I couldn’t remember what I ate for breakfast, getting into my jumpsuit, or getting into the plane. I did remember getting into the door of the aircraft and waiting for the slap on the back. In the door, our training and reflex actions took over, so when the slap comes, you just step out, eyes on the horizon. But after leaving the plane, the other dimension is gone, and you are hanging there, frozen in time looking down at the fields and occasional trees of the Bear Creek jump spot. My hands were on my risers, and I realized I was drifting to earth in a parachute and that earth was rapidly approaching.

      In the Methow Valley, practice jumps were usually a long-awaited community affair with rookie jumpers the main source of entertainment. The most oohs and ahs were when a rookie would do a toes, knees, and nose landing in a big cloud of dust.

      Another popular rookie jump was the Frozen Fred, when a jumper stayed in the other dimension, forgot chute manipulation class, and traveled in a straight line until crashing into a hillside a half mile from the jump spot. But I think they got the biggest thrill when the plane goes over, the engine cuts, the tail rises, and nothing happens. A hoot and a holler is heard from the crowd, and all eyes are on the Noorduyn as it comes back around for a second pass. There is a small cheer as the jumper comes out of the plane, and then when he lands and the dust clears, everyone rushes to pick him up. A lot of pictures are taken of his backside and the imprint of Hal Weinmann’s boot on his butt. There was a handlebar beside the Noorduyn door to aid jumpers in the exit, but it is now gripped tightly by the rookie as souvenir hunters try to pull it from his hand. Thirty minutes later, he is still standing there with this I-can’t-believe-I’m-alive look on this face.

      It was into this festive gathering that I descended. I was awakened from my reverie by the realization that the ground was coming up fast and hard.

      I had three choices for my landing: a blanket with two young ladies, a baby, and a picnic basket; a 1949 Ford coupe; or the only tree in the field.

      I chose the blanket and yelled down at the ladies to run; they did, forgetting the baby. I ruled out the Ford, which was owned by the Winthrop Town Marshal, and went for the tree. I ended up inside the tree clinging to a limb. I didn’t know if my chute was hung up solid or what. So I decided to let go of my limb and grab for the one about three feet below me as I went by. That’s just what happened. I went by, bouncing from limb to limb. I hit the last layer of limbs about six feet off the ground, did a half flip, and landed on my back sucking wind. I was just starting to breathe again when Jerry Helmer walked by and said, “Hey, Jessup, you know that’s the only tree in the field?”

      At that moment, I knew that it was going to be a long rookie jump season! But what the hell. I was a Smokejumper, and I was going to be a damn good one!

      NCSB Rookie Jumpers Making Practice Jumps from the Noorduyn