Aerial suspense

The paragliding haven of Pokhara in Northwest Nepal offers up the chance to soar above mountains and lakes against the backdrop of the Himalayas

There is a Chinese saying which goes: "It's easier to get up a hill than it is to come back down." That may be true for mountaineers, but for paragliders in Nepal's northwestern city of Pokhara I'm guessing it's the other way.

The way up to Sarangkot Hill to the west of the city is bumpy and narrow.

"Okay, here we are," says Raj, when our jeep comes to a halt in the middle of the road.

He is the owner of Sunrise Paragliding with which I had booked a 30-minute experience tour.

When I stepped out of the jeep, I was a little shocked by what I saw.

We were standing at the edge of a steep slope, with two short strips of red carpet laid out in the center as guides, stretching downward for about five meters. Next to us was a sign that read "Site elevation 1,451 meters."

"This is where we're going to take off," Raj continued. "Let's fly."

"You must be kidding me," I thought to myself.

Beyond this rudimentary runway, there was nothing but the mountain itself. Only grass and trees could be seen, but nothing reassuringly man-made was visible.

"It's a good day to fly," Raj said, standing at the far edge of the slope (where I did not dare to go) and looking at the sky. "See those vultures? They fly in circles because they are taking advantage of thermals, produced by sun-warmed air that spirals upward. That's exactly what we will do."

My pilot Milan came to buckle me up.

"Anything I need to know?" I asked.

"When I tell you to run, you just run, run, run!" he said.

"Okay. Anything else?"

"Just listen to what I say and you will be fine."

It always amazes me how these instructors can take things so lightly. During a sky diving trip two years ago, the instructor finished a safety briefing in 30 seconds. So, with a sense of familiarity, I pressed on.

For those who don't know the difference between sky diving and paragliding, when you sky-dive, you jump off a plane, free fall and open a parachute to land. When you paraglide, you run off a cliff with the fabric wing sail open and then use steering lines to fly the paraglider far and high.

A professional paragliding pilot can fly for hours and hit dizzying heights. According to Milan, the Nepali national record is more than 7,000 meters above sea level and the pilot had to use an oxygen tank to achieve this.

With all my equipment finally on, I stepped out onto the far end of the runway, with Milan tugging at my back as he made a final check of the paraglider, which lay spread out across the slope.

Now it felt real.

"Run!" yelled Milan.

And run I did: through the bushes and headlong toward the cliff.

"I'm going to fall," I thought to myself as I ran recklessly toward my potential demise.

Suddenly, I was lifted by a strong force. My legs were still swaying back and forth, but the ground, the bushes, and the cliff, were all out of reach.

Cool winds enveloped me, and I floated gently further and higher over Sarangkot peak.

With the paraglider above me, out of sight, it felt like I was suspended over Earth, wild and free.

The Himalaya Mountains lay hidden in thick cloud to the north. From time to time, I caught sight of snow-capped peaks poking out from beneath banks of fluffy clouds.

Up in the air, I shared thermals with vultures and dozens of other paragliders, their wings in all kinds of colors and patterns.

Beneath me, Phewa Lake glittered. Rice fields stretched for as far as the eye could see.

"So, this is what they mean by bird's eye view," I said to Milan. "Yeah, it's not bad, huh? Just relax."

In fact, I couldn't think of anything else to do. I sat there in my little cradle in the air, taking in the fresh air while Milan steered the craft to rise, glide, and make turns to capture the most panoramic views of Pokhara.

For me paragliding seems less like an extreme sport than many imagine, as it brings with it such a sense of peace. Everything appears small when seen from above, and your worries and troubles just seem to evaporate.

If Milan hadn't dutifully asked me to smile and say something to the camera, I would have just sat there meditating.

"Do you want to try flying it?" asked Milan.

"Can I?", I asked, unsure whether I was too excited or afraid to do so.

After a positive response, I took over the controls. When I tugged on the left line, the glider turned gently left. When I leaned my body toward the left, the glider made a sharper turn. And with Milan giving me instructions, I made it look easy, too.

We landed beside Phewa Lake after a 30-minute flight. After getting out of the safety harness I glanced upward. Nearly a hundred gliders dotted the sky around Sarangkot's summit.

Flying is, without a doubt, the best way to come down a hill.

Xing Yi contributed to the story.

lilia.lu@outlook.com

(China Daily 10/28/2017 page16)