The Other Side of the Scale

St John Fly-in 2008

Well this is a flight report, but from a slightly different perspective (and with a longer preamble) than usual. It may be interesting, but if you dislike semi-philosophical ramblings, this is your last best chance to duck a few.

So I was having this debate recently with a friend about what kind of risks were involved in hang gliding (among other things), and were they worth taking on, given the rewards. We talked of probability trees, how many events you had to string along together to have a really bad outcome, charmed lives and blind luck and what that might or might not imply about the nature of human existence. One of those conversations. I said I was not a risk seeker per se, but that I had assumed certain risks here and there in my life and that without allowing those into the equation there were a whole lot of really special moments in my life that never would have happened. And he pointed out that while sure I had done these things, and it had worked out so far, basically I had just been damn-assed lucky to get away with them and that I’d be singing a different tune were I big league paralyzed or so brain-bashed I couldn’t take care of myself. And I couldn’t really argue with that, I probably would be. I can only speak from where I am.

So this flight at St John was the second day of the recent fly-in, and it was a pretty enjoyable flight, and it ended with me scratching 30 seconds too long and setting up my landing 30 seconds too late and (probably (the wind was switchy) therefore) landing slightly downwind and slightly downhill and slightly not pulling it off. I slid ten yards through starthistle (in shorts) and rubbed good bit of the tan off of one leg. It smarted, but a skinned knee is a pretty minor deal in the panoply of possible outcomes. So was it worth it? Hell yeah. How about if I’d broken my glider ? My leg? My neck? Well clearly at some point most people would say it wasn’t.

But to really make that call, you’d also have to examine pretty carefully what you’re weighing against—the good things about that flight, what today I’ll call the Other Side of the Scale. The reasons we fly. As I remember and retell this, think about how frigging unlikely the whole scenario is. Rarity is certainly not the final measure of value, but sometimes I think we forget just how special some of our options are, and how few souls in the dragged out history of man have had anything like them on offer.

I got up that morning on a beautiful day on a beautiful planet, in a particularly attractive corner of that planet, and, with some people I’ve come to know and like and respect, drove up to the top of a mountain. And we brought with us these contraptions made of dacron and aluminum and (ok fine some mylar and carbon fiber too) that other people had dreamed and designed and tested and refined and bled over, so that we could just pull them off the trucks and start unfolding.

And on this sunny morning on the mountaintop we checked our gear, and rechecked some of it, and watched—truly observed--and considered-- the wind and sun and clouds and omens of said day and then stood on the rocky slope of said mountain. And at some point we checked our guts and our hang straps, checked the wind once again, and, with a deep breath and a very well focused mind, took our fate in our hands and ran down the mountain.
After that, people’s experiences were (at least superficially) more varied. Some went up, some down. Some flew long, others shorter, and everybody made their own landing. But this is my flight report, so I’ll stick to my knitting.

The goal for the day was Gilmore Peak, 11 miles distant, with a return to Mary’s for another 3 or 4 miles. Never mind was this an epic flight or hard task or not, it was the goal, and I hoped and wanted to reach it.

From this mountain, with no lift, you’d do well to get to someplace you wouldn’t have to stretch too far to call an LZ. But there was some lift, and I happened onto it, and rose instead of sinking. I enjoyed the view. And my senses were alive and I found tiny lift lines and I flew across the gap between St John and the mountains to the south, and got to the foothills some 3 miles north of Gilmore Peak, the turnpoint. I had gotten pretty low and spent 15 or 20 minutes scratching, 200 or 300 (or sometimes only 100) above the little spines and peaklets. Little puffs urged me upwards, and then piffled out and I plunged a bit closer to the trees and gave some ground, and then found another puff and got it back. Talk about alert. It took everything I had to stay up. And the whole time I was considering my glide out to the valley floor, how far from a road I might be, and what if, right *now*, I hit some sink that wouldn’t give up. Not once however, did I worry about my rent, or my portfolio, or my daughter’s grades or nagging pains or generalized existential angst. None of it.

Along comes my friend Bruce, a great guy and really skilled pilot. He is also quite low, but over the valley, on his way back after already tagging Gilmore. He comes over to fly with me, and I am a little surprised- I must look like I’m doing better than I am, or maybe he is just really desperate. Or maybe he is just being nice and hoping to show me the way a little bit. Regardless, I’m subtly flattered because we are both scratching pretty close to terrain and pretty close to each other, and he apparently has enough confidence in me as a pilot to do this. (Of course its not too long before he’s above me, if only by 100 feet--so maybe he’s just confident I won’t fall up on him ;-) And I watch and try to learn a bit (while still trying to stay up myself). We circle and flutter and swoop, its that sort of flying and its kind of cool in its own very tenuous way. And then at some point he zigs and I zag and apparently he made the better call because he is now up (if only a little) and on his way and I am down (if only a little) and give up on the last couple hundred feet of hills and head out to the valley and probably to land, though I’m still looking and working and hoping. And I get to a clear spot near the road and its not quite flat and I don’t quite know the wind direction and well we’ve talked about that already and this isn’t a technical article. Its just about flying, and pushing yourself as far as you dare (hopefully not writing checks you can’t cash), and opening your senses to the beauty and possibilities of the world around you, and really living in this moment we’ve been given that won’t be comin’ back.
And that’s what’s on the other side of the Scale.


(Plus I got 2 t-shirts and a really nifty Flytec jacket.)