Hang gliding Lookout Mountain: What it’s really like to be aero-towed 1,700 feet above Georgia

Back in 2022, on our way to an Airbnb we rented for the weekend, my husband and I drove past Lookout Mountain Flight Park. A small, unassuming building stood next to a concrete launch ramp — where three hang gliders were lined up on the edge of a steep, towering cliff.

"Would you ever…?"

He didn’t even have to finish his question. "Absolutely not," I said. "Not in a million years."

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And by a million years, I guess I actually meant four. Because last weekend, we pulled up to that same flight park. Except this time, I had a reservation for a tandem flight.

I went into this experience completely blind. What even is hang gliding? Is there a way to steer? Does this thing have a motor or do you just sort of get a running start and hurl yourself off the mountain? A mystery to me.

Along with a group of seven other people, I was directed to a back room, where we were promptly handed clipboards with paperwork to sign. Waivers to acknowledge that — although safety is the No. 1 priority for Lookout Mountain Flight Park — gliding 1,500 feet above the ground in a large kite does not come entirely without risk.

After we signed on the dotted line, the staff member gave us driving directions to our launch point. My husband and I hopped in the car, pulled up Google Maps, and found ourselves driving... all the way down the mountain.

Which, I guess, answers my question about that running head start.

But at this point, I was utterly dumbfounded. How do we get the hang glider way up there if we’re starting way down here? That question was quickly answered when we pulled up to a vast open field containing three hang gliders and a couple of ultralight towplanes.

My stomach started doing flips. This was getting real.

We were instantly greeted by a group of incredibly nice humans wearing heart-shaped sunglasses. I doubted that was regulation hang-gliding eye pro, but I could tell these folks have a lot of fun down here. They also have a sweet dog — a boxer mix, best I could tell — named Honeybear. Honeybear would become my unofficial emotional support animal while I waited to take flight.

Which turned out to be quite a long time.

Unfortunately, on this particular Sunday, Georgia’s "Cloudland" was living up to its name. Dense layers of clouds had descended upon the valley, and there was zero visibility above a few hundred feet. For obvious reasons, these are not ideal or even safe flying conditions.

So after watching a brief safety video, we were left with no choice but to wait until the clouds cleared. And they eventually did — about three hours later.

To their credit, the flight park crew gave us frequent updates on the weather and visibility. They assured us that we would begin flights as soon as it was safe to do so. Which was fine with me. Because I had no interest in flying before it was safe to do so.

Finally, though, they began to get us suited up in a near-full-body harness, glasses (not heart-shaped) and helmet. I looked sort of like a horse jockey and sort of like I was ready for my X-rays at the dentist’s office.

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A man named Dalton introduced himself as my tandem flight partner. As we strapped into the hang glider, Dalton assured me he’d done this about 1,000 times before, which made me feel slightly less terrified.

As we lay prone just above the ground, dangling from the glider, Dalton instructed me to hold onto the handles on either side of his harness.

"Do not touch this bar," he emphasized, pointing to the horizontal metal bar directly in front of us. "It is my steering wheel."

You don’t have to tell me twice. I had an absolute death grip on that harness.

On his signal, the ultralight began to accelerate, towing our hang glider by a long rope. If you’ve ever ridden in an inner tube behind a boat, it’s just like that. Only instead of through the water, you’re being pulled into the sky. And just like that, we were airborne. But not without a little turbulence.

Once we reached altitude, Dalton detached us from the airplane, and we were officially on our own. Dare I say, I was actually able to relax a bit at this point. We sailed through the air like a bird. The scenery was truly mesmerizing. I’ve spent a lot of time hiking around Lookout Mountain. Seeing it from above is an entirely different experience. Dalton pointed out the flight park — the original one at the top of the mountain — and did some sort of maneuver that created a "zero gravity" sensation.

I swear, for a second, my soul left my body.

Check out GoPro footage from the flight:

While we maxed out around 1,700 feet, LMFP also offers tandem flights for beginners up to 3,000 feet. I told Dalton I can’t even fathom being up that high in a hang glider.

That’s when he broke down the science for me, explaining that strong thermals can actually take hang gliders up as high as 10,000 feet, adding that he’s personally flown up to around 9,000.

You can call me a wimp or a coward or whatever you want, my friends. But there ain’t no way.

After about eight to 10 minutes of air time, we circled around and began our descent back to the flight park. Dalton warned me it might feel like we were "flying at the earth way too fast." I appreciated the heads-up, but the landing was surprisingly smooth.

Once we came to a stop, I slid myself out of the harness, dropped to my knees and ceremoniously kissed the steady ground beneath my feet.

Just kidding, I did not do that. 

In reality, the whole experience was exhilarating. Sure, I was out of my comfort zone — 1,700 feet above it, to be precise — but there was never a moment when I felt unsafe. Dalton’s confidence put me at ease, he communicated with me the entire time and was clearly in full control of the glider.

In fact, everyone we encountered at Lookout Mountain Flight Park was an absolute pro. Even Honeybear.

Plus, the GoPro shot is probably the most bada** photo that’s ever been taken of me. So it was totally worth it.

Would I do it again? In a heartbeat. My 2022 self would be horrified.