San Antonio to El Paso to The Grand Canyon to LA to 12,500 feet to an unfinished progression

It is Monday, the 22nd of May and I am at a campground adjacent to the visitor center for Mt. St. Helens. The visitor center is quite a few miles from the actual mountain and I suspect that I know why. You can figure it out. I am here with my older brother, Brian, and we have just spent the last week cruising up the west coast on our motorcycles. Unlike James Taylor we havenÌt seen fire and rain÷just rain. Almost every night in fact.

IÌve been obsessing about this motorcycle trip for well over a year and my experience in Darfur served only to cause the sparks and fan the flame. In the course of discussing the details of the trip my brother decided that he wanted to join me when I made the trek northwards from his home in LA. He had never ridden a motorcycle before and that remained the case until about a month before we were scheduled to leave.

A friend at his work recommended a motorcycle training course offered as part of a licensing program in California and so Brian opted to take it. Prior to the course he was planning on keeping the bike he would buy only for the trip and then sell it afterwards. However, according to him, after getting into the course and leaning into the turns he decided that this newfound thrill was too good to pass up. Plus the ridiculous price of gas these days really makes a mid-forties per gallon vehicle enticing.

When I rolled into LA he had ridden somewhere around 200 miles on a bike that he had only owned for two weeks. And we were then planning a trip that would require from us 1500 miles up a coastline road that due to twists and turns keeps you down to an average of maybe 30 mph. What fun.

I was with my friends in San Antonio through the weekend and Sunday morning I again hit the road. Soon I encountered the sheer vastness of the state of Texas and it truly seemed as if it would never end. There were several times where I began to sweat it when the miles began to stretch longer than I was comfortable with the size gas tank I have. Mile after mile of nothing but massive rolling planes surrounded by bizarre rock formations and jagged mountain ranges. Then there were hundreds upon hundreds of gigantic wind farms with windmills that have blades 150 feet long. They were stacked thick as fleas and dutifully captured the wind as they spun around in slow motion.

The placement of the wind farms there was a good one and I realized that with each blasting gust that hit me from the south. There were several gusts that truly terrified me and one in particular that actually nearly succeeded in unseating me from my iron horse. My route was along I-10 which snakes along the US border all the way to El Paso. I rolled into said town early evening as dog-tired traveler baked by the sun and bored witless by the truly unexciting scenery.

My grandfather had provided me with 8 stays at a Marriot Courtyard and as I didnÌt have the energy to find a campground in the waning light I pulled into one and gratefully slumped on the comfortable bed in my room. I then discovered a peculiar thing. In the middle of my back I found a large lump that protruded out from my spinal column. I was immediately awake and nervous not knowing what it was.

I was quite sure that it wasnÌt there that morning and I began to rack my mind trying to figure it out. I called my parents to ask them what they thought it was and even called the local hospital. My room had internet and so I started scouring the medical websites trying to find out what this thing on my back was. It didnÌt hurt and was kind of hard but wasnÌt solidly attached under my skin. Thus I could sort of manipulate it. Not much could be done and so I went to bed quite shaken. I awoke the next morning to find that it had gone down considerably and by that time I had figured that it might have been caused by pressure. All the day before I had been leaning up against my backpack and there was a strap that protruded right at that spot. I suppose that 10 hours of constant pressure would cause some sort of swelling.

Well that was scary but IÌm glad it wasnÌt anything serious.

From El Paso I hoofed it all the way to Williams, AZ. I passed through Tuscan and Phoenix and took I-17 north to Flagstaff. Williams is 35 miles west of Flagstaff and is situated right on the road that leads to the Grand Canyon. I got kind of a late start and so it wasnÌt until almost 10pm that I rolled into the campground I had made reservations at. During the day it was quite warm but as the sun began to dip and I began to climb the air suddenly grew quite cold. I pulled over and put on all of my layers and pressed on.

The two hours from when I put on my warm clothes until I pulled into my campsite were probably the coldest two hours of my life. I didnÌt realize it but I was at 7000 feet and it was somewhere in the 30Ìs. My hands were frozen and my body was so cold that my shoulders were involuntarily heaving and shuddering. My legs were doing the same thing. I truly had a hard time feeling my fingers. I-40 shoots west out of Flagstaff and I followed it for the 35 miles it took to get to my campground. It is long and straight. I took advantage of that and was soon flying along at around 100mph. I hunched over behind my windshield and sang real loud in my helmet to keep myself sane or it was an outburst of insanity caused by hypothermia not sure which.

I lay that night in my tent not believing what I had just done. I thanked God that I hadnÌt wiped out and spread myself out on the road but also prayed that I would warm up. My sleeping bag isnÌt that great and I continued to shiver and lay awake most of the night trying to get warm. I donÌt know when sleep finally overtook me but I was at last warm when I awoke÷to warm. The mid morning sun beat down upon my tent creating an oven-like effect. I crawled out to discover the terrain that had escaped me during my midnight dash.

I was situated in a large valley. Scrubby trees were everywhere and in general I wasnÌt all that impressed. The real eye-candy lay 45 minutes to the north.

The crowning event of the three days I spent camping there was the half day ride I took along the rim of the Grand Canyon. I had been there once before but still I was not fully prepared to comprehend the vastness of the geological anomaly that cost me 10 dollars in park fees to come and stare at.

The Grand Canyon is truly massive. It is so big that when you stare at it you really have to pause and consider whether or not what you are looking at is real. I got that sensation when I first saw the cruiseliner the Queen Mary which is docked as a museum in the Long Beach Harbor in California. It is something that is so big that from a distance you could almost be convinced that it is a backdrop painting or something and that by walking forward you might hit the wall that it is set upon.

The time of day that I arrived at the GC was just right as well as the shadows cast made for crisp edges and stark contrasts. In some places the road is only a few feet away from the edge where the ground gives way to the air and there is nothing for 300 feet straight down. There are many places to pull over and observe and I took occasion to eat lunch at one of them.

I sat on a boulder on the edge for half an hour just soaking in the serenity.

The rest of the ride followed an easterly route along the canyon until it eventually peters out in vast plains straight from the set of a John Wayne movie. It was pleasant and sunny and the two lane road wound its way down from the plateau height of around 7000 feet where the grand canyon is to the lower planes a few thousand feet below. Then it snaked around large buttes and small mountains as it climbed back up to Flagstaff.

I was planning on staying a day later in that area but having exhausted the things ëto doí I decided to go ahead and get to my brotherís place in LA a day early. With stops and such it is about 8 hours and so mid morning on Thursday the 27th of April I hit the road, closing another chapter in this trek of mine.

I almost ran out of gas. There was a long stretch where there were no gas stations and I was down to fumes. Iíve been there a few times already with my 3.5 gallon tank and I slowed down and took it real easy trying to squeeze just a few more miles out of the bone dry tank. You can imagine my complete relief when that station sign loomed on the horizon. Relief even in the shocking face of over three dollars for one measly gallon.

As I neared California I began to see small groups of bikers heading the opposite direction. Customarily we waved to each other (a part of biking I really enjoy, the comradery with complete strangers based off the single bond of being a fellow rider. Then small groups grew into huge groups and then for the next 150 miles I was presented with a constant stream of roaring bikers. As far as the eye could see up I-40 the eastbound lanes were choked with Harleyís and everything else all intent on reaching a huge rally in Arizona. I felt out of place heading West.

I finally arrived at my brotherís place. I had to pass through the San Bernardino mountains and was confronted with scenery I didnít remember California possessing. It is really beautiful north of Los Angeles.

Navigating rush hour traffic in and around Los Angeles reminded me why I love living in the seclusion offered by the small mountain town of Boone. Boone is getting crowded but at least it isnít with the cutthroats that swarm the freeways coursing through LA. Several times I was nearly run into by willingly blind motorists. Then you have the motorcycles which zip up in between the lanes. That is quite convenient for motorcyclists but I didnít have the guts at first to partake of that shortcut.

What lay ahead of me was two weeks with my brother and a chance to catch up on sleep that I feel I havenít fully caught up on from being in Sudan. I could probably sleep for the next year and still not regain the energy I lost while being there. Having just ridden almost 5000 miles (granted over a month) didnít help for that and so I was thrilled to be able to completely relax.

I had to wait for a few days though. The day after I arrived (Friday) Brian and I hopped on our bikes and headed for the desert where Brian has, within the last few months, taken up the hobby of skydiving. We had scheduled jumps for both of us and also there were several guys from Brianís workplace that promised to come.

I had gone skydiving once before with Brian back in February but that was jumping tandem or strapped to an instructor. What I was gearing up to do was jump out of an airplane with my own parachute and would thus be responsible for maintaining a stable descent and pulling the rip cord at the appropriate altitude. Then I would pilot the airfoil parachute to the ground and, guided by radio on the ground, make a landing.

I admit that I was nervous. Especially considering that before jumping I had to complete a 5 hour ground school, something I was able to do Friday night, the night before our jumps. I was worried that I would freak out midair and that something would go wrong. I wasnít worried about the equipment failing as I had already experienced what it felt like. My main concern was ëdiver errorí. Fears are usually unfounded though and throughout the freefall you are flanked by two instructors who if need be could deploy my parachute.

The company that runs the drop zone provides for and allows people to sleep on the premises so Brian and I were able to stay right at the airport. The hustle and bustle of moving the twin engine airplane out of the hanger that took place just outside the rooms we were in woke us up. My mind immediately latched upon the concept of what I was soon to be experiencing and resorted to the mental and even physical drills taught in the ground school.

There is a flight option called the ‘early bird’ and it takes off at 6:30am. The sky was perfectly clear and there was a slight crispness to the air made special by the glancing morning sunshine. I munched a ‘Clif’ Bar, sipped my water and patiently waited.

Brian had convinced a contingent of his colleagues from his office to push aside their truly unfounded fears and join us that day for the thrills. The four of them planned to jump tandem and a few others decided to show up with their cameras, each certain that they would be capturing the grisly ends of their friends.

By the time I suited up, checked the gear and climbed into the harness to which my parachute was attached the group was still absent. With the ‘Fanfare of Man’ blaring poignantly in my mind and picturing myself in slow motion I strode over to the plane and stepped aboard with the ten other people on that flight. It was around 8:30am. To reach the jump altitude of 12,500 feet it takes about 25 minutes of steep ascent.

Those minutes are revealing of the crowd that makes up the addicted skydivers. A brochure provided this comment, “25 dollars for the ride up, free inflight entertainment.” Very enjoyable. As altitude markers are ticked off double and triple checks are performed on each other’s equipment and the adrenaline begins to flow. Except for the laughs and small conversation shouted over the roar of the engines the early stages of the flight are pretty unemotional. Once jump time is moments away the excitement begins to permeate the plane until it feels as if the plane itself could make its flight sustained by it.

Then it is scooting down the bench seats along the side as my predecessors vanish. Then it is the door. The gaping mouth of the sky breathing its icy blasts on my face. Step up to the edge. One hand flat against the inside. One hand flat on the outside. Facing forward. Knees slightly bent. My two jump masters securing their grips. “CHECK IN!” I can hardly hear myself. The JM to my right shakes me to affirm his readiness. “CHECK OUT!” My left shakes affirmation. Square shoulders to prop blast. Down. Up. Down. And a simple step of faith to my left into nothingness.

ARCH! Falling. Stomach in throat. Deafening roar of the wind rushing by at 120 mph. Check horizon. I’m stable. Check altimeter. Shout to JM, “ELEVEN THOUSAND FIVE HUNDRED.” Practice touch to my ripcord. Enjoy the ride. Check altimeter. Watch it for a five seconds and watch it eat a thousand feet. Jumpmaster signals to arch more. Good...thumbs up.

Altimeter. Six thousand feet. No more maneuvers. Wave arms over head to signal immediately pending parachute deployment. Jump masters let go. Five thousand five hundred feet. Showtime. Reach, pull.

Rustling and unfurling. Poof. Arrested development. Complete silence. I am a spot in the sky. I look and see that I have a perfect parachute. Reaching up I grab my control toggles which, when individually pulled, warp the shape of the wing causing specific drag and redirecting airflow thus causing purposeful alterations in bearing. Now I can hear crackling in my radio earpiece and an instructor on the ground calls in,

“Jonathan, congratulations. Control check please.” Does the parachute actually work? A hard pull on the right toggle produces sudden downward spiral to the right. Alternating to the left I get the same result. The sudden surge downward and I feel the rush of acceleration. Good. Level flight now and pull smoothly on both toggles causing a ‘flare’. Putting on the breaks. Release. Marvelous. I now know that I can steer and slow the parachute down. Now I relax and look around and relish the serenity and beauty of the desert from 4000 feet.

Ground instructor cackles in directing me into a landing pattern that will have me landing into the wind. I can see my brother standing on the ground at the landing site. He is with his friends. They have just arrived.

It is very difficult to know when exactly to flare. You are essentially putting a severe halt to forward motion and thus legitimate flight. It is thus useful for landing in complete control and for providing a truly soft touchdown but many people make the mistake of flaring too early and suddenly dropping to the ground. Or they flare to late and may end up injuring themselves. The majority of skydiving accidents actually happen during the landing.

However, the instructor guides novice students in every step of the way. In the earpiece, “hold...hold...hold...” The ground is rushing up to me. Faith in the instructor. “Hold...hold...and flare.” The flare is practiced on the ground at the right cadence and to my satisfaction I was able to pull it off perfectly. With the ease of stepping down from a two foot wall I safely connected my feet with the ground and watched my parachute, my life-cradle, gently crumple into the dirt.

There was my brother and his compatriots with cheers and adulations. If I could do this then they certain could. Fears subsided on their part. Inner triumph on mine. Glory be.