High Times At Highland

Lauren Tjaden

Paul and I roared into the town of Ridgely Friday evening, eager to arrive at the Highland Aerosports fly in. Our CD player blared old rock tunes, and I danced in my seat like the girl in the Mitsubishi commercial. I'd never been to a fly in before, but I was ready. Then, lights flashed. Blue and red ones. An officer marched up, his lips as tight as if he sucked on a pickle. He told us how folks with hang gliders strapped on their trucks always seemed to be the worst speed limit offenders.

"How surprising", I offered. "They're so safety conscious." I did my best imitation of a nice girl. For some reason, my ploy worked. After we tricked the officer out of ticketing us, we cranked up the music again, and bolted towards the airport. Flying was out of the question because of the wind that howled across the runway, so I opted for a spin on Christy Huddle's motorcycle instead. Her boyfriend Rich offered to take me for a zip around the block.

I loved my ride. Rich and I tooled through towns filled with houses with gingerbread trim. We blasted down the highway and crept over railroad tracks. We arrived back in time for cocktail hour - but the partying was limited. I crawled into my sleeping bag by eleven, so I would be fresh for Saturday.

Saturday morning, I assembled my glider - the Gin Eagle - near the front of the line. I knew the lift might not be great so early, but I wanted a chance to fly without quarts of adrenalin spurting through my veins. Lots of pilots and rowdy air might make conditions challenging for me.

However, even in the calmer air, with the sky almost empty, I still managed to scare myself. Let me backtrack for a second. Last week, when practicing multiple (eight) pattern tows, I used a cart for launching that angled Ginny's nose down. Because the keel rest was set high, Ginny kept sticking in the cart. I would let go of the rope holding me down, and wiggle around some, but Gin would just lay there like a dead fish. We'd be howling along at the speed of a Stealth bomber before she flew. Not fun.

Sunny wondered if I was getting "pulled through" the control frame, but when Adam flew Ginny he had the same trouble. We finally switched carts and solved the problem, but not before I had worked to make sure I wasn't holding on too long or losing my position.

Saturday I remembered my lessons (though I chose a different cart, that angled Ginny's nose high). I let go early and tried to keep my arms in front of me. Big mistake. Ginny stuttered into the air immediately, and then banged back onto the runway, her wheels rolling. We'd gathered enough airspeed that her wings straightened and she grabbed at the sky again right away, but the experience woke me up faster than ten cups of coffee.

My heart dislodged itself from my teeth and crawled back down my throat while Lisa Cain towed me. She deposited Ginny and I high enough that I could see the Chesapeake Bay glimmer on one side. It reflected the morning sun, orange as a pumpkin. Clouds dotted the sky on my other side, strangely white, as if they had been soaked in Clorox. I had to wonder if I had always had a piece of Saran Wrap stuck over my eyes before, which had somehow been stripped away just before my flight, because the world had never looked quite so clear and perfect before. I couldn't find lift, but complaining about this would be like someone complaining because he won the lottery when the jackpot was only four million.

As soon as I had landed - a miracle, on my feet - I hustled over to launch for a pattern tow. I always need to practice landing. This time I didn't nearly kill myself off the cart. Nothing like pants-wetting fear to convince you of the need for change. Lisa waved me off at a thousand feet. I intended to set up for landing almost immediately, but my vario interrupted my plans. It screamed that I had hit lift.

A thermal billowed under my wings, floating towards heaven. I shouted with delight and cranked Ginny into a circle. I soared to twelve hundred feet - higher than my release point, and a new first for me - but the wind was blowing my magic column of air away from the airport. I yearned to follow, but I need to get better at landing before I tackle the tribulations of cross country. Twenty five minutes later, Ginny and I found ourselves back on the planet, again shackled by the earth's surly bonds. The story repeated itself my next flight - another extendo. Tired and sated, I gave up for the morning.

After a brief nap in the grass, I offered (was coerced) to pick up the pilots who wanted to fly cross county. I drove Dave Proctor's truck all afternoon, collecting not only Dave, but Christy, Tom, and Mike as well. Dave and Christy bickered constantly. You would have sworn they were married. Funny, listening relaxed me, sprawled alongside them in the pickup seat. But as the day progressed, I had a hard time not gazing at my watch. I reminded myself that I had lots of time to fly again.

We stopped for ice cream on the way back to the airport. Whenever I got bored, I glanced in the rear view mirror and watched Tom and Mike roasting in the back, cream dripping down their chins. Really, it could have been worse. But I never dreamed how much better it was going to get. When I finally piled out of the truck, I could see gliders spiraling in the sky. I intended to dash towards the Gin Eagle and inhale some more pure air.

Cindy Rousseau interrupted my plans. She traipsed up and asked if I wanted to go fly in her Decathlon. The Decathlon is green and white, with stars decorating her wings, and she can perform all sorts of aerobatics. I knew I should tell Paul I had arrived back, but getting offered a ride in the Decathlon was like getting offered a back rub by Brad Pitt. I sprinted towards the plane.

Cindy handled the take off, but then offered to let me fly. I protested that I was thrilled to just sit and watch, but Cindy only laughed and said to grab the stick. Talk about dreams. I banked one way and another over a river. I don't know the river's name, but it was dark and wide and curved like the ribs of a deer. When we landed, I was filled with joy and the love of all mankind and Cindy and the Decathlon.

Then Cindy asked if I wanted to fly her Cessna 180, a tail dragger. So I've had the rub from Brad Pitt - does this mean I wouldn't take one from George Clooney? Duh. We climbed skyward again. I had watched the Chesapeake at sunrise, and now I got to watch it again as the sun dove behind it.

After that, it was time to celebrate. Already higher than a 747, stoked like a forest fire in a fifteen knot wind, I was at my most dangerous. I guzzled martinis and had a piece of Phillip (the pig). I played spoons and hugged everyone, until they began to sidle away from me. Brian accused me of humping his leg. I watched some fire-jumping, and was disappointed to see that the boys kept on their clothes. Christy photographed the tattoo that decorates my butt. The crowd yelled for me to throw a frog I captured into the flames, but I snuck him out into the meadow and turned him loose, instead. Life was perfect.

I awoke around three to find that someone had poured squirrel dung in my mouth and beaten me about the head. I removed a foot from my sleeping bag and plunked it on the ground, but the tent kept spinning. I thought I might feel better by morning. I didn't.

I'll try to keep the rest short. Sunday, I drank lots of water. Breakfasted at the Riverside. Nearly puked, but didn't. Motorcycled again. Flew my Gin Eagle. Was so happy I told Paul he could buy a glider and a GPS. Pinched Adam and broke his glasses (sorry). Was overcome with the love of all mankind.

I lazed by the office and saw sights so incredible they seemed like wisps of dreams you only half remember in the morning. The yellow and red Dragonflies barreled down the runway together, touching down only seconds apart. The two Decathlons - little Corvettes of the sky - took off as one, while I forgot how to breathe. Joe Gregor carved turns in formation with the tandem glider, carrying Joe's father, celebrating his birthday in the air with his son.

What a weekend. After the fact, I am as glutted and sick as a kid allowed to feast on endless candy. But I'm not sorry. Not even slightly. When can we go again?