Pulpit Fly-In 2002

by Lauren Tjaden
We arrived at the Pulpit Fly In Saturday morning. The truck bed was jammed with firewood, and Paul's glider was strapped to its rack. My hair was sprayed vomit-pink in honor of the Fifis. It was time for the games to begin.

Flying looked like a questionable part of those games. It was out of the question for me anyhow, since I had been catapulted off of a horse several weeks earlier. I sported a velcro cast that forced me to hold my knee straight, and could run about as fast as a turtle. My role at this fly-in was to be a cheerleader and driver for Paul and the Fifis. The Fifis (Females In Flight, Inc.) are my hang gliding teammates. At least they were before I got hurt.

I wasn't missing much this morning. The clouds were driven across the sky by the wind, flattened and then torn into new shapes. I shuddered when I thought what it would feel like to fly a glider in that air. I braced myself on the launch ramp to keep from tumbling backwards. I had more goose bumps than if I had stepped into a meat locker, even after I pulled my sweatshirt over my head.

Most of the other pilots must have felt the same way about conditions, because Bacil was the only one to launch. He got to the landing zone alive, but it didn't look fun. His glider crabbed sideways and plunged up and down more often than an elevator. Lots of folks broke down their gliders and drove to High Rock, hoping for less wind. The Pulpit is famous for winds that are stronger than other sites in the area. Paul and most of the Fifis voted to stay, hoping the gale would abate later. Teams could only rack up points flying from the Pulpit Saturday.

But I wanted to see High Rock. Since I started to fly last fall, this cliff-launch site has been closed (it's right next to Camp David, has been closed since 9/11, and was only open by special permission this weekend due to the efforts of one of our members, Joe Gregor). As faithful as Gary Condit, I figured if the Fifis got to fly the Pulpit they would somehow manage to hitch rides home. They're pretty cute girls. I wasn't sure what Paul would do (sling dollar bills onto the road?), but he'd probably figure it out. I piled into Marc and Sheila's van and headed out with them.

Upon arrival, I limped up the stone stairs and eased myself onto the Rock, jutting out of the cliff like a hood ornament. Pete, Tom, and Dave soared above, their gliders tiny triangles of cloth leaning against the sky. No one else was launching. Sparks hooked in, but the wind exploded in unpredictable gusts. He finally unscrewed his 'biner and set down his glider. Tom flew out to the landing zone, only the turbulence slapped him around so ruthlessly he decided to soar back up to altitude until it calmed down. He could land in a hurricane so no one else felt like testing conditions.

A few hours later, Steve decided to launch. The trees boiled below, excited into action by the relentless currents of air. However, Steve has loads of experience and this was a special weekend. Who knows when he would fly here again?

I have been part of many wire crews, and had many help me launch, but crewing at the Rock in high wind was a more radical kind of sandwich. The folks holding the wires of each wing were strapped to the mountain via rope and carabineer so if a gust came bucking through they wouldn't get knocked over the cliff. Two additional people stood behind them, and grasped the ropes for more security yet. Another grabbed the glider's keel - the back thingy that sticks out - and controlled the pitch (the nose angle). Another still wrestled the nose wires. Nobody wanted me hanging onto anything. The wussies.

Steve peered at the trees below and tried to predict when the gusts would roll up the hill. Finally his glider felt balanced and the leaves moved equally on both sides of the launch and the wire crew reported the same amount of pressure on his wings. Still, when he stepped off of the cliff - into the vast space above the mountain - I gasped. But his glider was already flying, had barely been able to contain its enthusiasm. It swallowed the air like it was starving and they thrust upwards.

Convinced it was possible, other experienced pilots took their turns. Joe Gregor and Eddie Miller and Terry and Danny and John launched and soared. Sparks and Richard and Carlos and lots others, too, folks who loved had flying the Rock in the past and had missed it sorely. The day felt special, the way surviving a tenth or twentieth anniversary of cancer does, a sort of spit-in-your-face victory march of the pilots.

That evening, back at the Pulpit, Paul filled me in on what I'd missed there. It wasn't much. Only a few pilots had flown, in the short window when conditions weren't overwhelming.

In fact, Saturday night, the wind was still ripping. My legs - clad only in shorts - felt colder than ice cubes, but Paul had loaned out the truck, and my clothes were in it. I crowded next to the fire and tried to heat myself with gin, but all I did was get ashtray-stinky and drunk. I scarfed burgers and won lots in the raffle - a thousand dollars off a new glider, a book, a wind meter, and more. I met Dennis Pagen and other Sky-Gods like Mitch Shipley (who I pinched). Nothing like abusing your idols. I scrambled up the rocks and lit fireworks with Mike and Brian, but frankly, I was plenty lit already. I don't think I would have felt open heart surgery. Paul was more coherent and was able to guide the truck to our hotel without incident.

The next morning we met at Bill's Hill, the mountain site chosen as the best bet for the day's flying. I was grateful when Mitch crashed his Zagi into my head at the pilot's meeting. Then, when I touched my hand to my brow I got comments like I bet that Zagi hurt rather than you were sure screwed up last night. Conditions felt right as chocolate chip cookies and expectations were high after the amazing flights from Bill's six weeks ago - particularly Ric's journey to Lake Milton, Ohio. I started thinking sick thoughts like if I hopped really fast down the hill I could maybe launch. Then the wind started to cross. Marc commented that the launch was a washing machine. Of the pilots I saw launch - a skilled bunch, for sure - half veered sideways or dipped close to the trees, and they faced turbulence and lots of sink once in the air. While a few disappeared up the ridge, many ended up in the main landing zone minutes after takeoff, grumbling like bears roused from mid-winter naps. Paul too. He broke a downtube - his first ever - and took two sleds.

I spent much of the day in the truck, ferrying pilots and equipment. The best part of the day was when I picked up Ellis. She flew cross country and touched down on her feet and was given a Pepsi by the owners of the farm where she landed. She had that glow that can't be bought, stoned on having fought a good battle and won. I hated her, but only for a second and then I just wanted to hug her and touch some of the joy that infused her.

The evening ended at Pizza Hut, where awards were bestowed on the worthy and the lucky. The thank-yous for all who made the fly in so special will have to come in another column - they would take a page to list. But I am grateful, make no mistake. For the flying and the party and the adventure.

What an amazing life.