At 3,000 feet (914 m) behind the controls of a Blanik L-13 two-seater glider, with the wings pitching wildly and the nose pointed straight at a nearby farmhouse, it is obvious I’m not a natural born pilot.

Twenty minutes earlier I’d been in the pilot lounge chatting with Jim Confer, a member of the Chilhowee Soaring Association Inc., which is a glider club located between Knoxville and Chattanooga in southeastern Tennessee.

Confer, a former serviceman who’d flown reconnaissance in Laos, had been filling me in on the area known as the Tennessee Overhill. Situated in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains, it was once a gritty industrial hub for copper mines, railways and textile mills.

Jim Confer, a member of the Chilhowee Soaring Association, readies the Blanik L-13 glider for flight.

These days, following decades of economic decline, the region is capitalizing on its diverse landscape of densely forested mountains and fast-flowing rivers to reinvent itself as an outdoor adventure destination. It has become especially popular among wind-sport enthusiasts due to exceptional air currents.

“In the spring and fall, we get such ideal ridge and thermal lift we can stay airborne from morning to night,” explains Sarah Kelly, the owner of the club, which offers year round glider instruction and orientation.   

Our flight plan sounds exhilarating. A Piper Pawnee former agricultural spray plane will drag our engineless glider into the air using a towrope. Once the desired altitude is reached, we will disconnect the rope and rely on air currents to keep us airborne.

Despite the daredevil sound of it, the experience is designed for safety. The glider has dual controls so while the student experiences the adventure of flight in the front seat, a certified instructor seated in the rear provides direction and takes control when necessary.

The reality is that, when crammed into the cockpit under a Plexiglas dome in 95 (40 C) degree heat, and parked on what looked like a farmer’s hay field, I feel more like a hot house tomato than the Top Gun fighter pilot I’d originally imagined. A few bumps across the grass runway later, we are airborne. The tow plane chugs noisily ahead.

“Pull the yellow release cord,” shouts Kelly.

“Now?” I think.  The cars on Highway 411 below look like motionless Tonka toys.  The air speed indicator reads 65 mph (100 kmh). Closing my eyes, I give the cord a yank.