erched high above the North Cascades Highway, I hold my friend Mark Dale's paraglider as he launches from the mountainside. The lines of his pink canopy whistle faintly as he glides away from the slope where I am standing. Quietly, I watch Mark’s wing shrink to insignificance above the road winding through the forest. Alone now, I carefully untangle my lines on the steep talus slope. Without a friend to hold my canopy in place, as I did for Mark, I anchor its leading edge using a few clothes pins and some string. Butterflies swirl in my stomach as I clip into the glider and make a final wind check. With a deep breath, a few powerful steps, and a glance at my wing overhead, I forgo my last chance to call the whole thing off. In an instant, I am flying.