It’s really easy to throw off the energy and rhythm of an entire trip by getting very little sleep the night before it starts. Byron and I got about three hours before the start of it, and I’m now running a five-day average of about four hours per day.

When I last wrote, I was just going to sleep in my comfy bed at a small hotel in Hanksville, UT. We were looking forward to heading to Fry Canyon around noon the next day, but I’ve always been a bit of a morning person. I can’t sleep-in if I wake up excited. Normally, flash flood warnings and an entire day of para-waiting wouldn’t make most people excited, but I couldn’t wait to lay eyes on our next destination.

We loaded up on supplies we needed from the small grocery store in town and headed for Fry Canyon, about an hour southeast. Fry Canyon is a long, narrow canyon which is in many places considered a “slot” canyon – significantly deeper than it is wide. If there weren’t signs, you would never know it was there because as you glance toward the canyon from the highway it completely disappears in the sage brush. While the canyon is stunning, it’s history of being an active uranium mine in the 50’s and 60’s and subsequently poisoning all it’s town’s residents is probably what is most impressive to me. Don’t drink the water.

A few years ago, I had the privilege of “guiding” a group of British pilots, one of which (named Will) had owned a ranch about 30 miles Northeast of Fry Canyon in the Abajo Mountain wilderness. The ranch was a beautiful plot tucked against untouched slot canyons at the base of Abajo mountain, 40 minutes worth of rock-crawling from Blanding, UT. The owner of the ranch was American by birth, but lived in the UK. He was a wealth of stories and legends surrounding the area, and I thoroughly enjoyed listening to Will’s stories. His big goal of the trip was to fly from Fry Canyon to his ranch, a flight that was completely and utterly out in the middle of nowhere. After completion, it had proved to be by far the most scenic flight we had the entire week. I say we, but what I really mean is that they had the best flight ever, because after getting them off the ground, I sat at Fry Canyon field blowing launches left and right as the winds had turned for the worse; until they had to depart without me or they would be too late. Turns out estimating cross-country en route times is kinda tough on a paramotor. While me and the other guide (named Upcountry) circumnavigated the wilderness via highway, they had quite the scenic sunset adventure, complete with a Civil Nautical Twilight-certified landing.

Foreigners.

Since that failure, Fry Canyon has been one of the “ones that got away” in terms of awesome flights. Of course I couldn’t come back and replicate the cross-country without Will, but I could at least check out the awesome terrain the canyon provides. As fate would have it, our day to fly Fry (get it) had 60% precip and thunderstorms in the area – so yet another emotional roller-coaster wondering if I was going to happen.

We were to arrive at the field at 3pm to meet up with our fourth “player” on this trip, Cade Palmer. He’s the new-guy to us, but he’s an extremely well known acro paragliding pilot, speed flyer, and quasi-test pilot for Ozone paragliders. He recently joined the ranks of the Scout “Team Pilots,” so we invited him on the trip to come check out some epic spots in the Southwest. He lives in Jackson, WY, so it was no small feat to travel down for two days of (maybe) flying.

We were sitting on an abandoned airfield near a cordoned-off uranium mine waiting for the thunderstorms and turbulence to stop. We took a hike with the dogs to the canyon rim, which was an incredible view from the ground in itself. Damon and Ryan were on a mission of their own to capture the canyon rim via drone shots, so they wanted to scout it out and plan the flying sequence. At around 7:30, the weather took a turn for the worse, when a high level “roll cloud” like system started to move in from the west, showing us VIRGA and mammatus clouds within 20 miles. Cade packed his motor up, and Ryan/Damon (hereafter “RyMon”) started scrambling to get their equipment out to the rim to shoot.

Byron, the “wild card” kept assuring us that it would be flyable – and he was right. Just as RyMon went scuttling out to the canyon on-foot, the huge system backed off (or stopped) while the VIRGA dissipated. I threw a wing-camera on so I could have some look-down memories of flying over the canyon. When we were on the ground, it was very clear that we could not get low over the canyon in a way that would force a landing at the bottom. Should we have an engine-out, that hypothetical ordeal could lead to a several-hour hike out of a slot canyon during a flash flood warning. So it was briefed, so it shall be.

As soon as I got in the air and flew over to the rim, my inner monologue said “f___ that s___, I’m gettin down there!” Cade launched and caught up, and apparently had a similar voice in his head. RyMon was having issues with their UAV-thingy, so they started running back to the cars to grab the backup-drone and to launch Ryan in the air for some follow-shots. Byron, Cade, and myself had about 20 minutes to screw off in beautiful golden-hour light over one of the most scenic “secrets” in southern Utah. It was awesome. Some of the flat rocks had “pock-marks” filled with rainwater making the canyon rim looked like swiss cheese. Or the surface of the moon. Or something…

We flew up and down the canyon exploring, flying about 20 feet above the rim so that in the event of an engine-out we would have enough energy in the glider to turn for the bushes and crash land. Risk vs. reward – in these situations, you only know that it was worth the risk after you’ve survived it.

Damon got back out to the rim with his “toy” drone, about the same time Ryan got in the air and joined us. We did a couple formation flights past Damon on the canyon rim while he followed us with his FPV-equipped quadcopter. Let’s just say the dude is friggin good with that thing.

We landed near sunset, high fives were exchanged. Almost like clockwork, the large shelf-like thunderstorm resumed it’s eastward movement encroaching on our potential campsite. We packed up and left the field just after 9pm, enroute to Natural Bridges Monument – a place that was once surveyed as the darkest sky in the lower 48. Ryan and Damon fancy turning nighttime image sequences into short video segments to really bring home the feeling of an adventure, they’re some of the best I’ve seen at it. As an aspiring video guy, it’s an awesome opportunity to see their techniques and setups. Before I knew Ryan, seeing a night time-lapse was PFM to me. After seeing him do one about two years ago in Monument Valley, I was inspired to start trying them myself.

By the time we rolled into Natural Bridges, we had some clear sky overhead and to the east – so it was seemingly worth it to go setup and try to get some shots of the milky way passing the background of the most prominent feature in the park – Owachomo Natural Bridge. This place – is dark. I’ve never, ever seen stars like this; save for when I was a young Army Specialist in southern Iraq, laying on the hood of my HMMWV looking at the sky through NVG’s. It probably was darker there, but I was too much of a punk-ass to appreciate it.

Natural Bridges is an incredible place for anyone who appreciates stargazing and astrology. The rangers are there at night, and night hiking is allowed. They had a large telescope set up outside the visitor center with some friendly rangers operating it and dialing up different planets and star clusters. When we were pulling up, Byron had spent the better part of the drive rambling about how amazing it is to see Saturn through a telescope – and as fate would have it, I was looking through the telescope ten minutes later at the rings of Saturn with my jaw on the floor.

The rangers had to pull in the telescope, as they said that the storm would be there within 20 minutes. Psh, what do they know? After a quick look at the map, we saw that we could drive seven miles to the bridge access, take a short hike out, and be trying our hand at one of the most famous “nightscape” photos out there.

Setup was hectic. I was setting my tripod and 6D up, while Ryan was setting up a camera/slider and a tripod/camera. Damon had another vantage point on his setup, and we were all hollering through the canyon coordinating lighting and what not. With the approaching thunderstorm, we had very little time to try to make something happen; and by the time I had it framed up and running the whispy clouds started to move in. Byron proved to be pretty much the best AC ever, because he had a pocket full of snacks that we sat and consumed while the camera snapped 30-second exposures as the thunder and lightning approached. As it passed midnight, me and my bestie of 15 years were sitting there eating pickled asparagus laughing our asses off in the bottom of a canyon in the darkest place ever officially surveyed. It’s not gay. It’s great.

Byron is pretty good at estimating distances – I’ve always said that. So when he said it was time to GTFO, we high-tailed. He had to run down and help Ryan with his equipment while I ran up the trail carrying a carbon fiber tripod (rhymes with “lightning rod”) and camera bag, with no flashlight. Seems legit. No need, the lightning did a fine job of illuminating my path. When we got to the van, the deluge came and we waited it out until we were sure we weren’t going to get washed away. Lightning was hitting within 200 yards, I don’t remember that happening to me since the summer of ’01 in Ft. Jackson, SC where it was a near-daily occurrence.

Camping was out, so we just decided to run from the storm and make our way to Monument Valley where we had a runway-access hotel room reserved. The problem, we were a few hours early for check-in. We rolled into the airfield after an eventful drive at 3am, and slept in the van seats while RyMon threw tents out thinking it wouldn’t rain. Boy, they got woken up early.

In case you’ve lost track of the days (I have), I woke up Thursday morning knowing that there would be no morning flight in Monument Valley. That didn’t stop me from jumping out of the van at 7am and running to the gas station for coffee. Best coffee ever, after a four-hour nap. Cade had high-tailed it out of Natural Bridges the night before, and camped near Valley of the Gods about 45 minutes shy of Monument Valley. He rolled in to the airfield, and we just kinda hung out waiting for a check-in and evening session to happen. There was still plenty of convective activity, so we figured it would be a late launch. Damon, the photo/video animal that he is, caught a sweet time-lapse of the monuments getting swarmed by high-energy cumulonimbus clouds. He also managed to snap a magazine-quality shot of Eagle Mesa with a huge rainbow emerging from the top.

This place is extremely special to Byron and I. When I first started getting interested in paramotoring, Byron had just taken his first trip to the annual “Gathering” fly-in in October of 2010. After seeing his video edit, I made it my goal to learn to fly, and get the skills to make the 2011 Gathering. A lot happened in my life that year including a divorce, two career changes, plus losing my four-legged best friend – Jake. I still made a move to Utah happen, FreePG training (like PPG training, but costs less), and a ton of flying. I started coordinating with my employer’s online marketing guy from Virginia – Jeff Toll. Jeff and I were talking on G-chat and Facebook messenger on a daily basis for about six months before I actually met him. But in October of 2011, I was picking him up from the Salt Lake City airport so he could join Byron and myself in road-tripping down to Monument Valley to attend the fly in. Actually, the first time I ever heard Jeff’s voice was the day before on the phone, but we were already great friends. Weird.

That weekend solidified it. Our employer was at the fly-in acting like a first-class jackass, which only served to unite the three of us. We did several long flights exploring on our own after ditching the boss; tear-assing (military term) around giant monoliths, and giggling the whole way. That trip systematically led to Jeff and I leaving our jobs and starting Team Fly Halo with Byron just a few short months later. Jeff made it out to subsequent Gatherings at Monument Valley, it was always our “special place” so to speak.

Last year’s Gathering happened just a few short weeks after Jeff’s passing. I went, only to honor Jeff and carry on his legacy. I wasn’t ready to fly again, and truth be told I was almost nauseous as I flew around all the places that reminded me of my friend. Byron had the clever idea to place a small artifact on top of Eagle Mesa in honor of Jeff. I executed a pretty careless top-landing on the narrowest part of the southwestern-facing end of the 1100′ mesa. I placed the trinket out there, in a way that if the sun hit it just right; we would be able to catch a glimmer. I cliff-launched off the mesa, feeling a little bit accomplished; and enjoyed the rest of the fly-in.

Later, after watching my landing and takeoff from a friend’s first-person camera perspective, I realized how dangerous the landing was and spent a while ruminating about what would have happened if I had gotten dragged over the back on landing, or if I had blown the launch on takeoff. I lost two close friends that summer in paramotor/paragliding accidents. Both died on impact after unknown wing malfunctions close to the ground, in seemingly simple and safe conditions.

Since then when I think scenarios and hypothetical “bad things” through – they are far more real. The idea of sliding 1000′ down the side of a vertical rock wall with a half-inflated wing was far more tangible than it ever was. What the hell was I thinking? Why didn’t I land at a wider part of the mesa? I was just so focused on doing it that I didn’t give any regard to my own safety. At that point in my life, it was a lonely moment on top of Eagle Mesa. Jeff represented a lot of positive things in my life, as he was one of the best parts of it in recent years.

Apparently the Summer of 2014 is when I stopped feeling invincible.

We got a quickie flight out to Eagle Mesa late Thursday evening. We soared the giant feature making passes back and forth, looking for a glimpse of the artifact we had placed up there in honor of our friend. Some may call it littering – we call it paying our respects. Every time I got rocked by turbulence or a wake, I felt sheer terror. When you’re that high up against a feature that big, turbulence has a slightly different effect than when you’re out in open air or close to the ground with a reference. This flight, the weather, the wind direction, the flight path; it was nearly identical to my last flight here with Jeff in August of last year. Poignant.

At any rate, I know that this trip is one of the best I’ve ever been on; and for me the point of the whole thing is to leave the fear, angst, regret, and sad associations behind so I can move on with life.

When we visited Virginia for Jeff’s funeral, there was a point during the trip where all the family members and close friends met up to go out the Jeff Toll Memorial field where the accident happened. There was an insanely stunning sunset that night, the memory of the image is still burned in my head. I remember Mr. and Mrs. Toll remarking that the sunset was a “gift” from Jeff, and everyone else seemed to agree. I wasn’t fully on board.

When we try to extract meaning, signs, or coincidences from every day happenings – we usually find them.

There was a fleeting moment though, while we were standing at Fry Canyon field watching a nasty storm structure miraculously back off, that the “heavens” parted and let the low angle sunset illuminate the valley floor. At that moment, I knew that the break in the weather was a gift from someone.