middle of nowhere. Fleeing from a jaws-of-death canyon and finding myself low over a park-like meadow. The meadow was so beautiful that I wanted to stop for a picnic. But I found a thermal there--smooth, fat and tall--and the meadow receded thousands of feet below me as I made a most delightful save.
Day 5 - Windblown again
It was windy again on Friday. About twenty of us waited on launch for seven hours before flying down. There were so many Washington and Oregon pilots that it felt like another joint fly-in of the Northwest and Cascade Paragliding Clubs. Steve Roti and Marty Kaplan entertained dozing pilots by reading stories out of the NWPC newsletter.
Day 6 - The Magic Carpet (1st competition day)
Eighty-two pilots registered for the competition on Saturday. That was more than double the turnout in 1993. Unfortunately it was very windy most of the day. The young tigers, competition pilots from Alberta, British Columbia, and as far away as California and Colorado, launched in late afternoon and battled the turbulence. They flew north with the prevailing wind but most didn't get very far.
To the recreational pilots who asked, Willi Muller said, "Don't launch in this garbage. Wait until 7 PM. There should be a big glass-off tonight. Go south. You'll glide for miles." He was right.
Willi launched just after 7 and headed south. A number of recreational pilots, some of whom had never flown cross country before, followed him. Bob Hannah and Michelle Leialoha of Seattle launched tandem and tried to get high over Mt. Seven. Not having much success, they turned south and reached the next peak without losing any elevation. About 50 kilometers later they were still going up. A handful of other Northwest pilots including Marty DeVietti and Pete Reagan of Portland, Oregon did the same thing. After sunset, flying straight down the center of the valley, they had to fight to get down.
Many flyers decided not to go cross country that evening. I needed to pack for my climbing trip so I chose to stay near Mt. Seven taking photographs. When the glass-off kicked in, I boated around 9000 feet over the valley relaying messages between Pete Reagan and his chase driver. After 2-1/2 hours, trying to get down after sunset, I learned several things: Holding a B-line stall for more than 30 seconds is exhausting. After two dozen spirals, I'm ready to throw up. If you can't get down in the center of the valley, try the side.
I think what we experienced that night was more than just a glass-off, but I don't know what it was. Bernard Wagenbach of Switzerland won the day with a flight of 88.5 kilometers.
Days 7 and 8 - Wrap up
I dragged myself out of camp at 4:30 AM Sunday morning and left for the Selkirks with my climbing partners Will, John and Juan. I heard later that Sunday was another day of strong south winds and pilots had to work hard to make good distance. Chris Muller of Alberta, Boris Vejdovsky of Switzerland and Alex Curylo of Washington tied with flights of 75 kilometers.
Many Washington pilots headed home on Monday to return to work. It developed into a good day with 17 competitors completing the 41.5 kilometer race to Harrogate. Chris Muller won the day with a speed of 20.58 km/hour. This made him the overall winner followed by Peter MacLaren and Boris Vejdovsky. I came in dead last. I have the results to prove it.
But on Monday I didn't know any of this yet. My climbing partners and I reached the summit of Mt. Sir Sandford around noon. I pulled out my radio and called Mt. Seven, but got no response. Too early--nobody on the air yet. I gave a silent thought to the many pilots I had shared the air with and looked forward to meeting them again next year. Fly safe, my friends. Fly far.
Reluctantly, I turned my thoughts away from Golden. I grabbed my ice axe, nodded to Will at the other end of the rope, and we started our descent down the mountain.
For most pilots, the Canadian Paragliding Championships at Golden, British Columbia are not about competing. They are about exceeding your personal best, about pursuing dreams.
Willi Muller knew that. As organizer of the 1994 event, he announced in advance that the first two days would be open distance, any direction, any launch time. The emphasis was on each pilot flying as far and as well as they could, rather than racing the other pilots. The third day would be a race to goal so participants could head home early.
I flew at Golden two years ago. At that time I had less than a year of paragliding experience. I managed one 32 kilometer cross country flight, but mostly I was intimidated by the place. This year my goal was to fly cross country without scaring myself. If I improved my personal best, that would be great, but not essential.
Golden is superbly suited for cross country flying. The town is located in the Rocky Mountain Trench, the great valley that runs northwest to southeast between the Columbia Mountains and the Canadian Rockies. From Mt. Seven, the peak rising above Golden, the front range of the Rockies extends south at around 9000 feet for hundreds of kilometers. The 2500 foot valley has many fields within gliding distance of the range and a paved road provides easy retrieval.
This is not to imply that flying at Golden is trivial. The thermals can be as strong as anywhere and the mountains are very rugged. There are many places along the range where you simply DO NOT want to go down. Even if you survive a crash landing on the peaks, you may face a full day of difficult travel to hike out. The Canadian Rockies are wild mountains. If you don't fly with a wide safety margin, you're likely to scare yourself, or worse.
Day 1 - Wildfires
Steve Stroming and I left Seattle on Monday, July 25. My plan was to fly for five days (through the first day of competition) then join three friends who were driving up from Seattle for a week of climbing in the Selkirks.
Driving the Coquihalla Highway toward Kamloops, we saw the first of many forest fires. Thunderstorms on Sunday night had started wildfires throughout the Northwest. The Kamloops fire looked like an A-bomb. Grey-orange smoke billowed up from the flames. When the superheated air condensed it triggered a cumulus cloud that boiled skyward like something out of Dante's Inferno.
Day 2 - Windblown
There were only a few pilots at the Golden campground when we arrived. Most would arrive later in the week. We met a group of Vancouver pilots--Gary, Darren, Peter, Matt and "Airtime Pat"--and coordinated a ride up the mountain. Pat was easy to find. He drove a beater Toyota with a red and white bullseye on the hood that said, "SPOT LAND HERE!"
At the 7500 foot paraglider launch it was windy--too windy to launch paragliders. We arrived at noon and settled in for a long wait. In mid-afternoon a hang glider flew from the lower launch and headed south, dodging some scary looking black clouds. We heard later that he flew over 200 kilometers that day.
Pat and Darren hiked down around 7 PM. The rest of us waited until for 9pm for Flying Down. At the Nicholson landing zone the mosquitos ate us for dinner.
Day 3 - Dream flights
The forecast on Wednesday was excellent and we hiked to the paraglider launch with high anticipation. Airtime Pat psyched himself up. "I wanna get spanked!" he said. "I wanna go far!" Pat had made several long flights the previous week and obviously didn't mind a bit of turbulence.
Around 1:30 PM a couple of experienced paraglider pilots flew from the lower hang glider launch and worked their way up to our level. Peter MacLaren of Vancouver and Eric Oddy of Golden didn't need to hike to the upper launch to make sure they got up over Mt.seven. Several of our group launched and joined them.
As I was laying out my glider, I heard the call, "Reserve deployment!" I looked up and saw Airtime Pat at least a thousand feet above Mt. Seven, floating down under reserve. He later described being in a 2000+ foot per minute thermal when he suffered a big collapse and spin. One of his trim-tabs slipped, making recovery difficult and prompting his deployment. Luckily he landed in a brushy gully behind the mountain with absolutely no damage. In a moment he was on the radio in an excited voice asking if anyone on launch knew how to repack a reserve. He eventually hiked back to launch, stuffed the reserve in his backpack, and flew down to Nicholson. Only one of his wishes had come true.
With trepidation, I launched and worked hard to get above Mt. Seven. I spent a solid hour getting to 11,700 feet before gliding across the gap to the next peak. I think the difference between this flight and my previous ones at Golden was patience. I didn't pass up any usable lift. I knew from experience that if I hurried downrange hoping for a better thermal, I would find myself scratching in places that I didn't want to scratch. I resolved that if I couldn't maintain adequate clearance from the cliffs, I would fly out and land in the valley.
This strategy worked. Several times I glided over a peak feeling for lift and thinking to myself, "If that last spur doesn't work, I'm outta here." And it worked! I kept plugging away, setting what I thought must be a record for slowness, and eventually landing near the town of Edgewater, about 75 kilometers from where I started.
My wrist altimeter recorded the flight: 5 hours, 30 thermals, 12,700 feet maximum altitude, 38,400 feet of climbing. I had encountered 1300 feet per minute lift but had only one minor collapse. I was worn out, but I hadn't gotten into any scary situations, so I felt very good about the day.
Any delusions of sky-godhood were put to rest when we got back to camp. Peter MacLaren and Eric Oddy, last seen impossibly high east of Mt. Seven, had flown ACROSS the Canadian Rockies to Lake Louise. They had reached 16,000 feet, jumped enormous gaps, and flown two thousand feet over the summit Mt. Temple, one of the monarchs of the Rockies. After Eric landed near Lake Louise, Peter continued across the Bow Valley and flew another 80 kilometers southeast to Canmore. The mountaineers in our group just shook their heads in amazement. It might not be a distance record, but it was the most spectacular paragliding flight we had heard of in North America. Truly a dream flight.
Day 4 - It wasn't a fluke
Friends from Washington and Oregon were rolling into town. Thursday was very hazy, the result of the worst forest fires in decades. 150,000 acres were burning in central Washington alone.
The winds at launch were light again, but the haze suppressed the thermals until later in the afternoon. I launched after 4 PM and climbed quickly above Mt. Seven. I figured it was unrealistic to hope for another good flight, but I got one nonetheless. I followed the same strategy--be patient, get high, stay away from the rocks. I managed about 50 kilometers in about three hours.
Several memories stand out: Being joined south of Mt. Kapristo by my friend Steve after he made a great save. Flying with Marty DeVietti of Ellensburg on his first cross country flight past the "Coke bottle," a surreal looking radio tower in the middle of nowhere. Fleeing from a jaws-of-death canyon and finding myself low over a park-like meadow. The meadow was so beautiful that I wanted to stop for a picnic. But I found a thermal there--smooth, fat and tall--and the meadow receded thousands of feet below me as I made a most delightful save.
Day 5 - Windblown again
It was windy again on Friday. About twenty of us waited on launch for seven hours before flying down. There were so many Washington and Oregon pilots that it felt like another joint fly-in of the Northwest and Cascade Paragliding Clubs. Steve Roti and Marty Kaplan entertained dozing pilots by reading stories out of the NWPC newsletter.
Day 6 - The Magic Carpet (1st competition day)
Eighty-two pilots registered for the competition on Saturday. That was more than double the turnout in 1993. Unfortunately it was very windy most of the day. The young tigers, competition pilots from Alberta, British Columbia, and as far away as California and Colorado, launched in late afternoon and battled the turbulence. They flew north with the prevailing wind but most didn't get very far.
To the recreational pilots who asked, Willi Muller said, "Don't launch in this garbage. Wait until 7 PM. There should be a big glass-off tonight. Go south. You'll glide for miles." He was right.
Willi launched just after 7 and headed south. A number of recreational pilots, some of whom had never flown cross country before, followed him. Bob Hannah and Michelle Leialoha of Seattle launched tandem and tried to get high over Mt. Seven. Not having much success, they turned south and reached the next peak without losing any elevation. About 50 kilometers later they were still going up. A handful of other Northwest pilots including Marty DeVietti and Pete Reagan of Portland, Oregon did the same thing. After sunset, flying straight down the center of the valley, they had to fight to get down.
Many flyers decided not to go cross country that evening. I needed to pack for my climbing trip so I chose to stay near Mt. Seven taking photographs. When the glass-off kicked in, I boated around 9000 feet over the valley relaying messages between Pete Reagan and his chase driver. After 2-1/2 hours, trying to get down after sunset, I learned several things: Holding a B-line stall for more than 30 seconds is exhausting. After two dozen spirals, I'm ready to throw up. If you can't get down in the center of the valley, try the side.
I think what we experienced that night was more than just a glass-off, but I don't know what it was. Bernard Wagenbach of Switzerland won the day with a flight of 88.5 kilometers.
Days 7 and 8 - Wrap up
I dragged myself out of camp at 4:30 AM Sunday morning and left for the Selkirks with my climbing partners Will, John and Juan. I heard later that Sunday was another day of strong south winds and pilots had to work hard to make good distance. Chris Muller of Alberta, Boris Vejdovsky of Switzerland and Alex Curylo of Washington tied with flights of 75 kilometers.
Many Washington pilots headed home on Monday to return to work. It developed into a good day with 17 competitors completing the 41.5 kilometer race to Harrogate. Chris Muller won the day with a speed of 20.58 km/hour. This made him the overall winner followed by Peter MacLaren and Boris Vejdovsky. I came in dead last. I have the results to prove it.
But on Monday I didn't know any of this yet. My climbing partners and I reached the summit of Mt. Sir Sandford around noon. I pulled out my radio and called Mt. Seven, but got no response. Too early--nobody on the air yet. I gave a silent thought to the many pilots I had shared the air with and looked forward to meeting them again next year. Fly safe, my friends. Fly far.
Reluctantly, I turned my thoughts away from Golden. I grabbed my ice axe, nodded to Will at the other end of the rope, and we started our descent down the mountain.
Day 6 - The Magic Carpet (1st competition day)
Eighty-two pilots registered for the competition on Saturday. That was more than double the turnout in 1993. Unfortunately it was very windy most of the day. The young tigers, competition pilots from Alberta, British Columbia, and as far away as California and Colorado, launched in late afternoon and battled the turbulence. They flew north with the prevailing wind but most didn't get very far.
To the recreational pilots who asked, Willi Muller said, "Don't launch in this garbage. Wait until 7 PM. There should be a big glass-off tonight. Go south. You'll glide for miles." He was right.
Willi launched just after 7 and headed south. A number of recreational pilots, some of whom had never flown cross country before, followed him. Bob Hannah and Michelle Leialoha of Seattle launched tandem and tried to get high over Mt. Seven. Not having much success, they turned south and reached the next peak without losing any elevation. About 50 kilometers later they were still going up. A handful of other Northwest pilots including Marty DeVietti and Pete Reagan of Portland, Oregon did the same thing. After sunset, flying straight down the center of the valley, they had to fight to get down.
Many flyers decided not to go cross country that evening. I needed to pack for my climbing trip so I chose to stay near Mt. Seven taking photographs. When the glass-off kicked in, I boated around 9000 feet over the valley relaying messages between Pete Reagan and his chase driver. After 2-1/2 hours, trying to get down after sunset, I learned several things: Holding a B-line stall for more than 30 seconds is exhausting. After two dozen spirals, I'm ready to throw up. If you can't get down in the center of the valley, try the side.
I think what we experienced that night was more than just a glass-off, but I don't know what it was. Bernard Wagenbach of Switzerland won the day with a flight of 88.5 kilometers.
To the recreational pilots who asked, Willi Muller said, "Don't launch in this garbage. Wait until 7 PM. There should be a big glass-off tonight. Go south. You'll glide for miles." He was right.
Willi launched just after 7 and headed south. A number of recreational pilots, some of whom had never flown cross country before, followed him. Bob Hannah and Michelle Leialoha of Seattle launched tandem and tried to get high over Mt. Seven. Not having much success, they turned south and reached the next peak without losing any elevation. About 50 kilometers later they were still going up. A handful of other Northwest pilots including Marty DeVietti and Pete Reagan of Portland, Oregon did the same thing. After sunset, flying straight down the center of the valley, they had to fight to get down.
Many flyers decided not to go cross country that evening. I needed to pack for my climbing trip so I chose to stay near Mt. Seven taking photographs. When the glass-off kicked in, I boated around 9000 feet over the valley relaying messages between Pete Reagan and his chase driver. After 2-1/2 hours, trying to get down after sunset, I learned several things: Holding a B-line stall for more than 30 seconds is exhausting. After two dozen spirals, I'm ready to throw up. If you can't get down in the center of the valley, try the side.
I think what we experienced that night was more than just a glass-off, but I don't know what it was. Bernard Wagenbach of Switzerland won the day with a flight of 88.5 kilometers.
Day 5 - Windblown again
It was windy again on Friday. About twenty of us waited on launch for seven hours before flying down. There were so many Washington and Oregon pilots that it felt like another joint fly-in of the Northwest and Cascade Paragliding Clubs. Steve Roti and Marty Kaplan entertained dozing pilots by reading stories out of the NWPC newsletter.
Day 4 - It wasn't a fluke
Friends from Washington and Oregon were rolling into town. Thursday was very hazy, the result of the worst forest fires in decades. 150,000 acres were burning in central Washington alone.
The winds at launch were light again, but the haze suppressed the thermals until later in the afternoon. I launched after 4 PM and climbed quickly above Mt. Seven. I figured it was unrealistic to hope for another good flight, but I got one nonetheless. I followed the same strategy--be patient, get high, stay away from the rocks. I managed about 50 kilometers in about three hours.
Several memories stand out: Being joined south of Mt. Kapristo by my friend Steve after he made a great save. Flying with Marty DeVietti of Ellensburg on his first cross country flight past the "Coke bottle," a surreal looking radio tower in the middle of nowhere. Fleeing from a jaws-of-death canyon and finding myself low over a park-like meadow. The meadow was so beautiful that I wanted to stop for a picnic. But I found a thermal there--smooth, fat and tall--and the meadow receded thousands of feet below me as I made a most delightful save.
The winds at launch were light again, but the haze suppressed the thermals until later in the afternoon. I launched after 4 PM and climbed quickly above Mt. Seven. I figured it was unrealistic to hope for another good flight, but I got one nonetheless. I followed the same strategy--be patient, get high, stay away from the rocks. I managed about 50 kilometers in about three hours.
Several memories stand out: Being joined south of Mt. Kapristo by my friend Steve after he made a great save. Flying with Marty DeVietti of Ellensburg on his first cross country flight past the "Coke bottle," a surreal looking radio tower in the middle of nowhere. Fleeing from a jaws-of-death canyon and finding myself low over a park-like meadow. The meadow was so beautiful that I wanted to stop for a picnic. But I found a thermal there--smooth, fat and tall--and the meadow receded thousands of feet below me as I made a most delightful save.
Day 3 - Dream flights
The forecast on Wednesday was excellent and we hiked to the paraglider launch with high anticipation. Airtime Pat psyched himself up. "I wanna get spanked!" he said. "I wanna go far!" Pat had made several long flights the previous week and obviously didn't mind a bit of turbulence.
Around 1:30 PM a couple of experienced paraglider pilots flew from the lower hang glider launch and worked their way up to our level. Peter MacLaren of Vancouver and Eric Oddy of Golden didn't need to hike to the upper launch to make sure they got up over Mt.seven. Several of our group launched and joined them.
As I was laying out my glider, I heard the call, "Reserve deployment!" I looked up and saw Airtime Pat at least a thousand feet above Mt. Seven, floating down under reserve. He later described being in a 2000+ foot per minute thermal when he suffered a big collapse and spin. One of his trim-tabs slipped, making recovery difficult and prompting his deployment. Luckily he landed in a brushy gully behind the mountain with absolutely no damage. In a moment he was on the radio in an excited voice asking if anyone on launch knew how to repack a reserve. He eventually hiked back to launch, stuffed the reserve in his backpack, and flew down to Nicholson. Only one of his wishes had come true.
With trepidation, I launched and worked hard to get above Mt. Seven. I spent a solid hour getting to 11,700 feet before gliding across the gap to the next peak. I think the difference between this flight and my previous ones at Golden was patience. I didn't pass up any usable lift. I knew from experience that if I hurried downrange hoping for a better thermal, I would find myself scratching in places that I didn't want to scratch. I resolved that if I couldn't maintain adequate clearance from the cliffs, I would fly out and land in the valley.
This strategy worked. Several times I glided over a peak feeling for lift and thinking to myself, "If that last spur doesn't work, I'm outta here." And it worked! I kept plugging away, setting what I thought must be a record for slowness, and eventually landing near the town of Edgewater, about 75 kilometers from where I started.
My wrist altimeter recorded the flight: 5 hours, 30 thermals, 12,700 feet maximum altitude, 38,400 feet of climbing. I had encountered 1300 feet per minute lift but had only one minor collapse. I was worn out, but I hadn't gotten into any scary situations, so I felt very good about the day.
Any delusions of sky-godhood were put to rest when we got back to camp. Peter MacLaren and Eric Oddy, last seen impossibly high east of Mt. Seven, had flown ACROSS the Canadian Rockies to Lake Louise. They had reached 16,000 feet, jumped enormous gaps, and flown two thousand feet over the summit Mt. Temple, one of the monarchs of the Rockies. After Eric landed near Lake Louise, Peter continued across the Bow Valley and flew another 80 kilometers southeast to Canmore. The mountaineers in our group just shook their heads in amazement. It might not be a distance record, but it was the most spectacular paragliding flight we had heard of in North America. Truly a dream flight.
Around 1:30 PM a couple of experienced paraglider pilots flew from the lower hang glider launch and worked their way up to our level. Peter MacLaren of Vancouver and Eric Oddy of Golden didn't need to hike to the upper launch to make sure they got up over Mt.seven. Several of our group launched and joined them.
As I was laying out my glider, I heard the call, "Reserve deployment!" I looked up and saw Airtime Pat at least a thousand feet above Mt. Seven, floating down under reserve. He later described being in a 2000+ foot per minute thermal when he suffered a big collapse and spin. One of his trim-tabs slipped, making recovery difficult and prompting his deployment. Luckily he landed in a brushy gully behind the mountain with absolutely no damage. In a moment he was on the radio in an excited voice asking if anyone on launch knew how to repack a reserve. He eventually hiked back to launch, stuffed the reserve in his backpack, and flew down to Nicholson. Only one of his wishes had come true.
With trepidation, I launched and worked hard to get above Mt. Seven. I spent a solid hour getting to 11,700 feet before gliding across the gap to the next peak. I think the difference between this flight and my previous ones at Golden was patience. I didn't pass up any usable lift. I knew from experience that if I hurried downrange hoping for a better thermal, I would find myself scratching in places that I didn't want to scratch. I resolved that if I couldn't maintain adequate clearance from the cliffs, I would fly out and land in the valley.
This strategy worked. Several times I glided over a peak feeling for lift and thinking to myself, "If that last spur doesn't work, I'm outta here." And it worked! I kept plugging away, setting what I thought must be a record for slowness, and eventually landing near the town of Edgewater, about 75 kilometers from where I started.
My wrist altimeter recorded the flight: 5 hours, 30 thermals, 12,700 feet maximum altitude, 38,400 feet of climbing. I had encountered 1300 feet per minute lift but had only one minor collapse. I was worn out, but I hadn't gotten into any scary situations, so I felt very good about the day.
Any delusions of sky-godhood were put to rest when we got back to camp. Peter MacLaren and Eric Oddy, last seen impossibly high east of Mt. Seven, had flown ACROSS the Canadian Rockies to Lake Louise. They had reached 16,000 feet, jumped enormous gaps, and flown two thousand feet over the summit Mt. Temple, one of the monarchs of the Rockies. After Eric landed near Lake Louise, Peter continued across the Bow Valley and flew another 80 kilometers southeast to Canmore. The mountaineers in our group just shook their heads in amazement. It might not be a distance record, but it was the most spectacular paragliding flight we had heard of in North America. Truly a dream flight.
Day 2 - Windblown
There were only a few pilots at the Golden campground when we arrived. Most would arrive later in the week. We met a group of Vancouver pilots--Gary, Darren, Peter, Matt and "Airtime Pat"--and coordinated a ride up the mountain. Pat was easy to find. He drove a beater Toyota with a red and white bullseye on the hood that said, "SPOT LAND HERE!"
At the 7500 foot paraglider launch it was windy--too windy to launch paragliders. We arrived at noon and settled in for a long wait. In mid-afternoon a hang glider flew from the lower launch and headed south, dodging some scary looking black clouds. We heard later that he flew over 200 kilometers that day.
Pat and Darren hiked down around 7 PM. The rest of us waited until for 9pm for Flying Down. At the Nicholson landing zone the mosquitos ate us for dinner.
At the 7500 foot paraglider launch it was windy--too windy to launch paragliders. We arrived at noon and settled in for a long wait. In mid-afternoon a hang glider flew from the lower launch and headed south, dodging some scary looking black clouds. We heard later that he flew over 200 kilometers that day.
Pat and Darren hiked down around 7 PM. The rest of us waited until for 9pm for Flying Down. At the Nicholson landing zone the mosquitos ate us for dinner.
Day 1 - Wildfires
Steve Stroming and I left Seattle on Monday, July 25. My plan was to fly for five days (through the first day of competition) then join three friends who were driving up from Seattle for a week of climbing in the Selkirks.
Driving the Coquihalla Highway toward Kamloops, we saw the first of many forest fires. Thunderstorms on Sunday night had started wildfires throughout the Northwest. The Kamloops fire looked like an A-bomb. Grey-orange smoke billowed up from the flames. When the superheated air condensed it triggered a cumulus cloud that boiled skyward like something out of Dante's Inferno.
Driving the Coquihalla Highway toward Kamloops, we saw the first of many forest fires. Thunderstorms on Sunday night had started wildfires throughout the Northwest. The Kamloops fire looked like an A-bomb. Grey-orange smoke billowed up from the flames. When the superheated air condensed it triggered a cumulus cloud that boiled skyward like something out of Dante's Inferno.
Airtime is Golden
For most pilots, the Canadian Paragliding Championships at Golden, British Columbia are not about competing. They are about exceeding your personal best, about pursuing dreams.
Willi Muller knew that. As organizer of the 1994 event, he announced in advance that the first two days would be open distance, any direction, any launch time. The emphasis was on each pilot flying as far and as well as they could, rather than racing the other pilots. The third day would be a race to goal so participants could head home early.
I flew at Golden two years ago. At that time I had less than a year of paragliding experience. I managed one 32 kilometer cross country flight, but mostly I was intimidated by the place. This year my goal was to fly cross country without scaring myself. If I improved my personal best, that would be great, but not essential.
Golden is superbly suited for cross country flying. The town is located in the Rocky Mountain Trench, the great valley that runs northwest to southeast between the Columbia Mountains and the Canadian Rockies. From Mt. Seven, the peak rising above Golden, the front range of the Rockies extends south at around 9000 feet for hundreds of kilometers. The 2500 foot valley has many fields within gliding distance of the range and a paved road provides easy retrieval.
This is not to imply that flying at Golden is trivial. The thermals can be as strong as anywhere and the mountains are very rugged. There are many places along the range where you simply DO NOT want to go down. Even if you survive a crash landing on the peaks, you may face a full day of difficult travel to hike out. The Canadian Rockies are wild mountains. If you don't fly with a wide safety margin, you're likely to scare yourself, or worse.
Willi Muller knew that. As organizer of the 1994 event, he announced in advance that the first two days would be open distance, any direction, any launch time. The emphasis was on each pilot flying as far and as well as they could, rather than racing the other pilots. The third day would be a race to goal so participants could head home early.
I flew at Golden two years ago. At that time I had less than a year of paragliding experience. I managed one 32 kilometer cross country flight, but mostly I was intimidated by the place. This year my goal was to fly cross country without scaring myself. If I improved my personal best, that would be great, but not essential.
Golden is superbly suited for cross country flying. The town is located in the Rocky Mountain Trench, the great valley that runs northwest to southeast between the Columbia Mountains and the Canadian Rockies. From Mt. Seven, the peak rising above Golden, the front range of the Rockies extends south at around 9000 feet for hundreds of kilometers. The 2500 foot valley has many fields within gliding distance of the range and a paved road provides easy retrieval.
This is not to imply that flying at Golden is trivial. The thermals can be as strong as anywhere and the mountains are very rugged. There are many places along the range where you simply DO NOT want to go down. Even if you survive a crash landing on the peaks, you may face a full day of difficult travel to hike out. The Canadian Rockies are wild mountains. If you don't fly with a wide safety margin, you're likely to scare yourself, or worse.
Accident
Accidents
It seems people have a preoccupation with accidents involving foot launched flight. I think there are two main reasons for this. Firstly pilots love to talk about experiences which scared them. It makes them look strong and brave to any audience which is ignorant of the real nature of the sport. Secondly the horror stories are eagerly passed on by the many people who would dearly love to try foot launched flight themselves but who lack the little bit of courage it actually takes. I have lost count of the times I have started to talk about paragliding to a non-flyer, only to have the conversation steered within seconds to the subject of someone who knew someone who got hurt or killed. These people feel vindicated every time there is an accident or incident and their own pressure on themselves is eased for a while. So the stories go round and round while "fall" becomes "plummet" and "broke" becomes "smashed". Conversely, why do we see so little regular paragliding or hang gliding on our televisions? Is it because for the news teams, seeing what they have always dreamed of doing, being performed in perfect safety is more than they can bear? I think we do a great disservice to our sport every time we spellbind an audience with horror stories. If we can keep reports of accidents factual and informative to the extent that they will help other pilots avoid the same conditions, we can do much to remove the unsafe reputation some people attribute to paragliding.
Of course there will always be those who will call paragliding unsafe. That is their opinion and they are entitled to it. They had better be paragons of safety themselves though, if they are to retain a shred of credibility. They had better not smoke and their cars had better be outstanding examples of roadworthiness. They had better never drive when "one over the limit" or speed or go through a red traffic light or do any of the many stupid, life-threatening things that people do. They had better not throw stones at paragliding unless in their own glass houses all the appliances are earthed that ought to be earthed and an earth- leakage is fitted, tried and tested.
As for me, I can find nothing to make me believe that paragliding is unsafe. As for the structural integrity of the paraglider itself, this can be confirmed by a simple inspection, provided we know what to look for and carry out the same sort of regular checks that pilots perform on rigid aircraft. In this way we can avoid accidents due to porosity and UV related damage as well, since ample warning signs are there to be seen by all who would look. Of course we must always bear in mind just what it is we are hanging from and hanging by.
I will continue to take my rowing boat aeroplane down to the atmospheric ocean whenever conditions permit. I will endeavour to be as educated and prepared as I possibly can. I will remember how easily my little craft can be swamped or overturned and I hope I will continue to enjoy the freedom and excitement of paragliding flight for a long time to come.
I will continue to admire the deeds of those daring few, who with extensive preparation and all the appropriate skills and equipment, go out to set new records on craft similar to mine, but I will also keep in mind my own limitations and keep my personal attempts at record breaking in the realm of my dreams, from which I know I can always awaken safely.
I hope paragliding will always fill me with the same sense of wonder and awe that it does now. I hope it will for you too.
It seems people have a preoccupation with accidents involving foot launched flight. I think there are two main reasons for this. Firstly pilots love to talk about experiences which scared them. It makes them look strong and brave to any audience which is ignorant of the real nature of the sport. Secondly the horror stories are eagerly passed on by the many people who would dearly love to try foot launched flight themselves but who lack the little bit of courage it actually takes. I have lost count of the times I have started to talk about paragliding to a non-flyer, only to have the conversation steered within seconds to the subject of someone who knew someone who got hurt or killed. These people feel vindicated every time there is an accident or incident and their own pressure on themselves is eased for a while. So the stories go round and round while "fall" becomes "plummet" and "broke" becomes "smashed". Conversely, why do we see so little regular paragliding or hang gliding on our televisions? Is it because for the news teams, seeing what they have always dreamed of doing, being performed in perfect safety is more than they can bear? I think we do a great disservice to our sport every time we spellbind an audience with horror stories. If we can keep reports of accidents factual and informative to the extent that they will help other pilots avoid the same conditions, we can do much to remove the unsafe reputation some people attribute to paragliding.
Of course there will always be those who will call paragliding unsafe. That is their opinion and they are entitled to it. They had better be paragons of safety themselves though, if they are to retain a shred of credibility. They had better not smoke and their cars had better be outstanding examples of roadworthiness. They had better never drive when "one over the limit" or speed or go through a red traffic light or do any of the many stupid, life-threatening things that people do. They had better not throw stones at paragliding unless in their own glass houses all the appliances are earthed that ought to be earthed and an earth- leakage is fitted, tried and tested.
As for me, I can find nothing to make me believe that paragliding is unsafe. As for the structural integrity of the paraglider itself, this can be confirmed by a simple inspection, provided we know what to look for and carry out the same sort of regular checks that pilots perform on rigid aircraft. In this way we can avoid accidents due to porosity and UV related damage as well, since ample warning signs are there to be seen by all who would look. Of course we must always bear in mind just what it is we are hanging from and hanging by.
I will continue to take my rowing boat aeroplane down to the atmospheric ocean whenever conditions permit. I will endeavour to be as educated and prepared as I possibly can. I will remember how easily my little craft can be swamped or overturned and I hope I will continue to enjoy the freedom and excitement of paragliding flight for a long time to come.
I will continue to admire the deeds of those daring few, who with extensive preparation and all the appropriate skills and equipment, go out to set new records on craft similar to mine, but I will also keep in mind my own limitations and keep my personal attempts at record breaking in the realm of my dreams, from which I know I can always awaken safely.
I hope paragliding will always fill me with the same sense of wonder and awe that it does now. I hope it will for you too.
Breaking Records
Breaking Records
It is a tribute to the human spirit that there are always people prepared to push an activity to its absolute limit. Think again about the great voyages undertaken by people in rowing boats in the past and their analogy, the accomplishments of some paraglider pilots far more recently. Consider for a moment what these achievements mean, given that a paraglider weighs about as much in relation to its pilot as a bird's feathers weigh in relation to it. The record for the maximum height gain currently stands at 4470m (14665 feet). Incredible! That someone can step off a hill or be towed up to a height of a few hundred metres in tropical heat, under a few kilograms of string and plastic and then ascend safely to altitudes where the temperature is below freezing and the pilot requires oxygen. What too of the distance record? A paraglider has been flown 336 km. (209 miles). Amazing! That someone can fly over 300 km on a pocket aeroplane with no power source of its own. What an incredible feat of skill, daring and endurance. Why wasn't this reported on the front page of every newspaper in the world? Why is it that some clot who has never had a lesson in his life and who kills himself trying to fly a high-performance paraglider is considered more newsworthy than these legends in our own time? Where are our priorities? Are we in danger of losing the appropriate sense of wonder about what we are doing? Is this a sign of the times, when we take health and comfort for granted and almost anyone can own a computer with more processing power than those which went to the moon on Apollo 11? Would an increased sense of reverence towards what we are actually doing when we fly a paraglider decrease the accident rate?
It is a tribute to the human spirit that there are always people prepared to push an activity to its absolute limit. Think again about the great voyages undertaken by people in rowing boats in the past and their analogy, the accomplishments of some paraglider pilots far more recently. Consider for a moment what these achievements mean, given that a paraglider weighs about as much in relation to its pilot as a bird's feathers weigh in relation to it. The record for the maximum height gain currently stands at 4470m (14665 feet). Incredible! That someone can step off a hill or be towed up to a height of a few hundred metres in tropical heat, under a few kilograms of string and plastic and then ascend safely to altitudes where the temperature is below freezing and the pilot requires oxygen. What too of the distance record? A paraglider has been flown 336 km. (209 miles). Amazing! That someone can fly over 300 km on a pocket aeroplane with no power source of its own. What an incredible feat of skill, daring and endurance. Why wasn't this reported on the front page of every newspaper in the world? Why is it that some clot who has never had a lesson in his life and who kills himself trying to fly a high-performance paraglider is considered more newsworthy than these legends in our own time? Where are our priorities? Are we in danger of losing the appropriate sense of wonder about what we are doing? Is this a sign of the times, when we take health and comfort for granted and almost anyone can own a computer with more processing power than those which went to the moon on Apollo 11? Would an increased sense of reverence towards what we are actually doing when we fly a paraglider decrease the accident rate?
No Paraglider Ponds
No Paraglider Ponds
One big difference between rowing boats and paragliders is that when I take my rowing boat down to the local reservoir, I can be confident the water will be calm. If I want rough water, I know where to find it too. Yet for paragliders, everywhere is the big, wide, open ocean. There are no ponds and lakes. The Roaring Forties can come right to our kindergarten slopes. What is more, it's all invisible. Fortunately there are plenty of signs to indicate what is actually going on in the air around us, available to those who would look. If we do not or will not wait, watch and observe before flying, who is to blame if things get out of control in conditions that are too strong?
I would not want to propose that the way to make the sport safer is to legislate or try to police who can fly where and in what conditions, but rather that pilots should be trained to have the right attitude to the sport and be able to read the conditions for themselves. Perhaps our instructors can learn a lesson from the teachers of the martial arts of the East. They inculcate a sense of mysticism, reverence and mental discipline in their pupils, who can then practice the most fearful ways of doing bodily harm to an opponent, with few getting hurt in the process.
One big difference between rowing boats and paragliders is that when I take my rowing boat down to the local reservoir, I can be confident the water will be calm. If I want rough water, I know where to find it too. Yet for paragliders, everywhere is the big, wide, open ocean. There are no ponds and lakes. The Roaring Forties can come right to our kindergarten slopes. What is more, it's all invisible. Fortunately there are plenty of signs to indicate what is actually going on in the air around us, available to those who would look. If we do not or will not wait, watch and observe before flying, who is to blame if things get out of control in conditions that are too strong?
I would not want to propose that the way to make the sport safer is to legislate or try to police who can fly where and in what conditions, but rather that pilots should be trained to have the right attitude to the sport and be able to read the conditions for themselves. Perhaps our instructors can learn a lesson from the teachers of the martial arts of the East. They inculcate a sense of mysticism, reverence and mental discipline in their pupils, who can then practice the most fearful ways of doing bodily harm to an opponent, with few getting hurt in the process.
Rowing Boats in Strong Thermals
Rowing Boats in Strong Thermals
There are plenty of stupid things that I could do with a rowing boat. One of then would be to pop down to the coast and try to launch my rowing boat into the Southern Ocean off an open beach. If I drowned in the attempt, you would call that very stupid. You would add even more adjectives if I waited until the middle of the day when the surf was at its highest and then attempted to launch blindfold, yet this is the analogy of taking our paragliders into strong thermals. We find paraglider pilots who wait around at launch for the thermals to really start booming before taking off into an invisible maelstrom of breaking waves, surges and rip currents. When their canopies collapse and spin them to the ground, we hear complaints of unstable, unsafe gliders, seldom a judgement about the sanity of the pilot. Sure there are rowing boats that go out through the surf, lifeguards use them. With knowledge, skill, experience and the right equipment, it can be done safely, but should we try such a feat until we know exactly what we are doing and the real extent of our capabilities?
There are plenty of stupid things that I could do with a rowing boat. One of then would be to pop down to the coast and try to launch my rowing boat into the Southern Ocean off an open beach. If I drowned in the attempt, you would call that very stupid. You would add even more adjectives if I waited until the middle of the day when the surf was at its highest and then attempted to launch blindfold, yet this is the analogy of taking our paragliders into strong thermals. We find paraglider pilots who wait around at launch for the thermals to really start booming before taking off into an invisible maelstrom of breaking waves, surges and rip currents. When their canopies collapse and spin them to the ground, we hear complaints of unstable, unsafe gliders, seldom a judgement about the sanity of the pilot. Sure there are rowing boats that go out through the surf, lifeguards use them. With knowledge, skill, experience and the right equipment, it can be done safely, but should we try such a feat until we know exactly what we are doing and the real extent of our capabilities?
Rowing Boats on the Ridge
Rowing Boats on the Ridge
Now suppose we live at a place where the most beautiful pool for rowing is found on a river just upstream of a large rapid or waterfall. The obvious danger would require some precautions and preparation. We would want to know exactly how fast we could row and exactly what the strength of the current was. Throw in a spare set of oars and an assurance that the current wasn't going to increase while we were out there and if our rowing speed is well above that of the current, we could set off and boat around in reasonable safety, always keeping well away from the waterfall.
Ridge soaring on a paraglider is analogous to rowing on a river just upstream of a waterfall and is probably the first soaring experience for most pilots. From our gliders we cannot see the waterfall nor can we hear the white water although we know where it is likely to be. When things go wrong and when people hear of another pilot killed or seriously injured after being "blown over the back" they take it as yet more proof that paragliding is an unsafe sport, but is it? How many pilots know exactly what their own top speed is? How many bother to get a forecast before taking off? Are these the same people who would attempt to cross the Zambezi River in an untried and untested canoe just upstream of the Victoria Falls?
Now suppose we live at a place where the most beautiful pool for rowing is found on a river just upstream of a large rapid or waterfall. The obvious danger would require some precautions and preparation. We would want to know exactly how fast we could row and exactly what the strength of the current was. Throw in a spare set of oars and an assurance that the current wasn't going to increase while we were out there and if our rowing speed is well above that of the current, we could set off and boat around in reasonable safety, always keeping well away from the waterfall.
Ridge soaring on a paraglider is analogous to rowing on a river just upstream of a waterfall and is probably the first soaring experience for most pilots. From our gliders we cannot see the waterfall nor can we hear the white water although we know where it is likely to be. When things go wrong and when people hear of another pilot killed or seriously injured after being "blown over the back" they take it as yet more proof that paragliding is an unsafe sport, but is it? How many pilots know exactly what their own top speed is? How many bother to get a forecast before taking off? Are these the same people who would attempt to cross the Zambezi River in an untried and untested canoe just upstream of the Victoria Falls?
danger and stupidity
Danger and Stupidity
There is a vast difference between doing something dangerous and doing something stupid. Any dangerous activity can be made arbitrarily safe by taking suitable precautions and making adequate preparation. Crossing oceans in rowing boats is certainly dangerous but setting out without all the extensive preparation required for such a trip would be plain stupid.
Now it seems to me that paragliders are the rowing boats of the skies and I would ask those who regard paragliding as unsafe to reflect on this idea. I think it is time we looked seriously at just what a paraglider provides in relation to what it consists of and then realise that there are bound to be limitations to paragliding which we must accept in the same way that rowing boat owners accept the limitations of their small craft.
I expect most people can row a boat although a few just never seem to get the hang of it. Nevertheless the first experiences are likely to have been on some very calm and still water somewhere. Who would consider anything else? As experience and confidence increases we might be tempted onto larger expanses of water with small waves and a bit of wind about, but always within our proven capabilities. So far, so good.
There is a vast difference between doing something dangerous and doing something stupid. Any dangerous activity can be made arbitrarily safe by taking suitable precautions and making adequate preparation. Crossing oceans in rowing boats is certainly dangerous but setting out without all the extensive preparation required for such a trip would be plain stupid.
Now it seems to me that paragliders are the rowing boats of the skies and I would ask those who regard paragliding as unsafe to reflect on this idea. I think it is time we looked seriously at just what a paraglider provides in relation to what it consists of and then realise that there are bound to be limitations to paragliding which we must accept in the same way that rowing boat owners accept the limitations of their small craft.
I expect most people can row a boat although a few just never seem to get the hang of it. Nevertheless the first experiences are likely to have been on some very calm and still water somewhere. Who would consider anything else? As experience and confidence increases we might be tempted onto larger expanses of water with small waves and a bit of wind about, but always within our proven capabilities. So far, so good.
Paragliders and Rowing Boats
Every time I hear of paragliding accidents that involve strong winds or rough air, I think of paragliders and rowing boats.
It seems to me that paragliders and rowing boats have a great deal in common. Like a paraglider, a rowing boat is something small and light enough to be handled and transported by one person. It goes on the roof of a car or even in the trunk. It is possible to launch a rowing boat almost anywhere and once at the waters edge, a rowing boat provides the freedom to leave the shoreline and all the picnickers behind and float free and easy around the lake or pond.
Such freedom and convenience comes at a price. You can't go floating on just any old water, it has to be fairly calm and there must be no prospect of sudden changes in the weather. The wakes of bigger boats pose a real danger and a current of more than a couple of knots would sweep the intrepid and startled oarsperson away.
All of these limitations and many more are happily accepted by most of those who go about in such craft and rowing is regarded as a safe activity. Nevertheless there are a few who have pushed the accomplishments of rowing boats way beyond the commonly accepted. People have crossed oceans in rowing boats and performed great feats of navigation with only the most rudimentary equipment. We admire and remember these people as courageous and daring, but few would consider trying to emulate them.
It seems to me that paragliders and rowing boats have a great deal in common. Like a paraglider, a rowing boat is something small and light enough to be handled and transported by one person. It goes on the roof of a car or even in the trunk. It is possible to launch a rowing boat almost anywhere and once at the waters edge, a rowing boat provides the freedom to leave the shoreline and all the picnickers behind and float free and easy around the lake or pond.
Such freedom and convenience comes at a price. You can't go floating on just any old water, it has to be fairly calm and there must be no prospect of sudden changes in the weather. The wakes of bigger boats pose a real danger and a current of more than a couple of knots would sweep the intrepid and startled oarsperson away.
All of these limitations and many more are happily accepted by most of those who go about in such craft and rowing is regarded as a safe activity. Nevertheless there are a few who have pushed the accomplishments of rowing boats way beyond the commonly accepted. People have crossed oceans in rowing boats and performed great feats of navigation with only the most rudimentary equipment. We admire and remember these people as courageous and daring, but few would consider trying to emulate them.
Listening to that Little Voice of Warning
Pilots have asked when and how one should listen to that 'little voice of warning' that pipes up inside ones head telling one not to fly. As someone half-descended from one of the world's most superstitious cultures, and as one who failed once, in an extremely spectacular fashion, to listen to that 'little voice' when he should have...and no, it wasn't this silly recent beach-whack from which I am recovering but a truly horrifying experience, on March 12 of 1990, which if I ever told the story publicly in all of its terrifying detail, would probably cause at least a dozen people to quit flying, take up competitive checkers instead, and be crushed to death by improperly folded checkerboards in a freak accident at an insignificant regional tournament, which goes to show that you can never lead a life that is totally free from risk but must do your best to have fun and stay safe however you can...let me make a few suggestions.
The problem is that there are TWO 'little voices of warning'. The First Little Voice is the one that looks around, evaluates the conditions with a superb subconscious skill that is trustworthy, reliable, and free from the cares, concerns, and pre-conceptions of the conscious mind, makes its forecast, adds its honest evaluation of one's physical condition, skill, and experience level that day, and makes a valid judgement of how safe it will be to fly. This is the Little Voice that, if one can only hear it, is the one to which one should and must listen. Unfortunately there is also a Second Little Voice, louder and more strident, that screams out, "You're going to die!" at odd intervals for no apparent reason. Not only can this Second Little Voice cause you to miss some awesome days, it can actually make a safe day dangerous by increasing the possibility of panic.
The Trick, obviously, is to somehow learn to tell these Two Little Voices apart, to listen religiously to everything the First One says, and tell the Second One to shut the [impolite word] up. How to accomplish this trick is one of the World's Great Questions. Unfortunately, as an acknowledged Person Who Is Not Sufficiently Clever To Deduce The Answers To The World's Great Questions, I do not know how to do this. I do, however, have an idea that I believe has some merit:
If a Little Voice of Warning starts crying out its predictions of doom, sit down and ask for an explanation. This will often be enough to silence the Second, emotional and unreliable, Voice, which does not have any explanation for its irrational fear. The First Voice, of the other hand, the one to which you WANT to listen, will, when challenged, usually be able to come up with some explanation for its pessimism: something like, "Well, gee, it's blowing in at 20-25, this is laminar marine air with no sign of lift, the first LZ is a 6:1 glide away past a forest of 100 foot tall pine trees, and it's 45 degrees cross here at launch, which just happens to be socked in with clouds." (As you might guess, these are the some of the clues the three of us failed to notice on that Famous Day eight years ago). If this does not give any clue which voice is speaking, go ahead and plan your flight as if there was no voice at all, but PAY SPECIAL ATTENTION TO YOUR BAIL-OUT OPTIONS. Figure out what could go wrong, figure out what you'll do if it does, and make sure that you've got a safe reliable way to dig yourself out of trouble. (Yes, you guessed it. This is another thing that I failed to do on that Famous Day Eight Years Ago.)
These two actions should be enough to answer the question of whether or not it's safe to fly, but if you still have any doubt, bag it. It is, perhaps, easier to give this advice here in Elfland, where you could blow off EVERY day on which you had the even slightest doubts and still get to fly 90% of the time, but remember: even in the Central Atlantic Coast, whose wretched conditions are a source of legend, there will be another good day tomorrow. After all, the mountains have been around for several million years and can reasonably be expected to last another few million.
Since my Adventure Eight Years Ago, which Experience was the source of this philosophy, I have decided not to launch on, and hence missed, all of Three Good Days. How sad. On the other hand, I was also clever enough to avoid at least Ten Really Bad Days: days that were so dire that they have become the stuff of stories and regrets to all who survived. I wouldn't trade the Three Good Days I missed for even a single second of those Ten Bad Days,
The Trick I still have to learn is when to call it quits on an XC flight. I have now fought, struggled, and battled my way into serious trouble at least twice in the last six years, which is, of course, at least two [impolite word] times too many. Ho ho.
Postscript: It seems to me that the Real Problem is not getting pilots to make rational decisions whether or not to fly, it's getting the rest of the flying community to respect those decisions. Some regions and clubs are fine, but I can think of a few places where I've heard conversations like, "Hmm. Looks bad. I'm not sure I want to fly today." "Why not? Whimp! There's cycles coming up! And once you get past those two ridges you'll be out of the rotor. Besides, that thunderstorm isn't headed this way, and those trees in front of launch haven't grown back too much since we trimmed them six years ago."
I guess the real question that we all have to answer is the one that's been kicking around for some time: why do we fly? Is it for fun, or is it for glory? If it's for fun, are you Really doing your best to have fun? If it's for glory, are you honestly prepared to pay the price: in effort, time, and added risk? My own experience is that glory is hollow, and no matter how unambitious you are, there are plenty of days when even a cowardly weenie like me can make it past the honchos, but if someone really IS a fire-eater, and simply HAS to fly close to the edge in order to be satisfied... well... they DO have my respect, and I'll retell their tales of glory as breathlessly as the next man.
The problem is that there are TWO 'little voices of warning'. The First Little Voice is the one that looks around, evaluates the conditions with a superb subconscious skill that is trustworthy, reliable, and free from the cares, concerns, and pre-conceptions of the conscious mind, makes its forecast, adds its honest evaluation of one's physical condition, skill, and experience level that day, and makes a valid judgement of how safe it will be to fly. This is the Little Voice that, if one can only hear it, is the one to which one should and must listen. Unfortunately there is also a Second Little Voice, louder and more strident, that screams out, "You're going to die!" at odd intervals for no apparent reason. Not only can this Second Little Voice cause you to miss some awesome days, it can actually make a safe day dangerous by increasing the possibility of panic.
The Trick, obviously, is to somehow learn to tell these Two Little Voices apart, to listen religiously to everything the First One says, and tell the Second One to shut the [impolite word] up. How to accomplish this trick is one of the World's Great Questions. Unfortunately, as an acknowledged Person Who Is Not Sufficiently Clever To Deduce The Answers To The World's Great Questions, I do not know how to do this. I do, however, have an idea that I believe has some merit:
If a Little Voice of Warning starts crying out its predictions of doom, sit down and ask for an explanation. This will often be enough to silence the Second, emotional and unreliable, Voice, which does not have any explanation for its irrational fear. The First Voice, of the other hand, the one to which you WANT to listen, will, when challenged, usually be able to come up with some explanation for its pessimism: something like, "Well, gee, it's blowing in at 20-25, this is laminar marine air with no sign of lift, the first LZ is a 6:1 glide away past a forest of 100 foot tall pine trees, and it's 45 degrees cross here at launch, which just happens to be socked in with clouds." (As you might guess, these are the some of the clues the three of us failed to notice on that Famous Day eight years ago). If this does not give any clue which voice is speaking, go ahead and plan your flight as if there was no voice at all, but PAY SPECIAL ATTENTION TO YOUR BAIL-OUT OPTIONS. Figure out what could go wrong, figure out what you'll do if it does, and make sure that you've got a safe reliable way to dig yourself out of trouble. (Yes, you guessed it. This is another thing that I failed to do on that Famous Day Eight Years Ago.)
These two actions should be enough to answer the question of whether or not it's safe to fly, but if you still have any doubt, bag it. It is, perhaps, easier to give this advice here in Elfland, where you could blow off EVERY day on which you had the even slightest doubts and still get to fly 90% of the time, but remember: even in the Central Atlantic Coast, whose wretched conditions are a source of legend, there will be another good day tomorrow. After all, the mountains have been around for several million years and can reasonably be expected to last another few million.
Since my Adventure Eight Years Ago, which Experience was the source of this philosophy, I have decided not to launch on, and hence missed, all of Three Good Days. How sad. On the other hand, I was also clever enough to avoid at least Ten Really Bad Days: days that were so dire that they have become the stuff of stories and regrets to all who survived. I wouldn't trade the Three Good Days I missed for even a single second of those Ten Bad Days,
The Trick I still have to learn is when to call it quits on an XC flight. I have now fought, struggled, and battled my way into serious trouble at least twice in the last six years, which is, of course, at least two [impolite word] times too many. Ho ho.
Postscript: It seems to me that the Real Problem is not getting pilots to make rational decisions whether or not to fly, it's getting the rest of the flying community to respect those decisions. Some regions and clubs are fine, but I can think of a few places where I've heard conversations like, "Hmm. Looks bad. I'm not sure I want to fly today." "Why not? Whimp! There's cycles coming up! And once you get past those two ridges you'll be out of the rotor. Besides, that thunderstorm isn't headed this way, and those trees in front of launch haven't grown back too much since we trimmed them six years ago."
I guess the real question that we all have to answer is the one that's been kicking around for some time: why do we fly? Is it for fun, or is it for glory? If it's for fun, are you Really doing your best to have fun? If it's for glory, are you honestly prepared to pay the price: in effort, time, and added risk? My own experience is that glory is hollow, and no matter how unambitious you are, there are plenty of days when even a cowardly weenie like me can make it past the honchos, but if someone really IS a fire-eater, and simply HAS to fly close to the edge in order to be satisfied... well... they DO have my respect, and I'll retell their tales of glory as breathlessly as the next man.
indian summer highs story1
Sledding the North Cascades
Steve Stroming is a climbing friend who convinced me to try paragliding a few years back. Since then we've done more flying together than climbing. Two years ago I returned from a hike in the North Cascades with tales of a great potential flight, Crater Mountain. With a good trail all the way to the top and a 6000+ foot descent right back to the car, I think it is unique in the Cascades.
The catch was that we would have to land next to the North Cascades Highway at the bottom of a narrow valley. We figured that autumn would be the best time. The mountain would be snow free and the highway traffic would be light. We wanted an early start to fly before the valley winds picked up. Two years passed before we finally tried it early this October.
We slept at the trailhead and started hiking by headlamp at 5:15 AM. Around 9:45 we reached the top. The day was fine--mostly clear with a light west wind. Still, we decided not to try launching from the true summit. The breeze was strong enough, about 12 MPH, to cause a wind shadow where the summit plateau dropped over a cliff. For safety's sake we hiked down about 1000 feet to a nice round shoulder where the breeze was light and consistent.
From our launch we looked down 5000 feet to the highway snaking its way toward Rainy Pass. Beyond, the summits of Black Peak, Ragged Ridge, Backbone Ridge and Snowfield Peak stood above glaciers that looked withered and icy after the dry summer. We could see the white cone of Mt. Baker and the Picket Range beyond Ross Lake to the west. Nearby, the crumbling hulk of Jack Mountain loomed above us.
Steve launched first while I took photographs. I followed at about 11:30 AM. The flight lasted only 16 minutes, but after waiting for two years, we savored it. I watched the summit recede far above me as I made lazy turns over the river. As we descended into the wind shadow of the trees along the highway, a light breeze gave us some mild surges. Neither of us had any problems, but we could tell that flying here with strong winds would be a terrible mistake.
Since it was only noon, we drove farther up the highway and hiked to the meadows below Cutthroat Peak. We had a beautiful 1400 feet high among the golden larches and peaks of the Washington Pass area. There were a few thermal bumps, but nothing sustainable. Wisps of cloud painted across the blue October sky hinted that our Indian Summer was nearing an end.
As we expected, a group of motorists stopped and plied us with questions at the highway. One woman was especially attentive. After Steve answered all her questions, she paused for a moment and said, "You sure know how to live life."
I was tempted to respond with something like, "Shucks, this is how we spend all our weekends," but I thought better of it. Her words were a reminder of something worth holding onto. We fliers become comfortable, even complacent, doing things most people only dream about. I cherish days like these for reminding me just how fortunate we are.
Steve Stroming is a climbing friend who convinced me to try paragliding a few years back. Since then we've done more flying together than climbing. Two years ago I returned from a hike in the North Cascades with tales of a great potential flight, Crater Mountain. With a good trail all the way to the top and a 6000+ foot descent right back to the car, I think it is unique in the Cascades.
The catch was that we would have to land next to the North Cascades Highway at the bottom of a narrow valley. We figured that autumn would be the best time. The mountain would be snow free and the highway traffic would be light. We wanted an early start to fly before the valley winds picked up. Two years passed before we finally tried it early this October.
We slept at the trailhead and started hiking by headlamp at 5:15 AM. Around 9:45 we reached the top. The day was fine--mostly clear with a light west wind. Still, we decided not to try launching from the true summit. The breeze was strong enough, about 12 MPH, to cause a wind shadow where the summit plateau dropped over a cliff. For safety's sake we hiked down about 1000 feet to a nice round shoulder where the breeze was light and consistent.
From our launch we looked down 5000 feet to the highway snaking its way toward Rainy Pass. Beyond, the summits of Black Peak, Ragged Ridge, Backbone Ridge and Snowfield Peak stood above glaciers that looked withered and icy after the dry summer. We could see the white cone of Mt. Baker and the Picket Range beyond Ross Lake to the west. Nearby, the crumbling hulk of Jack Mountain loomed above us.
Steve launched first while I took photographs. I followed at about 11:30 AM. The flight lasted only 16 minutes, but after waiting for two years, we savored it. I watched the summit recede far above me as I made lazy turns over the river. As we descended into the wind shadow of the trees along the highway, a light breeze gave us some mild surges. Neither of us had any problems, but we could tell that flying here with strong winds would be a terrible mistake.
Since it was only noon, we drove farther up the highway and hiked to the meadows below Cutthroat Peak. We had a beautiful 1400 feet high among the golden larches and peaks of the Washington Pass area. There were a few thermal bumps, but nothing sustainable. Wisps of cloud painted across the blue October sky hinted that our Indian Summer was nearing an end.
As we expected, a group of motorists stopped and plied us with questions at the highway. One woman was especially attentive. After Steve answered all her questions, she paused for a moment and said, "You sure know how to live life."
I was tempted to respond with something like, "Shucks, this is how we spend all our weekends," but I thought better of it. Her words were a reminder of something worth holding onto. We fliers become comfortable, even complacent, doing things most people only dream about. I cherish days like these for reminding me just how fortunate we are.
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