Endless Chain

by BENJAMIN JORDAN

Jasper is the only national park in North America that allows paraglider travel. Despite this, its remoteness and mystery have caused most pilots to steer away from her vast potential. Over the past couple of years, I became fascinated with Jasper’s diverse terrain, and last summer I began obsessing over the idea of becoming the first person to fly her crown jewel. The Endless Chain is an unmistakable series of unbroken peaks, stretching along a razor-thin, 25km ridgeline and, with its perfect, southwestern aspect, appears to be one of the most straightforward sections of Canada’s Rockies to free fly. So why hasn’t anyone flown it?

The farther I flew northwest, the more I realized why so few Rocky Mountain flights had gone in this direction. Like a proud man unwilling to ask for directions, I finally became aware that I was going in the wrong direction.

That’s what I was on a mission to find out. When I first learned that humans could travel great distances by paraglider, I imagined becoming the first person to float down the entire spine of Canada’s pristine Rocky Mountains. Ironically, the more I learned about the sport, the more distant that dream became. Because of their remoteness, unpredictable weather systems, and sheer butt-puckering size, I spent the first decade of my piloting career running from them—flying as far as I could from my country’s legendary, rocky backyard. Two summers ago that changed, when I mustered up the courage to fly, volbiv, from the city of Vancouver, BC, to Calgary, Alberta. This 39-day, 1000-km trip crossed the entire span of Canada’s southwestern mountain ranges, ultimately leading to the final hurdle, Canada’s Rocky Mountains and my first crossing of the Continental Divide.

Contemplating that fateful west-toeast flight across the Rockies aroused in me a sort of stimulus overload. Feelings of terror, amazement and pride all flooded my senses, then spat me out on the other side, with their majesty leaving me feeling just as grand as they are. Fast forward two years. I’m walking across the border from Montana into British Columbia, about to grab my long-lost dream by the horns. The plan: to take the first-ever northbound route straight up the spine of Canada’s Rocky Mountains, leading me from the United States all the way to Prince George, the capital of Northern BC. If I succeed, this will become the first and only expedition to cross the Continental Divide twice, as well as the first complete crossing of Jasper National Park and the longest ever vol-biv in the Americas. Did I have something to prove? You bet I did! But what, was anyone’s guess. Not knowing what lay ahead, I strutted my stuff up the first logging road I could find and, after a full day of bushwhacking through cut blocks and forest, reached the top of the ridge and my very first launch. The first few flights were sensational. I’d never flown along the southern end of the Rocky Mountain Trench. I found the most demanding aspect was having to constantly wipe drool from my mouth, leaving me permanently agape at the ever-changing wonders of Mother Nature.

But the farther I flew northwest, the more I realized why so few Rocky Mountain flights had gone in this direction. Like a proud man unwilling to ask for directions, I finally became aware that I was going in the wrong direction. While I enjoyed a southern tailwind for the first 120 km, everything north of that was either west, north, or a combination of the two, slowing my average speed and shortening my glides. Progress was slow and I was becoming increasingly hard on myself. My flights were shorter than expected; some days the headwind was so strong I couldn’t fly at all. After about two weeks, I’d flown only 250 km of my 1200km goal and felt I’d sealed my fate by committing to this northbound line. And though the going was tough, I felt a renewed sense of confidence when I arrived in the familiar setting of Golden, BC, and re-stocked supplies in preparation for my first major flight from Mt Seven, east over the Continental Divide. While waiting out a series of storms, I benefited from some rest in the alpine, but after a few days, I’d exhausted all methods of entertaining myself alone on a mountaintop and couldn’t wait to face the challenges ahead. Flying 20 km north of Golden at about 300 m over the highest peaks, I looked at the committed 50km, no-landing line I’d planned to take over the Divide. There were no roads, fields or houses. The fear of becoming grizzly bait was real. I did everything I could to muster the courage to overcome it, but never succeeded. Yes, the wind was west—but felt too strong. This meant that, if conditions didn’t feel right after flying even one quarter of the line, I’d have no guarantee of penetrating back west to the safe landing options of the Columbia Valley. I would have a one-way ticket over the Divide, and the voices inside my head were screaming, This isn’t your day.

the pilots I looked up to would have been comfortable with these conditions, but in this defining moment, I had to step out of my body, look deep inside myself and come to grips with the fact that I am not one of those pilots. I am this pilot, and this pilot is turning around.

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Back on top of the familiar settings of Mt Seven, the three following days of strong winds and passing storms were brutal. My mind began flipping like a cheeseburger, between being upset at myself for being a chickenshit and protecting myself from that condescending voice I knew all too well. Headwinds or tailwinds, strong as they may have been, it was becoming increasingly clear that the greatest challenge I would face on this journey would be none other than myself.

I did everything I could to keep busy with chores—fetching water, moving rocks and documenting just about all of it—anything to quiet the voices of crit-