The No Bull X-Alps Gavin McClurg crosses the Alps without the Red Bull pain
I took one look at the Passion Wagon, the retrieve vehicle operated by Toby Colombe of Passion Paragliding, and realised my next seven days were not going to be what I had envisioned. The driver, who we would only know as Mad Paul, was covered head to toe in tattoos, looked like he’d participated in a fair share of recreational substances He was wearing a T-shirt that said, “I don’t have Turrets, you’re just a F****** C***.”
My girlfriend Jody, who had taught me how to fly some four years previously, and I had purchased this trip with the hope we’d get to fly XC over much of the Alps, beginning at Annecy and ending at Nice. Toby had come highly recommended as a guide and we’d heard great things about his ability and his safety record. But in those first minutes all I could think about was how to find a way out. An hour later we’d found a small bar, done the introductions, and with the aid of a cold pint things were looking up. Our flying group consisted of five guys… and Jody. The experience level ranged from a Scottish pilot (Kevin) who’d flown well over 1,000 hours, to a Brit (Steve) who had only 50 flights. Jody and I sat somewhere in the middle. Toby seemed pleased that we’d both done a few SIV courses but our XC hours were minimal. In fact my longest XC flight to date had been 40km just a few days previously at Interlaken. Toby informed us he’d never had anyone in his group suffer an injury; he’d just done remarkably well in a comp in Spain; and while the weather didn’t look stellar our chances for some solid air time looked good. He’d said the magic words: air time… XC… X-Alps! My fears assuaged, the Passion Wagon suddenly seemed rather luxurious! We did a checkout flight next morning from Forclaz at the south end of Lake Annecy. It was at best horrifying and certainly humbling. The early-day thermals were zinging but not well formed and the edges felt like samurai swords, making mincemeat of my wing. My Gin Rebel, which I’d grown to love in the previous weeks in some powerful conditions, suddenly made me feel I’d jumped up to a DHV2 way too fast. I’m all for
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rodeo flying when there’s enough height to deal with the consequences, but as I was scratching right over the tree tops the frequent collapses got the better of me and I was the first on the ground, shaking from the adrenaline. Toby liked my launch and landing so I guess I’d made the checkout, but I wondered if I was in over my head. Toby thought we had a good chance of getting some distance that afternoon so we headed west to the Semnoz launch, where he gave us a 70km task down to Chambery, back to launch, then over the back to Roc des Boeufs and down to the standard LZ for Annecy at Doussard. Strong lift plucked Kevin and our good friend Bruce, an Australian, up to low cloudbase right off launch. I followed with jittery nerves left-over from the morning’s flight, but by the time we were 5km down the ridge I was all
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FLYING AT ANNECY PHOTO: JODY MACDONALD
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PHOTO: JODY MACDONALD
Toby was way too high to get to the ground in time and smartly sprinted over the back. Bruce started
Two hours later, with the sun setting to the west and the last thermals of the day winding down, I found myself back over the Semnoz launch after a ridiculously low save. I planned to land in the designated LZ, happy to have achieved the 40km out-and-back but not a little disappointed to know that Bruce, Kevin and Toby had made it over the back to Roc des Boeufs and would no doubt complete the task. Each time I wandered off the hill towards the LZ I caught another gentle thermal and couldn’t help drifting back over launch, eyeing the antenna tower to the east that Toby had said you could practically kick and make it to Roc des Boeufs. Maybe, just maybe… Suddenly I found myself with a Korean pilot and an extra 100 metres of height and we both went for it. I play-kicked the antenna and didn’t look back. I could just make out Bruce’s orange Sprint over Roc des Boeufs and heard some chatter on the radio that he was going to shoot back across the lake for the Plan Fait landing, near where we were staying. By the time I reached de Boeufs Toby had caught sight of my wing and recommended the simpler Doussard landing, but I’d already made up my mind to continue across the lake - what a way to end the task! I made it on glide with a bit to spare and landed right next to Bruce, who had no idea I was still in the air. Day 1 of the trip and I’d bested my previous record by 25km and had the most rewarding XC experience of my life. The local Annecy pilots, and the many Red Bull pilots preparing in the area for the upcoming X-Alps, would view my flight as average at best, but uploading to Leonardo that evening was quite a personal thrill! Our trip over the Alps was billed to have all of the pleasures of the Red Bull X-Alps with none of the pain. Land anywhere, SMS your co-ordinates and Mad Paul would magically appear, each time wearing an even more entertaining t-shirt. Cheap but comfortable, clean and sometimes truly outstanding accommodation was arranged in quaint French villages depending on the success of the day. Toby had done the route both from the north and south on many previous occasions and had everything wired. Each evening he would assess the weather prognosis and kept his promise that our itinerary would remain flexible. The goal was never to reach a certain destination at a certain time, but to maximise airtime and fly safely within the given conditions. SKYWINGS
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PHOTO: JODY MACDONALD
Mad Paul the driver
smiles. The lift was incredibly smooth and perfect cloud streets clearly showed the way across the three potential sink-out valley crossings, the only real obstacles of the task.
A nasty low was headed towards Annecy on our second night, pushing high winds. Steve, who’d also had the best flight of his life the day before, was as thrilled as we all were to have another go, but the conditions called for discretion. Toby knew a spot called Le Banchet down in the lowlands he thought might work. Twice we each sunk out in very light ridge lift, and shortly after had winds in excess of 25 - 30km/h per hour scream through with almost no warning. On our third launch, again after a long assessment of the weather Toby, Bruce and Steve got up over the ridge while the rest of us missed the window and sank back to the LZ. But just as I was cussing myself for sinking out I noticed a low, very menacing cloud approaching from the west at what seemed to be well over 50km/h.
aggressive tight spirals in an effort to get out of the strong cloud suck, but after getting thrown around like a rag doll also made the wise call to run. Steve was lower than the other pilots and tried to pull big ears to get down. He made it over the landing field just as the gust front hit. The trees shook violently and each of us watched in horror as Steve and his wing got tossed around like a handkerchief in a tornado. Then, 30ft off the deck, his wing went parachutal and before he could recover smacked the ground standing straight up. For Steve, later diagnosed with a shattered vertebra and a broken pelvis, the trip was perfect ecstasy and perfect misery inside 24 hours. While I barely knew him I felt incredible sadness at his fate as well as for Toby, who I knew felt responsible however unjustly. But I know his misfortune made each of us better pilots. Bad things in this sport
PHOTO: JODY MACDONALD
are inevitable and selfishly I was glad it hadn’t been me, but I found myself thankful (albeit guiltily) for the lesson in humility. We each made our own decision to fly that day, and the only one of us who made a good decision was Jody, who never even pulled out her wing.
Co-ordinating the GPSs before take-off
Below: Entering the battlefield off the south end of Dormillouse on the way to St Andre
For the remainder of the week the mood was somewhat subdued but the magic that is paragliding overshadowed the accident. While everyone bested their own personal records and much was learned in the way of tactics and weather, I will remember the journey for the extraordinary beauty. An active XC day at the famous St. Hilaire; a spectacular glass-off ridge climb at sunset at Saint Vincent les Forts; a long wild run through the “Battlefield” from the Dormillouse ridge and landing in a stunning, ancient village perched in the hills; and finally a
fitting end of ridge soaring at Gourdon on the afternoon sea breeze above Nice. Mad Paul provided boundless energy and was forever willing to drive absurd distances to retrieve us; while Toby patiently and competently ran the show, forever proving valuable lessons and insight which translated into radically improved skills for each of us. Maybe in a few more years, after thousands of hours of practice and a desire to live through extraordinary pain, I’ll have a go at the real X-Alps, no doubt one of the most difficult and spectacular athletic events ever been created. But for those of us lesser mortals who ache to fly and have goals more grounded in sanity, the No Bull X-Alps has the perfect combination of solid cross country flying, spectacular scenery, and an organised and nurturing learning environment.
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