I have terror. I have a great job and I am forty years old. I have no children or partner. I have crazy ideas. I think the real problem is, I wasn’t built for an office.

As I sit in my cubicle, I can hear the white noise of the aircondititioning overhead. The air is almost exctly the right temperature. and still. Every once in a while someone walks by quietly. They can’t help it. Heels, loafers, sneakers, they all sound alike on the gray, installation-standard carpet that covers everything except in front of the elevators.

I stare at the screen in front of me. I just figured out how to make both of my monitors work at once. That was my major accomplishment for the day… at least it was tangible evidence that something actually happened.

The words of the document I am reviewing blur and then snap beck into focus.AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!! WHAT AM I DOING?????

I hate myself for not being “normal”.

I want to love this relative stability. I want to love having been hired for a career that is respectable and…. in many peoples eyes, exciting. I want to love the amount of things I am learning about government rules and standards and safety… accident reporting.

Maybe it is because since taking this position I have been painfully lonely.

I have no team… well, not a close, physical one… not one that owes beer for getting a truck stuck in the mud… or meets up after work to make dinner and cocktails..

I miss my old work…the wacky, argumentatitive, often lowbrow men (and sometimes women) that staff the bomb picking field…. (We call ourselves migrant bomb pickers) it’s pretty accurate. We go for a season or two and then we find new work. Some of us live on the road full time. There is nowhere for some of us to go back to…. we are a merry band of gypsies.

And then of course, my mind wanders to the sky… I have been cooking up a new plan. A new adventure. I am going to make a video and try to pimp myself on a couple crowd-sourcing sites to fund it.

Please be kind and give me a couple weeks to build it. and then I will present you first, my wonderful reader, the video edit before it goes out.. I will tell you my secret in your ear.

This is the end of Volume One. The next blog post will be at this same address, but up until this point, What I have now is going to print and will be soon available electronically through Amazon.

When I was little, I had flying dreams. I had fantastic dreams that I could soar and I could see the Earth from a loooong way up, I could swoop and glide, and go wherever I wanted to in the air. It was absolutely magical. I was sad to wake up.. I would squeeze my eyes shut right away when I realized I had woken up. I could remember those dreams. Like it really happened… I still remember them today.

I was flying a site in San Bernadino, it is called Marshall. It’s an awesome SoCal flying destination. It has amazing thermal flying, XC opportunity, and a big, beautiful grassy LZ complete with friendly people, a BBQ…. AND a camping area.

I had a great flight and landed. After folding the wing, I wandered over to the sidelines where some people were talking to pilots on a Ham radio.

I asked curiously, “when are you going to fly?”

“Oh, I dont’t fly.”

“Really??” I squeaked… I always find it strange when people tell me they dont want to fly.

I looked at her…“Didn’t you have flying dreams when you were little?”

“No. never.”

I looked around the field, there were three or four others close by and I conducted a little impromptu survey of the ground handlers. Not a single one had the same flying experience that I had…. in their dreams… at any time in their life. Since that day, I have asked many non-pilots and pilots what their dreaming experience was.

The overwhelming majority of pilots I met have had flying dreams… the majority of non-pilots (not wanting to fly ever) have NOT had flying dreams. This is just an observation I have made that I find intensely interesting.. I am continuing my study and when I next meet with a large group of pilots, I will be sure to poll the audience.
Please! Tell me your dream-flight experience.. or Non

The truck keeps feeling a little funny.. jerky a little. There are only seven more miles to go and as I think of a hot soak and smile happily, the engine suddenly quits…at sixty-five miles an hour. Towing a thirty-seven foot toyhauler. No trailer brakes, manual steering only, the truck rolls for at least three miles  on the downhill side of the long hill I just cranked up hoping there is a good place to pull the camper over without having to slam on my truck brakes…. there should be, anyway…

Finally there is a large open area on the right, clearly used for large vehicles and perfectly flat. I evaluate a good place to crash into some bushes if the brakes don’t stop the heavy rig in time… and angle the slowing camper over to the side. The truck and trailer make a large arc into the gravel patch and the beast slows into a good position for a potential rescue.

I raise the hood and look around for anything untoward… there is nothing amiss. I’ve driven almost sixty miles, so I couldn’t possibly have put gas in the tank… again.. COULD I?

At any rate, it has to go to a repair shop and be taken care of…

I swing the back door down and roll the moto out…. and head back to the last place the phone was getting reception… about ten minutes away.
Forty minutes later, Triple A is towing the truck to the closest Dodge dealership 30 miles to Pahrump.
That done, I ride into nearby Shoshone and ask around about someone with a truck. Mary at the museum calls Susie at the resort who calls her friends the firemen who drive out an old beater pick up and tow my rig to a spot in town.

Finally, everything is settled.

Tecopa is where I sneakily find warm water bliss. I am in my happy place… a tiny town on the border of California and Nevada that I have been returning to for five years now.

It’s cold and my skin has been craving the hot soak I drove so far to enjoy.
I’m a fan of the deep pools on the other side of town, but also a bit curious about these springs.. It’s always a learning experience in new places and chances are, a good one.. Hot water is rarely a disappointment.

I grab my towel and shower kit.
The bathhouse is on the top of the property. It’s been redone on the outside.
Stucco with new tan paint… Here in the desert, it’s easy to tell when something has been neglected.. even for a short while. The sun, salt and the wind deliver harsh punishment to anything you might bring or build in this dry and varied climate.

I enter the squeaky, ill hung sliding glass doors. They stick and squeal and have to shove them a little. Inside there appear to be four tubs, only two of which are unlocked in separate rooms. I swish my hand in each of the two tubs.
I settle my things on a bench in the hotter of the two, click the thin metal door shut, strip down and slowly submerge my now goosebumped body  in the crystal water. It is all of heaven I was hoping for. I close my eyes and drift into nothing.

Almost an hour later, bones healed, mind soothed, I step out… skin steaming, and very warm, I towel off and pull my clothes back on.

I settle into a chair on my camper patio, pull up a warm blanket and close my eyes in the cold, January night air… I listen to the coyotes yipping a hunt in the black, star speckled emptiness.. the only thing breaking the silence of the desert… that and some frogs. I drift off.

Sometime later in the dark, I wake to a dry wind swirling some leaves and knocking something metal. My mind takes a few minutes comimg alive enough to bundle into a thick jacket to go up the hill for another soak.

I finish my hot spring ritual and head back down to start my day… every time I return, there is a little camper that has its lights on. The yellow light inside the huge glass of the cab seems very warm and welcoming. There are lots of plants outside, a little porch area and sometimes I can hear a dog collar jingling..
Its a tiny, dusty town… Population 100. There’s only a bistro (open only on the weekends), a community center that makes a $5 lunch for whoever wants (it’s really the senior center), and a bunch of hot springs. Honestly, that’s pretty much it.

After breakfast, I rode my moto in the 36 degree air to the dealership. they are making progress. They have determined that it was not actually the lift pump, in fact, they say, it is the injection fuel pump but it will cost $2000 to fix. I ride home relieved that the truck will be fixed but upset that half of the money I saved for a new paraglider wing is gone to my truck.

Ah well, I will soak and have a nice dinner tonight at the restaurant in town and see my friend that works there.

The bistro is blue, has seven or eight tables, a mish-mash of furniture, stacks of books and CD’s and a handful of dim lights.. candles. It feels like an old friends home… especially when there are old friends here. It’s open only on the weekends and sometimes only for dinner. Depends if the chef/owner has something going on or how busy it seems. The waitress, Shelly, has been here for a couple years. She’s tall… well, her shoes make her tall-er. Chunky very high boots or sandals… depending on the season. She is fit, classically beautiful and sassy. There is something about her that is also a bit dark and delightfully sensual.. maybe it’s those boots. She’s a world traveler and speaks two languages but has landed here in Tecopa. She seemed somewhat out of place when I first met her here, but is an immovable fixture in my memory now.

There is a shriveled old woman sitting across from me and the books. I saw her at the senior center earlier.

Rose is in her seventies and short. I ask her about the weather. She looks at me in disgust.  ”I can tell what the weather is going to be when I look out the window.” Pause…  thoughtful.    ”If my cat comes in wet, I know its raining outside.” She glares as if challenging me to ask another stupid question… scoops a spoonful of soup in her mouth.

I try to make small talk but it is a real challenge. I must quickly agree with all opinions or she levels The Eye at me… every bit of her blue sweatered 4’8″frame ready for combat. During our short debate, I discover that she owns the warm little trailer that I’ve been admiring, and is the town tailor. She will mend any garment for free.. she won’t accept money, but a bag of groceries or some help with the propane seem to be a welcome substitute. She used to live in Northern California. Her husband hated Tecopa…

Rose: “Well, he died, and now I can get in the hot water.”

I am delighting over a simmering bowl of the beef stew that Shelly just delivered. It is really fabulous. John, the chef, is miraculous in the kitchen. He used to be a chef in New York but got tired of the rat race and moved his operation to…. Here!                                                                            Dinner is always fabulous…. middle of nowhere dining excellence.

There is some talk about a telescope outside. A local astronomer that stays here gives impromptu classes about everything in the sky…. which is a lot, because there is almost no light pollution. He’s happy manning a powerful telescope and feeding a very low fire in an old wash tub drum.

After some stargazing and a slice of raspberry cheesecake, I relax again on my camper porch and let the desert silence invade my busy mind.

I wake to my last day in town. It is surrounded by red, desert rainbow striped mountains, cliffs and a scattering of different sand and stone formations. Every hill in the area has a little rabbit trail to the top… I just walk around till I see it. They’re not marked. Cell service can sometimes be found at the top of one of these.. sometimes not. None in the town center. The locals can tell you the closest place to get a call. Most of them will let you use their phone.

The smallness makes it warm and comfortable. If something goes wrong, the entire town will rally to help out….

If you are skeptical of this utopia I describe, rest easy. I’m not under any impression that it is the perfect nest. There is plenty of small town drama and gossip… the hallmark of a condensed community. There is also a strange element here that I noticed the last time also, and it was even more pronounced this time. The town population is nearly doubled… with Asians. Koreans, Chinese, Japanese and Thai. The resort I like at the end of town is partly if not wholly owned by Koreans now that put up a lighted red and white sign above the original. It is in Korean. and big. There’s still some hippies running it, but there are ominous signs of change.

It has been frustrating all afternoon with the patronizing apathy of the Dodge dealership I had relied on to repair my stranded truck… three days later, it is at the same stage of broken as when it went in, but now cost me $2000 to get out of car jail.

There is a place in Las Vegas with great reviews, online.. Diesel Specialists.. so I have it towed there to be resuscitated. They’re closed on the weekend and I’m taking a gamble that they can help.

I spent the rest of the early evening having dinner with Shelly and John, chatting with the very nice local sheriff (ruggedly handsome body builder also) working out the details of my travel to Vegas. There is only one bus out of town every two weeks and it was here three days ago.

The gal that was manning the desk at the resort overheard the story and offered me a ride… an hour and a half each way.

There always seems to be kind people. Everywhere. Always, there is someone that wants to help. When the camper blew a tire in between Ely and Wendover, Nevada there was no means of changing it myself… the very first car that passed me saw my trouble and turned around to help. In Colombia, dozens of times. Hitch hiking rides in Brazil and Moab… new acquaintences opening their homes and kitchens to me. The number of kindnesses to me completely eclipses the amount of selfish or cruel behavior….

Now, as Suzie drives me into Vegas in her old two wheel drive pickup, we talk about Tecopa, and the trip to Omaha. I’ll be back in a fair bit and until then will be missing the silence, the warm people and some deep hot water.

I have Duty.. I took some regular Navy work onboard a ship.. It is a Minesweeper…. Tiny. I have never been on a ship this size.. And it has been almost ten years since I was on a ship at all..

Never spending much time around ships or anyone other than EOD guys, I dropped quite a bit of Navy professional knowledge. What acronyms were for the different rates (jobs) when, what and where to salute, names of different shipboard spaces. Normally I wouldn’t do any of this but with reserve EOD potentially headed for extinction in the near future, I am jumping on anything I can find to do to see what I might like.

I check in with the admin department across the bay and head to my ship.  I find the USS Chief and meet the commander that accepted my application. He’s handsome and polite. I like him right away… We talk for a while and discuss further plans for my career. Honestly, I don’t have further plans, I’m just trying to fill in some time gaps left open by the hole in my commitment. I haven’t shown up for duty in more than a year. The Navy will kick me out pretty soon if I don’t start completing necessary tasks to staying an active part of the reserve component. Physical readiness tests, general military training and regular duty hours.

I’m left alone after an hour or so to figure out my time for myself. I forget where exactly I was supposed to go (there are a lot of doors and stairs) and have to ask a couple sailors that seem more than a little pissed that there is a lost woman aboard their all male ship. I can’t really take them that seriously… One of them was a guy they call “Too Tall”. it’s an apt name. He’s scowling at me, but he can’t stand up straight in the low overhead.. His head is cranked over at a steep angle everywhere he goes. It’s no wonder he’s grumpy.

What is patently embarrassing daily for me, is the PA announcement they have to make each time I board their vessel. They ding a bell, then..  ”Rig The Ship For Female Visitors”  Loud.

I can barely suppress the urge to run down the ladder and yell into the berthing.. “Pillow fight’s over, boys!!”

The vessel has no accommodations for women, they have to tape a sign to one of the heads.. “Female Only” (singular)

The duty, unfortunately, falls during the holiday stand down period.. Which means that the sailors are geared for the holidays. There is a crew there to keep the ship alive and ready, but otherwise, meaningful work has come to a halt. It is festive though, and the Christmas lights have been wound into the rigging… There is a team of reindeer riding our forecastle. It is quite beautiful at night to walk the pier and see all the decorated ships.

I am frustrated by this duty though. I am used to a furious pace generated by the training department… or the Chief… or the LT… or anyone who might be bored. Which in the EOD community is anyone not otherwise engaged. I miss our crazy, sometimes unbalanced but always interesting crowd. I don’t want to have another job in the Navy. I love mine.

Two weeks later, I am free and have scheduled two weeks of vacation. I want to fly and relax before I have to go to Omaha.

It is just after daybreak and I am musing quietly in my camp chair parked just outside my trailer door. I can hear a plane. A bird trilling in a nearby bush… One farther away…a different call. Nothing else except the ringing silence in my ears. The steady hum of highway traffic is totally absent.

I am ecstatic to have awakened in this silent desert wonderland. It is an escape from time. There is a small farmstead about a half mile behind us. Only Dakotah and I are here at the foot of the mountain.

I debated going to Phoenix for the weekend, I’m really happy I didn’t. I decided to camp here in the LZ at Oatman instead.
I found him here last Saturday. He is a sweet, gentle personality. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. No, really. He wouldn’t hurt it. He captures each errant creature in a plastic bag designed specifically for such a task and releases them at the end of the day.

He drinks spring water (he got it from a spring himself) and is a vegetarian, he only eats organic food and works out on a homemade  gym. It consists of a wooden weight lifting bench, a small set of weights and pull-up bar welded to the top of his van. The bench doubles as a serving platform for any meal.

He’s a hippie… And a paraglider pilot.

We meet in the morning, he shares some of his coffee and I pet his old dog… Little Brother. We make a plan to hike up the mountain around two thirty.

I’m a bit late cause I’m hungry. I heat up and scarf down some potatoes and ribs my neighbor Jim gave me back in Gila Bend. They are ridiculously good.

I swing my pack onto my back and head to Dakotas house.

We both have hiking poles. They are almost a requirement for the hike. It is a very steep, rocky trek up. Dakotah instructs me how to place the pole carefully prior to taking each step and to hike up the areas where there is vegetation growing. The boulders are not stacked on top of each other quite so thickly and are cemented into the earth. The chances of having a major rock slide is less…. Even a minor one would be catastrophic. They are quite evenly sized, between as big as your head and about the size of a beach ball..some a bit larger…about the size of a coffin, I think darkly.

It is a sharp, wobbly staircase. Eight hundred feet up. Every ten minutes or so I turn around to look at the unfolding landscape. My camper shrinks on the desert floor. I take several breaks with my mouth dry and heart pounding…finally I  reach the top. Dakotah is waiting. He stopped a couple times to make sure I was doing ok, but has still made it way ahead of me. It has taken me a little over an hour. It takes him about thirty-six minutes. He is in spectacular shape.. and almost twenty years my senior.

We stand at the top and admire the landscape. It is getting close to sundown and the wind is pulsing up the hill in regular cycles, fairly gentle at around eight to ten mph. I lay out my wing and take the first launch. My wing comes straight up, I give it a quick check, turn on my heel and run forward.

I holler “Ka – Kaw!” and it echoes in the big bowl as I fly away from the hill. Airborne!!

It is buoyant and mostly smooth. There are still little bubbles from the days more powerful thermals. I find a few of them on my way out, but I don’t take advantage of much lift so close to the rocks. It Isn’t enough to carry me far from the sharp danger.

I land about fifteen minutes later walking on the desert pavement not far from my camper. Dakotah has not launched yet and I face the hill to wait and watch his flight.

He finally  takes off near sunset into the deep almost navy blue sky… I follow his flight into the spectacular sunset building.. cerulean/red/orange/yellow swash of color that streaks the sky low to the West.

Dakotah finally lands forty minutes later nearly in front of his van right before all the color has left the sky. It is spectacular to watch him fly. He has no fear.

An hour later I return with some organic grilled romaine I just fixed and he spoons me a bowl of the veggie stew he has made. Its good.. He’s thrown a couple jalapeños in the pot and surprised me with its spicyness. I’ve had dinner with only a very few vegetarians and I have to look in his bowl because i’m curious to see all the things he’s put in it.. The one thing I couldn’t identify were some flower shaped disks he told me were broccoli hearts.. The rest was kale, cauliflower, beans, carrots, and broccoli tops.

The next day is mellow. I fix a few things on my truck, explore some of the countryside, check out the road to the top.  It’s skinny and steep.

I’m not wanting to hike up to the top today. I’d go up if we could drive, but I’m just not feeling it. I’ll watch him fly and take pics if he can launch.

The last campers left some wood. I think it’s mesquite.. There is a ton of it dead around the corner by the alfalfa fields. It would be nice to have some company by a fire tonight, I’ll ask Dakota over when he lands.

I finally see him launch in the orange light, it’s a bit buoyant but not too lifty and he soars the ridge getting little pops that take him just feet over the top of the ridge.. as the last of the sun dips below the horizon, he punches out and sets up his landing…

I greet him as he folds his wing. His smile is giant and I can see that he is thrilled with his sunset ride. I show him some of the pictures I took and invite him to my campfire later. He is delighted with both and says he will bring some tea.

The fire is just the right size… Just big enough to throw off some good warmth when I scoot in close with my blue campchair…. I enjoy the quiet crackling of my creation for fifteen minutes before I hear crunching footsteps on the rocky desert floor… And the wheezing, limpy pawsteps of Little Brother, exhausted with his long walk.

 Dakota has some warm, fragrant peppermint tea in a cup for me, he is always smiling.. It is a joy to have the company of such good energy. He sits next to me in the flickering light and tells me stories. He tells me about his medicine wheel and how he builds each one very carefully, aligns it to the cardinal directions and how he makes a prayer for every rock he chooses…   IF it has the correct energy. It can take days if not weeks to build one. Sometimes he will choose rocks that he only gathers in the moonlight.

He tells me of panning for gold, of living on a reservation, and his life as a saturation diver. He is endlessly interesting to me, but my eyes are beginning to close.

I am grateful for meeting such a free man, such an incredible spirit that is so open and willing to share. I love his sweetness to all living things (he doesn’t have fires because it kills the creatures that live in the wood) but he doesn’t chide me and in fact, says he enjoys the warmth and company.

He gives me a giant hug and parting tells me, “Goodnight Dear One, sleep well.”

I smile with a lump in my throat. He has become dear to me too.

I am sitting outside my new Toyhauler in Gila Bend, Arizona. It should be quiet here in the desert, but really its not. The rubber from every vehicle that passes is a rip in the perfectly still air.. I can follow each sound across the highway… every once in awhile someone peels out in a muscle car. The campers nearby play music, crumple potato chip bags. There is a child or a woman screaming thinly from someones TV. It is impossible to tell which camper it is coming from.. Sound carries far in the desert.

Gila Bend is one of those places I’ve always dreaded going. I’m a city girl.. and kind of a foodie. I like meeting people with ideas and dreams. Gila Bend doesn’t have a lot of dreams. Its got a lot of Meth though. It seems to always be the blight of a small town. Even with the blight here, it seems small and safe.

I don’t really go into town much.. there are a couple small restaurants, fast food, a tire repair, hardware, and about four gas stations. No grocery store… actually, there was one, but it closed last year. Most of the locals like the Italian place. They’ve got good pizza.. it is New York style, pretty authentic too. Mostly I’ve just been cooking in the camper. I made a roast duck and chicken, bean soup, some nice grilled steaks and salads.

I’m saving the fat from the duck… you need six to eight cups in order to confit a duck… if I make two more, I’ll have enough. It seems worth the effort since the Phoenix grocer is charging eight bucks a cup for the fat…

When I’m not cooking, I always like to check whatever area I’m in to see if there is a good flying site nearby.. I’ve been moderately put off by some online guidance I found with my phone here. It said that you shouldn’t fly during the week because there are military jets that use the airspace.

Two days ago, my coworker and I were coming back in from the range and I saw a truck parked at the gas station. It had at least five hang gliders on top and what looked like some kind of motor. I emergency asked my co-worker to stop our truck so I could jump out and meet the pilots. They had just come from the local site.. Oatman. They are a middle aged fit fellow and a gorgeous black haired Mexican gal with a thick Spanish accent. They tell me there is no jet hazard.. the military stopped buzzing that mountain years ago and that there are a couple hippies camped out for a couple weeks. The couple is on their way to Mexico to fly. It is what they do full time. For money, he teaches people how to fly ultralights and does art. My chest burns with jealousy.

That evening, the minute we arrive home from work, I set out to find the site. I don’t bring my wing because A. it is still unpacked because its nice to kite in the evenings when the wind is right, and B. Because there is no way I’ll make it for even a glass off. I’ll be driving home in the dark for sure.

I head out on I-8 then Painted Rock Road and follow the instructions… but I’m lost in some gloriously green alfalfa fields almost immediately. Finally, I get turned around and feel like I’ve got the right spot. I’m headed down a washboard dirt lane. There is the big hill with radio towers directly ahead of me That’s what I’m supposed to be looking for. I don’t see what looks like a good LZ yet, and I wonder what is on the back side of the tower mountain… The sun is setting hotly and it is a banner evening, but I’m worried if I’ll be able to find the hippies in this fading light. There is a LOT of empty country here.

As I round the last corner to the right, the back side of the mountain takes my breath away…. OF COURSE!! It is a classic ridge. A big beautiful, sweeping bowl with a few acres of flat desert pavement* with sparsely dotted saguaro and creosote for an LZ. It would be easy to land right next to your car.

There are two campers here. One is a white van that looks a little trashed and the other is a tidy hanglider strapped to a newer model truck with a nice tent setup. There are two guys by the van and one of them is folding up a wing. I zero in. An old yellow dog wheezes and limps toward me as fast as he can. (not fast) He makes a large effort of greeting the new visitor. I quicken my step to make his painful journey a little shorter.

I wave at the two pilots and they start walking toward me as well.

One guy just landed. I first introduce my self to Paul and shake his hand. Dakota (guy that landed)will have no part of hand shaking and gives me a giant sweaty hug. I love his enthusiasm! He’s thin, in his mid-fifties, and is sporting a messy sun- bleached blond ponytail, a permanent tan and smile, powerful looking arms. It is obvious this fellow is thrilled to be alive. Paul is about the same age with salt and pepper whiskers but a little more sober and has to be back to work the day after tomorrow.

Dakota will be flying and camping for another week or two. We talk for a half an hour about wings and sites and people we know.. I get a jury site checkout, some local lore and finally excuse myself to return home in the deepening twilight. The desert pavement is just forgiving enough to see some faint tracks but with any less light, I will be hard pressed to find my way out.

I am delighted with this epic place, it is exactly the type of site I have always imagined I would love to find. I can barely wait to fly it this weekend even if I only get a sled ride or two!!

*What is desert pavement? It is a naturally occurring, closely patterned arrangement of rocks on the surface of desert soil that is very flat and might seem to be man-made. Many times it has a varnished appearance from clay and other deposits.. it is unknown the exact reason how it is formed but there are several theories.

Thanksgiving

(continued from the last post)

I roll in on Friday afternoon and see that there are already a bunch of pilots there.

I meet Chris Santacroce, he is conducting the clinic. Glenn Tupper http://www.paratupper.com/ who is not only in the military, but an incredible paramotor pilot, Darcy, a Canadian and amazing photographer, a friend’s brother Mark (amazing pilot who is along with Kari Castle, climbing Mt Kilimanjaro and then flying down!!!) come here to hone their skills. I haven’t even told the whole story about these folks, they are extraordinary. They are walking legends. I am a fortunate person to have met with such giant souls.

Saturday is fair, there is no wind for most of the morning but it turns the right direction and is a good enough strength to pull up a body. Chris gives a pilot brief and hands out a few tow harnesses. They clip in to our existing equipment. It is important to connect them properly, because they don’t allow the wing to “lock out”.. a condition that normally results in a high speed head plant into the ground or water.. usually, ground. Our window is small. Only about half of us get a tow. I watch everyone carefully for lessons learned that hopefully I don’t have to do the hard way.

Sunday, the weather is unfortunately, not fantastic. The wind is weak and blowing the wrong direction. I have my motorcycle though and take it out for a ride around the lake. It is really a gorgeous ride. Part of it you are in Utah and the other part, Idaho, The road around is a slow, two-lane roll.

I wind my way through half a dozen little towns to the northern part of the lake and find a Hot Springs resort. I wonder where I can check in or where the tubs might be. I stand up on my pegs and look around for someone to ask.. I spy a tall, stooped gray haired fellow making some last minute preparations to his camper. It’s a small cab-over loaded on a little old brown truck.

I make a tight turn and meet him at his camp spot.

I smile and ask him how it’s going.

“Goot.” He says.

Oh! He’s German.. or something.

I ask him how the hot springs are but he doesn’t know what the heck I’m talking about. Maybe he doesn’t speak too good English?

I tell him, “You know, there are some hot springs here, right?”

“I am…   not sure.” he stares at me.

Strikeout.

It seems a little weird, so I decide to keep rolling. The wind might get good pretty soon, I should start heading back anyway.

I am passing the East side of the lake where there is another launching area that I heard might work if the wind wasn’t blowing the right way at our little beach.

There is no traffic. It is a beautiful day but it has been a little cool because of some high clouds but they are blowing out and the sun is making a big effort to break through.. there are small patches of blue everywhere. As I’m contemplating the new warmth on my back and the patches of sun rolling on to the farmers fields, out of the corner of my eye I see a brown blur about the size of my fist wreck into the spokes of my front wheel. I bring the bike to a quick stop and circle it around back to where the little brown thing is. It’s a bird.

A little brown bird. But it is not dead. Its little yellow beak is opening and closing soundlessly and only about half its body is working. I am horrified as I stare at its agony. I can’t stand to watch this pain and determine to put it out of its misery. I circle the bike around and aim for its head. I roll over it with my front tire. Surely 600 lbs is enough to squish it to death.

I hear an ominous crunch and circle around to check my gruesome handiwork.

Egads! It’s still alive! I swing the big bike clumsily around, desperate now to obliterate my mistake and again aim for the tiny brown ball of misery. I hear another nasty crunch and crane my neck around to see if I’ve finished the deed. I see no movement. I park the bike in the small strip of gravel on the side of the road.  As I walk over to the fluffy bird pancake, two other little brown birds land in front of me and stare at their fallen comrade. Oh MY GOD. I am a bird killer! I stop and watch the two hop around the bird-cake I’ve made. They cock their heads from side to side. I feel wretched and walk the final few steps to inspect it closely. It is dead. Very.

Job done, I plop my heavy heart back onto my bike and motor back around the bright green, now sunny lakeside. I hope this is not some kind of foreshadowing.

When I arrive, the crew is getting ready to go to the other side. I get my gear together and hop in Darcy’s car. We meet Chris in his boat but aren’t happy with any of the beaches for various reasons.

I am really anxious to get a flight. We drive up and down the little rocky, bushy beach and finally settle on one place. It is generally free of debris and rocks.

This is my first tow ever and I am thrilled with my commitment to this event.

It is a team effort. I hook up the tow harness… I know how to do it because the day before I had helped hook 4 people until the wind got too strong.

I’m hooked in and prepared for my launch.

We check in with the boat on the radio. I hear the engine roar to life and the boat surges forward. I feel a gentle pull on my chest. I raise my hands. The wing comes up full and straight. I begin walking and then quickly start running to keep up with the pull I feel on my chest strap.

I feel confident and focused as my feet leave the beach. I’m getting towed!! I’m going up but it takes much more input than I was expecting to use to turn with the shrinking boat below. I am HIGH. He tows us to an average of 3000’ ! That’s better than a half mile up.

The boat is tiny now. I see it make a tight turn… my signal to cut away.

I pull the bridle connecting me to the long line….. I’m free!! I have time to look around.

It is a spectacular scene. The water is a peculiar blue. The large lake is surrounded by mountains, but I can see beyond even those.

My reverie is interrupted by Chris. He’s hauled in the line and giving me instructions. The radio tells me to pull on right side A’s. The wing slowly spins to the right.

HOLD IT! LET IT WIND UP. the wing dives to the right and I feel the pressure begin to change in my seat………… OK, RELEASE. HANDS UP. LEAN LEFT.

The wing recovers quickly.

I do it again.

I recover.

OK. GRAB BOTH A’s. PULL……….. HARDER.

The entire leading edge of my wing collapses. I feel myself falling.

HANDS UP.

The wing pops open and stabilizes.

OK. LOOK FOR YOUR B’s. FIND THEM AND PULL.

I do an in-air pull-up. The wing tacos in the middle and I begin descending quickly.

HANDS UP.

I let the B’s up. My beautiful, reliable wing pops open obediently and flies forward smoothly. I am breathing heavily and this smile is starting to hurt my jaw.

OK, PULL BIG EARS. FULL SPEED BAR.

HOLD THAT.

This is a descending technique. You can come down pretty fast if it becomes very windy and you are having trouble making headway. It is effective. I loose several hundred feet and release speed, then Big Ears. I do it again on my own.

I’m a little light on my wing and haven’t lost all my altitude… the wind is picking up and I take advantage of the giant ridge to get more altitude and fly a little more. I go down to a huge grassy field and land in a stiff breeze. I think my face will crack. This smile is really starting to hurt. I can’t help it though, and the great huge warm feeling in my chest offsets the aching in my cheeks.

I rosette my wing and head to the road.

My new friend Darcy launched a little while ago. He is a better pilot than me and is having a great flight. I can see him swooping giant wingovers WITH BIG EARS!

He’s playing around with some acro… something in my future but not quite yet. It is ridiculously fun to watch him fly.

The wind gets too strong and we have to bail for the afternoon.

We meet at the campground later. Chris brings beer, lights a fire in the pit and does a debrief of our flights. The owner of the campground has a cannon and fires off a couple loud shots over the lake.

It’s a perfect way to wrap up this day… we say goodbye to our new friends, everyone is leaving tomorrow early.

I am making coffee and packing up the camper… I see someones wing on the beach..

I wander over casually. Darcy is laid out and looking like he’s towing! My eyes get big.

Darcy: “Get your wing!”

If I was a vampire, it would explain how I returned to the beach so quickly with my wing. The owner has a tow boat. He wanted his kids to fly, but they are being lazy on Sunday morning.

I help him hook up and get pulled up. He’s fun to watch again, swooping and collapsing. I love the color of his wing against the sky.

He lands and I begin hooking up.

I’m planning my practice session. I wanted to do some asymmetric spirals but didn’t have time yesterday… I’ll try some of those and some more collapses.

I’m pulled way up high again, cut away and immediately look right, lean right and pull my right brake waaaaaay down. The wing enters a spiral. I can feel my butt squish down into the seat. I release pressure and stabilize.

Those are FUN.

I spend ten minutes swooping and swirling then come in to land.

I want to fly again. No more tows are available but there is a ridge site me and Darcy want to check out later in Randolph. It blows out a lot and our chances of flying are meager, but we try anyway.

It is the Crawford range. It’s a 45 minute ride, but it is an amazing tour of this American countryside. It is a lush emerald green and smells like hay and dampness. The Crawford range explodes straight up from this flat productive farmland. We’re not entirely sure which road takes us up, so we just make a best guess… we luck out and make a dusty trail around the back of the mountain up to launch, but it is booming. Gusts 20 mph+.

The view is worth every moment. It is the most peaceful, verdant, riparian valley I have ever feasted my eyes on. I finally see what an oxbow looks like.. I wonder if I will be moving here soon.

There are four hangies in the air. Even they are moving slowly on this strong air. I am jealous of their flight,  but elated to be on this spectacular ridge.

Darcy and I are snapping a zillion pictures. We both are swimming in this moment.

We wander down to the edge of the spine we are on and find the hang gliders van. it looks like they are camping out tonight. There is a big pile of wood and a fire pit. I can’t imagine a better place to light a campfire.. they will be having a time.

It’s getting late and we both should return to camp, I need to get down the road to my next job… Darcy? That guy. I think he’s in next weeks clinic too! Stud.

Thanks to Darcy Gillis for the First, and third through eighth pics… and your support.

I would like to tell you about a story that happened some time ago. I don’t know why I didn’t post it before… In May, I was working in Wendover, UT. I told you a little story about the lake I swam in but flying…. I somehow missed

I wanted to have an SIV clinic… sometimes called a maneuvers clinic. It is a training event that you learn to react properly to an adverse event in the air…. Collapses, frontal deflations, spins etc.. My confidence had been somewhat damaged by the wreck in Colombia. I have flown a few times at the Point of the Mountain Utah. It’s a fairly easy, ridge soaring and thermal flying site.. one of the reasons it is so awesome a place to learn.. Beautiful, laminar air blows in the afternoon from the Great Salt Lake or from the South, which also produces strong, smooth reliable ridge lift in the early morning.

I bring Scout with me today.. actually, every time here. He loves it and nearly all the pilots love him back. He is thrilled to be free to roam the windy ridge while I play. Its blowing pretty hard right now.. maybe around eighteen mph or more. Seems like a good time to practice my high wind kiting skills.
I notice a lot of people are having a tough time and worry a little but feel determined to at least get the wing laid out.

I pull my helmet on, buckle into my harness and grab the reigns. I lean into my seat and pull up on my A’s… the wing comes up fast. I pull my brakes and bring it back down but have to run full speed toward the wing because there is a great deal of energy in it.
WHAM! It slams down into the ground. My heart is pounding…. I hurt myself badly a few years ago doing the same thing. I have to gather myself.

I focus and practice in my mind twice. I have to have A’s, C’s and brakes. I need to get it up, over my head and under it as fast as possible.

I lay my wing back out, position my hands, take a half step back, and lift. Whoosh! The wing snaps up, I again put my weight into my seat, I let my feet scrape forward, and pendulum swing under my wing.
I balance it over my head and turn.
I am on my toes like an astronaut… I am held in the air… all except the maybe twenty pounds in my tip toes. I shove my chest forward and put my hands up behind me. I moonwalk bounce toward the edge of the ridge…. And I’m flying… sort of…. I’m parked about five feet up in the air.

A little right brake and I’m crabbing right, still facing forward.
This is fun! There is only one other person flying with me. The ridge is ours. We do a few slow laps and I practice touching down and taking off again in this robust wind. A few more people show up and I land. I’m happy for the early morning I’ve had. It has satisfied the deep need I have now for flight.

I watch some tiny speed wings playing in the strong air for a while.. I love watching. I love the colors and seeing them swoop the ridge. It is hypnotic.

My stomach growls and suddenly I remember that I haven’t had breakfast yet. Or coffee. I fold up my wing and as I head back to the parking lot I see the Superfly van. I stop a tall skinny fellow that looks like a pilot and ask about getting an SIV and he recommends a guy, Chris Santacroce…The owner of Superfly. . I’m warned not to call it an SIV though. “just ask him for a throwdown.” he says.

OK! I don’t care what the hell he calls it.

I’ve heard his name a few times before but don’t know much else. I also learn that it is $100 a tow. WOW! That’s expensive!

I screw down my reluctance to spend that kind of money and decide to phone him later in the afternoon.

Starbucks in hand, bagel with cream cheese and lox tracked down, I’m settled and decide to make the call.

He’s friendly, but sounds busy. We connect and come up with an idea he thinks is going to work. He’s mostly booked for clinics but if I come down, I might be able to get a shot if the weather is good. Count me in!

It is at Bear Lake, UT.. hm. Never heard of it, but I’m happy to give anything a chance..