writer and photographer JASON MacLEOD
The walk into Federation Peak is hard enough and the forecast uncertain at best. So why am I lugging an extra 6kgs of bulky gear that fills up most of my backpack? A harness, paraglider wing, helmet, and instruments, along with all my camping gear and food, with perhaps a 50-50 chance of being able to fly off. The question recurs again and again. I feel it when I am knee deep in mud, when I get tripped up on cutting grass for the 50th time, climb over massive logs, bend down to avoid low branches, and dangle above precipitous, airy sections of Moss Ridge.
As my son Leuca and I, our friend Roza, and his girlfriend Taya, walk in, I get messages on my satellite communicator. The forecast is improving. By the end of the second day Leuca and I have made it safely back from the stunning but ridiculously sketchy free solo rock climb up the south-western cliffs to the summit. We are relaxing at Bechervaise Plateau, gulping down water from an algae-filled soak when Jeff sends me another message on my InReach. “Light northerly winds at 10am tomorrow morning. Cloud base at 2,000 metres.” It’s on!
I go to bed tingling with anticipation. Then, instead of sleep, the doubts come.
Federation Peak is so remote. So very far from help. The walk in has taken us two days. It is a long and slow 54-km return, including the 7km of road at the end of the track. What if I get blown over the back? There are no landings in the New River lagoon valley. If I go east I could top land on some of the plateaus but if I don’t get height, it’s a tree landing. And going east means a long walk out – days at best.
What if the wind picks up and I end up in rotor that collapses my wing? What if I don’t make it far down the valley and I am forced to land on the forested plains in a graveyard of burnt out trees that look like they would skewer me like a pig.
What if? What if?
The alarm goes off at 5.30am and I get up to boil water for breakfast. Leuca, Rohan and Taya stir, then start to pack up. By 7am they are off, back down Moss Ridge, hoping to make it back to the car by early evening. I go back to bed but I can’t sleep. I’ve got a few hours to kill before the day turns on.
I visit the picturesque toilet at least six times. I’m literally shitting myself. I could go up to launch now but I want to maximise my chances of getting as far as the South Carcroft River campsite, the closest and safest landing zone to the end of the road where our bikes are. To do that I will need sun and the thermals the solar heating generates. These are the magical elevators that take paraglider pilots skyward. Every metre of altitude we gain, the further we go, and the less we have to walk.
At 10am, the clouds break up; the sky turns from pale grey to blue and white. The northern face of Fedders lights up. I finish packing and hike up to the steep grassy slope just below the base of the northern cliffs. I unpack my wing, shove the tent and all my camping gear into my harness and clip in. Light thermals are coming in nice cycles now, flowing up the face. I lay my wing out, the leading edge facing the wind, ready to fill up with air, turning a folded plastic bag into something much more rigid.
By 11 o’clock, I am ready to take flight.
. . .
One inflation and I pull the wing up over my head. Then it is one step and I am airborne. I immediately get lift, but I leave it to head out to the rocky, tree-covered horn at the end of the lower plateau. I find lift triggering off the top of the spire and turn. Round I go. My vario sings as I go up, telling me I am in lift, and my phone, which doubles as a flight instrument, shows me the thermal is consolidating. But mostly I feel it. In my seat tugging me up as the wing tip catches the rising air and pulls on my risers.
However, the thermal drifts south, pushing me into the forested valley between Federation Peak and Moss Ridge. I don’t want to get stuck there, or get pushed over the back, so I turn my glider into wind and out the front, down Moss Ridge and into the valley. Just past Cutting Camp I find more lift. I am playing a delicate game now, trying to get high enough to make it over the hills to South Carcroft River but not so high I get hit by the westerly wind made visible above my by the faster moving clouds.
It goes like this for the next half hour. Finally, I catch I my last thermal drifting over the hills towards the South Carcroft River camp site. I land next to the track on the button grass plains, five minutes walk from the campsite. I pack up, eat some lunch and walk out.
As I pass through the myrtle and leatherwood forest, ferns lining the path, and white petals littering the forest the floor like the aftermath of a wedding celebration, I am overcome with heart-bursting emotion. After landing, it has taken me three and a half hours of walking, followed by a 15-minute bike ride, to get back to the car. Leuca, Rohan, and Taya on the other hand have had a 13-hour day. The least I can do is drive into Geeveston, and come back to the track head, ready to meet them with burgers, hot chips, and drinks. It will be 8pm before they make it back to the car.
. . .
I’ve dreamed of this flight for so long. Everything came together. Launch and take-off was close to perfect, the flight was in benign and buoyant air, and I landed gently, exactly where I wanted to. I am feeling things that I can’t put into words, caught off centre by a heady mixture of wonder, gratitude and the exuberant joy of living. A week later my feet still haven’t touched the ground.
* See also Flying, plastic-bag class, from Mt Roland to the Mersey
