Jimmy Angel

Jimmy Angel flew out of the West;
skimmed a plateau clothed in cloud.
Jungle treetops marked his height
as his Fokker engine purred powerfully;
the sound of unseen Destiny.

Bush pilot-low, as only they can,
an uncharted mountain range
threatened his craft.

To aft was his past
where he'd learnt all his skill.
He'd need that to avoid being killed.

Prospecting for gold and the dreams that brings,
who knows what was in the minds
of all onboard?

Eldorado, maybe.

Devil’s Canyon, steep and sharp,
old enough to weigh the price
of any man’s mettle
to settle the matter in the blink of an eye.

Careful now, careful in the cloud
with high speed tongues of rock to left and right
the eyes are everywhere.

There! Below!
He spots it now –
flat open rock that,
once the wheels have touched upon,
turned out to be a bog
and dreams of Eldorado evaporate
to add more substance to the fog.

All survive and look around
then to the sound of thunder
Jimmy turns and spots it,
maps it, names it;
becomes a living legend.

But how to find the way home
when jungle dark and dangerous
around them
is the wrong jungle?

River that flowed past them where they stood
they must follow.

Hollow must have been their dreams of gold
when flow cascaded three-thousand feet
to the path they must now tread.

Dread the cliff and dread the fall
yet cling and climb and hope and pray
and say, ‘To Hell with dreams of gold!’
and leave it to the Devil and his canyon.



This photo snapped by my old friend, Rita Hardwick, on her first holiday abroad. She was terrified of flying. The pilot of the Dornier 288 flew low across the mountain top, then when he got to the edge of Angel Falls, he went into a nose dive and flew vertical down the falls. She snapped this as he levelled out. Angel Falls is 3,250ft high. She is no longer afraid of flying.