Paying It Forward

Ever since the first time I slipped the surly bonds of earth and experienced the bliss of free-flight, I've felt the need to share the experience with others. When asked what it's like, however, I've always found words are just not enough to express the joy I've found (or that has found me). For the most part I've given up trying, and just respond by answering that it has to be experienced and can't be explained.

The people I've talked to who express an interest in the sport usually fall within one of three categories: (1) Those who say they'd like to try it but have either excuses or legitimate reasons (like family responsibilities or health issues) why they don't, (2) the 'thrillseekers' who try everything and want to claim to have tried hang gliding (I call 'em bungee jumpers), and (3) the truly interested who have always dreamed, quite literally, of leaving the ground and silently ascending on a puff of wind. Members of the last group are relatively rare, and if they are genuinely bent on learning, their willingness to leave the ground will be stronger than the setbacks they are likely to endure on the long road to free-flight.

My personal journey to soaring flight was a frustrating collection of fits and starts (mostly fits). I actually took my first flight off a small hill in northwest Montana in 1991. Not long after moving there I learned that the field across the way was a landing zone for a local group of pilots. After asking the usual plethora of questions I learned that one of the group was an instructor, so I immediately signed up for lessons. Unfortunately, training hills were hard to come by and the instructor was usually busy making a living, so training became problematic. I did eventually get a flight or two off a 'training hill', and from then on I was absolutely certain that I wanted more. I even went as far as purchasing a glider and harness from a local who was moving out of state and couldn't pack his gear with him. Unfortunately, I lost touch with the instructor, so the glider and harness remained bagged for about a dozen years thereafter.

Eventually I found myself moving to southwest Oregon and, after settling in, I happened to discover a fairly active flying community. It seems that the mountain across from my new home was a flying site used periodically by some of the locals, and again I'd stumbled into what has apparently become my destiny. There was, again, an instructor amongst the group, so I signed up for lessons. It seems history has a sometimes annoying tendency to repeat itself, and after a few lessons I was on my own again, as this instructor too had to focus on making a living (which apparently is difficult to do solely by teaching others to fly). This time, however, I had a glider, a harness, and a training site. No-one had time to teach me, so I'd just finish my training on my own. How hard could it be, after all, to teach one's self to fly?

A lot harder than I'd ever imagined, it seems. While building somewhat on the lessons I'd been taught by my previous instructors, I'd also picked up quite a few bad habits. Without the tutilage of an experienced, objective mentor, this is apparently quite easy to do in this sport. So I flailed around on the training hill, bending aluminum and bruising & breaking skin until the day when I just happened to be on the hill with the sole remaining instructor in the immediate area and his one student. As Ken, the student, cautiously and systematically learned the right way to fly from his patient instructor, Mike, I continued to fumble and tumble down the hill, slowly perfecting my bad habits. After one particularly hard landing, Mike sympathetically offered his assistance and advice. I was getting more and more discouraged with each awkward flight and was beginning to realize that I wasn't going to learn this craft on my own, so I asked (begged, actually) Mike to sell me some lessons. He was very hesitant at first, but eventually agreed. As I've begun to learn, bad habits are hard to break, and for an instructor to willingly accept the task of trying to break them is a lot to ask, but I guess maybe Mike might have glimpsed a bit of potential in this fumbling wannabe. Either that or he just felt sorry for me and didn't want to see me getting seriously hurt, which I suspect is closer to the truth.

I learned (and unlearned) a great deal from Mike, and Ken and I have become very close flying companions. Mike has since retired from teaching, which has resulted in a total absence of instructors in the area. Currently, one must drive either to San Francisco or Portland to find instruction, and that's a long way to travel given the time commitment it requires to learn the skills to become proficient and safe. Ken and I have discussed this great void in airborne educators, and we've even discussed becoming certified to teach. The problem is that it requires a huge time commitment, and we both prefer to spend our spare time flying rather than teaching. Nonetheless, we have been asked on several occasions where one needs to go to learn this sport, and we've had to disappoint several would-be aviators with the bad news.

A few months ago I was chatting with our regional director for USHPA, the national organization whose purpose is to regulate hang gliding and paragliding activities throughout the country (in lieu of the FAA stepping in). Eventually the discussion came to the topic of the serious lack of instructors in the area (and therefore, students), a common problem throughout the nation that is resulting in a serious decline in new membership in the organization. One of the responsibilities of his position is to appoint observers, who mentor, observe, and issue ratings for the sport. Ratings are USHPA's way of evaluating the level of pilot proficiency, and many sites require a certain rating to fly there. The rating system is also one of the conditions which keeps the FAA from getting involved, and FAA involvement could result in all pilots needing to obtain a license, conduct annual inspections, and many other regulations required for conventional aircraft that would make the sport cost- and time-prohibitive for average folks like me.

The director asked me if I'd ever considered getting certified to teach, and I told him that I had but I just loved flying too much to give up my free time, and that becoming certified would demand a great deal of time and resources that I wasn't ready to commit. We discussed the dilemma of the interested would-be pilots who had nowhere to learn and the decline in pilot numbers, and the discussion ended with the director deciding (with my reluctant acceptance) to appoint me as a special observer, which allows me to train and rate new pilots from beginner to the advanced level. Reflecting upon my own frustration as a wannabe who just couldn't corner an instructor long enough to finish my training, I decided that for the time being this would be an acceptable solution. Ultimately I would hate to see this sport die off , and worse yet, I'd rather not read about the injuries incurred by those whose desire was such that they're willing to risk life and limb to 'teach' themselves. This kind of press would also accellerate the decline of the sport through the loss of flying sites and by promoting the stigma of being a more dangerous activity than it actually is.

So I purchased Mike's training glider, harnesses, and other gear, and Ken & I have spent a couple of weekends so far on the bunny hill with a couple of students. There are, of course, setbacks to the process. The hill is a good distance from my house, so the time and fuel spent getting there has required some sacrifice. The expense of the equipment has been a factor too, but we've managed to make it work so far. Another unfortunate setback occurred this last weekend when a showboating paraglider pilot decided to strafe us on the training hill. He overestimated his abilities and crashed into my training wing while Ken and I were underneath and one of our students was hooked to the frame. Fortunately no one was hurt, but the leading edge, downtube and several battens were broken on the glider. Until I can round up replacement parts, we're out of commission. Despite the setbacks, however, we will persist...

Back at the Rat

I'm typing this with my left hand, since my right arm is in a sling while the shoulder recovers from a dislocation. I had a bit of a hard landing yesterday in a challenging little field up toward the Applegate Reservoir and pinned my arm under a broken downtube. I'd chosen the biggest, clearest field I could find, only to discover that it was scattered with fence posts and irrigation lines. I did my best to avoid all the hazards, but in so doing I was forced into a last-minute manuever that brought me in at an oblique angle. After unhooking and assessing the situation, I'd determined that other than a little soreness I was alright, so I radioed the other pilots and proceeded to disassemble my wing. As I did so, a neighbor came over and chatted with me for awhile. All seemed well until I went to lift the keel. Apparently I'd lifted it at a slight angle, my shoulder slipped out of its socket, and I went to the ground in pain.

In around 450 flights, this is the closest I've come to a hang gliding injury. I doubt it can even be considered as such, since it could have occurred just as easily in the garage lifting my bagged wing onto the storage brackets. Nonetheless, after attempts to move the arm back into place by a fellow pilot, I finally had to resign myself to being driven to the Medford emergency room. Thanks to the folks who showed up to help, and particularly to Rick, who packed up my glider, drove me to Medford, and hung out in the waiting room. You guys are the best!

Otherwise it was a surprisingly nice flight. After watching several other pilots struggle and/or sink out fairly soon, a few of us worked up to 6k over launch and 7k over Raby's Ridge. A couple of us tried to push towards Grants Pass, but the air beyond Raby's Peak was sinky so we had to fly back to the ridge to refuel. Rick and Karl headed up toward the reservoir, so I topped out the thermal I was in before chasing after them. It turned out to be about a 17-mile triangle, but in retrospect I wish I'd hung out with Bruce and waited for glassoff.

Elk-Rat Hybrid?

As usual, the annual Hat Creek Fly-in was loads of fun. We arrived later than expected Friday evening due to an accident on the highway, but not so late that we couldn't make the rounds to the different camps and socialize with the gang. The band was there, complete with vocalists, upright base, banjo, guitar, and hand-held percussion, and they wandered from camp to camp providing background music. All the usual folks were present too, and it was good to see them all again as well as meeting some new ones.

Ken had arrived a day or two earlier so he could give himself a chance to rest up before flying, and it gave him an opportunity to fly Friday evening in Hat Creek Rim's epic glassoff conditions along with several of the usual group.

The following evening, we joined up with the gang at launch. The wind was coming in strong as it typically does early in the evening at this site. Launches can also be tricky here, as it often crosses from the south around a rock outcropping, causing a tricky rotor that can turn a wing when leaving the hill and cause a blown launch. Thankfully, everyone managed to get off the hill in one piece and eventually there were 18 wings soaring the ridge. After leaving the ground, the air was smooth if strong, however the process of launching involved a quick elevator ride and a screaming variometer.

We cruised around for an hour-and-a-half or so while waiting for the shadows to cover the landing zone. Hat Creek is also noted for its rowdy conditions in the lz, at least until the sun sets and things have a chance to mellow out a bit. Tonight was an exception, however, as the air was plenty bumpy even well after the sun had set. We all landed safely though with no broken aluminum. Cheers filled the air and beers were raised in salute as each pilot returned safely to Mother Earth. Of course, later that evening we returned to camp to tell tall tales and bad jokes around the fire.

Among the items discussed that evening was the upcoming annual Elk Creek Fly-in held by the northern Cal group every year. Ken and I attended this one also a couple of years ago and had as much fun as at Hat Creek. We flew from two sites - one was St. John Peak and the other was the mountain over the small town of Elk Creek, CA. The St. John flight involved a long winding road to launch (with a longer, windier, steeper drive down, as our drivers will attest to) and a tricky landing in a small, cross-wind lz. The flying itself to me was good, except that my pitch rope broke upon launch and I flew around, even thermalling, while hanging from my wing like a sack of potatoes. The Elk Creek site was little more than an extended sledride for me, and no flight at all for Ken, as the winds died down at launch and he ended up breaking down at launch and packing his wing back up the hill.

Due to newly-implemented restrictions imposed on access to the Elk Creek landing zone, it was discussed and decided to move the annual fly-in to our own neighborhood of the Applegate Valley and Woodrat Mountain. The suggestion was heartily accepted, since all who visited our fine site with its very accessible launch & lz and the multiple wineries throughout the valley instantly fell in love with it. It was also decided that the local mountain mascot, Woody the Woodrat, should don the antlers of an elk for the impromptu ensemble, and it is to be called the first annual Elk-Rat fly-in. We look forward to the visit by our friends to the south in a couple of weeks, and hope for the best weather. Either way, it should be a blowout...