Hang Gliding and Paragliding Volume 44 / Issue 1: January 2014 | Page 66

THE 1

by FRED LEONARD

We know there was a day when it all worked for you. When your training clicked, the conditions were perfect, the stars
aligned, and you soared to new heights (real or imagined). Send in your tale of “The 1” flight you'll never forget, and we'll
print it right here. You'll be entered into the annual drawing for a USHPA soft shell jacket!

People who don’t fly sometimes
ask why I fly hang gliders and paragliders. Many think it must be for
the adrenaline rush—the “extreme
sport” factor. But in 40 years of flying,
that has never been my motivation.
If I wanted an adrenaline fix, I could
find easier ways to get it. I fly both
hang gliders and paragliders because
of the indescribable beauty my flights
provide, and because foot-launched
motorless flight allows me to experience life and nature from a different
perspective.
My logbook is filled with entries
that evoke the visceral threedimensional memories of my flights,
but one in particular comes to mind
when people ask why I fly.
It was late summer, and I was 2000
feet above “the Reef,” a granite-andlimestone plateau that juts out from
the eastern slope of southern Arizona’s
Huachuca Mountains. Below me, to
my north and south, were the jagged
cliffs of Carr and Miller canyons.
Above me, to my west, were the pinecovered summits of their twin peaks.
To my east spread the San Pedro river
valley, with its fragile life-sustaining
ribbon of riparian green running north
from Mexico.
Just half an hour earlier, I had
launched my venerable Super Sport
into Miller Canyon. With a cool
breeze in my face, I climbed in the
powerful pull of textured air, working hard to stay centered in a thermal.
As I circled, I noticed below me what
looked like a hawk being pursued by a

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HANG GLIDING & PARAGLIDING MAGAZINE

smaller bird.
We often share thermals with
soaring birds at Miller: swifts—the
frenetic little speedsters who wheel,
dart, and race by, sometimes missing
us by just inches; turkey vultures—
the mellow aviators who rise effortlessly on the slightest puff of lift;
falcons and hawks—the precise and
pragmatic avian air force who stay
intently focused on their missions; and
ravens—the feathered barnstormers
who do barrel rolls and wingovers,
create mischief, and revel in the pure
joy of flight.
I watched two feathered flyers
below enter my thermal, and not long
after, climb to my altitude. As they
approached, I realized what I had
thought was a hawk and a smaller bird
was actually a golden eagle and a hawk.
Since we rarely see eagles in this area,
it was only as they approached that I
could appreciate the eagle’s majestic
seven-foot wing span and identify the
white spot on its tail indicating it was a
young bird, still learning to maneuver
its new aerial realm.
The eagle seemed unconcerned
with the pursuing hawk, just curious about the large, brightly colored
flyer whose thermal it had joined.
Instead of climbing past me or keeping its distance, it moved closer and
stayed at my altitude to investigate.
For several minutes, the eagle flew in
effortless formation with me, all the
while shadowed by the hawk. This
magnificent bird soared a few feet off
one of my wingtips and, then, off the

other. I had to crane my neck to view
it when it studied me from behind.
But it was the eagle’s turn to crane its
golden neck when it flew in front of
me, while inspecting my Dacron wings
and meeting my inquisitive gaze with
its own. Then, suddenly, with curiosity
apparently satisfied, it flew off toward
Miller Peak, the hawk continuing the
chase.
For a brief moment I thought of following but decided against it. This was
not like my previous encounters with
raptors. With other birds, I had simply
shared the same areas of lift. But this
eagle had chosen to connect with me
as no other raptor had. Our encounter had been on the eagle’s terms,
and I wanted it to stay that way. So I
continued my circling, as I watched the
young eagle and pursuing hawk disappear in the distance.
I experienced a profound sense
of serenity for the rest of that flight.
After landing, I searched the sky for
my winged companions, but could not
find them. I only spotted some turkey
vultures above and some ravens playing near the Reef. So I packed up my
glider, barely noticing the hot afternoon sun or the cars rushing down the
nearby highway.
My thoughts were thousands of feet
above, still circling in the cool mountain air with the eagle and the hawk.
With no motor and only cloth for
wings, I had flown on nature’s and the
eagle’s terms. And for a few moments
I had been allowed to join them in the
realm of the raptors.