The whole point of leaving for Italy earlier than planned, and coming back to France earlier than planned, was to get better weather in Chamonix. Thursday this paid off in a big way.
So we made another stab at getting MJ a chance to fly with the parapenters. We made another appointment with Sandie the pilot (and instructor, and championne de parapente).
It’s funny, a few years back when we were here we were sort of joking about “maybe we’ll let the kids go parapenting,” and we didn’t really mean it as anything more than an outlandish joke. Because it seemed a little bit too extreme.
And then the 13yo asked for it. And it is exactly the sort of thing we would expect our 13yo to want to do. So we thought about it, looked into the tandem flights, decided it was not actually crazy, and said yes. And then the oldest spoke up about wanting to do it, too. We got a recommendation from a friend who lives in the valley, who knows Sandie personally, and felt very secure entrusting our children to her and her organization.
So, okay, we were doing this.
We walked across town and got in line with the 11yo for tickets at the Aiguille de Midi lift (the Brévent lift is now closed for the season). Waited twenty minutes and finally got to the window where I asked for a one-way pass just for her.
Sandie the pilot arrived carrying all her gear, the sail packed small, and greeted us warmly. We zipped our daughter’s ticket into her pocket and sent her off to the lift with Sandie. Then the two of us walked together through the town, wending our way toward the landing fields, which are not really very far from our apartment.
There were already pilots there, folding their wings in the nearby parking lot.
More were coming in for landings. As each pilot comes in, they begin running a moment before their feet touch the ground. When they come to a stop, the pilot makes a swift turning jerk that collapses the wing into a swift waterfall on the ground. Then they spread it out again, perhaps to get pointed in the right direction and let it inflate behind them as they jog off the field toward the folding place.
Sandie’s outfit, Les Ailes du Mont Blanc, is an école de parapente and there is a little wooden building there with an office inside it; outside is where, I think, some classes must meet. While we waited for any sign of our little flier, I perused some of the posted educational materials. How to use, and not to use, your emergency parachute.
And we waited, with Jake, the bilingual secretariat of the organization, who offered us coffee and conversation, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes and squinting at the sky with us while his friendly, brown, and not-at-all-striped dog Zébra snuffled around and chewed sticks at our feet.
Sandie had told us to watch for a white sail with a sun in the middle. “I wonder how many different ones she has,” mused Mark. “She said she needs different ones depending on how much the tandem rider weighs.”
We watched the blue sky for a long time. The occasional airplane left brilliant white contrails that faded quickly, a testament to the perfection of the weather. Wings of other colors circled lazily high above. We heard from Jake, keeping tabs via text, that they had had a long line for the lift and a long line at the launching grounds. Finally I saw a white sail at about the place where we thought we might see one appear.
Can you see it? It’s a white speck, silhouetted against deep green trees, just at the treeline.
Eventually after many turns it came over the landing ground. The sun was high (it was just a bit after noon) and I had to eclipse the sun with the eaves of the shed to get a picture.
She came in for a landing smoothly. I took no still photos, but I did take some video, which is complicated to upload right now.
The pilot is seated in the back of the harness. The rider has to do all the running. So our daughter had been the one to run, pulling against all the force of the wing, off the cliff up above, and it was she who landed them both on her own two feet.
At the last minute a fuzzy dog ran in front of them and I was worried, but they were fine. They landed, and collapsed the wing, and separated themselves from the harness right there. We stayed off the field and watched Sandie pack it up, while our daughter (in the black coat, no hat, and gray pants) chatted excitedly with her. We could not hear what
she said, but we could hear the animation in her voice.
We waited until Sandie delivered her back to us at the edge of the field. “She did great! Even though the running field was very small and there were rocks in the middle, she did it just right.”
Our girl was grinning from ear to ear. “I had to run and not stop, Sandie said, even if my brain said stop running,” she said. Right over the edge.
“She is eleven?” asked Sandie. “Next year she will be old enough for lessons in solo flying. Next time, lessons for everyone!”
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Later Mark took us, in shifts, to the crag. I went with the 13yo, and watched while Mark freeclimbed up to set up a top rope (I could see that it was an easy climb, practically a staircase, but really? Couldn’t he have at least worn a helmet? The French safety standards are rubbing off on him).
I climbed first, and in two attempts scaled what the 11yo had managed in her last climb. It was a fun and tricky climb, requiring me to concentrate, I surprised myself when I realized I had gotten all the way up.
Here’s the 13yo on the same climb.
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Then while Mark took the 17yo for a more challenging attempt at the crag, I was back at the apartment for three hours or so with all the other kids. The bigger ones went into town one at a time, and one at a time texted to be let back in.
Later, after a foiled attempt to take the kids to a street carnival that turned out not to be ready yet (don’t need to get into it, tears and walking and a public tantrum were involved), Mark and I first picked up carryout for the kids (burgers from Poco Loco, apparently a Chamonix institution of sorts for hungry climbers) and then went out ourselves.
Wine and a “Spanish-style” plank of meats and cheeses, with bread, tomatoes, beetroot slices, and golden raisins.
We walked around some more, fed Mark a second dinner of a crepe (I was full already), and came back to a pile of burger wrappers, a few spare burgers, and kids all watching British DVDs.
Next day: packing and a last farewell to Cham.
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