Surfing the Sierras, Sidetracked Magazine

Surfing

the

SIERRAS

W O R D S : G AV I N M c C L U R G

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P H O T O S : J O DY M AC D O N A L D

Brad Sander’s voice crackled over the radio. ‘Guys I’ve hurt my leg, badly. I can move it, but something is definitely wrong. I’m going to fly out over the valley and land. Can someone please call an ambulance for me?’

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he silence that followed crystallised the seriousness of the situation. Brad is widely regarded as the world’s leading authority on high-altitude flying, but we were 40 kilometres and two hours into the first day of a month-long expedition we’d called The Sierra Safari. Our mission was to paraglide the full length of the California Sierra Mountains in a series of connected flights, navigating hostile terrain to link onto the Warner Range and cross the border into Oregon – a distance of 800km.

If successful, the route would break the North American record for cross-country distance-flown vol biv-style. Needless to say, this was not the start we were hoping for.

The French term vol biv literally means, ‘fly camp’. In the fringe sport of paragliding, cross-country flying seems to attract only the most daring in an already audacious discipline. If cross-country is swimming, vol biv is cliff diving.

Desolate, arid and wild, the Eastern Sierras are barely inhabited and the very definition of dramatic.

The ancient Bristlecone Pine forest has shrugged off fires, scorching summers and freezing winters for over five thousand years. Equally, the Owens’ reputation for punishingly strong thermals, sudden winds, and frightening weather changes is to pilots what K2 is to mountaineers – the holy grail of cross-country flying. In summer, even the most experienced fliers avoid the Owens. Desert temperatures frequently soar above 120ºF and the strong valley winds mean only the bravest (some might say, the most stupid) attempt to fly in the middle of the day. We’d chosen September.

The first day brought strong but manageable thermals, light winds, and clear skies. Our flight plan was to top-land by noon, make camp and hide from the anticipated afternoon winds. Top-landing allows for a nearby take off the next day without the need for a vehicle or a long approach hike. Fliers often carry everything they need to avoid re-supply issues.

Launches and landings are usually only assessed

once airborne, which substantially increases risk. The sport requires more than competent piloting skills; it also requires planning and logistics akin to remote mountaineering or river expeditions. For us, come noon, we found ourselves soaring over a scree-ridden mountain that was no place to top-land except in an emergency. It was at best risky, at worst suicidal.

I was the least-experienced pilot in our group which consisted of some great fliers: the legendary French pilot, Antoine Laurens, mastermind of the Himalayan Odyssey; the Spanish Red Bull X-Alps pilot Oriol Fernandez; the record-breaking Nick Greece, who is currently the top-ranked pilot in the USA; and Eric Reed, one of the most well-respected cross country pilots in the game. I saw them as superstars and often wondered whether I would be able to keep up; especially on that first day.

A strong, low thermal had caught Brad, spun him around and then flung him into the mountain. He later guessed he hit the rock face at about 15mph.

His air bag shredded on impact, spraying his gear over the slope below. Inexplicably, just seconds after the sickening impact, he was assessing the damage sustained when his wing re-inflated by itself. Reacting swiftly, Brad was able to control the wing and fly off the hill. Backwards.

It was only in the hospital later that we would learn he had suffered a fractured pelvis, broken nose, several broken ribs and a bruised kidney. He was lucky to be alive at all. Flying another 8km to Independence, the nearest town, in that condition was nothing short of remarkable. The incident threw into stark relief the importance of good, independent decision making, notwithstanding the group dynamic.

Eric and I launched the next morning from Walt’s Point, near the southern end of the Sierras and Mt Whitney. Even this late in the season the thermals were already powerful and we hoped by launching early we could catch up to Nick and Antoine who were camped at around 3,300m, 40km north of us.

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Soon, we were gliding high over the accident site and moving fast. As we approached Bishop, the obvious route was north then west, following the terrain but keeping highway 395 within reach in case we bombed-out. But Eric, a fearless flier more comfortable with turbulence than I, took a risky shortcut into what local pilots anxiously call ‘Tiger Country’.

Bombing-out might mean a bear encounter and a gruesome walk-out. Although I could see Eric’s logic as I followed, it didn’t stop my stomach from tightening as I glanced back at the fading highway. We were committed now.

Only a few minutes later I found myself scratching on a low windy ridge watching helplessly as Eric soared above me. Fear gripped me. Keep calm Gavin, keep calm! Fuck! Focus! Suddenly, Eric appeared beside me, silently guiding the way and soon, we were back at cloudbase, my hands frozen and my heart racing, but my lips cracked in a broad grin.

On a typical cross-country flight, we would maximise our distance by landing in the valley near a road and use ground transport to another launch site. But here our goal was to link by paragliding the entire route. An obvious top-landing site at McGee Peak appeared as we entered the Mammoth Lakes basin and, soon, the campfire was blazing and tea was brewing. The stars were our only neighbours.

The next morning, once Antoine and Nick hiked up to our position, our team was whole again.

The winds were too strong to fly so we passed the day under the fierce Sierra sun throwing rocks and trying to decide between shrimp and chicken ramen.

The disappointment was palpable but we told flying stories and hashed out a strategy for the coming days.

It was heaven – living amongst the clouds with our wings and friends, nothing but flying on our minds.

That evening Antoine and I did some ground handling in the strong winds to discover the knife edge ridge was perfect to launch from. As our fire crackled that night under starry sky and over the distant lights of Mammoth, I decided that whatever the result of this journey, it was already worth it.

Life became a blissful routine. Fly, camp, eat, sleep and fly again. Every two or three days we’d land at a place where the truck could meet us so we could restock food and water. Below us the terrain was in constant flux: rock faces, hued iron-red and coalblack, with dizzying vertical drops then morphed into lesser giants draped in pine trees and thousands of alpine lakes. The climbs were strong, the glides long, and the cold gnawed at our bones, but our smiles never faded. We were unstintingly committed with our lines which, led to frightening moments.

But our skill carried us through, and we were residents of an everlasting dream. That said there were some moments of conflict within the group.

On one day, Oriol could no longer stomach the cold and landed on the peak of White Mountain, north of Mono Lake. The rest of us circled high above, pointing to the awesome conditions and arguing we could easily make it to Lake Tahoe, 70km to the north. The last thing we wanted to do was land. But this was no place to leave anyone, so we reluctantly spiralled out of the sky and cut our flight

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short. The camp was magnificent – a grassy field with wildflowers and views which stretched almost as far as the Pacific Ocean. We cussed Oriol for his clothing choices, but our angst quickly faded.

For all the magic of the camp, it took us nearly an hour-and-a-half of toil to climb out the next morning, each of us enduring terrifying moments kicking tree tops. Eventually, we were gliding across a long ridge, the Lake Tahoe basin (and bear country) to the north. Below, there were no roads and no sign of human life. As if it was written that way, only 10km into the flight Oriol fell out of a good thermal and found trouble. There were no landing options beyond hanging from a fifty metre pine. Oriol flew the only way he could – deep into a narrow gorge from which there appeared to be no escape. We held our breath as we watched, stunned, praying he would make it out. After a few tense moments, Oriol found barely enough height to clear the gorge into a small valley with a barely visible meadow. Just large enough to safely land. We radioed what information we could to help him get back to civilisation and we wished him luck. It would be an arduous walk out, even for an X-Alps pilot.

The rest of the day combined all the elements of an epic cross-country flight – terrifying low, leeside saves; radical strong climbs and heart-stopping beauty. All capped by a magical final glide – that time in the day where everything calms and the anxiety melts into a feeling of accomplishment. Lake Tahoe, hitherto a GPS waypoint, was now laid out in stunning glory. Oriel arrived before sunset, having

hid from black bears and seen not a human soul, just in time to wash away the accumulated dirt of the week with a brisk swim in frigid water. He and Antoine said the Sierras are more remote and wild than flying in the Karakoram mountains of Pakistan, home to some of the world’s highest mountains.

California is the most populated state in the US, and yet we were flying over territory that might as well be in Mongolia.

As the summer days gave way to autumn, the going became tortuous. Distances dropped dramatically and our goal of reaching the Oregon border began to look fanciful. We needed to dig deep. Nick stepped up as the rest of us flagged, netting one impossibly low save after another all the way to Fredonyer Peak, just shy of the border, on a flight he proclaimed the most difficult, and memorable, he’d ever had. The remaining distance took five more gruelling days to cover and, in the end, only Eric managed to make it across the border and landed near Lakeview, Oregon on October 2nd, eighteen days after we’d started. We had linked the entire distance by air.

We met in a dimly lit diner and spoke excitedly of hot showers and clean sheets. We were tired and banged-up but if we’d had our way, we’d have just carried on. None of us wanted the craziness to end. There was a sparkle in everyone’s eyes that hadn’t been there in the beginning – it spoke of possibilities. What’s next?

www. jodymacdonaldphotography.com • @JodyPhoto

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