It is Pioneer Day in Utah and time to hit the road and venture a bit south for some high desert paragliding.  That is high desert, high energy, hottest time of the year, monsoonal type paragliding.  Usually not the best kind of air to be flying a piece of fabric and kitchen string through….but hey, that’s just me.  I should have know the week was going to be interesting when I pulled in for some gas and a snack along the way only to realize I just went back in time about 50 years.  I had to stop and look around and make sure I wasn’t riding a horse named ‘Carrots.’  Rural Utah is a hard community to survive in and the resilience, and work ethic of the people here is inspiring as they have carved out a thriving life amidst barren ground.  Not sure why I keep heading south, into the billowing black sky. Perhaps it is tradition as this is my third year down here, or perhaps it is knowing that, yeah, it’ll probably be alright.  I move forward and brace myself for rain.

The annual Pioneer Day fly in at Monroe, Utah is always a wildcard event and as such seems to always be a bit of an adventure. Yes, there is a wee bit of a “live or die trying” type attitude that seems to permeate the air and infect everyone that comes here, especially me.  Perhaps it is the pancakes, or the dream of that hot dog waiting at the fireworks display that causes it.  Who knows, but it is here.  It seems the mantra for the week evolved into something I said , and heard a lot from both organizers and pilots alike as we stood around and looked up at the sky.  It doesn’t look great, but “yeah, it’ll probably be alright.”

As I pull into camp it is raining, and raining hard; typical moonsonal afternoon in the high desert.  I welcome the rain as I know it is like dipping a hot dish into a bucket of cold water, thus removing all the energy stored in the hot ground.  As the clouds dump their energy it was time to head to Cove launch for a sunset flight.  Up top we find very little wind, but I am bound to fly, after all, little to no wind in the mountains is my favorite.  The air just doesn’t feel right, but I feel myself infected with the mantra, and I haven’t even had the pancakes yet.  Those in my group ‘call it’ and walk back to the car.  Now we can sit in camp, or sit in the mountains and watch the sunset, I express.  I vote mountains and continue walking back up the hill as I hear Matt call out from above that the winds have shifted.  The sky has drained, and the winds are back to the steady 5 mph out of the south.  Perfect.  The sky goes deep red as the sun reflects off the diminishing clouds.  The air feels good, all aspects feel good.  The mantra infection is gone as there is no probably in the equation tonight, it IS going to be good.  I punch off, followed by Clark, Matt, Josh, Todd, and Devenie.  We fly over the cool desert in smooth air under a colorful sky and land as the sky goes dark.

Sunrise comes to soon as I see the trees wagging back and forth.  I already know what this means.  Too much energy, too much wind, after all a cold front is working its way down the state.  The wind gauges are already reading high teens gusting to high twenties several thousand feet below launch.  I therefore find myself standing in a public line, with friends, fellow pilots, and Pioneer Day enthusiasts to get my “infectious” pancakes.  It seems everybody is now suddenly keen on heading up to launch.  I guess those pancakes are working.  Okay.  We pile in and drive to the 10,000 foot lower launch of Monroe Summit to find even higher winds and higher gusts.  This deep in the mountains the consequences of launching in stronger conditions is exponentially higher.  The giant black cumulus cloud growing bigger by the minute over our head is also a pretty good indicator that conditions may not be so good.  Consensus among all pilots prevails as we head down and put this attempt behind us.  We stop at all the launches on the way down and feel the air.  Some are destined to give it a try, even though we are now in the lee side of a high mountain on a very windy day.  Despite encouraging words that this is perhaps not a good idea, one pilot attempts, but no dice.  No sooner we look up and see another pilot launching from the summit in exponentially higher winds.  Many shake their heads in disbelief.  It looks violent up top as the wing begins to pitch back and forth as he squeaks his way out of the mountains.  Many pilots pile into the van and head back to the top in hopes to fly.  We pile in our own trucks, drive away and put this place in the rear view mirror.

The day is spent around camp as we talk, discuss, and all share our thoughts and experiences on this miracle of flight.  With a few newer pilots in the group we talk about lessons learned, tidbits of wisdom, and a lot about what we saw today, and why we made the decisions we did.  I am lucky to associate and fly with a hand full of pilots in whom I have the utmost respect. Pilots like Clark Tayler, Keenan Ryan, Matt Dynan, and Jim Petersen, all of which have much experience in the sky.

The day wears on as the valley winds increase into the thirties with fierce gusts.  Flying in a helicopter that afternoon was proof enough as to what the sky was actually doing, and it was my consensus that it was not meant for fabric and string.  Nevertheless, at 4:30, the point of peak energy we get a text that everybody is headed to launch.  I smile as I pull the hat over my eyes, knowing full well we are not leaving until 7:00…at the earliest.

At 7:00 the winds in the valley are still quite strong as the flag at camp is pinned straight out, after all the ground is still super hot from the dry 100+ degree day.  The desert continues to put off unstable energy as we drive to launch.  As we reach the top the first gliders lift off, straight up…not forward, straight up.  Alone I walk to the edge of the launch site only to get blasted with high winds.  My mind flashes back to three years ago and I have to pause.  It was here on these very slopes I learned a valuable lesson.  If I cannot get in the air under my own power, I have no business being in that air.  It was a night nearly exact to this night.  Conditions were strong and as a newer pilot without any kind of mentor I was contemplating on whether I should fly, I brought up my wing to test the air.  It was then someone walked up to me, grabbed my risers and yelled “Have a good flight” as I was pulled and thrown off the edge of the mountain.  I went straight up.  The flight was glassy and smooth up high, but the lower 2,000 feet became the scariest moments of my life as I battled an unforeseen dragon nearly throwing my reserve multiple times.  It was this night I watched a friend crash.  Once my own ordeal in the air was over, me and one other pilot ran back into the mountains to find her.  It was a life changing experience administering aid to someone with such life threatening and severe injuries.  If we had not run into the mountains that night, and got a helicopter on its way she would have likely perished.

I feel a sudden rush of air against my face, calling me back to the present.  I turn to watch fellow pilots, and friends unload gear in an attempt to fly.  Everyone seems to say its not great, but “yeah, it’ll probably be alright.”  I pull Keenan and Clark to the edge and let them feel what is coming.  They too pause.  But, it feels so good 30 feet behind the cliff.  The session begins as I watch glider after glider attempt to launch.  The wind picks some of them straight up, slams them into the ground. Many have their gliders spinning round and round, and even drags many across the rocks.  Some pilots try 2, 3, 4 or even 5 times before getting off the hill.  Again, what would normally be flyable conditions, this deep in the mountains has much bigger consequences.  My memories are burned into my brain as I saw first hand what happens if you cannot make it out of these mountains.  Apparently the draw for that hot dog waiting in the landing zone is intoxicating.  I watch experienced pilots take off and drift back to within feet of power lines before hitting the speed bar to escape.  It even takes four of us to hold down and keep a nearby hang glider lifting away in a controlled manner.  Despite my perceived mayhem and chaos, pilots continue to launch well past sunset.  As I watch the pilots go straight up and push against a strong headwind, I just wait and hope they all make it out of the mountains and find safe air below.  I hope that dragon that is out there stays asleep.  I really do not want to haul another one of my friends off in a helicopter tonight.  The session ends, and the mantra “yeah, it’ll probably be alight” once again holds true as all pilots make it back to the ground safely.  I smile as I know that dragon did not awake.

We end the day watching the great display of fireworks fluttering into the sky.  Something goes awry for a few minutes as the cannons fall over and begin shooting rockets into the adjoining property starting a small fire.  “Yeah, it’ll probably be alright” rings in my head as the explosions eventually find their way back into the sky as the fire continues to burn.

I wake again to calm skies.  The wind readings shown 8 mph gusting to 14 mph.  Those are acceptable numbers so we head up to Monroe Summit.  At the peak we find the winds much more strong, and decide to quickly head to the lower launch at 10,000 feet.  Here we find more acceptable conditions inline with the weather gauges and the risks of being this deep in the mountains.  We know it is building as the desert heats up quickly so we quickly set up.  Keenan and I launch together first to get out and ‘feel’ the air for the others.  Feels good, so David, Michael, and Devenie follow.  Clark plays cleanup crew and launches last.  We all have wonderful bubbly flights out of the mountains and back to the city of Monroe.

As I drive away and head back north, the mantra “yeah, it’ll probably be alright” rings in my head and I reflect on the last few days.  It was true, it ended up being alright in the end, but for me is that good enough?  Perhaps I am at a certain age in my life, or perhaps a stage in my flying career where “probably” is just no longer acceptable.  I have a wife, kids, responsibilities where probably just doesn’t cut it.  When it comes to something as magical as flying, if I can probably get away with it, I probably shouldn’t do it.  I know we each are at different skill levels, and the decisions we make are purely individual.  We each need to make such decisions on why we fly, what are the risks and rewards we deal with, and if those rewards are worth that risk we are taking.  Regardless of individual choice we must each live with the consequences of our own decisions, and never feel like we need to justify such decisions to others.  So glad my friends, old and new had a good time, made correct decisions in their own eyes, and returned home safely.  After all, that is the point.  I am sure I will find myself once again in Monroe for the Pioneer Day celebration.  It is always exciting, always an adventure, and let us not forget the pancakes.