People who do know him say there's no use in telling him anything other than "be careful." "Everyone in the family knows Ammon will do what he wants to do," his older brother, Gabe, says. "He always has."
In mid-January, McNeely's Cherokee sat in the dirt lot of the Parachute Center in Acampo, north of Stockton. The green Jeep is to McNeely what a shell is to a tortoise — his itinerant home when not camping or crashing at Kait's or a buddy's. All his belongings — parachute rigs, rock climbing gear, three skateboards — are thrown in the back, and a photo of him and Kait adorns the dashboard. McNeely hasn't paid rent for 15 years.
Joseph Schell
McNeely climbs a tower and
jumps off.
Joseph Schell
Jumping during the day increases the risk of getting spotted.
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At the drop zone for going on three weeks, McNeely has settled into a life seemingly designed by a 16-year-old boy. He and other skydiving junkies jump out of a plane all day. Then they hurry inside to watch the video they shot of each other, high-fiving and exclaiming "Siiiiiiick!" At day's end, they sit around a bonfire while reliving their skydives, downing beers, smoking weed, slapping the flanks of the drop zone's dogs, and listening to an old peyote farmer strum "Hotel California" on his guitar. They retire to beds in a metal shed, McNeely to his car.
At age 40, McNeely is something like the Lost Boys' rad uncle, man enough to use a hot-pink parachute. (One newbie said McNeely had invited him out at midnight earlier in the week to watch him jump the tower, fawning, "I love Ammon. He's cool.") McNeely is the one who leaps over the bonfire and posts the picture on Facebook. He explains the hazards of shotgunning a beer while swinging upside down on your rope from a cliff (Look on YouTube for "THE YOSEMITE PIRATE!!!"). In the video, he delivers a line that could act as his mantra: "I'd rather live 40 years of excitement and fun and exhilarating and just wooo, full volume than 80 years of la-di-dah-di-dah, you know, boring." These days, of course, McNeely is also the wildman who got Tased in Yosemite. "The rangers get a bonus for catching a BASE jumper," one skydiver conjectures. McNeely can't help but interject: "They get a bonus or a boner?"
McNeely grew up as the third of five children in a Mormon family in St. George, Utah, before deciding the religion's prohibitions didn't "make sense." He became the first to grow a mohawk at his high school, a punk rocker with an early taste for adventures. He often rode in planes while his dad skydived out. He climbed rocks, trees, and even a 300-foot antenna, just to sit at the top and think. "I would even imagine myself jumping off, and it wasn't a suicide thing," he recalls. "But I just wanted to know how it would feel to fall off."
McNeely skipped college to marry and have a son at age 20, holding down a 9-to-5 job as an IT guy in Irvine. But after he got divorced, he tired of the grind. "I have to go search for excitement because it doesn't fall in your lap a lot of times." He quit his job, "droppin' out of societeeeee," he says as if narrating an adventure movie trailer.
He surfed and skateboarded around San Clemente for a few years, before buying rock-climbing gear and heading out to Yosemite, the cliff capital of the western United States. He has now bagged 22 speed records up different routes on El Cap. One time he fell and hit his head, regaining consciousness to find his helmet cracked and a white puslike substance oozing from his skull. He heard rangers asking if he needed a rescue through a loudspeaker. In his haze, he signaled no, and continued on.
To fund his lifestyle, he puts in about four months a year harnessed to the ceiling of stadiums across the country installing Fiberglas panels (a day job for altitude junkies). "I can make six, seven, eight thousand dollars in a month, and then I go play."
"He's one of the true believers," says Nancy Prichard Bouchard, spokeswoman for Five Ten, the company that has outfitted McNeely with rock-climbing shoes for the past decade. "If he couldn't get a penny or a pair of shoes or harness from anyone, he'd still be climbing."
In 2006, he made his first BASE jump off the Perrine Bridge in Idaho after just 36 skydives (the rule is to log 200 before attempting a BASE). There was only one thing he didn't dig about his new-found sport: the threat of getting caught.
McNeely once booked a hotel room with a group of jumpers at the Palms hotel in Las Vegas, planning to jump off the balcony. The call went something like: "We're on our honeymoon, and we want one that's really high that overlooks the sunset pointing west," McNeely says in a mischievous voice. "Because that's where the landing area is." He laughs.
Some BASE jumpers say breaking the law adds to the rush. Jumper Iiro Seppänen jumped off the Stratosphere hotel and casino in Vegas by sneaking the parachute up to the top inside a stuffed animal. Jade Tatom, a 6-foot-5 wing-suiter who works in Lodi, says he once climbed a crane at a construction site in Norway by wearing a neon workman's jacket over his parachute. Jeb Corliss smuggled his parachute into the Empire State Building in a fat suit.