by Steph Davis
A prospective base jumper traditionally had to gain acceptance by local jumpers, come along on base-jumping missions as “ground crew,” and gradually earn entry into the community before entering the sport. Now, twenty years later, people could sign up for a first base-jumping course and take a more direct route to starting to jump. But many jumpers remained clannish, as I’d seen firsthand.
It didn’t take much knowledge of the sport to understand that base jumping was a lot more dangerous than skydiving. I left the jump plane thirteen thousand feet above the ground, with almost a minute of freefall time to get stable in the air and deploy the parachute. I also had a second, reserve parachute, in case of a problem with the first parachute, and a small computer connected to it that would automatically deploy the reserve if I was still in free fall when I got a thousand feet above the ground. So I could do everything wrong or even pass out, and my parachute would still open. Since the drop zone’s landing area was the size of several football fields, the odds were good that I’d end up in a flat, grassy place, even if I failed to fly the parachute or didn’t have the skills to land where I wanted to.
Base jumps range mostly from two hundred to four thousand feet tall. When jumping from a two-hundred-foot cliff, a person will hit the ground in less than four seconds. So base jumpers have only one parachute, and they have to deploy it at precisely the right second before they run out of altitude. Base jumpers also have to avoid actually hitting the object they’ve jumped from. And compared with the giant, grassy airport fields, the places where I had seen base jumpers landing looked like booby traps, full of rocks, bushes, and trees to hit.
I knew that falling into dead air from a still object felt very different from being supported by the rush of wind from the moving plane. When I stepped out the door of the plane, the wind caught me and held me until I reached terminal speed at 120 miles per hour. Many of my friends at the drop zone laughed about their first balloon jumps, how they’d fallen head down from the edge of the basket before regaining the force of the air at terminal velocity. It required a different type of body control to stay stable through the soft air when leaving the edge. I had no idea what that would feel like, falling with the full sensation of dropping through still air. There wasn’t any way to find out, except by jumping from a balloon or a helicopter, before experiencing a base jump for the first time.
Many base jumps are so low that a jumper never even reaches terminal speed in the free fall. Cliffs eight hundred feet or less are usually referred to as subterminal. Twelve hundred to four thousand feet gives enough freefall time to reach terminal speed before needing to deploy the parachute, so these are often called terminal jumps. A terminal jump can be done with a wingsuit, more than doubling the amount of time the jumper has in the air. With a wingsuit, the jumper can also fly far from the cliff, as I had seen on Half Dome.
I also knew that packing a base parachute was much more complicated than packing a skydiving parachute, and that it could take an hour to do it perfectly. When jumping with a single parachute and no backup systems, it was absolutely crucial for the chute to open immediately and correctly. I hadn’t yet had a parachute malfunction in skydiving, but malfunctions were common, and I’d learned the cutaway procedures in AFF. Basically, if the parachute didn’t open right or if the lines were twisted and I found myself as low as fifteen hundred feet above the ground, I had to pull the two handles on the front of my skydiving rig. The first handle would release the bad parachute, sending me back into free fall, and the second handle would pop out the reserve parachute, which could be repacked only by a master rigger. The packing method for reserve parachutes was almost the same as the one used by base jumpers, an intricate sequence of perfect folds and creases for this parachute that could not fail.
Though my knowledge of base jumping was limited, I could see that if I wanted to learn, I’d need to keep skydiving as much as I could, and I should also do some jumps from a helicopter or a balloon to feel the difference of jumping into dead air, as from a still object. I’d also need to learn how to pack a base rig. And get one. And somehow, I felt, the Diamond and I weren’t quite finished with each other.
My bank account was telling me I couldn’t stay in Boulder past August, especially since my current income wasn’t enough to sustain me even at home in Utah, where the cost of living was so much lower. It was a strange situation. My few smallest sponsors still had me on retainer. But that income added up to a total that was well below poverty level, just not enough to make it. This was not sustainable. Should I hang in there and work toward rebuilding my climbing career, or should I just walk away from it all, look for a teaching job or something entirely new? I didn’t have a clear answer. I’d need to sort this out when I returned to my real life, in just a few weeks. September would be a perfect time of year to go home to the desert anyway, having missed the blistering heat of a Moab summer. I realized with a start that I had a lot to get done. Two months ago, I’d felt aimless, unsure of how to fill my time or where to go. Suddenly I was wondering how I could possibly get everything done here in just three weeks. Time seemed to be speeding up. I had a lot to look forward to, so many things to plan. I felt ablaze with thoughts and ideas. I dug out my pocket calendar from the glove compartment of my truck and opened it to August and September. For the first time since I’d come to Boulder, I actually needed to think about what day it was and what I’d be doing next month. And I needed to talk to Chris, Jay, and Brendan.
My friends Chris and Jay were also part of the tight group of skydivers-cum-base-jumpers at Mile-Hi. I’d known Chris for a few years, since he was one of the base jumpers who also climbed now and then. Chris worked as a video flier, following the tandems out of the plane and flying right in front of them with a heavy video camera on his head. Most people who were doing a tandem skydive considered it a once-in-a-lifetime experience and wanted to buy a ten-minute souvenir video of their jump.
As soon as the canopies opened in the air, the tandem team slowly floated down under a massive 360-square-foot canopy, and the video flier’s job was finished. Chris’s canopy was a tiny rectangle of nylon, one-quarter of that size, which allowed him to speed through the air and swoop to a landing at speeds of up to 60 miles per hour. Swooping with a tiny sport canopy is highly addictive for some skydivers, and tragically lethal for many. For cameramen who jump all day, every day, for a living, swooping tiny canopies is a way to add some bonus exhilaration to each work jump, since they’re basically off the clock as soon as a tandem parachute opens. To me, safely landing in the right place under my parachute twice the size of those sport canopies was exhilarating enough. Every time I saw a camera flier or fun jumper come screaming in, skimming the ground with a toe, knees cocked, and ready to run, I cringed.
I hadn’t seen anyone smash into the ground yet, but I’d heard about plenty of people who had. Broken legs, femurs, pelvises, backs, and necks were, sadly, common in swooping accidents. For me, the parachute was something I needed to get me safely to the ground after I was done flying through the air, and that’s all I asked of it. With less than two months of skydiving experience, it was still challenging for me to consistently land on my feet even with my oversize canopy, and though I could generally steer myself to the big circle of pea gravel at the landing area, I also missed it sometimes when the wind changed. Swooping small canopies seemed like a good way to get hurt or die, and I wasn’t even putting it on the list of things I’d never do. But for swoopers, it was the whole point of jumping. And having the skill to land such a tiny canopy safely was obviously a huge advantage for base jumpers, whose lives often depend on maneuvering a parachute safely into a tight, rugged landing spot. Though I found it slightly nerve-racking to watch my friend come screaming toward the earth, Chris had impressive skill with his small sport canopy. He never seemed to miss a load and sometimes didn’t even return to the hangar between jumps. I often saw him swooping across the front edge of the landing zone and running to the trailer, where he’d e
xchange his unpacked rig for a packed one and then run over to the plane to film the next tandem customer.
Jay was rarely at the drop zone because he was almost always hard at work at the Mexican restaurant his family owned in downtown Boulder. Curly-headed and compact, Jay was full of high energy and an unapologetic workaholic. He would grab a couple of hours here or there to drive out to Mile-Hi, get into his wingsuit or freefly suit, and do a couple of skydives, zipping off as soon as he landed. Unlike most people, who would like to go on trips if it weren’t for all the planning, Jay loved organizing base jumping trips to exotic locations, coordinating helicopter rides and foreign travel for a group of friends. Seeing his friends enjoy themselves was a huge source of pleasure for him. The best way to hang out with Jay was at his restaurant, since he could socialize while bartending and load his friends up with margaritas.
Jay, Chris, and Brendan were apprehensive but hardly surprised when I walked into the restaurant that night, sipped down half the margarita Jay had just made me, and told them I wanted to learn to base jump as soon as I’d done a hundred skydives. They’d heard it before, more than once.
“Steph, I don’t think Jimmy and Marta are going to even let you join their course with such low skydiving experience,” Jay said.
“In the next few weeks, I’ll have more than a hundred skydives. That’s the minimum they ask.”
“I know, Steph, but you have to keep in mind that you’ve been really accelerated. Most people don’t go through AFF and do a hundred jumps in two or three months. It does take a while for things to soak in. Jimmy and Marta are your friends, and they don’t want to see you rush things and break yourself. They might not want to take that responsibility. It’s different than a stranger signing up for their jump course.”
As always, my thoughts were written all over my face. I forced myself to keep quiet.
“On the other hand, jumping every day does make you pretty current,” Brendan offered, looking pointedly at Jay. “And you’ve skydived every day since you showed up here at the end of June.”
“Exactly,” I said. I looked at Chris. He wasn’t saying anything. “What?”
“Honestly, Steph, I think it’s rushing things,” Chris said. “But you are supercurrent, and you’re also not the average new skydiver. You’re really good at your sport. You know how to deal with high-pressure situations and you’re used to handling gear. If Jimmy and Marta are willing to let you join a first jump course, it would be the best way for you to start jumping. But it’s really pushing things, which isn’t the best approach.”
“It’s serious, Steph. You have to know how many people get hurt or die base jumping. It has to be something you really want to do,” Jay persisted. “For yourself.”
“Jay.” I was kind of offended.
I wanted their honesty, of course, but I didn’t like being told I should slow down. I’d never slowed down in my life, and as far as I’d always seen, forging full steam ahead was the way to get things done. As alpinists always say, “Speed is safety.” I knew I was inexperienced with only two months of skydiving behind me. But I did believe that my advanced climbing skills helped me in this new discipline. And as far as I could see, I was doing everything right with my skydiving as a background for base, practicing only tracking with my body and accuracy of landing with my parachute every day. If I kept practicing these skills and then learned how to base jump from my highly qualified friends, surely I could learn the right way, the safe way.
“Look, Steph, I just don’t want to see you rush into base jumping. You should get on the Internet and look at the base boards. It lists every fatality and how it happened. It’s pretty scary. Even with tons of experience people go in. It’s not like skydiving,” Jay said.
“Okay, Jay, I will. But will you teach me how to pack a base rig? Brendan says you have the best packing method, because his pack jobs are kind of a mess.” I smiled at Brendan. “I actually did talk to Jimmy and Marta, and if I have a hundred skydives and I learn how to pack, I can join a course they have in October. That’s what they said. And I’ll have way more than a hundred jumps by then.”
“Well, that’s true. Jay packs much better than I do,” Brendan said with a grin. “But mine always open.”
As much as Jay had reservations about me jumping, it was almost physically impossible for him to refuse to help a friend.
“Okay,” Jay said, surrendering. “Let’s do it tomorrow.”
Jay came to the drop zone the next day with two of his base rigs, which were identical. Brendan teased him endlessly for owning nine base rigs, because he wouldn’t part with any of them though he didn’t take a lot of vacation time to go and use them.
Jay laid the canopies out on the carpet with the lines stretched straight to the empty containers, just like an unpacked skydiving rig. Though these canopies were much bigger than most skydiving parachutes, the containers were much smaller because they held only the single parachute, with no reserve chute taking up half the space. He pulled out five orange-tipped metal Pony clamps and some pull-up cords, thick grosgrain ribbons used to thread the curved closing pin through the closing loop after the parachute was stowed inside the container flaps.
Packing a skydiving rig
A skydiving container is held shut by a single curved closing pin attached to the bridle, which will slide out with no resistance when the pilot chute is thrown into the air and yanks on the bridle, opening the container and pulling the main parachute into the air.
A base container is a pared-down system, but it has two closing pins attached to the bridle. The canopy is attached to multiple lines that run to risers, four wide straps coming up from the container above the shoulder straps. The container itself, when empty, is simply a piece of sturdy fabric with four flaps and leg-loops and a chest strap sewn to it. When the canopy is neatly packed into a tight square, the flaps wrap around it and are held shut by the two closing pins sewn onto the bridle, twelve feet of flat webbing that connects the pilot chute and the main parachute. When the jumper throws the pilot chute into the air, it inflates, pulling out the bridle. The bridle pulls the slick curved pins out of the small closing loops and yanks the parachute out of the container, where it will inflate with air. The jumper is suspended from the lines and the risers below the flying wing. When everything goes right, the system is beautifully simple.
When falling through the air toward the ground, you do not have much time to figure things out or fix them, and impact almost always results in bodily damage. The problem with jumping from an object instead of an airplane is that the object is always around to hit too. With no backup systems, the parachute has to open on time, perfectly, and also pointing in the right direction. Many accidents in base jumping happen when a parachute opens facing the wall and the jumper fails to turn it around in time. Base jumpers use an origami-like system for folding the parachute into a small square, with each fold calculated to result in a perfect, on-heading opening. Most people have slightly different packing methods, some using many clamps to hold the fabric in place as they work, some using none. No matter what, all packing methods are designed to make each nylon fold symmetrical, with all the lines carefully stacked to unspool straight and clean, with no tangles. In theory, a perfectly designed and executed pack job should always result in a perfectly open, straight-flying parachute. Real life is never as tidy as that. But all jumpers agree that a good pack job is essential to stacking the odds in one’s favor.
Jay patiently packed his canopy once, as a demonstration, while I followed him around the floor and took photos of each of the countless steps as he folded, clamped, and knelt on the parachute, forming it into a tight, compact package. Including the time it took for me to ask about the reason for every step, it took an hour for him to pack his parachute and neatly close the flaps around it, with the pilot chute carefully stowed into its pouch. It was a perfect pack job. I admired it for a moment, and then Jay pulled out the pilot chute, lifted the canopy out by the bridle, shook
it all out into fluffy folds again, and coached me as I laboriously duplicated his pack job. By the end of the next hour, I was having a hard time remembering the steps from back in the beginning. There was so much nylon, with so many lines, so many folds, and so many steps. I wondered how I’d ever get it all straight and then be able to actually trust that I’d done it all right as I jumped into the air with my own pack job as the single safety net between me and impact.
A few days later, I stood in the hangar while I was waiting for a load, scrolling through the photos on my digital camera, trying to match the steps with the notes I’d taken. One thing was obvious. I would need to practice this a lot or I’d never learn it before Jimmy and Marta’s jump course. Chris walked up behind me and gave me a hug. I spun around, startled. “Hey!”
“Those are some nice photos of Jay’s canopy,” he said, teasing.
“Well, I’ve already kind of forgotten the whole packing sequence. So I’m kind of worried.”
“I’d be happy to teach you again. I pack a little different than Jay, and you can borrow my rig for a little while too if you want to practice packing it a bunch of times.”
“Wow, that is really kind of you. Thanks!” I squeezed him back. Chris had been around a lot more in the last few weeks, joining me for some climbing sessions at the gym and even managing to get in a few tracking skydives with me between his camera jumps.
“Actually, I was going to ask you if you wanted a safety rigging job. And it would also be a good way for you to get exposed to some base jumping now that you’re thinking of starting,” he said.
“What? What kind of job?”
“Basically Triax—which is me, Damian, Kenyon, and Blake—has been hired to do a commercial shoot for Intel. They want some base-jumping footage to make a clip for a big sales meeting, and they’re throwing a lot of money at it. They bought custom-logo base canopies, and we’re going to the Little Colorado Canyon in Arizona to base jump and shoot. We’ll have a helicopter to drop us at the top and pick us up from the bottom after each jump. So we need a climber to rig along the edge of the cliff, and to be there as a rescuer in case anyone gets hurt and needs to get pulled off the wall. I figure you’re the most qualified person I know. They’ll fly us all there, and it will be a three-day gig. It does pay pretty well. What do you think?”