Adventure Girl
In the footsteps of Icharus
By Megan Gunsorek |
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Wind blasted my face, my cocoon harness jerked fiercely while John yanked the control bar left, then hard right to keep our wings level with the horizon. Mid-battle against an invisible force, John pulled the bar violently underneath, jutting us down head first. This didn't feel normal: it felt out of control, I felt something had gone wrong. For a quick moment, I saw the threat of distant, murderous earth 2000 feet below and believed I was involuntarily falling to my death . . . John straightened our wings, nonchalantly grabbed the quarter inch rope connecting us to the buzzing tow plane 30 feet ahead, and unclipped the connectors. Diving down and under, the tow plane disappeared from our view. Vicious wind turned into soft, playful air stroking our nylon wings.
John asked me if I was alright. Not having the words to describe my near death experience, I answered, "Yes! I have no spit left though." My mouth was dryer than on a morning after a hard night of drinking, and I craved chapstick. Finding a tranquil place in the sky, John relaxed his movements with the control bar. As my nerves settled, I looked over his shoulder to our variometer showing altitude and air speed: 2100 feet, 22 mph.
Land turned abstract; quadrants of green grass and trapezoidal sections of intertwined bare trees were beautifully positioned next to straight rows of dormant crops. Orbiting a dirt oval track, I spotted what looked like a miniature horse attached to a mini-carriage driven by a mini-man. I could see WesMar's flying strip of grassy field but could no longer see the orange wind sock near where the tow plane took off, our hang glider in tow.
I had arrived at WesMar at high noon. John, my certified instructor and the better half of our hang-gliding tandem, led me feet first into a full body harness connected to the hang glider's triangular metal frame. I stepped into the harness... completely backwards. John laughed, not at my idiocy I liked to think, but at my cute naivete. The second time, I entered the harness correctly, belly parallel to the ground, my entire body snug and cocooned. John shimmied into the harness on my right and instructed me to place my arm around his waist so that our bodies moved as one unit.
"I'm going to leave my gloves here for good luck." John had taken his gloves off and thrown them on the ground.
"What kind of good luck you talkin' about?" I asked this because, frankly, I didn't want to rely on luck while flying. I hoped it wasn't the kind of luck needed to avoid clipping our wings and spiraling out of control only to land on a pointy wrought iron fence.
"So we find some thermals." John actually meant finding thermal lifts - elusive, invisible air pockets that can rise thousands of feet and lift the hang glider.
John had explained this lift phenomenon while still on the ground: sun heats the earth, the heat is transferred to the air, which then rises. They look for cumulus clouds, soaring birds, and haze domes, which all indicate the presence of thermals. What sounded like meteorologic mumbo-jumbo at the time became real as we were now aloft.
"There's a lift!" John angled the control bar and we began to rise in a tilted, circular motion. Every 360 degrees, I thanked myself profusely for putting a motion sickness patch behind my ear. We circled and circled and rose higher and higher, finally reaching 3000 feet, when John said we'd hit the top; there's no more lift once you reach the cloud line. Superstitiously, John thanked his abandoned gloves, his bare hands proudly sacrificing for the cause in the 45-degree atmosphere. Looking down, I spotted a buzzard, much closer to the ground than we, like our distant shadow; he had also found the lift and was circling to rise.
"Lots of corn stalks flying today."
"Excuse me?" Managing to pull my gloved hand from the control bar, I wiped the dribbling snot from beneath my nose. My eyes followed the magical corn stalk leaves in disbelief as they grabbed the thermal lift and rose towards us.
I had little concept of our vertical movement and no grasp of time. After what he declared had been a half hour, John found sinking air so that we could start our descent to land.
"Looks like we're approaching going northeast," he said. The variometer beeped loudly and rapidly, warning that we were descending fast. Circling, this time we allowed gravity to win, sinking until we were close enough to WesMar Flying Strip where John straightened our wings. We quickly approached the ground, gently landed and our wheels rolled to a gradual stop. I had the strangest sensation, head first, belly a foot off the grass, wings outstretched, that I knew what it was like to be a bird... well, at least a bird with an instructor at my side.
Where can I be Adventure Girl/Boy?
Soaring Sports and Columbus Hang Gliding
These are national adventure reservation websites, which will eventually lead you to John Alden (he is the only certified hang gliding instructor in the state). Buy a gift certificate for a friend through them, otherwise avoid their higher fees.
www.soaringsports.com (800) 226-1116
www.columbushanggliding.com (800) 615-9086
- $189 for Tandem Aero Tow
Wings To Fly, WesMar
Flying Strip, Orient, OH
Best $140 you'll spend in a while - the tandem is great for control freaks who wish to learn to trust others.
www.aldenaviation.com (614) 795-2718
- Open year round, but subject to weather permitting.
- $140 for Tandem Aero Tow, $80 for a Tandem Scooter Tow
Ohio Flyers
Want to take it further? Learn from an USHGA certified instructor to solo hang glide. Join this organization which coordinates flights in other Ohio locations - foot launch at Richmond Dale in Chillicothe where you'll use ridge lifts, upward air movement created by hills.
www.ohioflyers.org
Originally Published: May 1, 2009
