Jumping off Mountains

“Don’t sit down until I tell you or maybe we don’t fly,” said my guide in firm but broken English.

I nodded vigorously and replied in a somewhat tremulous voice, “¿Entonces, debo correr y no sentarme hasta que me digas?”

“You walk first and you run when I tell you, okay?” continued my guide, Nito. I think he used English to ensue my total comprehension of the directions. After all, these crucial directions would prevent us from tumbling down the mountain from which we were about to jump. I peered nervously into the sky at the paragliders above me. I let off an unrelenting stream of swear words in my head, thinking “what have I gotten myself into?” Jumping off a mountain and then paragliding in the air for 20 minutes seemed far from an idyllic situation for someone has a considerable fear of heights,

Yeah, the mountain range was absolutely beautiful, with the vista amazing in the mid-day sun. However, my mind was not allowing me to focus on the positive points. It was being predictably uncooperative. I chanced a glance over the edge. Gulp. Gotta do it though. It was too late. I was already strapped to my guide, soon to be my lifeline. I couldn’t be THAT guy. The one who journeys all the way to the summit of a mountain in Mendoza and then decides he doesn’t have the stomach to float around in the air.

Nope, not gonna be him. I began to walk when the instructions were spoken into my ear. My knees shook a bit… a lot. I won’t lie. Although my body was surging with far too much anticipatory adrenaline, my feet proved trustworthy as I walked closer and closer to the edge. Then, heeding the voice emanating from behind my head as though it were a matter of life and death – in my mind, it was – I began to run.

The wind picked up and jerked the pair of us into the air. The calm, collected Spanish speaker and the mildly frantic, wildly alert exchange student whose friends had already taken flight. We must have ascended 20 feet in a matter of seconds. And within those 20 seconds, all my fear had dissipated. It was too amazing for me to be afraid. The two of us moved smoothly and gracefully through the air, dipping, climbing, weaving, and turning like a predatory bird.

I looked in each and every direction, hungry to absorb the views. Rabid, even. The land at the base of the mountain range looked so small. I maneuvered my feet so as to envelop the city beneath me in a clinching leg lock. My guide took some pictures as I marveled and took some snap shots of my own with my camera safely tied to the flying apparatus.

Roughly twenty minutes later I found myself running in the air, looking like a fool as I pumped my arms and legs in preparation for our landing. It worked though. I hit the ground running, thrilled with my experience and perhaps a bit dizzy. The first thing I did when I got to the ground? I sat down.