The Dare



Situation: Five travel writers

Assignment: Geneva, Switzerland

Opportunity: Hanggliding off Mt. Saleve, Geneva's "house mountain," tandem avec Christophe

The Dare: Do it

The wind came up under the glider's sail, lifting us so quickly from the mountain's edge that there was no time for fear, just a rush of floating joy, amazement, awe. Effortlessly we drifted away from the mountain, the wing doing it all, behind us, the moon in the daylight sky. Christophe is keeping up a floating travelogue, letting go of the glider's bar to point: "There's France; over there's Italy..." as we swoop into a 360 degree, then out of it, gentlegentlesogentle that I remark of it.

To which he grins and with a nudge left, we are rushing toward the mountain seconds from smashing—and then with a slight nudge right, we are gliding oh so gently again, and he, French devil, is still grinning. Then sensory overload sets in and I know that if I do not concentrate, I will remember nothing. So I focus, focus, as below us a tiny chamois lopes down the hill. And beside us soars a bird close enough to touch...and the minutes go by like seconds as we ride the current slowly, slowly, slowly gliding in a spiral, round and long and gentle, to the earth. We make a rolling scruffy landing, knees scraping the ground. And I feel awe thunder through and through me gazing now at the mountain before me and the sky above me, above me...

...way above me. And as I gain my land-legs, dust holding me in place, I hang on to the dawning awareness, looking ever up at the mountain before me and the sky above me, that I have not invaded the air as always before in airplanes, sea planes, helicopters, even parasails and hot air balloons. This time, I had become part of the air and the air a part of me, enveloping me, rushing over me, through me.

"What was it like?" my dusty colleagues scuttle up close to ask.

I find no words, so I point at a bird passing by. ...It was like that.