9,000 Feet, No Plane

*This is my experience from the previous summer, but I never did a proper write-up of it, so here it is: my first time skydiving.

I was about to go skydiving. Holy shit. I was freaked out for a while, but I settled into a calm once it became clear we had hours to wait after arriving at the small, unassuming building by the takeoff point. Those hours made my fellow jumpers impatient, but just allowed me to work my nerves out.

It had been a somewhat last minute decision, at least for me. During the pages of paperwork we had to fill out, I hesitated just a moment before filling in "Yes" after the statement "You are doing this of your own free will, not under coercion from any other party." It wasn't strictly true--my friend had messaged me "You are skydiving on August 25th and I made a deposit for you," after we only briefly discussed the possibility beforehand, so I didn't have much choice.

As we waited, a bunch of old skydiver dudes had a party on the lawn and got drunk and sang songs like a ragtag crew of pirates. They cheered on and/or critiqued the skydivers who came down before us--people who started out as incredibly tiny dots in the sky and hurtled earthbound. I wasn't sure if their presence made me more nervous or less.

Can you see them?

We had arrived around noon, and as the hours passed I found myself getting incredibly jumpy every time I watched another landing. My adrenaline shot up as I (impossibly) tried to imagine what it was going to be like. Hint: you won't know what it's like to leap out of a plane 9,000 ft in the air until you have done it.

Finally, I watched the first of our group to go. We all jumped in pairs, as the size of the plane dictated, and there were seven of us. For some reason, watching people I knew tumble through the sky made me lose my fear. Either that or my body's reserves of adrenaline were just completely sapped.

Either way, I was more eager than nervous when my jumping partner Mel and I jumpsuited up for our flight. Mine was a fancy embroidered wedding jumpsuit, which according to my instructor "didn't work out."
My instructor turned out to be a #1 badass (unsurprising when you consider his profession, I suppose.) He was the good looking 30-year-old daredevil "Robin", who I would later find out liked to ditch his parachute for those flying-squirrel wingsuits. This jump was little more than a morning commute to him, fear-wise.

I'd developed quite a mouth on me after the bear crew field season, and as we walked out to the plane I apologized "if I kinda cuss a lot. . . " and he laughed his ass off. "You better be sorry," he said, "I am a delicate flower."

I enthusiastically climbed into the teeny, tiny compartment of the plane that was for us. It was unbelievably small, and we wedged our legs together in order to fit. As the little plane rose smoothly into the sky, we attempted to chat over the roar of the engine. The takeoff and ascent was fantastic and not scary at all--the scenery around us, the mountains of Glacier National Park in the distance, it was so beautiful all I could do was look.

Should come with warning: SMALLER THAN APPEARS

Robin and I had been chatting so casually, I'd almost forgotten our purpose (other than a lazy, lovely plane ride) until he got up on his knees and started doing up his harness straps. I peered out the window of the plane down to the ground and felt an impending sense of doom.

With some tight maneuvering in our limited space, I shuffled backward into Robin and he hooked us up together, my back to his front. We hovered in that position for a few minutes, rather intimately--I could feel the movement of his chest breathing against my back, and he spoke directly into my ear. (You didn't see me minding this a bit.) It was go time, and the first pair of jumpers, Mel and her instructor (who I had watched sleep all the way up to this point) made their awkward shuffle toward the door. I watched them, paralyzed.

"You ready to have the wildest fucking day of your life?!" Robin asked. I grinned and pumped my fist in the air, shouting "Hell yeah, I'm fucking ready!" even though inside I was not so sure. I half-wondered if I would change my mind and wedge myself in the door of the plane, refusing to come out.

When the door of the plane came open, allowing the rushing cold air in, my previously forgotten adrenaline shot up, my thoughts wiped away. All I could do was react to Robin's commands. I watched Mel swing her legs out of the plane, and next thing she was sucked downward out of sight, whirling away into nothing but air.

No time to think, fortunately--it was my turn. I scootched awkwardly over with Robin to the door, then as per instructions swung one foot out of the plane to a large silver peg. The wind immediately wanted to pull my foot off the peg, but Robin told me to put down my other foot. Knowing I was turning over all control to him now, I did.

There wasn't even enough time to wonder "when?" before he'd flung us both out of the plane, and we tumbled in a big old somersault through the sky and I screamed one long "fuuuuuuuuck!" as I fell.
I kept my arms crossed over my chest in freefall position until he gave me the signal by tapping my arms, and I opened them wide, giving him two widespread thumbs up that he probably couldn't see as we hurtled down. As he'd promised, Robin put his head down by mine and gave a little finger wave to see how I was doing, and I screamed back "hiiiii!"

Everything was a blur except for the far-off mountains on the horizon, which were crystal clear. My eyes watered ridiculously until I heard our chute slip out behind us. We were jolted hard, twice, and then the roar in my ears stopped. The falling stopped. The world, and my mind, opened up again and it was serene. It felt right somehow to be up at 5,000 feet looking down at everything below. Robin showed me how to change directions by pulling on two yellow cords, and let me steer for a few minutes.

After five impossibly fast minutes, we descended for the ground.

I lifted my feet for the landing and we slid home--safe!--and lay in a tangled pile. As soon as Robin unbuckled me, I got up and ran to Mel to have a giant, adrenaline-spurred hug. Then I bounced back over to Robin and we did a double high five, both grinning like idiots. He said "that was fun!" and it sounded like he meant it. He loosened my leg straps so I could walk proudly back with him.

Moments after the epic hug.

After that, it was (of course) easy watching my other companions make their jumps. They were all people I'd met on the bear crew and would probably never see again. A few months ago, I would never have guessed I would be skydiving with these people. Life is funny that way.

The jump was a great distraction from my sadness at the field season ending, and a great way to sum up the whole summer experience of trying something new and conquering fear. How can I back down from anything now that I've been launched out of a plane 9,000 feet up?

Skydiving ended up being something I would recommend everyone do at least once. Here's an awesome place to do it: http://www.skydivelostprairie.com

Have more life in your years than years in your life. . .

. . . is my new life motto!
      Okay, so I've been away a while. Make that a really long while, a whole summer's worth, and boy does life look different from the other side.

It looks. . . higher. . .

       This summer undeniably was a life-changer. Working on the grizzly bear research project is one of the hardest things I've ever done, and yet so valuable. I know what I want my life to be about now. And that's getting the hell out there and just LIVING it. For instance, skydiving is something I always dreamed about and said I'd do growing up, but never thought I'd actually do it.

Walk of triumph

The summer was certainly an experience. I got lost in the woods for hours, every inch of me beaten, bug bitten and bruised from hiking through the underbrush. I shivered at night in my tent, got soaking wet all day long in the springtime, and sweated buckets in the hazy heat of midsummer. I hiked hundreds of miles of beautiful trail, and bushwhacked through territory no human would ever want to go. I went on road trips with people I'd just met, partied with crewmembers, and floated the Clark Fork for the first time.

         It was the first time in my life I've been truly living on my own. And I loved it.
        How can I be afraid of anything in life now, when I've been hurtled out of a plane at 9,000 feet in the air?

       One day you will. . . and I'm beginning to be able to say that I am.