A Heightened Chance of Death

Despite the Gravity of Their Situation, BASE Jumpers Take the Plunge at West Virginia Event

At last month's annual Bridge Day in Fayetteville, W.Va., hundreds of BASE jumpers, including this masked man, plunged almost 900 feet off the New River Gorge Bridge, their descent slowed by a parachute after only a few seconds of free fall. There are about 1,200 BASE jumpers in the world, and at least 115 have died while jumping. (Preston Keres - The Washington Post)

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.

"Oh my God," Loughlin said, turning away from the bridge. "There's like a thousand ways to get mangled down there."

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. The force of impact would break her ribs, ripping them through her internal organs and killing her instantly. 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.

"Okay," 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.