I would say not. More like dust in the wind. It's incredibly thin, but blows very hard. Would have been great to have had this view 10 years ago.

An unscheduled departure:

Jon triggered his rear canopy to deploy, praying that these parafoils would function correctly. The micro-thin 130 x 75 meter sheet of helium-inflating tungsten mesh unfurled, sparking a brilliant blue-white flame and jerking Jon to a shocking reduction in speed, falling rapidly from just over 100,000 km/h to a barely manageable 50,000 km/h.

The drawback, however, was the pressure he had to endure with the braking. The straps dug into him through the pressure suit and, at 9.6-Gs of deceleration, Jon lost consciousness, taking him out of commission for a little more than two minutes, while he slowed. When he recovered, it was to a world of agony, and he could make out the several rends in the deflated, fluttering canopy above his head, knowing what remained of it could not last much longer.

He checked the air pressure and took a quick look about for his bearings. Far below was what appeared to be a pipeline, running from the Valles Marineris canyon, far behind him, and up through the Pavonis/Ascraeus saddle.

“So far, so good!” he gasped to himself. “0.05 millibars.”

When his gauge registered 2.35 millibars of pressure, he released the ragged remains of his canopy. Still well above the Martian surface, he skimmed the low rise between the Pavonis and Ascraeus peaks, gauging his speed at 2000 km/h and his altitude with nearly two kilometers to spare. He opened his second chute. The pull of this deployment was far more acceptable.

“...Leeward side of the ridge--should have deep dust deposits...” he hopefully mused, as the terrain continued to race by.

In the thin atmosphere, he had minimal control, but his speed was gratefully decreasing. He could make out the surface domes of the old Mars Base Alpha facility far to the north, the first true settlement of Mars. Tharsa and Three Meadows were still about 300 kilometers to his south, snug within the walls of the double craters of the volcano Ulysses Patera and Impact Crater 12.

The ground was coming up at him fast. Too fast. Jon pointed his toes, preparing for the impact, as the land shot past him. The topography here was relatively even, but with a lot of fist- and skull-sized rocks strewn about.

“A downward slope,” he hissed out loud. “Maybe 15 to 20 degrees. That’ll help,” he insisted.

His toes sank half a meter into the dusty turf, casting him almost immediately into a pitched, headlong tumble. He tucked himself into a ball and rolled with it. There was a stab of pain shooting up his right leg. He flung out his hands, slowing his rolling slide, and came to rest on his stomach, buried in dust, with his bilious sail fluttering down just ahead of him, tugging lightly in a thin, 150 km/h breeze.

After a few moments of painful inventory, Jon got slowly to his feet. He disconnected from the now-useless harness and released the foil, watching it drift buoyantly down the slope. Setting his shoulders, he trekked out, striking a path toward what had appeared to be a small settlement, just before he hit the ground.

Yet another drawback, Jon now realized. With each step he had to concentrate on keeping his sprained right ankle stiff as possible. If this had happened on Earth, I could have probably found a staff to lean on.