Parawaiting and Patience
A weekend in Tennessee
Our remarkable sport gifts us many frustrations: lines knotted as if tied by malevolent forces; landing softly in a wide-open field, only to have your wing come to rest gently atop the only tree in sight; gnarly takeoffs where grit and brush transform the crisp white nylon of your glider into a dusty chocolate hue. But not much else compares to a good old-fashioned “parawaiting” session—that particular agony of unrequited stoke: not being able to fly.
A few weeks back, I found myself deep in the throes of a three-day parawaiting marathon in arguably the only place where Southern hospitality and free flight truly converge. The plan was simple: a 90-minute hop from Houston to Huntsville, Alabama, then a two-hour drive into the mountains. Living in Houston, even the slightest bit of relief in the terrain is… well, a relief. It was the tail end of the annual Tennessee Paragliding Open—once called the Hurricane Open before superstition demanded a rebrand—and the forecast looked promising for a couple of solid soaring days. I also thought it could be a great opportunity to meet some more pilots, and hopefully get signed off on my P3, the US intermediate certification for paragliding. These kinds of things are always better done in person.
Driving up the switchbacks toward Flying Camp, David Hanning’s operation in the Sequatchie Valley that’s been running since 2013, the anticipation was real. The site isn’t at all what most people picture when they think of Tennessee—this isn’t rolling hills and Nashville honky-tonks. But as I pulled in and spotted a few campers, a strange feeling of disconnection crept in. The realization hit: I wasn’t at Flying Camp at all. I’d somehow ended up at the Tennessee Tree Toppers, the storied hang-gliding site that’s been the center of the Tennessee free flight scene since the 1970s.
Eventually I found the right location, pulled up next to takeoff, and wandered toward what looked like a barn. A greased-up Dave emerged from under the hood of a 1994 Toyota Pickup 4x4, complete with the legendary 22RE engine.
“Hey there!” he exclaimed.
For the next hour, Dave and I talked flying, mutual acquaintances, wings, sites and XCMag. Dave is a larger-than-life character whose mind moves at thermal velocity. He gave me the full rundown on the site’s history and the ongoing challenges with neighboring flying areas—the kind of site politics that seem to afflict every decent piece of launchable real estate in North America.
But where was everyone else? If it were flyable, pilots would be in the air.
I learned, the bulk of the flying crew had decamped to nearby Chattanooga, determined to consume the city’s bourbon reserves before the sun rose again. I had to join them.
Upon arriving, I found myself in a different world entirely. This wasn’t the South of my admittedly limited experience—the only thing I’d previously known about Chattanooga was the Choo Choo. We gathered at a beautifully renovated Victorian from the 1910s, which turned out to belong to John Lindsay, a local veterinarian and highly accomplished pilot. It was a proper who’s-who of comp pilots and accompanying spouses—some familiar faces from the circuit, others equally fish-out-of-water. Despite coming from all around the country, everyone was there for the same reason and brought a similar level of energy and stoke. I knew this wasn’t going to be a boring weekend. We eventually headed out for a meal, where, despite the collective debauchery, our crew of pilots still managed to respectfully return the empties to the bar and we were welcomed with Southern warmth.
The next morning, I awoke in a daze on the sofa of a pilot I’d met just hours earlier. We emerged into a world of fog, mist, wet, damp and general sogginess. Rain hammered the windows. There would be no flying unless the entire valley opened up. So we did what any group of grounded pilots would do: we waited.
The weekend progressed exactly as one might expect under such circumstances—not without its share of drama. We talked flying, drank beers, discovered a dice game called Farkle, drank more beers, and prepared for the evening’s festivities: a barbecue party and closing awards ceremony for the competition that Dave was hosting back at launch. There would be no more tasks added to the competition—what was flown was it.
Dave opened the evening’s festivities and awards ceremony in his characteristic casual tone: “So… sorry not everybody stuck around, but I totally get it. I told them they had to be here to win.”
“I don’t come to this comp for the flying, Dave,” John Lindsay cut in.
And there it was. That was exactly what I’d been waiting to hear—the acknowledgment that this comp was about far more than the scoreboard.
Dave then continued: “My big concerns are reserve tosses and worse. Retrieves went off without a hitch, thanks to Grayson. And this is the core of paragliding: racing, coming together, and having events like this.” He went on to emphasize a trend he was particularly proud of—more female pilots not just competing but winning. Emily Petersen had taken the Sport Class. And Elena Dmitrievskaya claimed first place in the Women’s category and second place overall.
The crowd erupted: “Down with the sausage fest!”
Austin Kasserman, who earlier had graciously signed me off on my P3, took the top spot overall, but the real victory felt bigger than any individual placing. It was the gathering itself, the community that shows up whether the weather delivers or not. The kind of connections that make a weekend of parawaiting feel less like a loss and more like an investment in something that lasts longer than any single flight.
Sunday morning delivered a brilliantly calm blue sky. With zero wind. Which is, paradoxically, often worse than more obviously unflyable conditions—at least bad weather makes the decision for you. I decided to send a message in the comp WhatsApp group describing our situation: a photo of the sad limp windsock at Henson Gap, with the caption: “Let’s go guys! It’s blowing in!”
Just past 10am, it started getting gusty. At the adjacent Tree Toppers site, we spotted a few pilots setting up. Then, suddenly, a clearly inexperienced paraglider pilot launched, immediately took a massive collapse, and started getting thrown around in what could only be described as extremely spicy air. Dave, ever the safety advocate, rushed to the fence: “What in the world are you guys doing?”
Suffice to say that perceptions of safe launching conditions are not equally distributed among pilots. We watched as the pilot painfully made their way across the valley with next to zero penetration and not an ounce of lift. It was a slow, grinding descent. The valley winds were practically at trim speed. Even after the pilot landed safely in the valley—despite getting bashed around on final approach—it was abundantly clear that Tennessee was not going to deliver what we needed for a safe and fun day. It just wasn’t meant to be.
What struck me most during those three days of waiting was the cast of characters assembled: A doctor, two lawyers, and a tree service operator. Republicans driving Rivians and Democrats in diesels. A collection of people who defied every stereotype this Canadian held about the deep South, united entirely by their addiction to free flight. And that’s what parawaiting can do. It expands our horizons differently than flying itself does. It builds trust in your fellow pilots in ways that being in the air together sometimes cannot. We talk about gaggle flying and the collective intelligence of reading the sky together, but perhaps we’d all benefit more from the “hive mind” of a grounded crew.
By traditional measures—hours in the air, kilometers flown, personal bests achieved—the weekend was a complete bust. But I flew home with something more valuable than another flight log entries. I had stumbled upon the best possible conditions to practice patience, and it is something that I will undoubtedly carry with me into other aspects of my life. I made connections to a community I didn’t know existed, gained insight into a place I’ll return to when the weather cooperates, and built a deeper understanding of my place in this remarkable sport. I saw how pilots assess risk, how they talk about flying when they’re not trying to impress anyone (and when they are), and how a community sustains itself across bad weather and good. This kind of learning—absorbing others’ experiences, understanding different risk tolerances, seeing how pilots with thousands of hours approach flying versus those with hundreds—is invaluable. It’s the kind of education you can’t get anywhere else.
The Sequatchie Valley will still be there next season. The steep ridges, the punchy thermals, the flat valley floor landing options—they’re not going anywhere. When conditions finally align—the magic combination of light valley winds, good thermal index, and stable air aloft—I’ll be back. Dave will probably be working on another truck. But until then, I’ve got the hive mind. I’ve got the stories and the strategies, the warnings and the encouragements. I’ve got a mental map of a site I haven’t flown, built from dozens of conversations about lines and landing zones, convergence patterns and evening glass-offs. Sometimes the best flights are the ones you never make.
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The unexpected joys of waiting.