Thomsen, the Mingus site director for the Arizona Hang Gliding and Paragliding Association (AZHPA), waited two hours in the ponderosa pines for the right wind to develop, blowing from the west to the east, so he could take off without incident.
But Thomsen, a 62-year-old carpenter from Prescott who works as a construction superintendent, was out of luck. Occasional gusts blew in from the southwest, although they weren't substantial.
Occasionally, you take your lumps in this sport. It's part of the experience. If something's not right with either the glider or the weather, Thomsen doesn't risk it. The toughest maneuvers in hang gliding are taking off and landing. In between, it's usually gravy.
"It's a lot like surfing would be," the 6-foot-3, 185-pound Thomsen said as he prepared for his flight that day. "Are the waves going to be good? Is it too much? I'd say one of the biggest things to know is when to say 'no.' If you can learn to do that, you'll have a nice, long career."
Despite the poor flying conditions on the 11th, hang-gliding enthusiasts enjoy Mingus because low-hanging cumulus clouds typically form and grow above the canyon to the west around noon, creating thermals - the ideal winds for flying. And these guys can fly here year-round, if they're so inclined. (Thomsen has flown with a foot of snow on the ground.)
Eight red ribbons attached to free-flowing chains on metal posts protrude at strategic spots along the cliff face and on top of a few pine trees, giving flyers an idea of the wind speed and direction.
"This valley cooks," Thomsen said as he pieced together the component parts of his hang glider in the dirt and gravel no more than 20 yards from the concrete-ramp launch site. "It's going to heat up in the morning. And see these ribbons? They'll start blowing in, like they are right now. Thermals are going to come in, kind of like waves."
When the ribbons blow toward him from east to west, Thomsen knows it's safe to approach the launch ramp, hook his harness to his glider and sail off the cliff. Two small wheels are affixed to the metal triangle to which Thomsen attaches himself for landing gear.
"Whatever wind there is, that's that much I don't have to run (during the launch)," Thomsen said.
Mark Francis, a commercial airline pilot from Chino Valley, arrived with his son, Julian, of Prescott Valley, at the Mingus launch site shortly after Thomsen did on the 11th.
Mark set up his glider and was anticipating a flight. But about an hour later, once Mark realized that the winds wouldn't be ideal, he disassembled the glider with Julian's help.
Thomsen stayed, and waited patiently for a while before he gave up. For hang-glider pilots, it's frustrating to surrender to Mother Nature. Flying haunts their dreams.
"It's freedom," Mark said. "I always wanted to be a bird."
Thomsen has two gliders. On this day, he hauled up to the mountain in a pickup truck his collapsible double-surface glider, which is V-shaped and has a wingspan of about 33 feet. He slides several rods into the wings to keep them buoyant.
Thomsen has an equipment checklist that he follows before every flight. At the end of the process, he climbs into his harness, which looks like a sleeping bag, and zips himself into it when he's ready to launch.
The trick is determining whether the wind conditions are right to lift the glider with the weight of Thomsen and his gear attached to it. The glider is controlled by the flyer being weighted underneath it, similar to a pendulum.
"The glider wants to fly," Thomsen said. "If we just put this together and threw it off the mountain, it would fly perfect all by itself. I want to knife the glider right into the east-west wind while I'm going down the ramp."
When he's in the air at 7,000 to 8,000 feet with other hang-glider pilots, Thomsen said he doesn't follow them too closely. But he does communicate with them over two-way radio about "good spots" he finds in the atmosphere.
There are several routes to traverse from Mingus Mountain, including, but not limited to, Sedona, Munds Park and Mormon Lake near Flagstaff, as well as locations in northeast Arizona, like Holbrook and Winslow. Thomsen's longest flight lasted three hours and 45 minutes, from Mingus to Williams. The world-record longest one-way flight was 476 miles by Arizona pilot Dustin Martin in Texas, Thomsen said. He was in the air for 11 hours in the daylight. (You can't fly at night.)
On a landing, a hang-glider pilot flies into the wind whenever possible so that he doesn't drop to the ground too quickly. Gliders are built to give during touchdown. Thomsen said he's allowed to land at Cottonwood Airport, Sedona Airport or even at the old fairgrounds at Yavapai Downs. (Thomsen added that Federal Aviation Administration rules say hang-glider pilots aren't required to call an airport before landing, but they probably should so that airport personnel can see them.)
To outsiders, that sounds scary.
"Actually, a lot of the hang-glider pilots," Julian said, "you'll find that they're afraid of heights."
AZHPA, which has a few hundred members, flies at several different spots around Arizona. Its pilots usually hang glide at altitudes much lower than planes and other aircraft. Since 1975, AZHPA members have held a special-use permit from the U.S. Forest Service to fly off Mingus.
Thomsen and the other Mingus flyers built their own campsite nearby in the woods so that they can spend the night there and fly the next day.
With the permit, the AZHPA operates two launch sites, including one for paragliders (parachute flying) a short walk north of the hang-gliding ramp.
On every hang-gliding flight, Thomsen attaches a variometer, a handheld electronic device that records glide path, wind speed, air pressure, altitude and lift for the duration. The instrument beeps to alert pilots when their altitude is changing. They also have GPS.
In his harness, Thomsen has a parachute that he can deploy in a medical emergency or a collision. Sometimes he carries an oxygen tank in his harness for higher-altitude flying.
Thomsen also hang glides with smoke signals (occasionally used in tough landings), a Camelbak water pouch and snacks. He wears sunglasses, a safari hat, mitts, hiking shoes, knee and shin pads, an aerodynamic lightweight plastic helmet, pants and a long-sleeve shirt with a light jacket. And he sprays sunscreen on his face and hands to avoid sunburns.
Thomsen controls the hang glider's speed by shifting his weight one way or the other in the harness.
"I tend to cruise at 27 miles an hour all the time," Thomsen said.
The goal on each flight is to get up in the air as quickly as possible.
Thomsen checks the weather forecast on top of Mingus a day or two in advance to see if the conditions are right for flying. At the launch site, Thomsen listens constantly for the wind whistling through the trees. Clouds create unstable air. On a high-pressure day, though, the atmosphere's too stable and doesn't provide enough lift.
Thomsen said that on Mingus he will fly in sustained winds upwards of the mid-20s mph, but nothing faster than that. On the 11th, Thomsen was hoping for 10 mph winds, which never came.
"You never stop thinking about it," he said of the wind and weather. "What are my chances? Am I missing a good day?"
Once he's safely in the air, Thomsen employs a two-way radio to communicate with other flyers about his location. A bailout point, located in a swath of desert on the National Forest in the valley below, is a spot flyers can always reach if something goes wrong mid-flight.
"It's a very lonely place," Thomsen said.
Thomsen learned how to hang glide as a 20-something in the mid-1970s. His good friend Mark Wuerfel of Flagstaff is the first person Thomsen had ever seen fly.
Years ago, Wuerfel, who took lessons from a hang-glider manufacturer in Colorado, brought a hang glider back from the Rocky Mountain State to Arizona.
"And we said, 'You've gotta show us this thing,' " Thomsen recalled.
Wuerfel and Thomsen later headed up to Shaw Butte Mountain in Phoenix, where Thomsen watched Wuerfel and another local hang-glider pilot take off. (Thomsen's first flight came on Shaw Butte.)
"It was just surreal," Thomsen said. "In the '70s it was better than any special effects. I saw that and I knew that was it."
After that seminal moment, Thomsen and his buddies wanted to learn how to hang glide. Several guys were self-taught in those days, which Thomsen said didn't work well because there were no instruction manuals. (Thomsen has a license now.)
Eventually, Thomsen moved to the Pacific Northwest, where he didn't fly as much because of the rainy climate. He whitewater kayaked instead.
But for the past 14 years, ever since his return to sunny, arid Arizona, he's been flying consistently.
"It's kinda like riding a bike," he said. "I see everything more clearly after I've flown."
Mark Francis, 53, was self-taught hang gliding in the late summer of 1984. He estimates that he has flown 800 to 1,000 hours. But both Mark and Thomsen say that if you're interested in becoming a hang-glider pilot, hire a certified instructor. Instructors sell the gear, which Thomsen added is "better than ever."
"Arizona's one of the best places to fly," Thomsen said. "Nobody's a daredevil in this group. We all like to have fun."
Story and photos: http://dcourier.com
Kris Thomsen performs a pre-flight check on top of Mingus Mountain. Unfortunately, the wind didn’t cooperate that day, and he decided against flying.
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