One such valley is that of the North Fork Stillaguamish River. The river valley runs east like an arrow from the Ultralight Airpark at Arlington, between parallel ridges twenty-five miles long, to the little logging town of Darrington. Over Darrington tower the 6,800-foot tall glaciers of White Horse and Three Fingers Mountains, two of the most beautiful mountains anywhere. For years I had admired them from a distance; my dream was to fly over them some day.

The first summer I had my new Hurricane the weather was ideal for ultralight flying. The rule was blue skies, little puffy white clouds, and gentle breezes. As lovely day followed upon lovely day, I gradually worked my flights further and further up the valley, and closer and closer to those cool shimmering glaciers over Darrington. About when crystal Summer gave way to golden Autumn, I finally, for the first time, circled the peaks and spires that I had admired at a distance for so many years.

The size and magnificence of the mountains, when viewed close up, was even greater than I had imagined. In their presence, I was excited far more than I had thought I would be, breathing hard yet breathless, heart pounding even though I was sitting still. They were so much larger than I expected that it seemed to take a very long time to actually reach them and pass over and around the peaks.

Three Fingers is named for its three distinct peaks, which line up North to South; the northernmost is the most slender, coming almost to a point. The southernmost finger, somewhat stubbier, has a small gray metal lookout hut covering the entire summit. The west face of the mountain is gradually sloped and glaciated. The east face is vertical, bare rock.

Although I expected at least some air turbulence, there was none at all, leaving me free to unlimber the camera and record the moment. After the prolonged excitement, it was hard to turn away from that splendid scene and glide back to Arlington, nursing the remaining fuel.

A few weeks passed before I was able to return to Three Fingers. It was mid-October now, and there was a chill in the air and a sharpness to the breeze. The blue of the sky was thinly veiled by a high gray overcast. However, the mountain was clearly silhouetted on the horizon, and it was calling me. I went to it.

As I approached from the west, nearing the end of the long ridge on the south side of the river valley which becomes the west face of Three Fingers, the Hurricane’s climb rate increased a little. Apparently, we were enjoying a slight ridge lift from a westerly wind. Ah, free altitude! I throttled back. As the plane topped the south finger at about 7,500 feet, I could see four tiny black human figures huddled against the wall of the lookout hut. I tried rocking the wings, and then waving, but they didn’t wave back. Apparently, they were cold and miserable on their icy perch. Certainly, my view of the mountain was obtained in much more comfort than theirs, and certainly, flying was better than climbing and huddling against a tin hut. Then the tin hut disappeared under the plane and the breathtaking vertical rock face on the far side of the finger rolled into view.

WHAM! The heavy hand of God came down on my wing from above and drove me down, down, down. My bottom lifted off the seat and my hands and feet lifted off the controls. The G-meter read MINUS 3/4! A grab at the controls, full throttle, nose down, airspeed stabilizing at more than 90 mph, and I looked back over my shoulder at the mountain. I shouldn’t have. The rock face seemed to be just behind me, rolling upwards like a window shade in Hell, and it wasn’t getting any further away!

How many seconds did that moment last? It seemed like an eternity. It seemed like an eternity of eternities. I turned my head away from the rock face, looked straight ahead, looked at the airspeed (still 90+), didn’t dare look down. For the first time since taking up flying, I was really scared. There seemed to be absolutely nothing to do except wait. Wait for what?

Then a positive G-force whacked me under the seat and the plane shot forward, out over a huge ski-jump of a rock cliff, out into still air over a forested valley far below leading to Darrington in the distance. The plane was no longer losing altitude. The altimeter read 5,000 feet — I had lost over 2,500 feet in a few seconds. But I was apparently going to live to go home and tell my story.

Did the mountain try to kill me that day? At first, I thought so. On much reflection, however, I no longer believe that I was really in very much danger — just out of control and helpless. That downdraft had to go somewhere, and the ski-jump-shaped cliff at the bottom of the vertical face was just about ideal for directing the jet of air (with me entrained in it, going along for the ride) harmlessly out into space. A differently shaped mountain would have led to a different outcome, of course. I was just lucky in my choice of mountains.

The advice in the literature about flying updrafts and downdrafts in the mountains varies a good bit. One source says that 2,000 feet of clearance over a ridgeline is usually a safe height. Others, more cautious, advise simply not crossing a ridgeline when there’s ridge lift on your side. What I learned is that shape matters. The small amount of ridge lift I felt on the gently sloping face of the mountain gave no hint of the viciousness of the downdraft on the vertical opposite face.

Yes, I’ve been back to the mountain. If there’s any air moving, you may be very sure that I keep my distance. Even more than 2,000 feet!

Happy landings!