Caledonia Argus

Luck and patience prove invaluable at Bluff and Valley Balloon Rally

Posted: 12/10/02

by Andrew Miller
Argus News Reporter

The phone call Iíd been waiting for came at exactly the right time.

ìThe windís died down and some pilots are planning a liftoff in Houston this afternoon,î the voice on the other end said. ìBe at Good Times at 12:45.î

ìWill do,î I said, slamming down the receiver with gleeful force.

The phone had rung just as I was exiting my apartment, ready to hit the local pubs on a Sunday afternoon and drown my sorrows with hard drink. I had been scheduled to undertake my first hot air balloon voyage on Saturday morning, but inhospitable weather had kept all pilots and their aircraft grounded. They were at the mercy of Mother Nature and the whims of the wind, and the situation did not look good.

A second liftoff had been set for Saturday afternoon, but again the winds proved too strong. Local law enforcement officials must have chuckled when the dispatch radio received a report of a young man on Main Street banging his head against the side of a building out of frustration. Doctors say my cranial bruises should be fully healed by mid-March.

A few pilots attempted to go airborne Saturday afternoon, but to no avail. One pilot burned a hole in his balloon while trying to inflate it, and another pilot succeeded in lifting off, but was tossed around in the heavens like a ping pong ball in a wind tunnel.

Pilots and a handful of passengers ventured to Little Miami in Freeburg Saturday evening, hoping to engage in a bit of camaraderie, so as to lift spirits after an otherwise unproductive day. The pilots that came to the Bluff and Valley Balloon Rally are a relatively tight-knit group. Despite hailing from different parts of the state, the pilots seem to know each other like kin, and on occasions such as these the atmosphere resembles somewhat of a family reunion. Coming together after an extended period of separation, pilots swap flight stories, boast of improvements in their equipment, and get updates on each otherís personal lives. It was, all in all, a heartwarming affair, especially for me, warmed as I was by powerful cocktails.

Sunday morningñ pilots and passengers were ready at dawn, congregating in the basement of the Caledonia City Auditorium. We were to make a final go at a liftoff, and if the windless silence along Main Street was any indication, our prospects looked good.

But Fate, as it were, was again unkind. Event coordinator Randy Weibel told passengers that, before the weather report would be read, heíd like to thank the pilots and the sponsors, and that if there was a lesson to be learned from the weekendís events, it was that hot air ballooning is an exercise in luck, patience. That said, the weather report was read, and the crowdís collective heart sank. Winds were whipping through the area well above the limit allowed for liftoff, and the 2002 Bluff and Valley Balloon Rally, it seemed, would conclude without much of a rally.

I returned to my apartment, head hanging low, thoughts of a derring-do adventure over Houston County airspace abating. I took a brief nap, and awoke around noon. I dressed and was on my way out the door when, as I mentioned earlier, I got that phone call Iíd been waiting for.

I hightailed it to Good Times, met up with my co-rider, Annie Palen, received some abridged safety tips, and was assigned a pilot. Boom boom boom, just like that. And like the menacing winds dying down that afternoon, so too had Fateís fury abated, granting pilots and passengers a reprieve after an altogether enervating weekend of hurry-up-and-wait routines.

The group headed for a farm outside Houston, which would serve as a makeshift airport. Upon arrival, however, the winds picked up yet again, and it looked like the lot of us had been made fools of. I thought I could hear the distinct sound of meteorologists laughing, though this may have just been my heart poundingñ the pilots had decided to make do and launch four balloons, and inflation had commenced. My pulse raced; fear of heights runs rampant in my family and, knowing for certain I would be going up shortly, my nervous system began rattling away like an old washing machine. I tried to suppress my more morbid thoughts by talking about rock music with my co-rider. I remember saying something like ìAerosmithñ the worst band everî as a flight crew member hurriedly pointed to me and motioned me into the passengerís compartment of the balloon. I hustled over and stumbled into the basket and, as I did so, my fatherís words rushed through my head.

Iíd called my father on Friday evening, the night before the first scheduled liftoff, for words of encouragement, words of assurance. Yet this man, I soon learned, was not the right person to call. He too was fearful of heights, in fact, fearful of any height higher than your average step ladder. As such, my fears were confirmed.

ìAre you a frigginí lunatic?î he asked. ìYouíll be riding in a wicker basket! Youíll be a thousand feet off the ground, and the only thing between you and a premature death is two inches of woven straw!î

Those words haunted me as the balloon ascended, but there was no going back now. We were already well over three hundred feet up. Iíd have to turn on my Inner Grit, the stuff that guys like John Wayne are made of. Though I doubt John Wayne was ever reduced to high-pitched whimpering at the thought of his own mortality on a Sunday afternoon.

I clung to the side of the basket as we made our initial ascent, and the pilot inquired as to my well being.

ìYeah, Iím cool,î I squeaked out, hoping he could not sense The Fear in my voice.

But as we drifted over the first bluff, all worries subsided. The town of Houston faded off, becoming what seemed, not coincidentally, a very precise scale replica of itself. Deer below were spooked by the thunderous blasts of the balloonís burner and ran helter-skelter through hill and valley. A few horses were taken aback by the sight of the massive red orb in the sky, and their reactions were comparable to how I reacted when I was eight years old and my bathing trunks came off in a city swimming pool in St. Paulñ confusion, followed by terror, followed by acceptance. The pilot shouted a few calming words to the horses, and all was well.

At least in my experience, there is no feeling like riding in a hot air balloon. The calm, cool serenity of a Caledonia Sunday in early winter was magnified tenfold. But for the occasional blast of the burner and the pilotís radio communication with the ground crew, it was quiet enough to hear the breathing of the other passengers.

If only my workdays could be like this, I thought as the balloon made its descent. Flights of fancy needed to be dispelled immediately, however, as the landing required everyoneís full attention. A few rough bounces off some corn furrows and the ground crew had us firmly in their grasp.

My balloon took on a few more passengers and was off again; on terra firma, I joined up with a chase crew and followed another balloon until it landed. When we had it secured, our task was to dismantle the craftís various components and stuff the balloon into an oversized nylon bag.

Mission completed, a flight crew member proffered glasses of champagne to everyone on hand. The pilot said a short prayer and then us greenhorns, us first-timers, were required to get on our knees and drink the champagne without using our hands. Good-natured, fraternity-style hazing. And well-deserved, for me at least, in light of my weakling antics at the start of the journey.

I bent down, clasped the plastic cup between my teeth, and tilted back my head, hoping to down it in one gigantic gulp. The contents of the cup came rushing out, and the champagne splashed onto my face, camera, and shirt.

Good gracious, I said to myself, I just soiled my only shirt. I might have to get it cleaned!

I couldnít help but laugh. It was a fitting finale to the day, considering my intended destination before the phone rang. If ever again thereís a balloon rally in Caledonia, you can bet bottom dollar Iíll be first in line at liftoff. But next time Iíll be riding in the balloon sponsored by the Caledonia Teetotalers Association, so as to minimize my laundry expenses.

Top of Page