My First X-country

'Yeehaw! a thousand meters!' I feel the joy of achievement when I fling
these words across the sky, encoded in electromagnetic waves. 'Who's
still flying?' my radio responds. It's me! I am the lucky one today! I'm
still flying, while the experts have already bombed out. I am on my
first real cross country, and I'm going for gold. I say real, because I
don't consider landing out after a downwind glide a cross country any more.

As a skydiver, I had always looked down at paragliders. While piercing
the sky at mind blowing speeds, these creatures look slow and helplessly
lost, circling around, blown with the wind. Until a fellow skydiver,
this happened to be the canopy formation world record event organizer
Chris Gay, suggested I give it a try. Listening to his first flight
stories while we drank beer after a day of big-way formation flying in
Spain, gave me the first spark.

Back in the Netherlands I sign up for a course. Since my home country is
flat like a pancake, I find myself at the end of a long rope, feeling
like a helpless kite, sitting in this wobbly seat. I miss the tight fit
of my skydiving harness. After a five minute glide I'm back on the
ground. Compared to my parachute, this glider feels like a slow pickup
truck. I'm not convinced, but I'm willing to explore this a little
further. It reminds me of those relaxed sunset skydives where you land
on a quiet beach after just flying around for a while. So I finish the
rest of the 15 cable flights of the course.

I look at my normally busy schedule and it surprises me. 6 days off just
like that. How is this possible? In june! I ask no questions and start
browsing the world wide web for a course. This time I want to see some
mountains. I love the mountains, but only know them from my skiing
trips, when they are covered in snow. The only course available is a
thermal course in st Hillaire, supposedly for more advanced pilots.
Always up for a challenge and with no alternatives, I bigmouth myself
onto the list of participants, promising the organizer I will attend a
practice weekend for mountain take-offs before we go.

The flights were very professionally briefed. On the morning glides I
learn the cool stuff I had already read about in books and seen on DVDs.
Big ears with speed bar, frontal collapse, B-stall, that sort of stuff.
On the midday flight the spark hits the gasoline. I run into my first
strong thermal. I couldn't have imagined that flying into this invisible
elevator would be so exhilarating! Not being the shy type, I hit the
toggle and start carving the core. Before I know it I find myself back
at 750 meters above the take-off. Being under dressed, I am forced down
by the cold. I radio my instructor Ronald ten Berge and ask for some
more exercises to do. He carefully and skillfully talks me in and out of
my first spiral dive on a glider. I end the week calling in sick for
work to get an extra day of flying in. Did I just cross a line here?

Back home I start looking around for more local flying. Being pulled up
to 250 meters followed by a five minute glide can't be it though. There
must be more. I look into the magic internet again and find a guy who
advocates cross country flying in the Netherlands. His name is Jan
Meerbeek. He teaches me the fine art of step towing. Not that this is
hard to do, but doing it safely and effectively involves a lot more than
I could have imagined. Landing after a twenty minute glide from a 1000
meters is just as frustrating as landing after 5 minutes from 250
meters. Not to speak about smashing into the ground tangled up with the
towing cable. After three hands full of pulls, I was declared safe for
step towing.

So there I was on easter Sunday. The virus of the magic carpet had taken
control of me. First thing in the morning is not breakfast any more. It
is assessing the weather for paragliding conditions. A cold front had
just passed, and a back bent occlusion was predicted to pass during the
evening. Conditions were sunny with medium but safe to fly south south
westerly winds near the ground and medium to strong winds higher up,
temperatures just above freezing. Thermals to be expected!

It's half past two. My take-off is sloppy. For the wind conditions I
should have left more room and cable slack to allow me to walk towards
the wing while setting it up. But I am rushed and impatient.
Consequently I get pulled out of my shoes and lift up backwards. Luckily
the automatic release holds tight despite the asymmetric force, while I
pivot under my glider. It gives me a healthy moment to realize I'm still
a rookie. Stepping goes smoothly and already on the the second downwind
leg I notice some thermal activity. Being inexperienced though I do not
dare take the risk and ride up the cable to a good 800 meters before I
release.

The first 20 minutes I spend tapping around the thermal dark, floating
with an occasional up half. The wind takes me north east. Now and then I
look west. In the far distance the first signs of the occlusion are
visible. A little bit closer small puffs of clouds are forming just
above my altitude which has been slowly decreasing and is now around 600
meters. Above me the sky is still clear and unreadable. My altitude
seems too high and the wind too strong to read the ground for possible ups.

Then I hit the first one. It's not strong, but solid and easy to core. I
concentrate on the updrafts playing with my glider and the beeping of my
cybernetic altitude sensor. After a while I loose it. Where did it go?
Oh well, I stop turning and ride de wind. I let my hands hang to get
some warmth in them, weight shifting to stay on course. Soon enough I
run into the next one, and the next one, and the next one! I notice a
shadow line below me. It comes from the now developed thin cloud deck
just west of me. Could this be the reason of my luck? I have no spare
brain cells for more mind play. The updrafts are now taking all of my
concentration, pulling me up with a good 3 to 4 meters per second!

'Yeehaw! a thousand meters!' I cross the landscape with fields, acres
and forests, fly past little villages wondering what their names are.
When I finally hit 300 meters reality kicks back in. Should I be looking
for a place to land? I happen to be near the city of Lochem. A big
bridge over a canal with power lines blocking my flightpath convince me
not to push it any further. Should be a good place to land and pinch a
ride near the busy road that runs across the bridge.

As I plan my landing pattern a bird of prey catches my eye. I am drawn
towards it. While giving up ground to the dangers of the canal and power
lines a small warning flag pops up in the back of my head. Just as this
small flag turns into a big red flashing light my curiosity is rewarded.
Following the bird leading the way I get sucked up to altitude and
safely cross the canal. The bird has it's territory, I'm just wandering
around, so we part.

Then I hit sink. My vario Is complaining, loudly honking it's horn at
me. I'm going down, and I'm going down fast. What should I do? Turn
back? I keep going full speed, hoping for the best, looking for options
to land. I see little tree sided roads with farms and pick a field to
throw the anchor. A small thermal is trying to convince me one last time
to continue my adventure. I read somewhere that down low you sometimes
drift towards a thermal. It crosses my mind but I reject it as
chanceless. Fully focused on landing safely, I kick some speed bar to
stay clear of the trees. Once on the grass I do not push the farmers
hospitality and quickly head for the side of the road.

'22.4 kilometers, Yeehaw!' I text message to let the guys know I'm ok.
The phone rings, 'Where're you at?' 'I don't know, I call you back when
I find out.' This was my 101st flight, one I will remember! Have a look
at http://XXXXXXXXXXXX. I pack my gear with a big smile. Paragliding rocks!