Wasatch Mountains

By the end of September in Utah a herald of winter had laid a white covering on the drought-stricken land. Polar wind followed the snow front. In a few hours summer slunk away like a thief in the night. At the “Point of the Mountain” landing site, on the Salt Lake City outskirts, we gazed towards the peaks of the Wasatch Mountains. This morning the wind raged across the mountain ridges. Only yesterday evening, a few hours ago, American pilot David Chen had shown us why Point of the Mountain is the number one paraglider spot in Utah. Here we had had a really good time; a “blast” until nightfall.

The Salt Lake paragliding scene had assembled on this 200 metre hill as the loftier hillsides cool first, returning the sun’s heat to space – “Restitution”, it’s called. This happens after work. In no time at all the place is swarming with local pilots. Everything including a miniwing gets airborne in the dusk. The meeting place is this hilltop. Hardly anyone misses the opportunities to top land, play stylishly with the wind and enjoy the social smalltalk: “How’s it goin’?”, “Perfect conditions”. With a “Have a good one!” it’s back into the air, and the dusty shoes again dangle high over the city. The town becomes a sea of light, and a car’s headlights become a helpful landing aid. All that seems like a dream today. The onset of winter demands a completely new mindset from us, a new way of thinking. We put aside our expectations of exceptional base altitudes above the dry highlands of Utah. From today on, we explore the country on foot, consider the hike and fly equipment on our backs an available option, and follow the call of the wilderness.

The fabled vastness of America begins at the exit from Interstate Route 15, North Ogden. Our destination is the "Pineview Reservoir" - a lake in the mountains surrounded by sparse settlements. Their names could come from a Jack London novel: "Wildwood", "Huntsville" or "Wolf Creek" is written on rusty signs, not infrequently riddled with shotgun pellets. It is the land of American farmers and their cattle. It’s as if time races along its ten-lane highway, and now it stands still. The surface of the lake lies motionless like a mirror, and the tin sign of the "Old Moose Cafe" squeaks in a light morning breeze. With paper cups in hand, we stand beneath a stuffed moose head and gaze at a hike and fly paradise.

Fresh snow on the Wasatch Mountain foothills make them look like a high and wild mountain range. We read the mountains with the naked eye, speculate about ascent routes and possible launch sites, and are soon following steep animal trails into a nameless mountain world. For us it is the beginning of many days of personal introspection. The wind is icy. Autumn colours fight their way through the fresh snow cover one last time. We often spend hours on the mountains. Our perspective has changed. The pilot in us has become the nature lover. And, very quietly, the snow exposes the mountains when it melts, day to day, and gives back hope to the pilot's heart.

This intensive time in the Wasatch Mountains gave us a feeling for the local wind systems. We also found launch opportunities and had the time to examine them carefully. Although the polar wind still has a grip on the land, we soon see opportunities for our first flight: in the evening, in leeward areas, when the winds lose strength at dusk. For this first flight attempt we accept a night descent and prepare the paragliders in the lee of a mountain ridge. Wind gusts from various directions still testify to a strong lee effect. Late in the day, the sun sends a few last rays through the lenticular clouds.

A breath of upwind dominates the situation. Our wings fill. The moment of lift-off is wondrous. After days of wandering I feel like a child who is no longer crawling but suddenly walking. And I notice how my paraglider encourages me see things more clearly and sense them more intensely: the morbidity of the season, the colours of the light, and the intangible aura that envelops the Wasatch Mountains. It’s the seductive spirit of space and freedom that beckons, and I think I understand something of what they call the American Dream.