TICKET TO THE SKY

But a paraglider is designed to go up, and you can soar for hours in the updrafts created by the wind and sun.

My wife, Karen, and I first witnessed paragliding while skiing in the French Alps four years ago. The paragliding pilots would ride a gondola to the top of the mountain, launch and drift for several hours above the slopes before landing near town. After a cup of coffee or a bite to eat, they'd hop back on the gondola and do it all again. Since then, we've dreamed of gliding effortlessly through the sky.

At that time, the only places to learn paragliding near our home in Washington, DC, were in upstate New York, Vermont, Utah or California. But that changed last year with the opening of FlyWV in Webster Springs, W.Va., located less than five hours away from Washington.

With fantasies of flying high above the mountains, we headed to West Virginia for a weekend of lessons.

Learning the ropes

Dwayne McCourt, owner of FlyWV, greeted us with a twangy "howdy" when we met him on the training hill, an open field bordered on two sides by a weedy embankment. But the training didn't begin on the hill; first we were taught how to inflate the wing and kite it around on the ground.

McCourt removed a glider from a sack and spread it on the ground. It looked like tangled fishing lines connected to a crumbled sheet.

"These are your brake handles," McCourt said, pointing to the handles that hung from loops clipped to a harness. "You use them for controlling speed, steering and landing."

McCourt then suited up, donned a helmet and gave a demonstration. With one fluid movement, he bent over, ran a few feet, pulled the wing above him and - whoosh - it climbed straight up, forming a perfect crescent. By controlling the brakes, he kited it for a few minutes. And that was our goal.

"Learning to ground handle the glider is actually harder than flying it," he said.

He gently dropped the wing to the side and it folded down neatly like an accordion.

Almost ready

Then it was my turn. Once in the harness, my hands holding the brakes and the front set of lines, and my arms spread out like a cross, we waited for the wind to blow in to assist in inflating the canopy. As I felt the breeze waft my face, McCourt yelled: "Go!"

I charged forward, filling the wing with wind as it tugged backward with an amazing resistance.

"Keep running," McCourt instructed me.

I kept running. But despite McCourt's quick step-by-step instructions, I wasn't fast enough and the canopy dropped, engulfing me in a sea of fabric and strings.

After escaping the giant tangle, we repeated the process several more times. Twice I managed to pull the canopy overhead, kite it for a few seconds and drop it back down in a somewhat orderly fashion. But I never came close to our instructor's controlled manner.

My wife was quite amused each time the wing swallowed me; but during her turn, she didn't fare much better.

Nonetheless, McCourt deemed us ready to advance to the hill and get our feet off the ground.

After hiking up 60 feet of the 130-foot-high hill, McCourt again gave a demonstration. With one step he pulled the wing into the air and lifted off the hill, slowly descending toward the field. He then hiked back up to join us.

My first attempt didn't go well, as the wing fell when I started to run. On the second try, the wing again dropped. But on the third attempt, it straightened out. Without realizing it, I had left the ground, my feet still running in the air like a cartoon character.

Up, up and away

I was flying.

I wish I could say it was a magical experience, but I was too focused on McCourt's instructions and the mechanics of the flight. A radio attached to the harness allowed McCourt to guide me as I sailed through the air. The brakes allowed me to make a few corrections and stay in a straight line. And as I neared the ground, I pulled the brakes just as the breeze picked up, and the canopy remained parked above. I took advantage of the situation and kited it around pretending I knew what I was doing.

My wife took off on her first try. Then we each took several more flights mixed in with a few aborted launches and less-than-perfect landings. We then moved to the top of the hill and did one launch.

But as the day wore on, the winds began to change, so we took a break and moved to another hill that faced into the new wind direction. Like all aircraft, paragliders need to launch into the wind to attain optimum airspeed.

That hill, at a grassy abandoned strip mine, was 200 feet high and much steeper. Instead of carrying the glider back up, McCourt retrieved us by car. Unfortunately, the wind was erratic at best.

The breeze only lasted a few seconds before tapering off or changing direction, so neither Karen nor I had much luck. But during my fourth attempt, I succeeded. It's amazing how much higher 200 feet (higher than a 20-story building) looks compared with 60 or 130 feet. When it came time to land, McCourt once again had to rescue me from the entanglement.

I thought McCourt would be tired of saving me, but he seemed genuinely pleased with my progress.

"You're just making the same mistakes as most everyone else," he said.

Back at the top of the hill, Karen made a few more unsuccessful attempts and decided to call it a day. I wanted to give it one more shot.

Unexpectedly, the wind picked up, I straightened out and had my best flight yet, enjoying the view of the sun beginning to set toward the horizon.

More to learn

The following morning, we followed McCourt through a series of mountain roads to higher training grounds near Seneca Rocks, W.Va. We met up with several other paragliding pilots, including Ben and L.E. Herrick, founders of the Mid-Atlantic Paragliding Association.

To reach that site, we had to hike two miles with all of our gear through woods and past fields.

Although a paraglider folds into one backpack, the load is far from light. With the harness, emergency parachute, glider, helmet, water and snacks, each pack weighed more than 35 pounds. It was a particular burden for my 5-foot-2 wife; the top of the pack banged her head and the bottom sagged down almost to her knees. Climbing across a few fences along the path added to the ordeal.

The training area was a shallow, sloped, 800-foot-high pasture. We stopped halfway up to fly from 400 feet as the Herricks marched ahead. They said we'd get used to the packs; Karen could even have one retrofitted for her size.

After a brief rest, McCourt taught us the reverse launch method, which is the preferred technique when winds are strong. Although the reverse launch seemed intimidating, it actually was less strenuous than the forward launch, which felt like pulling a truck from the waist. Karen and I each performed a few reverse launches, then some forward launches. With the higher altitude, we had time to practice several turns before landing.

Bobbing along under the canopy was reminiscent of tubing down a gentle river. Karen said she felt like Mary Poppins.

Wow! What fun!

My next launch took me to only 800 feet. Even though Karen and I were exhausted, I wanted to finish with a flight from the top.

Using the reverse launch, the canopy ultimately straightened out and lifted me. I floated along the ridge maintaining my altitude, then steered out into the valley. I finally felt relaxed, marveling at the views of the rolling hills and lush mountains. And the sensation of defying gravity definitely was worth the work.

More work will follow, however. McCourt said we would need about five more lessons to complete our training. Our ticket to the sky will require more trips through the mountains of West Virginia.