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Outside Magazine, May 2004
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THE HARD WAY
Aerial Maneuvers
Pilot an ultralight and what do you get? A bird's-eye view of the world and a dose of the maverick spirit of flying.

By Mark Jenkins

ultralight aircraft
(Illustration by Mark Todd)
I AM RISING UP INTO A LAVENDER DAWN, the desert dropping beneath me as if in a dream. A thousand feet above the red earth near St. George, Utah, I throttle back, level off, and glide through the expanse of sky. Yo, Icarus, check it out! I feel like a 12-year-old who has just lifted off in a flying machine he built in his backyard. Which—given the fact that I'm piloting what is essentially a three-wheeled go-cart powered by an oversize lawn-mower engine and hung by cords from a parachute—isn't too far from the truth.

There is no metal fuselage enclosing me, no scratched cockpit plexiglass to peer through. I'm strapped into the pilot's seat and dangling in the open sky, a thrumming propeller at my back and a cool breeze skimming across my face.

There are only three flight controls on this 50-horsepower Powrachute Rascal ultralight: the throttle, which determines your rate of ascent or descent, and two foot-operated steering bars. A pair of on/off switches power the engine, and a lever mounted to the front wheel steers the vehicle, but only when it's on the ground.

I gaze down between my legs, through fathoms of nothingness, upon the desert of southwestern Utah. Wriggling gravel roads, straight-shooting fences, dendritic arroyos, clusters of cottonwoods, the sprawl of St. George (pop. 55,000). On the ground, with nothing but the restrictive horizontal perspective—the curse of all flightless, earthbound creatures—it's a labyrinth. But from up here, Zeus's view, everything becomes cartographically clear. St. George is transformed into a toy town with checkerboard blocks and tiny sidewalks. Highway 9 and Interstate 15 are logical lines connecting St. George with the nearby communities of Washington and Hurricane. The Virgin and Santa Clara rivers snake easily between flat-topped mesas, following paths of least resistance. A miniature world exists down there, appearing so orderly and purposeful as to inspire a wondrous sense of serenity.

Until: "Mark!" The voice on the helmet radio screeches in my ears. "This is Frederick. Looks like you're enjoying yourself up there. Ready to try landing?"

I check my watch. I've been flying for over an hour, buzzing around in giant, meditative circles.

"Uhh, right. Why not."

"OK, Mark. Finish off the downwind leg, drop to 100 on the base, turn into the upwind leg, and let's see if you can bring her in."

No sweat. I cruise over the landing zone (LZ) and give Frederick Scheffel, my instructor, a heroic thumbs-up, stomp the left steering bar, arc tightly, ease back on the throttle, float down to 100 feet above ground level (AGL), and line up the landing field.

But something's wrong. I seem to be sliding sideways in the air, drifting to the left. The aircraft is unwilling to fly straight. For a moment I can't figure it out. Then my eyes snap toward the orange windsock on a pole in the field. On my final pass over the landing zone, I have been explicitly told to observe the orientation of the windsock. Now I realize that the wind has shifted 90 degrees since I took off. I'm descending into a gusty crosswind—a stupid, potentially dangerous mistake.

At the last second, when I can almost feel the barbed wire snagging on the seat of my pants, I zoom up into the soft, welcoming sky.
Suddenly I'm quite close to the ground. The wind is blowing me toward a barbed-wire fence. Scheffel's horror stories ricochet through my head: the "brainless fool" who tried to land on a moving train, tangled with some utility wires, and died when he smacked headfirst into the moving cars; the "idiot" who crashed into a barbed-wire fence and had to be pieced back together with 40 stitches. Starting to panic, I instinctively grab the front-wheel lever and try to steer away from the fence rushing toward me, but my terrestrial reflexes won't help me now, and turning the front wheel won't turn the damn aircraft. I frantically jam the lever as far as it will go, but, of course, the ultralight will not respond.

I realize I'm going to smash into the flesh-shredding barbed wire and become the next idiot.

"Mark! What the hell . . . ? Throttle. Throttle!"

My flooded brain is unable to translate this strange language, but somehow my right hand gets the message and shoves the throttle to the hilt. At the last nanosecond, when I can almost feel the barbed wire snagging on the seat of my pants, I zoom back up into the soft, welcoming sky.


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Outside columnist MARK JENKINS's latest book is The Hard Way.
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