When there are no mountains, or conditions aren't right, or maybe if you're just bat shit crazy, then there is always towing. Towing meaning getting hooked to the end part of 5,000 feet of line, attached to a home-made winch setup attached to the back of a truck. Or something.
Then the truck drives off, you run like crazy, and hopefully get lifted off the ground. And pray to your lucky Gods that the tow operator has done all that before.
I didn't go do it, that time. But the inevitable is inevitable.
The Big North Side
Time for graduating off the little hill. Got my official P2 pilots license, meaning that I don't know shit, but get to go figure it out for myself. Darwin says hi.
I didn't pull off the whole land-where-you-took-off bit, but I landed. Even if it was on the plan B landing zone down below, it was all good. Bitch of a hike back up to the Point, but so, so worth it. Time to do that a whole bunch more!
Like Air-Cats.
Ya know, how cats like to bounce around, play with spring?
I guess when you have no other things going on, like ... real job, committments, marriages, kids, sanity, or living in places without random mountains ... then you have plenty of time to get good at playing with string. With wings attachd to them. Yeahh!!
Kids and marriage, highly overrated.
One day I'll be that good.
First Solo
So I got talked into it. Lessons. Babysteps. Little hill, float to the bottom. Practice. Even though, made me nervous. I mean, I'm totally fucking fearless. What, a piece of fabric, some strings, a couple of straps, and a cliff? Hell yea. You sure we need all that fabric, though?
Scared the crap out of me. Seriously, don't go do that shit.
Survival Instincts
So there was that previous run-in with hang gliding. In Florida.
Getting strapped to the bottom of a wing, then pulled up to 3,000 feet behind a flimy ultralight airplane contraption didn't help stir any feelings of happily-ever-after. But then it happened again. And again. And about ten more times. Till I realized that buying all the necessary equipment to keep playing pretend-suicide would cut into the entertainment fund. Nevermind carting all that stuff around, which requires roof racks, fairly involved assembly, and paying a strange character with a flimsy ultralight to go tow me up. Yea. So that was an experiment put on hold.
The Gods of fate and fortune never rest, though. The directive is not to be ignored, and if play-bird is the universal message, then that's what'll happen. So you better keep an eye out. For signs. Signs of you nearing the edge of a cliff with a guy behind you yelling "run run RUN!!". Or sounds of increased propeller pitch and your ass getting dragged through a field, with the sudden ah-fuck feel of lift-off.
That's right. No need to be a dare devil. Just get out of bed and weird shit will happen.
All I did was get out of bed. And say 'yea sure' to some house sitting in crazy town, Utah. And have friends with too much time and money, and no sense of self preservation (sorry Scott, I totally meant somebody else). Friends who like to share their perspective, gravity and all.
