Everyone knows what summer flying means:
- ridge soaring in shorts and a T-shirt,
- honest-to-god thermals, cylindrical ones you can turn in
- Direct LZ sun until 7pm or later
Winter flying, on the other hand, means:
- a few chilly sledders, hollow substitute for summer flying,
- a wet LZ
- East winds
- annual pilgrimage to Mexico, Venezuela, Hawaii, etc.
- more time spent reading magazines and email than actually flying…
I spent a couple winters thinking this was the deal. Then in 1993 I saw a photo of a pilot who just landed on his belly in a field, his face barely above the snow. Mark Chirico (twin brother of local instructor Marc Chirico) was teaching at The Ranch in Cashmere. People were flying in the snow, and having fun.
There’s a unique beauty to be taken in from a paraglider, high above the winter landscape. Hundreds of pine trees scattered below you like tiny green cones from a model-railroad pushing up through a blanket of white frosting that spans horizon to horizon. The main thing that seems to stop a lot of pilots from ever experiencing this is plain old cold air.
Marty Kaplan has been fighting pilots’ mental obstacles since at least 1994, the year he made the first Sun Valley fly-in happen in Ketchum, Idaho. Imagine a ski run, roped off for the exclusive use of visiting pilots. Imagine 200 skiers gathered just above you at the crest, to watch you launch. (No pressure!) The cheer the crowd lets out is as energizing as that mental rush you always get when your feet leave the ground. The crowd fades and now you get twenty minutes of serenity. And the grandeur of a view of a place and a time of season that very few people will ever behold. And this truly addicted me to winter flying.
Jabe Blumenthal got me into hiking with my wing. “Downwind” Dave Kruglinski got me into backcountry flying. In January 1996, Dave and I hiked up Granite Mountain, on the I-90 corridor near Snoqualmie Pass. We took several hours to reach the top. In a rare twist of fate, I soared for 30 minutes while conditions deteriorated, and Dave gave up and hiked down with his wing. This kind of thing never ever ever happened to Dave.
It amazes me just how close to Seattle such magnificent beauty awaits. Snow and ice seem like the natural skin of these places, moreso than the rocks and greenery of summer.
Spring thermals are famous but winter can mean lift too, and cross country flying. February 1996, I launched into snow at Tiger. We worried about our wings filling with snow. No one knew what the risk was, but it seemed OK so we all flew around in the flurries. It was strange and wonderful, being able to see where the lift was thanks to the snow swirling around you. I eeked southwest towards the landfill, dark snowing clouds to my left, blue sky and sun to my right. It was magic, away from the Kingdome and all this lift without even turning! I just went on and on and on in “idiot lift” along this front. Upon reaching Lake Youngs, halfway to Kent, I knew I had to get down below 3,000’ to stay out of the TCA. I looked back at Tiger, but the curtain of snow hid it completely. Such a contrast to the sunlit green below me. Soon I saw the glint of sun off silver jets landing at SeaTac and knew I should just put down. 14 miles from Tiger, still my best there. And in February!
In recent years I’ve spent much of my winter flying time in the Methow Valley, in north central Washington. The familiar flying sites there -- Goat Mountain, Flagg Mountain, Maple Pass, and the most flown Bowan – they all take on whole new gorgeous identities amid the winter landscape. Maybe more accurately, this beautiful winter identity has always been part of these places, I just hadn’t been there to experience it.
A couple weeks ago I strapped some climbing skins on randonee skis and headed up Grizzly Mountain, the prominent peak halfway between Winthrop and Mazama. Snowshoes are a bit more maneuverable climbing steep treed slopes, but the skis give you a very fun and vital “plan B” in case the winds up top aren’t suitable. After a few hours trudging through a couple feet of powder, I found my launch. Too shallow for ski-launching, so I stomped a launch path and strapped my skis across my biners. By now the setting sun turned the dozen snowy peaks around me a pink glow. It’s hard to find words for the euphoria of this kind of flying. Winter flying.