Paraglading

Carpooling with an Egyptian vulture was not something I had ever considered - much less a bird named Kevin Neophron Percnopterus.Read more: http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/10/18/TRBF19VETN.DTL#ixzz0XxfuGJS7
My feathered ride-share partner is perched on the arm of Scott Mason, a falconer who is somehow piloting our stick-shift Jeep through the streets of Pokhara with one hand. Though lacking the cultural punch of Kathmandu, this central Nepalese town is loved for its nearby mountains and rivers. As we slalom past sausage vendors and trekkers in zip-leg pants, Kevin Neophron Percnopterus flaps and ruffles to maintain his balance.
While in Nepal, I had already stood at the base of Mount Everest, sipped chai with the lama in the Tengboche Monastery and lit a butter candle at the Buddhist Mecca, Boudhanath. But in Nepal's rugged tourist scene, these experiences are as common as dal bhat, the national twice-a-day meal of lentils and rice.
Now this is something, I think.
We are heading to a ridge top 2,000 feet above Pokhara. In the backseat there is a paragliding wing, a leather glove and a pouch of raw buffalo meat. Everything Mason needs to introduce me to Nepal's latest adventure sport: parahawking.
Before parahawking was covered in the local Lonely Planet guide, paragliding was already popular in Pokhara. The unlikely love child of hang gliding and skydiving, paragliding is a form of non-motorized flight that involves riding thermals - rising pockets of warm air - with a parachute-like wing made of high-tech, lightweight fabric. Under the best circumstances, skilled pilots can stay aloft for hours.
Pokhara's stellar conditions have made it a paragliding magnet. The auspicious latitude and weather translate into seven straight months of reliable flying. As far as aerial scenery goes, it's unmatched: The Himalayan masterpieces of Machapuchare and Annapurna South punctuate the horizon. Phewa Lake shimmers below.
This adds up to a seductive scene. Tandem pilots usher tourists into the air, wowing them with the miracle of flight. Hotshot pilots perform stomach-churning stunts over the lake. Afterward, they dilute their adrenaline rush with cold beer, listening to electronica in the hip ambience of Maya Devi, the lakeside bar near the main landing zone.
Locals accept the sport. Out of Pokhara's five paragliding companies (that offer tandem flights), four are Nepalese owned. The rest of the community is tolerant as long as pilots don't land in their flooded rice fields before harvest time. (Even this can be a boon: Farmers' children will often circle around the mud-soaked pilot with gleeful cries of "Buffalo landing!" Extending their hands, they collect a stiff fee. It's a whole new way to profit from rice.)
Mason was a typical trekker when he arrived in Pokhara eight years ago. The day before he was to leave, a colorful wing caught his eye, and he booked a tandem flight. As he circled in the sky with a pilot guide, Mason was thrilled by the sight of so many raptors. Hawks and enormous steppe eagles veered inches from the glider. A falconer since the age of 11, Mason wondered: Is it possible to train birds to help pilots scout thermals?
The next day, Mason heard about two black kite chicks rescued from a destroyed nest. He changed his travel plans and spent the rest of the season in Pokhara. While he learned to fly a paraglider, he began working out the techniques to teach the raptors to fly alongside. It led to a successful commercial venture offering tandem parahawking flights to tourists.
After parking the jeep at the launch site, Mason unloads and preps the gear. I stand on the packed-dirt slope and take in the view of Pokhara far below: the jumbled spread of buildings and houses surrounded by half-harvested rice paddies. Nearby, a prayer flag doubling as a wind indicator rustles as a breeze sweeps upslope.
We hook into a two-person harness. When the conditions are right, Mason lifts the wing and we trot toward the ledge with a clumsy four-legged gait. Once airborne, I look down: The boats drifting peacefully in Phewa Lake look like small toys. Miles of fields contour the hills. I'm spooked when Kevin flashes his incredible, 1-meter wingspan just inches below my feet.
Following the vulture's lead, we begin to pivot around the core of a thermal. Mason blows a whistle, calling Kevin in for a reward. As instructed, I thrust my gloved arm out like a perch and grip a chunk of raw meat. The vulture swoops in from behind, flares his wings and sinks his talons into my leather glove. He devours his snack and hitches a ride on my arm. Suddenly, he dives back into the sky.
Parahawking was turning out to be like a fantastic dream - except that I'd never felt more awake.
After following Kevin around a few more thermals, we land at Maya Devi. A group of local kids swarm us, eager to pack up the glider for 20 rupees - about 25 cents. While they expertly fold the wing, I meet the rest of Mason's birds: a Hodgson's hawk, another Egyptian vulture, and several black kites (one lives inside his house). Each raptor was rescued from a predicament - a destroyed nest or confining cage - and is being rehabilitated. Scott's goal is to return as many birds to the wild as possible. He calls his program Himalayan Raptor Rescue and is partnering with other efforts through a networking organization called Vulture Rescue.
Mason wants to show his clients a good time but doesn't let them leave without a dose of bad news. Since the early 1990s, there has been an estimated 98 percent decline in three species of vultures across India, Pakistan and Nepal. The cause is diclofenac, an anti-inflammatory drug commonly administered to cattle. The vultures are exposed to the drug while feeding on cattle carcasses and ultimately die of kidney failure.
The effects are far-reaching. Vultures fill a crucial ecological niche: By making a quick meal of carcasses, they stop the spread of disease. Without them, cattle are left to rot and spread rabies to scavenging dogs. The feral dogs, in turn, pose a threat to humans.
Important as they are, the raptors' less-than-savory lifestyle has earned them a macabre reputation, making it difficult to generate sympathy for their plight. Through parahawking, Mason hopes to show a gentler, more poetic side to vultures.
After our aviary tour, Mason and I sit on the flower-lined patio of the Maya Devi restaurant and watch other gliders descend to the landing zone. Eating soup with one hand and holding Kevin on the other, Mason talks about the challenges of vulture conservation and the responsibility of caring for his rescued birds with little financial support. "It bums me out," he confesses, "that people seem more interested in saving 'fuzzy' animals like orangutans and pandas."
I can't argue. Looking at Kevin's wrinkled face, there's no doubt that pandas and orangutans do have the edge in cuteness. Still, they'd be hard pressed to lead us up a thermal.
I head back toward my hotel, feeling high on adventure. I also feel more environmentally aware; after I shared the sky with a vulture, Mason's lesson about their plight hit home. But as I walk down Pokhara's streets, alongside the other dirty-booted trekkers, lucky is what I feel, mostly.
Sure, they'd all traipsed across on the roof of the world. With Kevin Neophron Percnopterus as my guide, however, I jumped off - and flew.
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