by Clint Thomsen

GUEST COLUMNIST

As far back as I can remember, I've always had an intense desire to fly. Some of my earliest memories are of watching cartoon birds and wondering why I couldn't join them. When I was 4 or 5 years old, I theorized that I may be able to fly if I could just get enough momentum and altitude.

To test my hypothesis, I piled all of our pillows in front of the fireplace. Starting at the end of our hallway, I ran as fast as I could and jumped, trying to catch as much air as possible before landing on the soft pile. I tracked my progress by logging estimated elevation and distance stats in a log book. Dangerous? Of course. But what groundbreaking human experiment doesn't come with risks? Would my parents have approved of me hurling myself through the air for research's sake? Absolutely not. Which is why I conducted these test runs at night while they were watching M*A*S*H.

My experiments were ultimately inconclusive, and I eventually realized the folly of my method. But my passion for flight remained. There's no greater rush than an airplane takeoff -- those few exhilarating seconds as the plane throttles ahead, roaring as it lifts its heavy frame into the air.

But as fate would have it, my passion for flight is equaled by an extreme fear of heights. This unfortunate irony has seriously stifled my airborne activities. So when the people at Bonneville Seabase recommended I try flying on a powered parachute, l shrugged it off as an exciting yet out-of-the-question idea. After all, just looking at pictures of them sent chills up my spine. No fuselage, no windows, no flight attendant bearing goldfish packets and half cans of Coke.

But spring does strange things to a guy, and I found myself on the phone with Lew "Hook" Ershler of Bonneville Skybase, the oldest continually operating powered parachute (PPC) dealership in the country. Hook, a skydiver and glider enthusiast, was introduced to powered parachutes in 1988 by Seabase owners Linda Nelson and George Sanders, who had purchased a small dealership that sold "paraplanes," the progenitor of today's powered parachute.

When Nelson and Sanders decided to get out of the flying business, Hook teamed up with private pilot Dennis Stanley. They formed Bonneville Skybase, LLC, and built a hangar on the Seabase property. Both are accomplished ultralight pilots who have personally built their fleet of PCPs. Hook is certified to instruct and Dennis is certified to instruct and certify, making Skybase a one-stop shop in the PPC world with a perfect safety record.

When I rolled up to the Skybase hangar, Hook was preparing their two-seat Six Chuter Spirit XL, a small, three-wheeled rig that looks like the spawn of a go-cart and an airboat. "Clear prop!" He yelled as the aircraft bellowed to life. Dennis handed me a several-page waiver, which I nervously skimmed over and signed. I casually mentioned that I was deathly afraid of heights -- just in case acrophobia was a disqualifier. It apparently is not, but I mentioned it a few more times to both pilots for good measure.

Skybase's runway is a large, salty-white mud flat to the northeast of the hangar. Hook gave me a pre-flight briefing and Dennis fastened my helmet. A PPC's propeller is fixed to the cart behind the seats, pushing the craft instead of pulling it. Because it's so close and so loud, pilot and passenger communicate via intercom over headsets. Hook throttled forward slowly and the parachute rose overhead. As he sped up, we climbed at 30 mph into the chilly morning air.

We flew toward the Stansbury Range and Hook gave me a run-down of the controls and steering. After some initial butterflies, my acrophobia completely disappeared. Even slight turbulence near the mountains failed to tickle my nerves. The view of Tooele Valley from that angle and altitude was incredible.

"You don't feel turbulence on these like you feel it in fixed wings," Hook told me. "PPC's are self-stabilizing. We're hanging below the wing like a pendulum."

Turbulence simply makes the cart rock back and forth beneath the parachute. I eased up enough on my camera lanyards to film the mountains and the desert floor below. It was amazing to view canyons from above that are nearly inaccessible by vehicle. Since PPCs are slow-flying -- they max out at 30 mph -- and stable, they make great vehicles for search and rescue. As we skirted the mountainside, Hook told me about helping to locate trace sections of the old Mormon Trail that aren't visible at ground level. "We were able to fly over known sections and follow them until we could see where they connected to the missing pieces. It was a very rewarding flight."

Turning back toward the valley, Hook took his hands and feet off the controls. Since the cart wants to be directly below the parachute, the plane can be flown "hands and feet off" and will fly straight and smooth on its own, "Just like sitting in a rocking chair."

We glided past Seabase and did a few touch-and-go's before making one final round. I looked northward into the Great Salt Lake, focusing on the frigid air that racked my frame with a deep sense of liberation. This was freedom.

We touched down on the soft mud flats and rolled to a stop. The 30-minute flight seemed like five. As if I didn't already know, I asked Hook what draws him to the sky.

"There is something about the freedom of flight that can't be duplicated by any other activity," he said. "The ability to look down and see the ground moving below you is amazing. With a PPC, I'm my own ground crew and pilot. I can fly up close and personal whenever conditions and the FAA allow. What could be freer than that?"

Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah's wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at www.bonnevillemariner.com.