On Doc's Bus

Paragliding like a Saint

2011-12-05T19:23:00.000-08:00

Welcome to Juniper Canyon on the Columbia River at the border of Oregon and Washington. A fine place for a peripatetic moment. Suspend your opinions on the existence of God for a bit and let us make some assumptions for the purpose of this discussion. Let us assume now that there is an invisible type of energy that permeates all of existence and is the fundamental life force driving the creation and sustenance of the universe. Let us further assume that it is a positive force in that as it pertains to mankind it is intrinsically loving and fundamentally supportive of human growth and development in line with it's tendency to create and make manifest not only that which is inanimate but animate. Lets agree, if you don't mind, to call this force The Spirit. Now, let's assume that we are paraglider pilots. Paraglider pilots need every possible advantage to stay airborne. If so, should we not avail ourselves of this energy in whatever fashion reasonably possible to help sustain flight? And if so, how?

Catholics have a quaint little group that they revere as "mystics," including St. John of the Cross, St. Teresa of Avila, and St. Francis. St. John and St. Teresa are the principal teachers (Doctors of the Church, actually) of what is called contemplative or infused prayer--two way communication with God. St. Francis was also quite in touch with his diety. Another Saint pertinent to paragliding is St. Joseph of Cuportino, one of three patron saints of aviation. St. Joseph was in the habit of levitation when he was communing with God, sticking him with pins or poking him with burning embers didn't get him out of the air, only direct orders from his superiors could get him down. What can we take from these saints and their interaction with their God that might be useful to us as paraglider pilots should we desire to attempt interaction with The Spirit and help stay in the air?

From my readings about these saints, it appears that what they have to say coincides rather well with some of the comments in Mads Syndergaards book regarding the mental state required for successful paraglider competition. What is required is a mind cleared of encumbrance and quiet, as if for meditation, yet completely open to receive proper data. Study and training is required so that the act of flying is second nature, and the usual cluttered thought process (looking for triggers, birds, clouds, checking wind and instruments, etc.) can be pushed down towards the subconscious. (The contemplative saints were no poorly trained alter boys going straight for the prayer Olympics, these were all seasoned veterans.) The type of communication is not that of a couple of CB radio operators chatting mindlessly from their big rigs, but rather that of a nearly entranced ham radio expert in the quiet of his station in the middle of the night mind tuned mainly to receive, but ready and able to respond as necessary.

In order to communicate with The Spirit, to perhaps better pilot our paraglider, we must study and train and prepare, watching the details, and take great care of our mental state. Forgetting batteries for one's vario, having a pissing match with some idiot on the hill, worrying about this and that, whatever--got to let it go when it comes time, and get ready to fly.

The Spirit can infuse information into a receptive mind, actionable data perhaps? Set your priorities, set mind to receive, attempt to identify actionable data (preferentially subconsciously, as you most likely will not recognize it empirically as useful data) and allow proper action to ensue.

I think that in addition to mindset and the usual preparations for flying, it is reasonable to include an aspect of spiritual foundation to flight preparation if one wishes to include The Spirit in one's flying. Coming from a childhood spent in Catholic oriented spirituality, it is immediately obvious that such a preparation might include standard spoken (verbal, non-verbal, up to you, I'm not Jewish) prayer. The saints often used standard prayer as prelude to contemplative/infused prayer. Those raised Catholic have any number of memorized prayers readily at hand for such a purpose, I have personally had some success using the "Hail Mary," though, muttering about the hour of one's death just before launching is a bit disconcerting. A simple moment of silence prior to launch, however brief, giving thanks to The Spirit for the opportunity to take flight would certainly suffice. I suspect even a pretty rock solid stoic agnostic could give fair duty to a quick thank you prior to launching.

While you are contemplating the above, I'll introduce an ancillary concept. In Stephen King's Gunslinger Series, the author contemplates certain geographic locations where the fabric of space and time are thin and different dimensions are closer together. Sounds like the nodes down by Sedona in current New-Age religious theory I suppose (not a great fan) but even traditional Christian, Jewish, and Muslim people recognize holy places. Welcome to Lourdes, France. I've been there, it feels....like a place with intrinsic power of some sort.

Most paraglider launches are places of beauty and height fully worthy of being spiritually active places. It would likely enhance one's ability to engage The Spirit to be in a spiritually active place; I would therefore encourage you to spend some of your launch prep time recognizing the opportunity to perceive of your location in this unique fashion. Even a dead set atheist might be willing to acknowledge the possibility of trans-dimensional communications at certain locations in light of current physics multi-universe theory.

Ah, but lets leave the mundane of where we set our feet and amble back to communication with The Spirit. After you prepare, and you get your mind right, and you listen and react and fly and land, how do you feel? I've got to say I generally feel pretty darn good. This is traditionally the sort of time when those who are spiritually oriented give pause to give thanks. As we have made the assumption that you are a paraglider pilot, I know that there have been times when you hit the ground perfectly happy to kiss the earth and thank everybody and everything for your continuing existence--it would only be logical to consider doing so after every landing.

The Muslim folks pray, I think, five times a day. Some religious seem to save it for the sabbath. I guess many people don't pray, and it seems from my studies that contemplative/infused prayer is not a widespread experience even for the devout. Contact with The Spirit is to be strongly encouraged to increase the user perceived value of piloting a paraglider. Furthermore, if there is even the most remote possibility that infused prayer can positively improve in-flight decision making or otherwise enhance flight outcome it deserves a place in one's kit. Miracles don't just happen you know, they are made.

Teresa of Avilar, mystic and
Doctor of the Church.

Getting Back

2010-06-01T18:15:00.000-07:00

The phases of a cross country paragliding flight include planning and approach, flying and getting back. Whenever I talk about cross country flying with non-pilots, the inevitable question is "How do you get back?" This always makes me smile inside, and sometimes even on the outside.

I'm afraid I've not yet managed to get to Jeff K.'s lofty level on this subject. "Rig's on launch, keys on the dash, doors are open. Launching." That about sums it up. Seems he and his hang glider pretty much manage to get home, every darn time. Then again, Jeff's theory of cross country flying goes something like this; "After launch turn in lift, make circles until the top of the lift, then go down wind and repeat." Seems this works well for him, as he most often gets high and goes far. With mastery comes simplicity.

For the rest of us, "How do you get back?" remains a valid question. Walking works okay for relatively short distances, but once one gets to double digits in either miles or kilometers this can be a bit of a serious penance to pay for our jolly little flutter about the countryside this fine afternoon thank you very much. Then again a nice walkabout with the ol' knapsack is a pleasant way to spend time. Those who meditate have written about "walking meditation," and those who have hauled their kit for a few miles know of this. The not insignificant effort to keep up the struggle against gravity long after soaring flight has ceased does tend to quiet the internal dialogue, though I've not found it particularly transcendental. Does offer plenty of time for introspection and genuinely helps reinforce one's next effort to find and work that next little speck of lift someday.

At some point motorized travel is a welcome respite if not a lifesaving necessity. With luck, you've gone out flying with a bunch of pilots and rigs and buddies, or you've got a driver on the way with your SPOT coordinates to pick you up. If not, you are going to have to wrangle yourself a ride. Wives who will answer your cell phone call when they know you are out flying are a blessing and not quite as rare as wives who will drive for you when you fly. With a little luck you are not much further away then the grocery store, and with some pleading and cajoling and perhaps a concession or two to sweeten the pot you might get a ride. I've heard that girlfriends are a better shot for a retrieve than wives, but it has been nearly three decades since I've had one, and, I've only been flying for fifteen years, so, couldn't say. A couple of driving age or older sons who will at least respond via text also can be quite useful, but, as they are either in school, with friends, or otherwise so very busy, maybe even (hope never dies) working, they only infrequently seem to be available to come provide retrieve. If you fly for enough years, such sons inevitably grow up, get married and move away. They might still text back, but chances of a ride drop significantly. I would guess that daughters are similar. If you have any friends who are not out flying themselves maybe they'll come pick you up, but, I guarantee you if you play this particular card too many times their phone numbers start to yield messages. They seem to get back to you well after dark and are genuinely relieved to find you safely back to wherever you might be.

Ah yes, there is hitchhiking. With the superfluity of sadistic mass murderers, serial rapists, and other less than stellar personalities out there this venerable form of transportation has fallen upon hard times here in "The States." Still, many pilots are experts at it. I've been told that anybody who pulls over to watch your landing is a prime potential for a ride. New local pilot Paul H., recently from Hawaii, can get a ride almost faster than he can pack up. And that fellow can pack up faster than I can believe. Launches in no time too. Perhaps that is why the average paraglider pilot looks a lot more like a boyscout than like a wacko biker from hell, it helps the nice lady in the mini-van come to grips with slowing down and considering helping you out.

Which brings us to the crux of "Getting Back." In order to get back, you have to ask for help. This is difficult at first for those of us raised up on John Wayne movies but hopefully less so if one was weaned on Alan Alda. Mr. Rogers' neighborhood can be yours if you will get right with the universe and let it happen. If you are more an Oprah person, then this should be a delightful picnic for you. If Dr. Phil is your man, well, sorry, can't really stomach the fellow-but, I'd probably give him a ride if I saw him needing one. The more I learn to ask for help getting back, the more I find myself looking to pay it forward by being more helpful, and the less bothered I am by being taken advantage of--after all, it is a way of being helpful I guess.

The more I practice being helpful the happier I am! I'm still not particularly gregariously, touchy-feely come to meeting lets do lunch and paint each other's nails about the whole thing, but I do like to wander around and take pictures of flowers while I'm trying to decide when to launch...

There is also the element of learning to be comfortable with a degree of uncertainty. Modern American culture seems to feel that there is always a cause and effect, always a reason, a logical conclusion or result, flick the switch and the light goes on. As foot launched pilots we learn that this is not always so cut and dried, the relationships are more convoluted and complex. Sometimes you eat the bear, sometimes the bear eats you. Sometimes nobody gets dinner, or you walk through the night. It is, like life, an adventure for heaven's sake! Do you really want it to be so carefully scripted? If there was always a thermal exactly where you wanted one would flying a paraglider be such a cool thing?

Maybe you come around
the corner and see pretty
flowers. Maybe you almost step on little brother rattlesnake. Maybe you should be totally aware and a part of everything that is going on so as not to miss even one tiny exciting moment of this wondrous experience! Little brother spent a few unpleasant moments in a coffee cup before he was let back out to terrorize the stink bugs in the neighborhood. We hope he remembers us fondly when we meet him as a full grown Western Diamondback!

In the end, getting back requires that you refuse to accept a cold isolating universe where you are an entity apart and alone, and find yourself instead in a warmer more connected world where you can give and receive help to and from your fellow human beings as part of something greater.

The Lakota Sioux spiritual tradition teaches that "We are all related."

So, the next time you are starting to wonder how you are going to get back, put on your "Paraglider Pilot needs ride" tee-shirt, smile and start walking in the right direction!

Fly with Eagle Day

2010-02-26T07:45:00.000-08:00

Similar to the question, "would you like some chocolate?" when somebody says "would you like to fly with the eagle?" the natural and immediate response of any foot launch pilot who has been flying for any length of time is "of course I would!"

Blue Mountain Wildlife had, I was told, rehabilitated a juvenile bald eagle and were ready to return him to the wild. (Lynn and Bob Tompkins, www.bluemountainwildlife.org) They were looking to put on an event, grab a little PR, coerce some coinage into the jar, and wondered if the local paraglider pilots were interested. Turns out the eagle (dubbed 10-007) had munched on a euthanized carcass and overdosed on barbituates, flown into a power line, and crashed in a field. Requiring also a course of treatment for lead poisoning, and now clean and sober, 007 was tearing down the flight cage in his determination to get back in the air. Could we put together a little something, uh, soon? Great, no problem, let's ignore the vagaries of February weather not to mention the difficulty of mobilizing a gaggle of pilots sluggish from their winter slumber.

When the weather started to show clearing skies and favorable north winds for Kiona, it was time to seize the opportunity and mobilize the forces. Lynn and Carol started the presses energizing the media, Lori went to her sketch pad to put together a memorial t-shirt, I dug my old friend Bernie Cliff out of the woodwork to see if he would do a little eagle blessing, and a couple postings to the regional paragliding web sites went out to sample the waters.

The weather went through more convolutions than Brett Favre but finally decided to play ball--kinda. Pilots slowly began to show interest, even the mythical El Diablo from Whidbey Island decided to come visit! The sketch emerged and the T-Shirts went to the screen printer. The media releases made it out. The eagle was going to fly!

On the day of the event I as I was putting out wind streamers at the base of the hill, winds were looking rather strong. A report came down from the ridge top, "Hey, whats going on? I've had a couple flights on my tandem up here, picking up a bit now." Leave it to mythical pilots to get there early and grab the first flight of the day! Shortly thereafter, and as the guests began to arrive, the wind up on launch built to a howling thirty mile an hour gale! Oh well, back to the bottom of the hill to park cars and get the eagle folks situated.

Oddly enough, the day then proceeded to unfold like a children's storybook. Lynn and Bob showed up with two eagles, Ula to visit with the crowd, and 007 hunkered down in a kennel waiting to grab his freedom. In no time at all they were set up to meet and greet, a table for Lori's t-shirts magically appeared, and the folks started to show up. Pilots launched speed wings and reported improving conditions. The TV and newspaper reporters arrived, families and kids were enjoying the sunshine and admiring the gorgeous golden eagle on her perch. The release time was set for 2 pm. Would the winds drop enough for me to launch in time to be in the air when 007 made his play?

Leaving the crowd at the bottom and headed back up to our "high wind launch," I could see that Preacher had managed to huck himself off the hill and was starting to work into the wind towards the eagle release site. With a little help from El D. and Mr. D. Bockle I managed to struggle my way into the air and headed after Preacher. On the radio I could hear that Alan Cliff had made it and that a ceremony was underway to prepare the eagle for release. As I finally made it around the corner and over the landing area Bob B. announced on the radio that the eagle was free, and was headed for the hill!

Looking down I could see 007 zig-zagging his way up the ridge right beneath my feet. When he finally decided to make a circle I dropped in right above and joined him for a couple turns, then he squirted away down the ridge looking for better stuff. Winds settled down and more and more gliders took to the air, the ridge was working nicely throughout the afternoon and on to dusk! We spotted 007 a couple more times down range, I last saw him about five hundred feet below the ridge top, tucked and cranking down-wind going for a speed run and living large. Doug H. launched his tandem and took Lori for a flight, and every pilot who wanted airtime was able to fill their flight log. Folks were top landing and re-launching. I flew until I was tired and getting chilly, then dropped it down next to the truck for a cup of coffee.

By the time I packed up and got down to the bottom, only Preacher, El Diablo and his buddy Don remained. One glider was in the sky on a pretty sunset flight, and the scotch and cigars came out. It was suggested to me, as Preacher, Doc and the Devil mulled the universe that I could expand my somewhat literal interpretation of the doctrine of fallen angels, loosen up some of my held since childhood Catholic instilled theological concepts and begin to look a little deeper at the almost Darwinian spiritual evolution of mankind. Seemed a fitting way to close the page on the story of "Fly with Eagle Day." (Photo credits Lynn Tompkins, Tri-Cities News Herald. Original eagle sketch by Lori Harris.)

Low Saves In Mexico

2010-01-26T20:25:00.000-08:00

Once again I succumb to the temptation to escape the persistent inverted gray skies of the Mid-Columbia and scurry off to the delightful sub-tropical pilot's paradise, Valle de Bravo, Mexico. This year Maggie decided to visit her friend Cathy in Arizona for "Winter Break" so I was to be on my own.

How to play it? Join Preacher and the Seattle crowd, stay in town at a local pilots hang out? Sounds pretty cool, not sure how to get to Valle from Mexico City, but they seem to be able to do it. Transportation is supposedly easy enough with the local taxi fleet, the restaurants serve a delicious regional batch of favorite foods, good times with the Washington folks down south!

Or, maybe it is time to try a real competition--the Monarca. Might as well give it a shot, touch bases with Rob and the merry band of comp pilots and chum around with them. Over my head a bit, but I'm told the best way to really learn to fly a paraglider is do do some comps. They always schedule the Monarca when they figure Valle will be at its best.

Or, speaking of Rob, maybe just do another one of his tours. For two weeks preceding the comp he and his "band of merry men" (this year it included three pilots who won a day at last year's world's paragliding championships as well as the woman who holds the current world's record paragliding distance flight, amongst other talented instructors) rent a big casa outside of town and host visiting pilots. Kevin does the cooking, Raul drives the retrieve van, and pilots get intensive coaching. This option is a bit more spendy, but, one often gets what one pays for.

After talking with several of my paragliding mentors I decided to go on tour again with Rob. Maybe it is just the wanna-be perennial student in me, but having the opportunity to get that level of instruction from people with that much experience and ability just seems like a fair value, and, Kevin is rather an exceptional cook. And I don't like haggling with taxi drivers, nor am I fond of restaurants. Furthermore, my memory of the casa as a lovely relaxing place with a bunch of happy friendly pilots had pretty much made up my mind before I even got started cogitating.

Turned out to be a wonderful choice. I ended up with hours and hours of long flights, playing about in the clouds, with excellent feedback and mentoring from outstanding teachers. The food and company were great, and I rarely needed a taxi except to cruise into town to visit with Preacher. I even had two exceptional "low saves." Low saves are one of the real high points of paragliding. A low save happens when you are running out of altitude, which during a cross country flight often means that you are coming to the end of the fun part of the day. Landing seems imminent, you have picked your place to set down, maybe even have your feet down, and are pretty much set to admit defeat and be ground bound once again. Then, at seemingly the last possible moment, you run into a thermal and manage to pull off a turn and start to go up again!

Usually, thermals are quite rowdy that close to the ground, difficult to negotiate and quite spanky. One often gets "worked" working a thermal that low, and it takes more concentration and determination than usual to stick with it and keep flying. But with luck and grace sometimes it works, and after a bit of a struggle you are back up to the clouds and back in the game. I managed two of these during my week in Mexico, both from very low down in hard to get home from places, and relished them both like a desert straggler would a cold glass of water. Low saves make you feel like a hero, they fill you with thanks and awe and wonder. They make you quiver with excitement and gush with happiness. The jolt from hopelessness, misery, and defeat to elation, success and joy is almost indescribable.

What seemed impossible moments ago is now within your grasp. Your horizon has literally expanded to meet your imagination. You were lost, imprisoned by gravity, stuck in a rut, pinned down, going nowhere. Now you are free again to dream some more, high on life, alive and headed somewhere. Back where you belong and living large. Leaving hot, sweating, stinking fear below and arriving at cool, clear, smiling laughter above. A quick trip from the gates of hell to the doorstep of heaven.

Yeah, I am exceeding fond of low saves. They are rare enough to be appreciated in a special way. I remember quite clearly one in particular that was over ten years ago, recall the hawk that showed me the way out and up. They move you suddenly into a separate reality, a numinal space where you cannot ignore the miracle of your incredible good fortune. A unique brief salvation
and answer to your prayers, whether they were unspoken or screamed in despair. Awesome, humbling, they can leave you nearly spent and trembling.

The rest of the flying was pretty decent as well, popping in and out of the edge of the clouds, finding lots of great climbs, and making the long glide to the landing zone at the lake.

All in all a great winter get away. A refreshing and transforming adventure. Much thanks to Rob, Farmer, Erik, Trey, Kevin, Brad, and all the rest. Had a pretty good afternoon and evening visiting with Preacher in town too, good on ya mate and good flying with you as well!

------Doc

Photo worth a thousand words

2009-08-15T19:56:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to share this photograph of an original drawing by L. Harris. The more I get to share the air with other winged creatures the more I appreciate their skill. The soaring birds have become if not quite friends at least acquaintances and spending time in their presence sharing a little air time has become a unique wildlife experience.

Old Technology

2009-06-21T15:26:00.000-07:00

The glowing yellow coat of this steel beast is nevertheless fading just as surely as the rust is quietly creeping over its tracks. All around us, like the bridge in the background, stand monuments to the age of construction. Here on this quiet ledge rests for a bit the tireless tool of the trade. Even slumbering midst the Spring flowers it has the feel of not-so-hidden power with lots of big nuts and bolts to hold it together and globs of axle grease here and there to keep it moving. I've heard it is possible to still pick out wagon tracks in preserved portions of the prairie
states dating to the days of the Oregon Trail, I wonder how long we'll be walking around on the well known tracks of bulldozers?

Flying Friends

2009-06-02T10:09:00.000-07:00

After scouring weather reports for a couple of days, I decided to blast off for Pine Mtn. Oregon in hopes of snatching a stellar XC flight for Memorial Day. It was great to get in touch with Steve Roti again and he mobilized a batch of hopeful local pilots. The drive down was very pleasant with various shades of Spring along the way.

Too bad the thermals off Pine were disorganized, a tad ratty, few and far between. Nevertheless, the day was beautiful and my brief soaring flight ended up landing in the sage near my truck rather than out in the hinterlands--something to be said for a stroll to the ice chest rather than a couple of hours on the roadside trying to scrounge a ride!

While packing up I was treated to a visit from a couple of tiny lavender butterflies. Despite blustery swirly mid-day wind at the "Y" landing zone, these two little fellows stuck with me like glue. Landing on my arm, my pockets, my shoes, I had to move carefully with my little buddies lest they become butterfly pate. After I packed up and wandered to the truck, I sat on the tailgate and had lunch--my friends hung out as well, evidently stocking up on borrowed electrolytes gleaned from dried sweat crystals. This seems to be a common activity for the Spring Azure butterfly according to my research to identify my new friends.

In his recent book "Inspiration; your ultimate calling" Dr. Wayne Dyer devotes nearly an entire chapter to a visit he had with a Monarch butterfly in Hawaii. Dr. Dyer suggests that such moments shared with "wild animals" can be interpreted in a spiritual way, and suggests allowing such encounters to stimulate a bit of meditation and reflection. Having been headed towards viewing my flying day as a "long run for a short gain" I decided to look at it a bit differently. My lovely drive had given me a well needed spell of quiet time in the midst of a busy work schedule and it was great to catch up with Steve and meet some of the local Bend pilots. I've only had a couple of mid-day flights at Pine, so, a little workout in trashy mid-day thermals and a chance to challenge the house thermal above the "Y" were good flying experiences. Someday this will pay off and I'll be ready to take advantage of good XC conditions at Pine Mountain.

Most of all, though, I found myself cogitating about spending time. Our "time allowance" is finite, but we don't have the option to view the balance in our account. To spend an hour of time in a lifespan probably measured in weeks was quite an investment for the azure twins, but they seemed totally content to hang with me. I must admit I enjoyed their company as well, and found my spirits noticeably lifted by their fleeting company. As I fired up the diesel to drive home I had to finally roll down the passenger window and shoo one of them away to join his bro, he had actually managed to get into the truck!

I guess time spent with our flying friends is a good thing, despite how tiny and purple they may be. When I mentioned my lunch hour to Steve he commented "The butterflies can recognize a kindred spirit when they see one."

Rocks Rock

2009-05-03T22:05:00.000-07:00

This is my rock. It is a “glacial erratic.” Now, this should not be construed to mean that my rock engages in unpredictable behavior. It is just that this big, cracked-down-the-middle piece of granite sits quietly on a flat ledge of a rock formation composed of conglomerate. Probably wandered its’ way “down south” to the panhandle of Idaho from points north in British Columbia cruising on a glacier. This should give pause to one’s concepts regarding inanimate objects, and recalls a story the boys and I made up about rock hunting.

Rock hunting has been a rainy day activity for us while camping at our property in Idaho. There are very few rocks to be found nearby as it is almost entirely sandy country. So, to build up our fire pit we would go out and cruise for rocks. It often seemed that one minute a hillside was totally blank of rocks, but in the next glance there was a perfect find for the campsite. We decided that rocks could apparently subtly alter their appearance, sort of a defense mechanism, and appear to be larger or smaller than they really were. We theorized that they could essentially become invisible for brief periods of time. Also we decided that they had the ability to very rapidly shift their position and hide just out of sight.

Notice, as illustrated in the next photograph how easily
my rock,something the size of aVolkswagen Beetle, can play coy and seem to hide in the shadows!

We have, despite these evasive rock maneuvers, collected sufficient numbers over the past seventeen years to build an imposing outdoor stone fire pit.

Apparently these silica entities have overcome their supposed immobility by developing not only awesome patience and "special powers" but the ability to marshal forces of nature and living creatures to their aide and move them about from place to place. Have you ever noticed while wandering the wilderness that quite often just as you are fatigued and looking for a place to perch that there is a convenient rock to plant your backside upon? Or perhaps captivated by a fantastic view from a high ledge you have found yourself comfortably seated on a rock that almost seemed placed there on purpose? Rather convenient happenstance, don’t you think?

Finally on this topic, the following photograph demonstrates the silica entities’ ability to attract and communicate with certain animals. Will wonders never cease?

Windmills, Icebergs, and Bob

2009-03-21T21:52:00.000-07:00

I've never really read the story of Don Quixote but like most of us I suppose I've absorbed the concept of tilting at windmills to a degree. After at least skimming an abridged summary of the classic Spanish work not only do I realize that I should actually take the time to read the story but am just tickled to find out that I've been missing the point entirely. Don Quixote in the end renounces his crazy fantasy adventuresome self and becomes sane. Then he slips into melancholy and dies. Why die sane and depressed? Wouldn't it be a better idea to waste your time tilting at a few windmills and die a bit crazy but happy? Take icebergs, for example.

Off and on while contemplating oceans, adventures, and icebergs; what, you don't do things like that? I do. Anyhow, whilst thus cogitating I have now and again had the silly thought, wouldn't it be cool to manage to actually climb up on an iceberg and jump off into the water? Probably more cold than cool, but, cool nevertheless. I always wondered about how one would find an iceberg, much less how to clamber up one. Would you be risking hitting your head if the underwater part were bigger than the above water part? You would certainly need some help, couldn't just paddle your kayak up to an iceberg expecting to jump off, probably freeze to death before you could dry off and change clothes. Didn't much figure it would ever be a serious logistical possibility, but, hey you never know.

Then one day while touring Prince William Sound on my friend Bob's fantastic boat the Ambience, an unexpected family vacation with an old friend, there we were stymied trying to work our way into a remote anchorage because, of all things, the ocean was choked with--yep, icebergs. They were mainly little fellows, maybe refrigerator size. Bob was getting increasingly edgy put-putting around in this thickening crop of overgrown ice cubes, and remember, this floating hotel we are on is worth more than I will ever be and then some. Suddenly it dawns on me, look, icebergs.

"Uh Bob, say, looks like we're about to turn this baby around and get out of here while the getting is good,but, you see that one bigger 'berg out there? What say you get about as close as you can to it, then lend me one of your kayaks, and maybe I'll strip down to a swimming suit, and go over and clamber up on it so's I can jump off. Yes, I know, it sounds pretty crazy, but you know me, I do occasionally do crazy stuff. Remember, we met over a decade ago Paragliding in New Zealand for heavens sake?" At first, nobody took me seriously. Then, Bob thought it over. Made me wear a life jacket, and, my eldest son decided to check it out for the old man.
Well, okay. The youngest son was pretty skeptical for quite awhile. The first question is, will the silly thing flip over when one tries to stand on it?

And then, how cold really is that water? Yeah, it is June, but look, the icebergs are not melting for a reason. And how far can you swim in water that cold anyhow? And what if you stop breathing when you hit the water in the first place?

All good questions, all difficult to answer without experimentation. The flip over one turned out not to be an issue. At that point even the youngest son decided it might be a worthwhile adventure. And one thing leads to another. Pretty soon you find yourself, oddly enough, standing on an iceberg with your sons, in the middle of Prince William Sound, on a beautiful June day. Now what are the odds of that event ever actually happening? First, it takes a rather odd imagination in the first place to even dream such a dream. Then you have to meet somebody like Bob who someday, years after he has become your friend, grows a family and buys a dream yacht and invites you and your family to come play on it. Then your serendipitous wanderings on a boat named Ambience just happen to put you smack dab in the middle of a whole pack of icebergs. Then you have to recall your dream, and make it happen.

Afterwards, when it has moved from dream to reality, it becomes a story, and a treasured memory. It may become a family legend if it is remembered enough, and surely, should infect the sons with a sense of wonderment and adventure lust that will stoke their imaginations and help fuel their dreams, and those of their sons.

Spring Pilgrims in France

2009-03-14T08:53:00.000-07:00

With the new "Lourdes wing" (Cobra L with logo) in the pack Maggie and I headed off to the south of France. Thank heavens for Garmin Nuvi! Our rental car in Toulouse came equipped with this little gem, and though she spoke Italian for a day until I figured out how to reprogram her, the Nuvi was a great timesaver as we wound our way from Toulouse to Lourdes and then on to points east towards the Cote d'Azure and the Maritime Alpes.

The first task was to undertake a good old fashioned pilgrimage and take the wing to Lourdes. I've narrowly missed this Catholic equivalent of Disney Land on several past trips, and early Spring promised the opportunity to visit without the suffocating hordes that can be there in the high season. We actually found the town very pleasant. There was a nice open park on the edge of the river across from the grotto that offered the wind at my back for the photo shoot we wanted to capture the "Lourdes wing" kiting with the basilica over the grotto in the background. Maggie grabbed some nice shots in the spotty afternoon sun.

Hauling the wing bag up the rocky path past the statuary depicting the stations of the cross seemed a proper way to pay respect. The obligatory collection of healing waters from Bernadette's grotto spring followed, not sure if my mangled ankle or cobbled heart valve are any better just yet for the effort but I believe these things can take some time.

The rain set in for a day of traveling, but we found Aix-en-Provence again and made our way to the village of Puyloubier to find some paragliding folks. Managed a scrappy little hike up flight off St. Victoire with the help of Beatrice, the president of the local flying club in Aix. Landed in an abysmal spot and got to enjoy prying my brand new wing out of a nasty little thorn tree/bush; the visiting American pilot "showing the locals how it's done." A nice humbling experience for the first flight on the new wing, all part of the pilgrimage. St. Victoire captured my imagination 14 years ago when last Maggie and I were in Aix, and when I was just starting to fly paragliders. I hoped to return to make a flight there. Now that I have, I can hope to return again to fly it a little better! Much appreciation to Beatrice, Laurence, and "all the guys" in the club who hauled me around and good naturedly helped me pick twigs out of my lines. The local club has a whole series of hike up launches on this rugged mountain, a favorite of Paul Cezanne's.
The club has several XC pilots, and they have managed some long routes to the north off this hill. The longest effort is around 200 km, well up into the Alpes. Beatrice considers herself more of a para-alpinist, and has flown the summits of a number of big mountains, from the Alpes to the Andes. She has been flying paragliders for 20 years!

The drive across the south of France in early March was cool and pleasant and the absence of crowds marked a real divergence from our previous visits here. The Mediterranean was still the same blue color, but the streets were only bumper to bumper down at the pebble beaches of Nice instead of everywhere we turned. Twenty miles inland all was quiet at the local markets and the greening countryside was postcard pretty, though a tad stark.

A tour of the coast as the sun came back out led us to Eze, and to the gardens of the Rothschild mansion, now a museum. Not hard to see why the rich and famous frolic here. We chose to stay inland in the town of Grasse, which proved to be an excellent base for the next part of the trip, trying to fly in the Maritime Alpes!

There are several well known sites in the southern, or maritime, alpes where the mountains trail off towards the Mediterranean. The best known of these is Gourdon. This is Bruce Goldsmith's (designer of Airwave paragliders including my new Cobra) "home site," about fifteen minutes drive from his back door. Maggie and I stopped by to visit and enjoy the fresh croissants his wife was kind enough to pop into the oven for us. Bruce was slated for an afternoon pulling weeds in the garden, but was released to show me the ropes at Gourdon. Amazing how fast he managed to pull his gear together and scamper off to the hill! As he pointed out the launch and lz on the ride up, he mentioned that he tends to get off the hill promptly--doesn't care for hanging about on launch. The reason for this was quite clearly illustrated as he popped off the hill and enjoyed an hour of soaring with half a dozen other pilots whilst I waited patiently in the queue until ultimately the wind went over the back on launch and I got to pack up and drive down with Maggie. All part of the pilgrimage.

Having taken the wing for it's visit with it's maker and having made time for contemplation with my maker it seemed time to head back to Grasse and make some time to enjoy the last part of our trip.

It is always fun to wander the winding little streets of these grown up medieval villages, poking into shops and looking for restaurants. In France we've found that the smaller less ostentatious "Pizzarias" work out the best for us, great food at a fraction of the price. 'Course, I really enjoy things like a plate full of salad covered with duck livers, and a side order of snails in heavy garlic sauce. Later on we packed it all up to drag it off to the airport in Nice exasperatingly early in the morning for our 6:15 am flight back through Amsterdam.

Nuvi didn't fail us, we made the plane, and made it home with all the luggage including the wing. I think time will tell what the trip means for me, my flying and the wing. It was certainly a great opportunity for Maggie and me to revisit some favorite places and spend some well needed quality time together. Keeping paragliding on the "back burner" during most of the trip worked out just fine, allowing us to truly enjoy wandering the museums and churches instead of grumbling about wasting a rainy day.

"...when we no longer know where to turn, our real journey has just begun. At that crossroads moment, a voice calls to our pilgrim soul. The time has come to set out for the sacred ground--the mountain, the temple, the ancestral home--that will stir our heart and restore our sense of wonder." Phil Cousineau, "The Art of Pilgrimage." "The object of Pilgrimage is not rest and recreation--to get away from it all. To set out on a pilgrimage is to throw down a challenge to everyday life." Huston Smith, from the introduction to "The Art of Pilgrimage."

Carnage at the Worlds

2009-02-10T22:12:00.000-08:00

The same day I read the blogs complaining about the number of reserve tosses, tree arrivals, hospital admissions and the unfortunate death of a young Swiss paraglider pilot at the recent world paragliding championship competition in Mexico I happened to stumble across an online video showing in graphic detail the fatal crash of a young man jumping a motorcycle in a motocross competition.

I've been told that it is now rare for a NASCAR racer to die in a year of competition, and it seems that the number of deaths in unlimited hydroplane boat racing have dropped off considerably since changes were incorporated in the sport, such as mandating closed cockpits.

Don't recall ever hearing of a golfer being fatally injured in a competition, but, considering the speed of a golf ball I'd be surprised if some unfortunate individual hasn't been done in by one of the little white devils; and I'm quite sure the statistics regarding the number of golfers dropping dead on the links each year are rather impressive in any case.

I watched a young man bleed to death one afternoon in my operating room under my care and in spite of my efforts who's last memory was probably jumping over a sand dune on his ATV racing with his brother.

Every moment we make decisions regarding the delicate balance of risks and rewards in the conduct of our lives. What is acceptable or unreasonable, what is encouraged or prohibited, what seems logical or insane is largely determined not only by individuals but by the culture at large within which these individuals function. Complex variables determine what sort of judgement society chooses to place on a given behavior or activity. One death is considered heroic, another called a tragic waste. One paraplegic is a celebrated victim of an unfortunate accident, another paraded as a fool to have tried what they failed to accomplish.

I knew a man who became a paraplegic body surfing on his honeymoon. He went on to live a full life only to die shortly after falling from the deck of his summer cottage and breaking his neck yet again.

I submit that that which truly brings joy should be celebrated. When it turns to disaster let us tend towards consolation, contemplation and cooperation. Maybe leaning towards better helmets is a reasonable trade off for some freedoms surrendered, and if they set limits on the bats in baseball perhaps we can tolerate some on the gliders used in competition. Bottom line is probably to straighten out our thinking and figure out how to improve the risk:reward ratio in pilot behavior.

To lee or not to lee. . .

2009-02-01T09:38:00.000-08:00

I didn't know the Swiss pilot who died Friday at the World's Paragliding Competition in Valle de Bravo, but, I knew Downwind Dave and Bruce Tracey. All three of these men were very experienced paraglider pilots and they all died flying. Those of us who are left behind to carry on can honor their memory as we grow our tribal wisdom.

I think all three of these aviators lost their lives in the lee. Sailors and pilots are trained to beware the lee lest they be dashed upon the rocks. On the other hand even Goldsmith has pointed out that "every thermal starts as a rotor," and reminds us to "please take all possible precautions when considering flying in the lee."

The next time I risk the lee to hunt for lift the whispers of Stephan, Dave, and Bruce Tracey will probably be louder than my vario. Your wingman doesn't have to be physically present to help keep you alive.

---RWS