This page contains a an article describing an 8 hour, record breaking flight from Gold Hill above Telluride, Colorado into Arizona.
It was first published in USHGA's Paragliding Magaizine March 2001.
This issue also had a story by Neal Michaelis, featuring photos by Brett Schreckengost, about the making of the video documentary "A HIGHER CALLING" in Nepal. This cover photo is of Jeff Cristol flying in Nepal.
EIGHT HOURS AND 120 MILES INTO ARIZONA
8/8/2000
The day began as so many do, the club truck bouncing its way up to launch. We joked about flying to Santa Fe and gazed up at the blue sky looking for the first cumies.
In Telluride, Colorado, gearing up and getting dressed is serious business. Cloudbase had regularly been over 18,000 feet during the previous month, with four-hour-plus flights that took me almost as far as the New Mexico border, 65 miles away. With the oxygen system full and numerous layers of clothing, I laid out my new Advance Epsilon III. Friends launched and climbed out above me.
Soon I'd joined the colorful wings circling overhead, as big fluffy clouds grew over Gold Hill. Neal had just returned from flying and surfing in Bali, and we planned to fly cross-country together. I jumped from developing cloud to developing cloud heading southwest. His flight path took him over the Ophir Valley to the challenging terrain of Swamp and Waterfall Canyons. As I thermaled with two eagles over San Bernardo Peak a few miles from launch, Neal radioed. He was on the ground. It would be another long day alone in the sky.
On full speed bar with big ears I was sucked up toward the clouds. In my head I heard over and over the briefing recording from that morning: "Cumulus tops to 35,000 feet." As though on cue, my oxygen ran out. I pulled multiple B-lines and intense spirals to descend and escape. My vario showed 400 fpm down in B-line, but I was going up while spiraling. After several minutes I was covered in hoarfrost, my glasses were frosted, and my toes and fingers were numb. I found I could only hold a B-line stall for a minute or to, then I had to release it to shake out my fried arms. It reminded me of ice climbing, only harder and more terrifying.
Eventually I saw pieces of ground appearing below me. I exited the bottom edge of the beast and went on full speed bar again as the cloud began to fall out behind me. I saw no need to continue any farther than the nearest LZ, and wiggling my fingers and toes I realized I'd be fine (except for my frost-nipped nose). After a very long glide out to the edge of the desert I was still over 17,000 feet and would easily make it across Highway 666 to Mesa Verde.
Back on glide, I contemplated how particularly evil the mountains and thunderheads looked, disappearing behind me. Approaching the mesa I reproached myself for wasting altitude on full speed bar earlier. It would mean sometime spent low before hooking a thermal that would take me back to base, now 16,000 feet over the desert.
Mesa Verde National Park had been the scene of a huge fire the previous week. I flew over the charred ruins, checking out the smoldering mess. I noticed a yellow flicker along the downwind edge of the burned area, and a column of smoke starting up. As I flew along the western edge of the mesa the smoke grew into a huge, leaning, billowing cloud with leaping yellow flames at its base. The smoke showed the wind drift to the west. I turned away, heading to distant but safer-looking fluff balls over Sleeping Ute Mountain.
I didn't think I would make the huge valley crossing south of Cortez, but as I approached the Ute Indian Reservation gambling casino I found the parking lot thermal and gained a key 1,500 feet. This thermal got me to the small reservation town of Towoac. As I was only 200 feet over the ground I flew toward a tiny power line-surrounded LZ. On final I caught a little lift and turned in it, mostly out of habit. Soon I had cored the leaning thermal back up for another 10,000-foot climb.
I was over the Sleeping Ute Mountains and again at cloudbase, with the whole southwestern desert stretching out before me. I flew, jumping small cloud to small cloud to the edge of the development. Looking east I couldn't see the highway. I worried that I would be in for a long hike when I sunk out in the empty blue sky to the south. Unbelievably, as I headed out, I found a thermal every few miles that would take me back to over 14,000 feet. I never got below 8,000 feet again until landing. I was inspired by the smallest of cumies just beginning to pop out in front of me. I never actually reached them, but they reassured me that lift was out there for the finding.
After at least a dozen more climbs I approached the San Juan River and got out my cell phone to tell friends back home where I was. I asked a Durango pilot, Carl, if he'd do retrieval and he agreed. I couldn't remember the name of the huge, familiar volcanic plug, Shiprock, which I was approaching, since my brain was so addled after six hours, too much altitude and too little oxygen.
Just before the San Juan River was yet another thermal. Turning and drifting away from the river I realized that the Four Corners National Monument was directly below.
Within just seconds I flew over the boarders of Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona and Utah-- pretty amazing considering my wing only does 25 miles per hour!
The Carrizo Mountains south of Teec Nos Pos had some cloud development, but again this meant leaving the highway. I had the state record already, yet wanted to maximize the flight. To turn toward the remote desert mountains and continue on my way was an easy decision. After all, I was having the flight we could only joke about on the truck ride up that morning.
It was getting late and the sun was about to sink behind a hazy, thick bank of clouds to the west. I knew these would be the last thermals and sadly looked into the deep, narrow canyons below, wondering where the flight would end. Amazingly, the evening glass-off kept me in the air an extra half hour and I was able to fly over the forbidding canyons to the narrow Sheep Skin Mesa beyond.
After eight hours and 120 miles I landed on the mesa above Round Rock and Rock Point Arizona. Even though I've spent years in the desert Southwest and pretty much knew where I was, on landing I called Carl, and in a dazed and confused state told him that I was near Monument Valley. In fact, I was south and east at least 50 miles.
Carl drove 750 miles around the desert, with the Shiprock, Kayenta and Navaho Tribal Police all unsuccessfully looking for me. The cell phone battery died after landing. It wasn't until mid-morning the next day that I found some locals who kindly drove me first to retrieve my paraglider, then tot he highway, 45 minutes away by car. That afternoon Carl drove to Shiprock and picked me up, more than earning his dinner at our favorite restaurant back in Telluride. Thanks Carl.
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