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.