This is a story I have wanted to tell ever since it happened and now that the statute of limitations has expired, I can.
As a pilot from the Midwest, I had always looked forward to attending and flying at the annual Telluride Fly-In and aerobatics competition. One of the first hang gliding videos I remember was of the 1982 Telluride Fly-In overdubbed with audio tracks from Dire Straits and Eagle songs. Until that point I was not much of a fan of either group, but now, whenever I hear their music, visions of high mountain flying takeover and I'm not good for much until they're finished.
I marveled at the launches, knowing the affects of high altitude on the speed needed to achieve flight and what seemed like the endless whacks and tree landings in the LZ's. These scenes along with the images of a glider breaking, followed by a chute deployment re-enforced this notion. Even the happy ending of one happy pilot walking away, with a shit eating "I cheated death" grin on his face, served to elevate Telluride to a legendary almost mythical status in my mind.
One of my flying buddies, Bob "Phoenix" Jayme, kept saying, "come on let do a road trip". With the visions of ground skimming launches and landing, whacks being measured on the Richter Scale, I had my doubts. Nevertheless, Phoenix would reassuringly say, "No problem, just don't do anything stupid". Doing stupid things is not unknown to me. Phoenix who had been going to Telluride for years had set the bug, deep enough that this year. I HAD TO GO.
We drove into Telluride on a Sunday afternoon, after leaving Omaha, Nebraska the previous Friday night. The valley was capped in cumulus congestus and rimmed in snow covered peaks. This was my first experience with mid-September in the San Juan's.
Strapped to the top of the van were three Wills Wing Spams, two of which were mine. I liked Spams. I had just gotten my second one after being involved in a mid-air, with another pilot, a couple of months before (another story, another time). After coming down under canopy and then getting it repaired, I was unsure how it has going to fly, so I had ordered another one. However, the folks at WW had done a great sail repair and it flew great, but the new had been ordered and paid for, so now I had two.
My flying partner Phoenix was an Air Force Captain who was a payload targeting specialist at Offutt AFB in Omaha; you can imagine what payloads is a euphemism for. While on the road our "theoretical" conversations about the needed yield, dispersal and deliver vehicles for the removal of Soviet (pre-glasnost) munitions trains to another plain of existence made for interesting discussion. One of the funny off shoots of Phoenix's occupation was when you were at a flying site and would casually ask, "I wonder how high this place is?" he would give verticals to the foot. Payload Targeters also tend to be accomplished satellite photo interrupters.
We had rented a great condo with hot tub, sauna and covered parking. All the pieces were in place for a great week except the weather. Cloudbase was low, below the 12250' MSL altitude of the Gold Hill launch. We elected not to fly. We didn't see any wings and pilots coming out of the clouds, so it looked like the popular decision. We hung around the Seizure LZ, also known as the town park, looking at new wings and gear, complaining about the weather and hang-lying about all the great flights we got back in Nebraska. Pretty common stuff when you're hang waiting. After a while even that couldn't keep us sparked. So back to the condo and a soak in the tub, to wait on what the morrow would bring.
The next morning we woke up to overcast, cold and snowing skies. Not the conditions for your first high altitude launch at a new flying site. Nevertheless, after being there 18 hours I had the need to get it over withreal bad. As the morning progressed, we made a pilgrimage to the Telluride Bakery for donuts and rolls, croissants and bagels weren't yet in vogue. The Bakery is easy identified as being a quasi-community center from the tables out front and a wall crowded with pay phones. Even the sights around town didn't keep our eyes from constantly darting to the clouds above Raccoon Ridge.
About noon, we heard a rumor that the clouds were lifting and a load of pilots were going to try and get a flight. That's what we were here for, so off we jogged...ah, walked fast. We had out gear and gliders in the pickup area five minutes later. Here was a crowd of pilots gathered around a number of pickup trucks negotiating spots for their gliders, gear and themselves. The task was to select and get on the truck that in your assessment would have the best chance of getting to the top. Jeez, I love the free market system.
The ride up to launch is one to be savored and/or survived. In subsequent years, I would witness untold carnage on this road to the sunah, clouds. One year the pickup in front of us, piled high with gliders and pilots would stall, begin rolling backwards, downhill and over turn. Amazingly, no would be seriously hurt and the gliders were repairable. This day the road, actually a cat track, was muddy and slick with melting snow.
The cloud did seem higher, but ready to drop rain or snow at any moment. Imagination is a wonderful thing when determination and focus kick in.
I was seated amongst the harnesses in the back of a well-used and abused pickup with five fellow pilots. On one side of me sat Phoenix, and on the other a guy in a serious looking red parka with an Everest Expedition patch. We were all quiet with our thoughts, as the truck started up the mountain. After a few head nods of acknowledgment a nervous conversation started up as we quizzed each other as to our flying pedigrees. This is a technique used by many pilots when gathering at a new site. It is used to gauge the site and their decision to fly by relating their abilities to those of the other. Usually, the pilot with the lowest amount of airtime and experience is identified as, "The First to Fly". This is normally preceded by one of their friends saying, "Joe needs a hand launching so I'll wire him off." The FTF are sometimes referred to as "wind dummies". We all so deeply involved in this selection process that no noticed that the guy in the red parka wasn't.
As we climbed higher on the mountain we transitioned into the snow. The conversations were increasingly crisp with nervous overtones. We were talking about snow launch techniques, something I had never done and a subject completely foreign to the other two guys, who were from Georgia. When Mr. Red Parka talked. It soon became obvious that this guy new his snow. His instructions were simple; pack it down and run like hell. Having broached the barrier, I asked him about the Everest patch. Sure enough, his name was Bob and he had been part of the team that had gone up Everest with Larry Tudor and Steve McKinney to fly, as part of the "American Women on Everest" or something like that, expedition. Those few words moved him to deity status. From there on out we hung on his every word, what few there were.
As we got closer to the top, it felt as if we were going to run into the sky, the clouds looked so close. The may have risen, but they also seemed a darker gray and were dropping lighter gray, almost white, fingers of snow out over the valley. There was no sun to be seen only the moisture heavy grayness of the sky.
The conditions, along with the slipping and sliding of the truck did not inspire confidence. For the first time in my flying career, I thought that I could get killed. Eventually, the truck spun its wheels to a stop in the snow about 100 yards from the launch, just barely inside the trees on the north ridge of Gold Hill. I was gasping for air, looking at the clouds in front of the snow covered west facing launch and contemplating hauling all my gear up the snow and pilot packed trail to the setup area. It looked like one of those pictures of prospectors going over a snow covered mountain pass from Alaska to the gold strikes of the Yukon.
I was on autopilot and in a dangerous state of mind.
Then Bob spoke these fateful (and paraphrased) words, "Well guys, I came here to have fun and this doesn't look like fun. I'm going back down."
Whoa, talk about the clouds parting and the sun shining. Before I new what happened, I quickly added my own meek, "me too".
We helped the guys from Georgia unload their gear and paid the truck driver another five bucks to haul us back down.
I did finally get into the air the next day and so did Phoenix. After landing, I watched Phoenix, high, heading west down valley. A few minutes later while breaking down, I heard someone say, "Who is that?" I looked to see Phoenix returning, just above the trees, doing his utmost to extend his glide and reach the LZ. My first thought was, jeez this could get ugly, followed quickly by what happened? He pulled off a nice down winder and brought his wing over. Setting it down he said, more to himself then to me, "That's it." He has to this day never told me what happenedhe has also never flown a hang glider again.
All in all, Telluride lived up to its reputation, that year I flew as Don P. It also taught me a lesson, used to this day, every time I go flying. You see Telluride requires a Hang 4 rating and I was a brand spanking new Hang 3 pilot, who had never flown off a launch more then 300' high.
I had done an extremely foolish thing that trip and survived. How does that saying go "God looks after fools and children." I am not sure which category God slotted me into, buts he was looking after me. I have been back to fly Telluride legally a number of times since then and I think about the lesson I learned every time I flywhen to walk away.