MOAB – It’s cold at 18,000 feet in elevation soaring over the red Utah desert.
But the cold isn’t what makes me shiver – it’s the nerves of jumping out of this airplane and hurtling through the air toward the desert below.
The vibe in the Cessna Supervan cabin is casual. I, along with five other clients with Skydive Moab, are strapped baby front-pack style to a team of enthusiasts who have made the somewhat fringe pastime of skydiving their job.
The skydivers joke and laugh with one another, seeming unconcerned that they are about to fall 13,000 feet. Their nonchalance is because they are experienced and highly qualified; as I’ve learned through my reporting, skydiving licenses require dozens of jumps and tests to make sure those who do it do it safely.
Though I knew I would reporting on the Fort Lewis College Skydiving Club’s first team outing to Moab, I did not think that my life would wind up in the hands of a man called Gravy.
Gravy’s real name is Ryan Katchmar, a friendly, effortlessly-cool skydiver who moved to Moab from Chicago to skydive, and he assures me that everything will be OK as the plane door slams opens and cold wind rushes in behind.
“It’s natural,” he said. “When we go out the door, just grab your harness, lean your head back and push your hips forward. ‘’ll take care of the rest.”
I signed the waiver and agreed to do this, and I do my share of dangerous things – skiing, mountain biking and whitewater kayaking – but now that I’m up here, it just seems insane!
It doesn’t matter, because Gravy scootches us to the door. Everything that evolution encoded into my mammalian nervous system is screaming at me to not go over that edge, but I keep reminding myself that I am in safe hands.
“Ready?” Gravy asks.
Before I can respond, he tips us out of the plane. The force of accelerating at 32.2 feet per second squared slams my chest, and the wind deafens my screams as we hurtle toward the earth. Soon we reach terminal velocity – 120 mph – and though we only free fall for 55 seconds, it feels like an eternity.
Then, Gravy pulls the parachute and we gently slow down as the canopy opens. After the most chaotic 55 seconds of my life, I suddenly find myself suspended far above the ground, gently soaring next to enormous fluffy clouds. It’s peaceful.
Gravy even lets me steer the parachute, which I gladly accept.
I’m lucky, because I have been able to spend a lot of time in Moab. I turn us toward Castle Valley and the La Sal Mountains – a place I have loved since I was a boy. The aspens, cottonwoods and scrub oak have started to settle into their fall colors and the scent of rain rides the breeze. I admire the swells and striations of sagebrush-covered sandstone and gaze at the canyons, cliffs, mesas and stone towers of Moab.
We drift for a while, then Gravy takes the reins back from me, and pilots us gently to the ground at the Canyonlands Field Airport. Just like that, I’m back on dry land, and I want to go again.
But I have to finish my reporting and get back to Durango. So I effusively thank Gravy, do some more interviews with the club, then hop in my car and drive home.
I take the long way through Castle Valley to reflect. I’m very grateful that Ben Iverson, with whom I went to FLC, invited me out to Moab and let me eat and camp with the team. It’s awesome to have seen him grow from a student to a leader at the same school, and how the kids in his club look up to him. I’m also thankful to have gotten know the students in the club over the weekend.
It's also pretty cool The Durango Herald let me jump out of a plane for a story. So to my editor and human resources, thank you.
I can’t help but think about the people who make skydiving their lives. They’re a motley bunch, with tattoos and crazy haircuts and the kind smiles that only people who spend their lives in the sky seem to have. To me, they seem to love life in a rare way, not because their heads are (literally) in the clouds, but because they get to see the big picture of things more often than most people. Life’s troubles seem so small from way up there.
Though it was scary at first, I now see why people gravitate toward this sport – one literally gets to fly.
sedmondson@durangoherald.com
