August 25, 2004

Driving into the launch site for Driftaway Tours in Waukon, Iowa, it looked as if we had arrived for a family reunion. People were standing about in clusters, speaking in expectant tones, their attention upon something lying in the back yard. The object of their curiosity, the only thing that gave away the occasion, was the brightly colored, but shapeless balloon fabric splayed out on the ground. It was soon learned that ballooning requires a support crew the size of an Italian wedding, and the "family" in this case turned out to be eager passengers, balloon riggers, balloon repairmen, chase team members, the merely curious; and anyone with enough weight to help hold the balloon down and enough savvy to know when to let go. The assembled entourage was under the supervision of Al Hanson, pilot by evening and funeral director by day, a title he kindly refrained from divulging until after our flight. Al was the commander and chief, an expert multitasker, simultaneously directing the repair of a balloon heat sensor, entertaining his seven-year-old helper Zach, listening to a fish tale from longtime friend Jerry, and greeting passengers upon their arrival. He handled all of this with the grace and assurance of an airline pilot standing at the cockpit door. Even with this mass of humanity working toward common purpose, it was still hard to imagine this lifeless hulk lying on the ground taking flight. Imagination soon came to life, however, when Al fired up the gasoline powered fans, and the balloon began inhaling the life-giving air. First in small ripples, then in large waves, the balloon began billowing like a Macy's Day Parade dragon, until Al, using his twin 12 million BTU burners, breathed fire into its mouth. Upward the balloon rose, tipping the still prone wicker basket into an upright position. A few more blasts from the burner, and Al shouted "passengers in!" And in we tumbled. Without much time to think about the journey at hand, having been absorbed by the quick procession of events in preparation for launch, the four of us were somewhat startled when Al announced, "let go, ropes clear!" It was then, watching the ground crew drop away as if on an express elevator, accompanied by nervous laughter from within, that we had time to comprehend what was happening. Many have seen balloon launches, but never before been launched. Most have likewise seen rocket launches on television, but never before been rocketed. The sensation of rising vertically on a plume of fire ­ in this case pointed up rather than down ­ must, it seems, share some common language with the rocket riders. The earth quickly became a miniature representation of itself, with roads, cornfields, buildings, and anything manmade diminished to a point of inconsequence, as the surrounding landscape swallowed them whole in a sea of field-corn green. Yet beyond the fleeting attachments to things terrestrial, to things that only a few minutes ago were as large as houses, that were houses, there was an overwhelming feeling of detachment, of being part of something with no earthly anchor. We are usually good at keeping time in our heads, but without any sounds for reference ­ a passing train or humming machinery ­ there was no sense of time. There was only an earth-stopping calm, a silence, broken by the periodic burst from the burner or the occasional heartfelt "wow." The experience can be likened to sail boating or parasailing, where the wind, rather than licking at your face or whistling in your ear, seems to be quietly along for the ride. But even that fails to do justice to the serenity felt in that basket, suspended as we were from the sky like a full moon rising over the horizon. It must surely have appeared as a celestial object, for the shadow of our eclipse was visible passing over the landscape, inexplicably shaped like a large balloon, inching its way eastward. We descended briefly, scraping the treetops like some fairytale interlopers on magic wings, then rose again to 2000 feet. All the while, Al was checking on his passengers, checking on landmarks and instrumentation, checking on variables that only people who regularly float around in balloons can fathom. We let him work while the four of us enjoyed the scenery, but an often repeated, "It's a beautiful evening, isn't it," revealed Al's still genuine delight with his chosen avocation. After several earlier warnings about staying in the basket at touchdown, and a few elbow-in-the-ribs jokes from the ground crew about crash landings, the landing itself was a non-event, as soft as jumping into your bed, albeit from a height of 30 feet above your bedroom floor. We landed on the bank of highway 76, settling into the arms of our waiting chase team, much to the delight of startled passersby. A clamor of activity ensued, as the ground crew wrestled with the still buoyant balloon, and Al delivered instructions to the team and praise to the passengers, all in the same breath. After exchanging propane tanks and passengers, we watched the next flight launch into the cloudless sky; our feet planted firmly this time on Iowa soil. Later, after pursuing the balloon to the second landing site with the chase team, after helping deflate the balloon and loading it into its storage case like a sleeping snake into a bag; there was time to reflect back on our voyage. Hoisting our glasses in the traditional champagne celebration, we found kinship in this now larger family of balloonists, telling exaggerated stories of our launching and landing, while the Iowa sun, orange and inflated, landed on the western horizon. 

August 23, 2004