Windmills, Icebergs, and Bob

I've never really read the story of Don Quixote but like most of us I suppose I've absorbed the concept of tilting at windmills to a degree. After at least skimming an abridged summary of the classic Spanish work not only do I realize that I should actually take the time to read the story but am just tickled to find out that I've been missing the point entirely. Don Quixote in the end renounces his crazy fantasy adventuresome self and becomes sane. Then he slips into melancholy and dies. Why die sane and depressed? Wouldn't it be a better idea to waste your time tilting at a few windmills and die a bit crazy but happy? Take icebergs, for example.

Off and on while contemplating oceans, adventures, and icebergs; what, you don't do things like that? I do. Anyhow, whilst thus cogitating I have now and again had the silly thought, wouldn't it be cool to manage to actually climb up on an iceberg and jump off into the water? Probably more cold than cool, but, cool nevertheless. I always wondered about how one would find an iceberg, much less how to clamber up one. Would you be risking hitting your head if the underwater part were bigger than the above water part? You would certainly need some help, couldn't just paddle your kayak up to an iceberg expecting to jump off, probably freeze to death before you could dry off and change clothes. Didn't much figure it would ever be a serious logistical possibility, but, hey you never know.

Then one day while touring Prince William Sound on my friend Bob's fantastic boat the Ambience, an unexpected family vacation with an old friend, there we were stymied trying to work our way into a remote anchorage because, of all things, the ocean was choked with--yep, icebergs. They were mainly little fellows, maybe refrigerator size. Bob was getting increasingly edgy put-putting around in this thickening crop of overgrown ice cubes, and remember, this floating hotel we are on is worth more than I will ever be and then some. Suddenly it dawns on me, look, icebergs.

"Uh Bob, say, looks like we're about to turn this baby around and get out of here while the getting is good,but, you see that one bigger 'berg out there? What say you get about as close as you can to it, then lend me one of your kayaks, and maybe I'll strip down to a swimming suit, and go over and clamber up on it so's I can jump off. Yes, I know, it sounds pretty crazy, but you know me, I do occasionally do crazy stuff. Remember, we met over a decade ago Paragliding in New Zealand for heavens sake?" At first, nobody took me seriously. Then, Bob thought it over. Made me wear a life jacket, and, my eldest son decided to check it out for the old man.
Well, okay. The youngest son was pretty skeptical for quite awhile. The first question is, will the silly thing flip over when one tries to stand on it?

And then, how cold really is that water? Yeah, it is June, but look, the icebergs are not melting for a reason. And how far can you swim in water that cold anyhow? And what if you stop breathing when you hit the water in the first place?

All good questions, all difficult to answer without experimentation. The flip over one turned out not to be an issue. At that point even the youngest son decided it might be a worthwhile adventure. And one thing leads to another. Pretty soon you find yourself, oddly enough, standing on an iceberg with your sons, in the middle of Prince William Sound, on a beautiful June day. Now what are the odds of that event ever actually happening? First, it takes a rather odd imagination in the first place to even dream such a dream. Then you have to meet somebody like Bob who someday, years after he has become your friend, grows a family and buys a dream yacht and invites you and your family to come play on it. Then your serendipitous wanderings on a boat named Ambience just happen to put you smack dab in the middle of a whole pack of icebergs. Then you have to recall your dream, and make it happen.


Afterwards, when it has moved from dream to reality, it becomes a story, and a treasured memory. It may become a family legend if it is remembered enough, and surely, should infect the sons with a sense of wonderment and adventure lust that will stoke their imaginations and help fuel their dreams, and those of their sons.

Spring Pilgrims in France

With the new "Lourdes wing" (Cobra L with logo) in the pack Maggie and I headed off to the south of France. Thank heavens for Garmin Nuvi! Our rental car in Toulouse came equipped with this little gem, and though she spoke Italian for a day until I figured out how to reprogram her, the Nuvi was a great timesaver as we wound our way from Toulouse to Lourdes and then on to points east towards the Cote d'Azure and the Maritime Alpes.

The first task was to undertake a good old fashioned pilgrimage and take the wing to Lourdes. I've narrowly missed this Catholic equivalent of Disney Land on several past trips, and early Spring promised the opportunity to visit without the suffocating hordes that can be there in the high season. We actually found the town very pleasant. There was a nice open park on the edge of the river across from the grotto that offered the wind at my back for the photo shoot we wanted to capture the "Lourdes wing" kiting with the basilica over the grotto in the background. Maggie grabbed some nice shots in the spotty afternoon sun.

Hauling the wing bag up the rocky path past the statuary depicting the stations of the cross seemed a proper way to pay respect. The obligatory collection of healing waters from Bernadette's grotto spring followed, not sure if my mangled ankle or cobbled heart valve are any better just yet for the effort but I believe these things can take some time.

The rain set in for a day of traveling, but we found Aix-en-Provence again and made our way to the village of Puyloubier to find some paragliding folks. Managed a scrappy little hike up flight off St. Victoire with the help of Beatrice, the president of the local flying club in Aix. Landed in an abysmal spot and got to enjoy prying my brand new wing out of a nasty little thorn tree/bush; the visiting American pilot "showing the locals how it's done." A nice humbling experience for the first flight on the new wing, all part of the pilgrimage. St. Victoire captured my imagination 14 years ago when last Maggie and I were in Aix, and when I was just starting to fly paragliders. I hoped to return to make a flight there. Now that I have, I can hope to return again to fly it a little better! Much appreciation to Beatrice, Laurence, and "all the guys" in the club who hauled me around and good naturedly helped me pick twigs out of my lines. The local club has a whole series of hike up launches on this rugged mountain, a favorite of Paul Cezanne's.
The club has several XC pilots, and they have managed some long routes to the north off this hill. The longest effort is around 200 km, well up into the Alpes. Beatrice considers herself more of a para-alpinist, and has flown the summits of a number of big mountains, from the Alpes to the Andes. She has been flying paragliders for 20 years!

The drive across the south of France in early March was cool and pleasant and the absence of crowds marked a real divergence from our previous visits here. The Mediterranean was still the same blue color, but the streets were only bumper to bumper down at the pebble beaches of Nice instead of everywhere we turned. Twenty miles inland all was quiet at the local markets and the greening countryside was postcard pretty, though a tad stark.

A tour of the coast as the sun came back out led us to Eze, and to the gardens of the Rothschild mansion, now a museum. Not hard to see why the rich and famous frolic here. We chose to stay inland in the town of Grasse, which proved to be an excellent base for the next part of the trip, trying to fly in the Maritime Alpes!

There are several well known sites in the southern, or maritime, alpes where the mountains trail off towards the Mediterranean. The best known of these is Gourdon. This is Bruce Goldsmith's (designer of Airwave paragliders including my new Cobra) "home site," about fifteen minutes drive from his back door. Maggie and I stopped by to visit and enjoy the fresh croissants his wife was kind enough to pop into the oven for us. Bruce was slated for an afternoon pulling weeds in the garden, but was released to show me the ropes at Gourdon. Amazing how fast he managed to pull his gear together and scamper off to the hill! As he pointed out the launch and lz on the ride up, he mentioned that he tends to get off the hill promptly--doesn't care for hanging about on launch. The reason for this was quite clearly illustrated as he popped off the hill and enjoyed an hour of soaring with half a dozen other pilots whilst I waited patiently in the queue until ultimately the wind went over the back on launch and I got to pack up and drive down with Maggie. All part of the pilgrimage.

Having taken the wing for it's visit with it's maker and having made time for contemplation with my maker it seemed time to head back to Grasse and make some time to enjoy the last part of our trip.

It is always fun to wander the winding little streets of these grown up medieval villages, poking into shops and looking for restaurants. In France we've found that the smaller less ostentatious "Pizzarias" work out the best for us, great food at a fraction of the price. 'Course, I really enjoy things like a plate full of salad covered with duck livers, and a side order of snails in heavy garlic sauce. Later on we packed it all up to drag it off to the airport in Nice exasperatingly early in the morning for our 6:15 am flight back through Amsterdam.

Nuvi didn't fail us, we made the plane, and made it home with all the luggage including the wing. I think time will tell what the trip means for me, my flying and the wing. It was certainly a great opportunity for Maggie and me to revisit some favorite places and spend some well needed quality time together. Keeping paragliding on the "back burner" during most of the trip worked out just fine, allowing us to truly enjoy wandering the museums and churches instead of grumbling about wasting a rainy day.

"...when we no longer know where to turn, our real journey has just begun. At that crossroads moment, a voice calls to our pilgrim soul. The time has come to set out for the sacred ground--the mountain, the temple, the ancestral home--that will stir our heart and restore our sense of wonder." Phil Cousineau, "The Art of Pilgrimage." "The object of Pilgrimage is not rest and recreation--to get away from it all. To set out on a pilgrimage is to throw down a challenge to everyday life." Huston Smith, from the introduction to "The Art of Pilgrimage."