From the USHGA website, I have gleaned the following Competition Schedule for the 2009 season:
The website addresses are correct - They may not be up yet, however.
Sierra National Challenge-US PG Nationals (Dunlap, CA)
4/26/2009 through 5/3/2009
Website: http://santacruzparagliding.com/
West Coast Paragliding Championships (Woodrat, OR)
5/31/2009 through 6/6/2009
Website: www.mphsports.com
Rat Race Paragliding Competition (Woodrat, OR)
6/28/2009 through 7/4/2009
Website: www.mphsports.com
US Paragliding Nationals (Squaw Peak, UT)
8/16/2009 through 8/22/2009
Website: http://usparaglidingnats.com
The first and last meets of the year, (Dunlap, CA and Squaw Pk., UT) will comprise the "US Nationals." Their scores will be combined (with a throw-away option) to determine the US Champion.
Flight descriptions, Competition tips, recap of results, and US competition schedule.
Friday, November 28, 2008
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Happy Thanksgiving
Here's a bit of a happy tale for you -
I hope you find yourselves in the company of loved ones during the holiday season.
Tim
Original posting was from the NationalReview.com
This is a good story. If a tear comes to your eyes — it's OK.
By Catherine Moore
'Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!' My father yelled at me. 'Can't you do anything right?' Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.
'I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving.' My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt.
Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil.
What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess. The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived.
But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, 'I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article.' I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons, too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. 'Can you tell me about him?' The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement.
'He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him, that was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow.' He gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. 'You mean you're going to kill him?'
'Ma'am,' he said gently, 'that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog.'
I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. 'I'll take him,' I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch.
'Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!' I said excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. 'If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it' Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples.
'You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!' Dad ignored me. 'Did you hear me, Dad?' I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.
We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.
Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne 's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. 'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers.'
'I've often thanked God for sending that angel,' he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article.
Cheyenne 's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter … his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father … and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all. Life is too short for drama & petty things, so laugh hard, love truly and forgive quickly. Live While You Are Alive. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity. Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not get a second time.
Please share this with someone.
I hope you find yourselves in the company of loved ones during the holiday season.
Tim
Original posting was from the NationalReview.com
This is a good story. If a tear comes to your eyes — it's OK.
By Catherine Moore
'Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!' My father yelled at me. 'Can't you do anything right?' Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for another battle.
'I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving.' My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt.
Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil.
What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his prowess. The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived.
But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, 'I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article.' I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons, too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. 'Can you tell me about him?' The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement.
'He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him, that was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow.' He gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. 'You mean you're going to kill him?'
'Ma'am,' he said gently, 'that's our policy. We don't have room for every unclaimed dog.'
I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. 'I'll take him,' I said.
I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch.
'Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!' I said excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. 'If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it' Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples.
'You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!' Dad ignored me. 'Did you hear me, Dad?' I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.
We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.
Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne 's cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. 'Be not forgetful to entertain strangers.'
'I've often thanked God for sending that angel,' he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article.
Cheyenne 's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter … his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father … and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all. Life is too short for drama & petty things, so laugh hard, love truly and forgive quickly. Live While You Are Alive. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity. Forgive now those who made you cry. You might not get a second time.
Please share this with someone.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Project complete!
Ok, this ain't paragliding. . .I had planned to fly the SoCalXC event this weekend in Santa Barbara. I was looking forward to meeting up with the SoCal boys and Nick from Hong Kong, who had flown his Cathay 777 trip to LAX and had enough time to fly. Unfortunately the Santa Ana winds are blowing. We wouldn't be flying anyway, since the tragic "Tea Fire" is burning out of control in Montecito.
So, I finished up the Gate Project(s) . . .
To Recap: I had a gate that looked like this:
So I built a gate, to replace it, that looked like this:
But my Wife decided the new gate was too nice to hide on that side of the house so I installed it on the other side of the house - by the garage and nearer the street with good exposure.
Here's a shot with the gate open looking down the side of the house.
Which left me needing another gate for the hidden side of the house. I'd already taken many days to put the finish on the fancy gate so I built what I call a "one-day gate." I spent an hour or so digging a post hole, another 30 minutes tying the post to the house for stability (my preferred method since the gates hang true forever) and 90 minutes to built the gate, hang it, and install all the hardware.
This is the view from the back.
Damn, I hope we get to fly soon!
Tim
So, I finished up the Gate Project(s) . . .
To Recap: I had a gate that looked like this:
So I built a gate, to replace it, that looked like this:
But my Wife decided the new gate was too nice to hide on that side of the house so I installed it on the other side of the house - by the garage and nearer the street with good exposure.
Here's a shot with the gate open looking down the side of the house.
Which left me needing another gate for the hidden side of the house. I'd already taken many days to put the finish on the fancy gate so I built what I call a "one-day gate." I spent an hour or so digging a post hole, another 30 minutes tying the post to the house for stability (my preferred method since the gates hang true forever) and 90 minutes to built the gate, hang it, and install all the hardware.
This is the view from the back.
Damn, I hope we get to fly soon!
Tim
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Ongoing Project
More time spent not flying this week. I'm playing with the idea of putting the gate in front of the house. . .
What do you think? This is NOW. (All images can be clicked for larger views)
Here's a Photoshop mock-up of what I have in mind. 'Not sure I like it. . .
What do you think? This is NOW. (All images can be clicked for larger views)
Here's a Photoshop mock-up of what I have in mind. 'Not sure I like it. . .
Thursday, November 6, 2008
Other Activities
I haven't been able to get into the air on my paraglider lately. The winds have been from the East (Santa Ana winds) which brings wonderful sunny weather but is not conducive to good flying. We've also had our share of rain in the last week too. I decided to work on a long-overdue project. Seen here,
is a gate on the side of my yard that was built before we bought the house, 4 years ago. It was obviously built as a temporary gate and it was logged in my brain as "the first thing I'm going to do after escrow closes." Well, after almost 5 years, new floors, a remodeled kitchen, and various other projects, I finally turned to this project.
I wanted to build something a little different & started sketching on some paper. What I came up with looked surprisingly like the finished project ;-)
The gate is built-up design with 1/2" CDX plywood sandwiching 1X ceder and redwood stock. I coated the gate with many layers of a polyurethane spar coating. At this point all I need to do is figure out how to properly protect the edges of the gate from water and I'm going to use a darker finish on the ply outer layer to "pop" the design a bit more from the internal exposed planks.
The last two photos show the result of mixing a little oil based stain (dark mahogany) with my spar polyurethane to 'Pop' the frame a bit.
The problem now is that my wife & neighbors think the gate is too nice to hide over on the side of the house. I may install the gate on the other side of the house or even use the gate in a front courtyard that I've been playing around with in my head.
Tim
is a gate on the side of my yard that was built before we bought the house, 4 years ago. It was obviously built as a temporary gate and it was logged in my brain as "the first thing I'm going to do after escrow closes." Well, after almost 5 years, new floors, a remodeled kitchen, and various other projects, I finally turned to this project.I wanted to build something a little different & started sketching on some paper. What I came up with looked surprisingly like the finished project ;-)
The gate is built-up design with 1/2" CDX plywood sandwiching 1X ceder and redwood stock. I coated the gate with many layers of a polyurethane spar coating. At this point all I need to do is figure out how to properly protect the edges of the gate from water and I'm going to use a darker finish on the ply outer layer to "pop" the design a bit more from the internal exposed planks.
The problem now is that my wife & neighbors think the gate is too nice to hide over on the side of the house. I may install the gate on the other side of the house or even use the gate in a front courtyard that I've been playing around with in my head.
Tim
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
