Head in the Clouds: The Italian Job

He pulls sharply on the outside brake, straightens up, stamps down on the bar and leaves the thermal, aiming straight at the tree-covered ravine where the high-tension power lines stretch across. My stomach flips as I wobble around another circle weighing up options. His decisiveness contrasts with my uncertainty. I dig deep, find the resolve and follow.

Annecy was windy so we left at dawn, heading south to Italy. Mont Blanc towered, glistening white and massive as we tunnelled underneath. Popping out to the warm southern side I’m in a new place. An open valley with a braided river flowing amongst grey pebbles. The ancient ruined tower stands guard on a spur. Stone-roofed houses cover the lower slopes surrounded by terraces. Even in the early morning the heat can be felt, small puffy cumulus flutter above the ridges. 

Take-off is perched on the last ridge before northern Italy flattens into a great plain. Below launch, a layer of densely wooded ridges gives way to a crowded mass of houses and power lines all the way down to the flats out the front, where a mix of industry and agriculture stretches to the horizon. The biggest clear space visible is the huge runway of Turin airport, about thirty kilometres distant. Behind us the mountains rise, alpine meadows lower down and then a crown of craggy peaks.

Joe, the guide, outlines today’s plan with expansive hand gestures, he’s semi-local here and keen to show as many kilometres as possible to the team. We will climb out above take-off (landing not an option, aim for the village, it always works). Fly high along the range to the east, jump a big valley (don’t land), fly more range, return (don’t land), cross the valley to the west, tour the Gran Paradiso National Park (4,061m) – once the last bastion of the Alpine Ibex, and fly back in time for pasta. Joe seems confident, people nod, I gulp and hope I don’t spend the rest of my holiday living amongst the Ibex.

Ridges and ravines

Stage one, launch is almost working and I get lucky, turn into an easy climb and rise above the sweet alpine meadows, established and safe above the tree line. Wispy clouds grace the peaks and we flirt with the edges, waiting for straggling team members to get up. Once all together, we set off eastwards. Handy hints are given out on the radio – “Don’t lose that thermal, you need to climb!” Navigational advice is brief – “Follow me.”

Personal flying styles and habits are built up over decades. You spend the majority of flying time alone in your own head. I think I’m an exploratory, inquisitive, tentative kind of pilot. Have a little look over there, get distracted by that, retreat and try something else, enjoy the view, change the plan and land safe. Today my head is swivelling as I track the others, climb fast and try to keep up on glides.

The big valley crossing looms ahead. I follow the team. Slightly lower. Swivel-head is now fixed, peering forward, willing the fabric to glide. A feeling first, then the speed starts to bleed away and I’m descending not crossing. 

One hooked turn and back towards the salvation of the rolling hill on the western side of the valley. Familiar beeps tell me I will soar here and stay aloft. Dropped by the peloton, I feel released. Alone in my head, working on my style.

This personal flying site is spectacular, a lovely rounded, grassy ridge about a kilometre long. Like so many Welsh hills I’ve loved. But this mini “Paradiso” is set in a bigger landscape. The ridges and ravines below are unrelentingly tree-covered. Then it’s straight into dense stone houses below that. The only landing option is two valleys away by the side of the river. I need height. I can’t get it. Two thermal cycles pass through and I bump up against an eighteen hundred metre ceiling both times. I continue to soar. I can stay up. I could land high and walk? Back and forth, back and forth – “This is the self-preservation society”. Something might change or it will get dark and I’ll land.

And behold, from the east, here he comes. Flying a moon-patterned BGD Base 2 Lite (I know, I used to have one) and displaying a completely different style. Arcing in to join my thermal, we dance upwards together. As I watch the numbers out of one corner of my eye, it dawns on me how to solve the puzzle and get home. He’s on the same class of glider, we can climb equally well, he’s showing every sign that he’ll be home in time for a glass of wine before his pasta. He looks certain.

I just need to commit, keep up and learn. 1700, 1750, 1800, we reach the same ceiling and I’m correct, with no hesitation he leaves and I follow.

Sipping cold dark beer in the hot shade under the vine outside the bar at landing, I ask around, trying to discover the identity of my new friend. He’s a known legend but he’s not here. Probably best – they warn you never to meet your heroes.

This article was first published in Cross Country Issue 262