KlausKommoss
Paragliding over the Sierra de la Giganta
There is a fabulous mountain range in Baja-California, Mexico, on the Sea of Cortez. It rises abruptly directly from sea level and presents a spectacular sight from the shore like a gigantic wall, filled with pillars, towers, and deep narrow canyons. When you live on one of those beaches below this range, it’s impossible not to be spellbound by the Sierra de la Giganta’s magnificence. It glows in the morning and looms in the afternoon; vultures soar in the air all the time and play in the thermals. You can climb into some of its dramatic canyons, but you never get very far.
One never really knows where dreams come from. Maybe birds sowed the seed of inspiration some lifetime ago to fly up there in the blue haze and see, really see what it’s like. One day I strap into my new “Powered Paraglider” and do it.
My takeoff is pretty exciting. There is not much room on the beach, and the wind is too strong for a well-controlled inflation; so I take off like a rocket without even completing one step. But, as always, once I’m in the air the world seems to stay behind. I slip into my little seat, do a downwind turn, and fly away. I turn directly toward the mountains, this dark blue gigantic wall looming in front of me. It is late in the afternoon and I’m flying due west, almost directly into the sun. The mountain range is in deep shadow and all I can see is a massive, unfathomable, featureless wall of intangible dimension and distance. I have to trust my experience to understand that it will actually take a while before I’m really close, and by then I’ll hopefully have gained enough altitude. Looking down, I see my forward motion, but ahead I’m blinded by the sun. I’m flying over the immense shadow the mountain range casts over the desert. My body and my wing are bathed in glaring light and everything ahead and below is in blue, dark shadow. I know it’s still a long way up to the summit, but somehow it feels as if I would crash any moment into this mysterious, featureless wall getting bigger and darker all the time.
When I’m past the first lower peaks at the foot of the range, I begin to see the structure below: furrowed, gnawed rock, vertical towers, bottomless canyons, all in warm pastel colors. Occasionally one of those pillars peeks out of the shadow-zone like a monstrous finger emerging from the dark. There is a mini-plateau, just catching the very last light, a small round area on top of a tower, maybe 30 feet across, totally flat, one cactus on it and two bushes, vertical cliff all around – an island in the sky. I glide by 100 feet away, the wall threatening above.
Suddenly the air gets wild, turbulence boiling up from the shadow below, and I’m busy all over controlling and keeping my attitude and course. I see gigantic canyons below, and the gusts come funneling along them, throwing me around. I would feel better if I could see more. The blue wall looms, threatening, so close now that it’s really hard not to pull away. A cool eerie radiation comes from the darkness, a mysterious presence.
Sometimes I feel violent updrafts. When the wing catches more lift on one side than the other my whole harness distorts, my body bends. I feel the air with my whole body. Then again I’m terribly convinced that I’m falling with increasing speed into the dark abyss underneath. I keep my eyes on the rim above to gauge my climbing progress. It’s scary at times, but then I really feel the air, I fly with it, it’s wonderful. I’m a leaf blown up by a gust, played by the wind.
I must still be climbing, even though it’s hard to believe. It gets so wild that I finally ease away and go more parallel to the range for a while. I see less rugged terrain under me and the air gets a bit calmer. What I thought to be the summit ridge turns out to be just a huge flake, leaning away from the real ridge, still about 500 feet higher. I fly between it and the final crest, the air is clean now, the tension ceases, I’m there. A few more minutes and the horizon in the west becomes visible; I’m over it.
I fly circle after circle. There is the other coast, the Pacific Ocean, the surf glistening in the distance, some 50 miles away. And the ridge is not a ridge but a large plateau, a mesa, several hundred feet across. (Wouldn’t that be something to land up there one day?) I finally throttle back and glide over the crest. Mountains everywhere, like sand dunes, golden in the sun, shadows carving into the valleys. The sea looks like velvet.
,
Paragliding over the Sierra de la Giganta
There is a fabulous mountain range in Baja-California, Mexico, on the Sea of Cortez. It rises abruptly directly from sea level and presents a spectacular sight from the shore like a gigantic wall, filled with pillars, towers, and deep narrow canyons. When you live on one of those beaches below this range, it’s impossible not to be spellbound by the Sierra de la Giganta’s magnificence. It glows in the morning and looms in the afternoon; vultures soar in the air all the time and play in the thermals. You can climb into some of its dramatic canyons, but you never get very far.
One never really knows where dreams come from. Maybe birds sowed the seed of inspiration some lifetime ago to fly up there in the blue haze and see, really see what it’s like. One day I strap into my new “Powered Paraglider” and do it.
My takeoff is pretty exciting. There is not much room on the beach, and the wind is too strong for a well-controlled inflation; so I take off like a rocket without even completing one step. But, as always, once I’m in the air the world seems to stay behind. I slip into my little seat, do a downwind turn, and fly away. I turn directly toward the mountains, this dark blue gigantic wall looming in front of me. It is late in the afternoon and I’m flying due west, almost directly into the sun. The mountain range is in deep shadow and all I can see is a massive, unfathomable, featureless wall of intangible dimension and distance. I have to trust my experience to understand that it will actually take a while before I’m really close, and by then I’ll hopefully have gained enough altitude. Looking down, I see my forward motion, but ahead I’m blinded by the sun. I’m flying over the immense shadow the mountain range casts over the desert. My body and my wing are bathed in glaring light and everything ahead and below is in blue, dark shadow. I know it’s still a long way up to the summit, but somehow it feels as if I would crash any moment into this mysterious, featureless wall getting bigger and darker all the time.
When I’m past the first lower peaks at the foot of the range, I begin to see the structure below: furrowed, gnawed rock, vertical towers, bottomless canyons, all in warm pastel colors. Occasionally one of those pillars peeks out of the shadow-zone like a monstrous finger emerging from the dark. There is a mini-plateau, just catching the very last light, a small round area on top of a tower, maybe 30 feet across, totally flat, one cactus on it and two bushes, vertical cliff all around – an island in the sky. I glide by 100 feet away, the wall threatening above.
Suddenly the air gets wild, turbulence boiling up from the shadow below, and I’m busy all over controlling and keeping my attitude and course. I see gigantic canyons below, and the gusts come funneling along them, throwing me around. I would feel better if I could see more. The blue wall looms, threatening, so close now that it’s really hard not to pull away. A cool eerie radiation comes from the darkness, a mysterious presence.
Sometimes I feel violent updrafts. When the wing catches more lift on one side than the other my whole harness distorts, my body bends. I feel the air with my whole body. Then again I’m terribly convinced that I’m falling with increasing speed into the dark abyss underneath. I keep my eyes on the rim above to gauge my climbing progress. It’s scary at times, but then I really feel the air, I fly with it, it’s wonderful. I’m a leaf blown up by a gust, played by the wind.
I must still be climbing, even though it’s hard to believe. It gets so wild that I finally ease away and go more parallel to the range for a while. I see less rugged terrain under me and the air gets a bit calmer. What I thought to be the summit ridge turns out to be just a huge flake, leaning away from the real ridge, still about 500 feet higher. I fly between it and the final crest, the air is clean now, the tension ceases, I’m there. A few more minutes and the horizon in the west becomes visible; I’m over it.
I fly circle after circle. There is the other coast, the Pacific Ocean, the surf glistening in the distance, some 50 miles away. And the ridge is not a ridge but a large plateau, a mesa, several hundred feet across. (Wouldn’t that be something to land up there one day?) I finally throttle back and glide over the crest. Mountains everywhere, like sand dunes, golden in the sun, shadows carving into the valleys. The sea looks like velvet.
,