THE ORDEAL

by JEREMY POTTENGER

Life reflections and revisions

It’s not the air that will kill you—I forgot that in the madness. This world is turbulent. Not only the eddies and gusts for the air but also the pursuit of life and success.

However you interpret the winds, the struggles, or the challenges that lie ahead, this perception determines the outcome. How do I perceive paragliding? It is one of the most beautiful arts on this planet at this time in history. I have not considered myself as being an artist, and yet, there is art all around. Some capture it with photography, others with oils and paint, still others by tossing their body, mind, and soul into the void. Paragliding is an art practiced in many different ways by many different people. As I grew to understand this, I forgot the dangers involved. One false step, one wrong move, one ill-timed launch...

Leading up to my incident, as some have pointed out, I was very turbulent. Turbulent in mind and life. I had lost a very close feathered friend, one of my falcons, and had just fought with another (human) friend. It would be accurate to assume I was utterly overwhelmed in life, business, and the pursuit of happiness.

I write this article not to try and take away from the beauty of the art of free flight, but to bring light to how quickly we can go from being safe and secure in our confidence in this sport to having months or years in recovery or worse. Though there are many ways to end up on the downslope side of this hill, the one good check to perform before each flight is on our mental state.

Not wanting to face those issues, I used the peace and quiet of free flight to “escape” reality. In retrospect, this was not the answer. This art requires clarity of mind, spirit, and body. Although I was very physically fit, I was not mentally fit. I was flying as much as possible, but I was not focused on a perfect launch, perfect form, or perfect flight, all of which must safely align to glide over the rocks, trees, and ground. The lack of those necessities mixed with a misaligned mental state can lead to a misjudgment, spelling disaster. A misjudgment like the sun setting at my back, the air switching katabatic, the micro-lift disappearing, the improper wing choice, or the unforgiving launch. Disaster.

For a while up to this point, I had been flying my trainer mini-wing, the BGD SEED; it’s a wing designed for ground-handling only, not for actual flight (BGD is very clear about this on their website). But it flew so nicely in the strong and laminar conditions at the South Side Point of the Mountain, Utah, that I had gotten complacent. It was not designed for the mountaineering lines and “speed flights” I was pursuing. But it was light and easy, and I was confident. Caught smack dab in intermediate syndrome, I felt nearly invincible.

The author on his BGD SEED

I train falcons to chase ravens and seagulls away from the county landfill, orchards, and vineyards. We fight daily to discourage them from eating our trash and toxic waste. We call this art "falconry abatement." On the day of the incident, I had worked late and was anxious to get out and fly. It had been a long day fighting the war against wildlife foraging in the waste of the county landfill.

I hiked up to a launch I now call “The Shredder.” Alone on the steep staircase of granite and bedrock far out in the west Utah desert, I was without communication, a safety net, or a plan B. Did I make any precautionary plan in case something went wrong? Did I even tell anyone where I wanted to explore, the line I wanted to fly? No. Intermediate syndrome reigned. My falcons could fly, and so could I. The ravens were playing out front of launch, and my trusty dog, Leia, was by my side, ready to chase me back down to my truck. A short 2,000-foot flight back to the valley floor and a sunset flute session to honor my fallen falcon after; that was all that was on my mind the night of March 5, 2020.

I found a ledge with a clearing I deemed large enough to get the wing going before throwing my body, life, and world off the cliff. My first attempt should have been all the warning I needed; I ran forward and tripped, nearly tumbling over the cliff. As the air began going katabatic, I rushed to get set up for a second attempt. (Did I mention my turbulent mental state?) On the second attempt, I changed my trajectory to avoid the rock in my original runway and sent it. Launching, I was roughly 30 feet off the ground, but I didn’t account for the bouldery ledge below.

As my glider sank, I impacted the ledge with my right leg, left shin, and airbag and went into a straight tumble. Back, neck, then legs again, stopping on the third impact. The airbag on my harness, the Speedride by Gin, and my helmet saved my life, but my ordeal had just begun.

I found myself lying broken and bleeding at the bottom of a rocky cliff.

It was clear that my right leg was shattered; my left was bleeding and sore but mobile. “It’s only sprained,” I thought to myself. I did a quick self-assessment, and the rest of me seemed mostly okay. I had a big gash on my left hand, but I could move. I wasn’t knocked out, but my connection to consciousness was tenuous at best. I crawled away from my glider and harness and looked down below. It was at least 2,000 feet down to the sanctuary of my truck, and the light and warmth of the day were fading quickly.

I chose to stay at the crash site, using my wing and dog as protection from the elements and whatever creatures the unforgiving desert was about to throw at me. Staying put seemed smarter than trying to crawl out in the freezing cold, at night, on a busted leg.

The pain was fierce, but my training from Wilderness First Aid and Boy Scouts reminded me to stay calm and make a plan. I tried to gather any material for a fire, but the materials were meager at the base of the cliff. I was so ill-prepared. In that moment, all I had to my name was a hooded sweater, hiking pants, a cell phone with no service, a lighter, and a wallet with identification (for when they found my body ... if they found my body). No food, no water, no first aid kit. How would my family and friends ever forgive me?

I recorded a couple of videos saying goodbye and curled up in my wing to await whatever fate was in store for me. Passing out from the pain, not even Leia recognized me in that broken state. I was alone; broken and alone. A pack of coyotes howling nearby and a mountain lion lurking about elicited many conversations with my creator. Somehow, I survived the night.

That sunrise the next morning was the most beautiful I had ever seen.

At sunrise, waiting for a moment to launch

I had no way to call for help, no inReach, Spot, or safety net. That morning, there had been a dirt biker riding the road below, and I had seen a pair of hikers across the ravine, but every attempt to signal for help hadn’t worked. “I got myself into this mess. I have to get myself out,” I said to myself. I decided it was time to start crawling, more like scooting, back to my truck.

With one leg shattered, the other “only sprained” leg bore the brunt of the crawl out. I had to scoot on my butt, lay on my glider as a cushion, and lift my weight with the less broken leg. “It’s only sprained,” I had to keep repeating to myself. Leia’s comfort and the tiny patches of softer earth and grass were my only relief throughout the day. For 27 hours, I alternated between crawling, resting, and passing out from the pain. Once at my truck, I still had a three-hour drive to get myself, my dog, and my falcon crew back to food, safety, and medical aid.

One poor decision nearly cost all of us our lives.

It’s been over a year since “The Ordeal.” I’ve been through four surgeries to repair seven broken bones, including both legs (it wasn’t just sprained). My recovery included 13 screws, two plates, and one pin to get my feet and legs back to a semi-pre-accident state. Daily physical therapy and yoga have fought off infection, pain, and total loss of life and limb during recovery.

I have proven to the doctors and myself that I won’t allow this incident to stop me from making the best of the time I have been gifted. My new mission is to continue to fly my glider (not the SEED) and train my falcons with more awareness. I now put on full motocross riding armor before each flight and have started seeing others, especially speedfliers, do the same.

My relationships with family, friends (human and otherwise), and my creator are stronger than ever, but it took nearly destroying myself to get here.

Please don’t make the same mistakes I made. Take time to thank your friends and family for their part in your life. Listen and respect the advice you’re given, whether you feel it applies to you or not. And from here on out, please include a mental assessment in your pre-flight check. I certainly will.