FAYETTEVILLE, W.Va. - Heather Loughlin had spent the last few months preparing for the possibility of dying here. Now, she worried instead about pain.
The 36-year-old real estate developer from Vermont pressed her chest against the railing of the second-highest bridge in the United States, leaned forward and peered down.
Almost 900 feet separated her from the bottom of the New River Gorge, where everything looked like a potential stage for disaster.
Whitewater rushed through the bottom of the chasm, sweeping over rocks and fallen oaks and maples. Boulders - or, wait a second, were those boats? - cluttered the shoreline.
A canopy of red and yellow leaves obscured Loughlin's view of the designated landing area, a patch of uneven dirt on the west bank of the river.
Eight medics waited there with headboards to carry the injured into nearby ambulances.
Loughlin stood about 20th in a line that dead-ended into still, Appalachian mountain air.
When she reached the front, Loughlin was supposed to buckle her helmet and jump off the bridge, her life tethered to a rented parachute.
It would be her first BASE jump, and she considered it the biggest risk of her life.
Veterans of BASE jumping - an acronym that stands for parachute free falls from buildings, antennae, spans or earth - call their sport the most dangerous in the world, with only 1,200 experienced jumpers and at least 115 fatalities.
BASE jumping is illegal in parts of the world and across the East Coast - except for here, six hours each year.
For one Saturday each October, West Virginia lifts its laws to host Bridge Day, a festival that draws about 400 jumpers and 165,000 spectators to a rural stretch of highway in the southern part of the state.
Last year on Bridge Day, one of BASE jumping's pioneers died when his parachute deployed too close to the ground. After a 27-minute delay, the next jumper leapt off the platform.
Loughlin had taken vacation days from her job and driven 14 hours through the night because she believed BASE jumping's risks intensified its rewards. If her jump went badly, Loughlin would hit the ground in 8.8 seconds while traveling 125 mph.
To prepare for such an outcome, Loughlin had spoken with a Vermont lawyer about beneficiaries and living wills.
But Loughlin's best memories often were her most terrifying: skiing alone in the Vermont backcountry, skydiving and riding her motorcycle on wet mountain roads. Like other BASE jumpers who reveled in the implicit danger of their sport, Loughlin had come here to feel petrified. And then to conquer.
To jump. And to fly.
As the line diminished and Loughlin inched toward the launch platform, her friend and fellow first-time jumper, Rob Schicker, pulled out a small, black video camera and zoomed in on Loughlin's face.
“OK,” Schicker said. “Time for some last words. Heather, you ready to do this?”
“Not really,” she said. “And anybody who tells you they're ready is lying.”
Loughlin looked away from the camera and signaled for Schicker to turn it off. She tightened the straps on her helmet and smoothed the wrinkles from the parachute clasped in her right hand.
Just before Loughlin climbed the stairs onto the jumping platform, she turned one last time to look over the ledge of the bridge.
“This is crazy,” she said. “I'm not really sure I can do this.”
From the moment they checked into their Holiday Inn near Fayetteville, W.Va., on Oct. 18, Loughlin and her four friends from Vermont were bombarded with reasons to pack their gear, turn around and drive home.
Loughlin and her friends set down their bags and walked into a conference room for BASE jumper registration, where they posed for the head shots on their jumper ID cards.
They signed a series of waivers, scribbling their initials next to 26 legal statements.
When Loughlin finished, a Bridge Day employee ushered her into a corner of the room and asked her to stand in front of a video camera.
The employee told Loughlin to lean against a whitewashed brick wall and read from the gigantic legal form posted behind the camera.
First, Loughlin stated her name and her desire to jump at Bridge Day. As she continued to read, her voice stalled.
Loughlin had yet to tell any of her family members about her plan to jump because she didn't want to worry them.
Now, she wondered if that was a mistake. What if her parents somehow found out like this, by watching Loughlin read her own death sentence in a posthumous, grainy video?
“I know that BASE jumping is an extreme sport, which involves a high risk of injury or death,” Loughlin read, trying to project for the camera.
“I agree that this release will apply even if my injury or death is caused by negligence, gross negligence, recklessness or the willful and wanton conduct of Vertical Visions or anyone associated with the Bridge Day event.”
In the past year, Loughlin had made more than 100 sky dives - the minimum required for a first-time BASE jumper to participate at Bridge Day.
She had leapt out of Cessnas, jets and helicopters, but those experiences hardly compared to what she planned to try here.
BASE jumping and sky diving, often confused in the public consciousness, actually differ by what some sky divers refer to as the line between sanity and insanity.
John Hawley, 64, had completed more than 2,000 sky dives before he decided to try a BASE jump at Bridge Day this year. When he told sky-diving friends about his plan, some called him suicidal.
Sky divers jump with two parachutes in case one of them malfunctions, and usually they have several minutes in the air to establish a safe body position for free fall. BASE jumpers use only one parachute. As for midair corrections and adjustments? Loughlin's research on the Internet had dead-ended into a simple conclusion.
“By the time I even know something is going wrong,” she said, “I'll basically be hitting the ground.”
Loughlin had decided to make her first jump at Bridge Day because of its reputation as the relatively safe gateway to an addictive sport.
She could make a legal jump into the New River Gorge with medics and rescue boats waiting nearby.
Then, if she liked it, she could follow the progression of most BASE jumpers: on to illegal jumps - off landmarks such as the Eiffel Tower and high-rise hotels of New York City - executed in darkness to avoid capture.
At least one or two illegal jumps are made each week from the New River Gorge Bridge. This year, a jumper hurled himself off a nearby bridge on the Friday before Bridge Day, broke his leg and spent the night at a nearby hospital.
As 9 a.m. approached, Loughlin found a spot along the rail and turned to face the platform. Stephen Boyle, the first jumper of Bridge Day 2007, counted down the final 10 seconds and then dropped into the air. Loughlin gasped as she watched him fall.
“Pull the chute!” she said. “Pull. Pull. Pull. Come on!”
Loughlin squeezed the railing with both hands and closed her eyes. She only opened them again a few seconds later, when she heard the pop of Boyel's parachute releasing safely 400 feet below.
By 10:55 a.m., Loughlin had ascended the stairs to the top of the jumping platform.
Two birds flew beneath her feet as Loughlin leveled her shoulders and tipped her head skyward.
She rushed through a silent, last-second prayer, bent her knees and hopped forward, lifting both feet at the same time. She fixed her eyes on the landing area as she started to fall.
One second.
Alone in the air, Loughlin was struck by the quietude.
During her jumps out of airplanes, Loughlin always had dropped into a howling wind that pushed her sideways.
This time, she tried to cut through the stillness with a yell, but no noise came out of her mouth.
Two seconds.
Loughlin heard the wind whistle across her red fleece sweater as she picked up speed.
The ground rushed toward her. She could see individual people watching her now, spectators sitting on the shore and jumpers repacking their gear.
Three seconds.
She released the parachute from her right hand, and the wind snatched it open. The straps around Loughlin's legs, shoulders and chest contracted, and she slowed to about 15 mph.
The large parachute - twice the size of what she usually used for sky dives - floated toward the center of the river.
Loughlin decided not to make a hard turn for the landing area, where the slightest inaccuracy would send her barreling toward trees.
Instead, she steered straight ahead and dropped into the river.
A boat pulled up to Loughlin, and she high-fived her rescuers as they pulled her aboard.
She beamed and waved at other jumpers falling above her, even if they were strangers. Loughlin was soaked in cold water, but she hardly noticed.
She felt numb with adrenaline.
As the boat turned to deposit her on shore, Loughlin looked back up at the bridge and wondered:
How long until I jump again?
Almost 900 feet separated her from the bottom of the New River Gorge, where everything looked like a potential stage for disaster.
Whitewater rushed through the bottom of the chasm, sweeping over rocks and fallen oaks and maples. Boulders - or, wait a second, were those boats? - cluttered the shoreline.
A canopy of red and yellow leaves obscured Loughlin's view of the designated landing area, a patch of uneven dirt on the west bank of the river.
Eight medics waited there with headboards to carry the injured into nearby ambulances.
Loughlin stood about 20th in a line that dead-ended into still, Appalachian mountain air.
When she reached the front, Loughlin was supposed to buckle her helmet and jump off the bridge, her life tethered to a rented parachute.
It would be her first BASE jump, and she considered it the biggest risk of her life.
Veterans of BASE jumping - an acronym that stands for parachute free falls from buildings, antennae, spans or earth - call their sport the most dangerous in the world, with only 1,200 experienced jumpers and at least 115 fatalities.
BASE jumping is illegal in parts of the world and across the East Coast - except for here, six hours each year.
For one Saturday each October, West Virginia lifts its laws to host Bridge Day, a festival that draws about 400 jumpers and 165,000 spectators to a rural stretch of highway in the southern part of the state.
Last year on Bridge Day, one of BASE jumping's pioneers died when his parachute deployed too close to the ground. After a 27-minute delay, the next jumper leapt off the platform.
Loughlin had taken vacation days from her job and driven 14 hours through the night because she believed BASE jumping's risks intensified its rewards. If her jump went badly, Loughlin would hit the ground in 8.8 seconds while traveling 125 mph.
To prepare for such an outcome, Loughlin had spoken with a Vermont lawyer about beneficiaries and living wills.
But Loughlin's best memories often were her most terrifying: skiing alone in the Vermont backcountry, skydiving and riding her motorcycle on wet mountain roads. Like other BASE jumpers who reveled in the implicit danger of their sport, Loughlin had come here to feel petrified. And then to conquer.
To jump. And to fly.
As the line diminished and Loughlin inched toward the launch platform, her friend and fellow first-time jumper, Rob Schicker, pulled out a small, black video camera and zoomed in on Loughlin's face.
“OK,” Schicker said. “Time for some last words. Heather, you ready to do this?”
“Not really,” she said. “And anybody who tells you they're ready is lying.”
Loughlin looked away from the camera and signaled for Schicker to turn it off. She tightened the straps on her helmet and smoothed the wrinkles from the parachute clasped in her right hand.
Just before Loughlin climbed the stairs onto the jumping platform, she turned one last time to look over the ledge of the bridge.
“This is crazy,” she said. “I'm not really sure I can do this.”
From the moment they checked into their Holiday Inn near Fayetteville, W.Va., on Oct. 18, Loughlin and her four friends from Vermont were bombarded with reasons to pack their gear, turn around and drive home.
Loughlin and her friends set down their bags and walked into a conference room for BASE jumper registration, where they posed for the head shots on their jumper ID cards.
They signed a series of waivers, scribbling their initials next to 26 legal statements.
When Loughlin finished, a Bridge Day employee ushered her into a corner of the room and asked her to stand in front of a video camera.
The employee told Loughlin to lean against a whitewashed brick wall and read from the gigantic legal form posted behind the camera.
First, Loughlin stated her name and her desire to jump at Bridge Day. As she continued to read, her voice stalled.
Loughlin had yet to tell any of her family members about her plan to jump because she didn't want to worry them.
Now, she wondered if that was a mistake. What if her parents somehow found out like this, by watching Loughlin read her own death sentence in a posthumous, grainy video?
“I know that BASE jumping is an extreme sport, which involves a high risk of injury or death,” Loughlin read, trying to project for the camera.
“I agree that this release will apply even if my injury or death is caused by negligence, gross negligence, recklessness or the willful and wanton conduct of Vertical Visions or anyone associated with the Bridge Day event.”
In the past year, Loughlin had made more than 100 sky dives - the minimum required for a first-time BASE jumper to participate at Bridge Day.
She had leapt out of Cessnas, jets and helicopters, but those experiences hardly compared to what she planned to try here.
BASE jumping and sky diving, often confused in the public consciousness, actually differ by what some sky divers refer to as the line between sanity and insanity.
John Hawley, 64, had completed more than 2,000 sky dives before he decided to try a BASE jump at Bridge Day this year. When he told sky-diving friends about his plan, some called him suicidal.
Sky divers jump with two parachutes in case one of them malfunctions, and usually they have several minutes in the air to establish a safe body position for free fall. BASE jumpers use only one parachute. As for midair corrections and adjustments? Loughlin's research on the Internet had dead-ended into a simple conclusion.
“By the time I even know something is going wrong,” she said, “I'll basically be hitting the ground.”
Loughlin had decided to make her first jump at Bridge Day because of its reputation as the relatively safe gateway to an addictive sport.
She could make a legal jump into the New River Gorge with medics and rescue boats waiting nearby.
Then, if she liked it, she could follow the progression of most BASE jumpers: on to illegal jumps - off landmarks such as the Eiffel Tower and high-rise hotels of New York City - executed in darkness to avoid capture.
At least one or two illegal jumps are made each week from the New River Gorge Bridge. This year, a jumper hurled himself off a nearby bridge on the Friday before Bridge Day, broke his leg and spent the night at a nearby hospital.
As 9 a.m. approached, Loughlin found a spot along the rail and turned to face the platform. Stephen Boyle, the first jumper of Bridge Day 2007, counted down the final 10 seconds and then dropped into the air. Loughlin gasped as she watched him fall.
“Pull the chute!” she said. “Pull. Pull. Pull. Come on!”
Loughlin squeezed the railing with both hands and closed her eyes. She only opened them again a few seconds later, when she heard the pop of Boyel's parachute releasing safely 400 feet below.
By 10:55 a.m., Loughlin had ascended the stairs to the top of the jumping platform.
Two birds flew beneath her feet as Loughlin leveled her shoulders and tipped her head skyward.
She rushed through a silent, last-second prayer, bent her knees and hopped forward, lifting both feet at the same time. She fixed her eyes on the landing area as she started to fall.
One second.
Alone in the air, Loughlin was struck by the quietude.
During her jumps out of airplanes, Loughlin always had dropped into a howling wind that pushed her sideways.
This time, she tried to cut through the stillness with a yell, but no noise came out of her mouth.
Two seconds.
Loughlin heard the wind whistle across her red fleece sweater as she picked up speed.
The ground rushed toward her. She could see individual people watching her now, spectators sitting on the shore and jumpers repacking their gear.
Three seconds.
She released the parachute from her right hand, and the wind snatched it open. The straps around Loughlin's legs, shoulders and chest contracted, and she slowed to about 15 mph.
The large parachute - twice the size of what she usually used for sky dives - floated toward the center of the river.
Loughlin decided not to make a hard turn for the landing area, where the slightest inaccuracy would send her barreling toward trees.
Instead, she steered straight ahead and dropped into the river.
A boat pulled up to Loughlin, and she high-fived her rescuers as they pulled her aboard.
She beamed and waved at other jumpers falling above her, even if they were strangers. Loughlin was soaked in cold water, but she hardly noticed.
She felt numb with adrenaline.
As the boat turned to deposit her on shore, Loughlin looked back up at the bridge and wondered:
How long until I jump again?
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