Honed. Rich Slater
“A” for antenna and an “S” for span, which could be a bridge or a domed stadium. Fortunately for Rob, both were within easy reach in the state of Colorado.
Most accessible was a 750-foot-high TV antenna at the summit of Lookout Mountain, guardian of the canyon entrance through which Interstate 70 winds its way into the Rocky Mountains. At night its lights, save for the blinking red one on top, shine indistinguishable from the stars bright enough to be seen over the glow of the city.
“BASE jumping is a great spectator sport,” Rob told me more than once, not because he wanted to show off, but because he liked sharing his exhilarating, adrenaline-fueled adventures. To that end, Rob invited a couple of his friends to join Black Death Heid and him for a planned jump from the antenna. Unfortunately, their first two trips to the base of the mountain were greeted by raging winds, which prompted Rob and BD to matter-of-factly abort the “mission.” The second stand-down brought howls of dismay from Rob’s friends, who were sick of 4:00 a.m. wakeup calls for nothing. They urged him in profane and insulting terms to jump anyway. Ever the diplomat, Rob told them his decision to launch would not, with all due respect, be swayed by their impatience, inconveniences or unkind references.
“The mistletoe hangs from my coattail; you can begin from there…”
Despite his willingness to share the fun with friends, Rob never lost track of the fact that BASE jumping was not only incredibly dangerous, but intensely personal, with challenge, achievement and validation playing itself out in the deepest reaches of his soul. When Rob got to go to that special place, it really didn’t matter to him if anyone watched or not. Rob and BD eventually jumped the Lookout Mountain antenna in good conditions on another night.
“Perfect form again,” said Black Death Heid, “although there was one wild moment for both of us when his pilot chute towed until he had enough speed that the drag overcame the friction of the too-tight pack job I’d done for him. By staying cool, he got a clean, straight opening and it ended up as a routine jump with a little spice in the middle.”
After getting his “A,” Rob needed only the “S” – not just to get a two-digit BASE number but to become the first-ever Colorado BASE.
Soon thereafter, BD and Rob made a midnight drive two hours south of Denver to the small town of Canon City, best known as the location of the state penitentiary. Nearby, over eons of time, the Arkansas River has gouged through the Sangre de Cristo Range to carve what is now known as the Royal Gorge. If the Black Canyon can be compared to a 2,000-foot funnel, the Royal Gorge must be likened to a 1,000-foot eyedropper. Spanning the gorge, the world’s highest suspension bridge hangs 1,055 feet above the river and single railroad track occupying the narrow canyon floor. The Royal Gorge below the bridge is only 100 feet wide, which makes for trickier wind conditions and demands much greater parachute handling skills.
Distinguishing the Royal Gorge from the Black Canyon is the fact that one is wilderness and the other one is a tourist attraction. The Royal Gorge Bridge goes nowhere except to the other side, as it was built in 1929 solely to generate revenue for Canon City. Also distinguishing the Royal Gorge from the Black Canyon is its ease of access and popularity with regular tourist-type folk. Royal Gorge Park offers ample paved parking, a Visitors Center, an inclined railway to the bottom and an aerial tram across the top.
Naturally, it was too windy to jump when they arrived that first night, so they camped out in Rob’s car. As the winds blew so strong they rocked the car, Rob and BD catnapped between wind checks, hoping it calmed enough to allow a jump.
“At least they’re strong enough that there’s no doubt about the decision,” Rob said when they finally gave up just before dawn and drove back to Boulder.
Not long after, Rob and BD went south again, this time with me along for the ride, and this time during daylight. The plan was simple: just pay the entrance fee, drive in, walk out onto the bridge and jump off-in broad daylight. We paid our entrance fee at the gate, parked in the lot and headed for the bridge. Strolling along in jeans and light jackets, we stared over the edge into the abyss like everyone else, as the narrow bridge swayed slightly in the breeze.
I proudly strode to the middle of the bridge with my twin, BD trailing with his camera. We blended in just fine except for the fact Rob was wearing a parachute. BD had cameras, but so did every other sightseer at the park, and most of them wore or carried backpacks similar in size to Rob’s parachute rig. No one even noticed us – until Rob tossed a roll of toilet paper into the abyss to check the wind.
As we raptly watched it snake its way downward, people suddenly became aware of what was really going on. They rushed to the rail on our side of the bridge to investigate and started snapping pictures.
Rob decided the winds were good enough for jumping and, with the concurrence of the eminent Mr. Black Death, decided it was time to launch. He climbed the railing and stepped onto the foot-thick main suspension cable with agility and ease, pilot chute in hand, his mop of curly brown hair waving in the wind. He steadied himself for a moment and then looked back over his shoulder to me with the same fierce determination and kind of wide-eyed grin I saw on the City Center crane.
“This is the ultimate sport,” he proclaimed.
“Go for it,” was as profound a reply as I could muster.
With that, he turned and leaped into space. The crowd that had grown instantly larger when Rob stepped up onto the cable let out a collective gasp, then held its breath. They didn’t know if they were watching some poor soul commit suicide – or just somebody honed having fun. My eyes widened and my mouth opened. We all leaned over the railing to watch as Rob quickly shrank in size to a fast-moving speck.
“One, two, three, four…” I could hear Rob count before he threw his pilot chute. With a crack muffled by wind and space, the canopy opened several hundred feet below and the crowd cheered loudly as Rob began spiraling into the depths of the gorge.
Once I saw Rob’s chute open, I relaxed somewhat. I knew he was enjoying the ride and I did the same. Otherwise the ride was silent but for the commotion on the bridge by the spectators.
“Did you see that?” was asked repeatedly in the first five seconds after Rob’s parachute opened. BD and I looked at each other, nodding. Yeah, we most certainly had.
As Rob neared the canyon floor, the crowd kept oohing and ahhing but I tensed as I flashed back to Rob’s Black Canyon crash landing. What if he landed in the river or got caught in a wind shear and pinballed into the jagged cliffs? If I had to watch him die, I would probably go right off the bridge after him. But again, the thought quickly passed as another cheer went up, this one louder, when Rob made a stand-up landing on the railroad track and could be seen scampering to gather his chute. It was easy for me to see the excitement in his step and feel his exhilaration rise up to me at my place on the bridge.
As we walked back to the car, the excitement and pleasure on our faces was no different from that of the dozens of people who got way more than they paid for that day at the Royal Gorge Bridge.
Meanwhile, a couple of Royal Gorge security guys at the bottom briefly gave chase, but they were clearly unenthusiastic about catching someone who moved so fast and probably equally unmotivated to nab someone who had just done something so cool. As BD said to me with a grin as we watched the unsuccessful chase play out, “Would you want to try to chase down someone who was crazy enough to jump off a 1,000-foot bridge?”
“Only to give him a high-five,” I replied.
Rob ran down the tracks until he was out of the bridge sightline and then climbed straight up out of the canyon at a speed no one on the bridge company staff or the local police anticipated. We picked up Rob on the entrance road while the authorities were still looking for him at the bottom.
“Richie, that was so great!” he said to me, his eyes still wild with excitement. I told him I knew. Black Death Heid just smiled and held out his hand to Rob.
“Congratulations,” he said to my twin as they shook hands. “You are now Colorado BASE Number One.” After submitting his information to the U.S. BASE Association, Rob