People have always been fascinated by flight. Greek mythology tells the story of Icarus, the son of an imprisoned craftsman who fashioned wings from wax and feathers to escape captivity. The ill-fated Icarus would go on to fly too close to the sun, melting the wax and plummeting to his death.
Since the days of Icarus, avionics have gone on to help man realize his wildest dreams and reach once-unimaginable heights. If you’re traveling by plane these days, you’re easily flying at a cool 25,000 feet. Yet despite aviation’s impressive safety record, there’s always something unnerving about flying.
Maybe it’s the patient humming of the turbines and the thought of hearing them go silent mid-flight. Or the violent shake caused by turbulence that feels like it could rip apart the very metal that holds the vessel together. The sheer realization of being at such a high altitude is enough to make anyone feel queasy. Whatever it is, I’ve never found anything calming about flying — that is, until I went on my first hot air balloon ride this past fall.
“It’s not the rock-and-roll ride people think it’s going to be,” says Pilot Rollie Little as our wicker basket drifted over barren land in north Scottsdale.
My gravity-defying voyage began at 6:30 a.m. — just in time to catch a scenic sunrise. Along with SPM Assistant Editor Erica Rodriguez, we met our Rainbow Ryders, Inc., flight team at a Starbucks parking lot near the balloon launch site. Upon our arrival, the three-man crew went straight away to work, promptly inflating a latex balloon with helium and releasing it into the dark sky. “There goes your ride,” Little joked.
The men patiently watched the balloon climb into the atmosphere, calculating all the while. Hot-air ballooning is apparently one part science, one part Mother Nature. Little would later go on to explain that wind travels at different speeds in different layers of the sky. That, combined with the simple scientific principle that says warmer air rises in cooler air, makes the flying feat possible.
Once our pilot concluded his estimations, the five of us quickly piled into the company pick-up truck and headed toward our launch site. The bed of the truck hauled everything we would need for our flight. After a short drive, we pulled off of the paved street for a short off-road jaunt, dust and dirt trailing behind us. Just as sunlight started to peak over the horizon, we came upon an open piece of land with four other teams already in the process of inflating their balloons with hot air.
Within minutes our crew unloaded a three-person wicker basket, complete with propane tanks and mounted valve controls, and unfurled the giant envelope that would hold the heated air. As the balloon was being prepared we were instructed to watch our pilot for his signal, at which point we would have to make a dash for the basket, scaling the four foot wall as quickly as possible.
The balloons around us briefly distracted me as they quickly revealed their enormous size reaching upward. They danced majestically in the sky, bumping harmlessly into each other like gentle giants.
Back at my balloon, Little gave us the signal. Go!
As fast as my 200-pound frame would allow me, I hopped into the basket and gripped the sides, not knowing what to expect. As Little controlled the valves overhead you could hear small bursts of flames. I looked up to see the red and orange glow. By the time I redirected my attention back to the ground I was surprised to see we were no longer connected to the earth.
As we slowly began our ascension to 1,000 feet, the cool morning chill was quelled by the occasional bursts of flames fueling our climb. All was calm. All was tranquil. Little was right — this wasn’t Jimi Hendrix. This was Mozart.
The winds guided us effortlessly across the desert landscape, showcasing untouched dirt below us. The stillness of the desert was only disrupted by the occasional coyote, which we spotted from our lofty perch. Up and down, our pilot took us for almost an hour before finally landing us in an undesignated area.
Little explained to us we could expect three kinds of landing: a perfect drop, a bumpy touch down, or an all out drag in which the basket slides in on its side. Here is where Mother Nature has her say. Lucky for us, we only experienced a few bumps that were no more jarring than an old wooden roller coaster.
Our ground crew quickly corralled our basket and balloon. The flight was over. As the crew continued packing up the equipment, Little pulled Erica and I aside for a toast and a prayer. The Balloonist Prayer is a tradition said to have originated in Paris in 1783. Little recited it from memory:
The winds have welcomed you with softness. The sun has blessed you with his warm hands. You have flown so high and so well that God joined you in laughter and set you gently back into the loving arms of Mother Earth.
The fable of Icarus is meant to warn us to respect our limits and not overreach our ambitions, but in reality, it’s probably what makes me so uneasy every time I step onto a plane. If the story is a lesson in moderation, a hot air balloon ride is the most moderate way to defy the gods.
Contact the reporter at jose.sandoval@asu.edu
