by Mike Kellogg
The June ’99 Glidell-sponsored tour of the French Alps was a real
eye-opener. "That's not paragliding," commented Pierre-Paul Menegoz, our
seasoned local instructor, when asked about my tres conservative flying
style. Compared to the flying I saw in France, I have to agree.
At L'Isere, a 3,000-foot launch north of the famed St. Hilaire, our base
of operations, I gaped as a series of porpoise dives ended in a stall
for a French PG team member. Even with a negative spin, line twist, and
backwards flying, no chute was deployed, and a top-landing was neatly
performed, all in spicy conditions. It seemed everywhere I looked
gliders at oh-my-God heights were pinwheeling across the sky.
Rolling their own, cornering at speed, eating well while staying thin,
the French are given to friendly handshakes and adrenaline sports. They
obviously enjoy life, sit-down meals, and flying (according to Jody,
there are some 30,000 FFVL (French Federation de Vol Libre)-certified
parapentistes in France).
The day after I arrived (May 27), looked too well-developed for this
homey. With a pair of 10 x 25s in hand, I was admiring the snow-capped
Belladonna Range from a nearby overlook. I nearly blew out my Gauloise;
three pilots were at least 1K over the Dent du Pra (2623), a fearsome
black spire that dominates the horizon. Then other pilots began to
materialize out of the ether, many top landing at our cliff-top ville.
"Maybe 12 pilots flew 100K today," claimed Pierre-Paul. I was beginning
to understand what paragliding was, or at least what it was en francais.
We flew sites throughout the region. Can you say green? Now I can. Lush
is really the word, verdant mountainsides, patchwork fields, and the
ting, tang, tong of dairy cows. Speaking of which, a local term was
"cowed-out", which meant bailing in some farmer's field. I flew eight
sites, including the famous Annecy, where I didn't even complete the
Petite Tour, but did top-land east of the Dent du Lanfon, where earlier
I had seen a bear. Unfortunately malevolent conditions dictated a
lengthy hoof down through a forest primeval, which also contains wolves.
My pace was quick.
Although I had some 21 days to visit, the time flew (literally). We
walked Grenoble (chaud), toured the Monastery of Chartreuse (sobering),
beheld a musical lightshow (magnifique) deep inside the cavern of
Choranche, amongst other l'aventures petites:
Le Dent de Crolles -- This 2062-meter limestone tooth looms directly
behind Le Chalet, our hotel, which by the way is an endless source of
haute cuisine. One evening I was graciously offered a ride to the
trailhead du Le Dent, where I began a steep -- the definition thereof --
trek up the mountain. Even though the main path was worn as smooth as
the Blarney Stone, I got off-trail three times, the last of which saw me
climbing like Rocky in Cliffhanger. A full moon rose over Mt. Blanc and
the star-streaked vista was rhapsodic. A giant holy cross marked the
mountain's top, and planning to launch au matin, I dedicated the entire
trip to my brother, who was killed in a 1997 PG accident. After all, he
got me into this crazy, wonderful sport. Unfortunately a windy morning
followed a windy night and I had to schlep down.
Chamechaude -- No sense bumbling for adjectives on this one; at 2082
meters, it's the highest peak in the Chartreuse. Let's just say I could
hear angels singing, see Mt. Blanc as clear as a bell, and perched above
the clouds, might as well have been on Everest. Tres sweet.
Mt. Blanc -- First climbed in 1786, this monster of rock and ice is the
highest point in Europe. I stood awestruck until drawn skyward via the
Aiguille du Midi tram, topping out at 3842 meters, where I strapped on
crampons and downclimbed an airy ridge onto a glacier. A client was
getting a tandem in radical conditions, and took off through clouds on a
huge descent. Suddenly a Welshman I'd met on the tram appeared. He'd
taken a basic climbing course back home. He had gear. Let's climb! At 3
p.m. we started up the Cosmiques Ridge (Grade II), which seesaws back to
the tram station. Climbing like banshees, we were duly impressed by big
drops off either side, and occasional steeps. Clouds formed and hailed
three inches; are we going to die?! And then we missed the tram, which
wasn’t that bad parce que the sunrise and sunset from the tram station
étaient glorieux.
“Spirale de la Mort” -- Usually followed by nervous laughter, this
phrase -- our adopted motto -- described extreme spirals that are
routine business in the Alps. That afternoon’s conditions promised
turbulence. Maybe I’d kick it on the balcony and do some reading. NOT!
With a deep accent, sponsored pilot and snowboarder Alexis Coudurier
offered to take me tandem. Bon vie! Sure enough, Alexis’ skill saw us
well above launch, the famed Funiculaire waterfall receding below. After
snapping shots of Jody, Alexis stated matter-of-factly: “Spirale de la
mort.” Oh shit, I thought, as we began pulling Gs 1,500 feet off the
deck. I was one-quarter inch from blackout, when I stated less
matter-of-factly: “It’s a little much!” Alexis’ english wasn’t so good,
and he interpreted this as “A little more please; steeper, faster,
scarier, s’il vous plait.” WAAAAH! The horizon whipped into a dizzying
blur, the spiral of death itself. Sur la terre, once the spinning
stopped, fingers had to be pried loose from risers.
It’s difficult to sum up the entire trip, but I think Shankar said it
best: “SCORE!!”
