Until recently, I had incorrectly assumed that the only people haunting the streets at 4:30 a.m. were grafitti artists, werewolves and dumpster diners, a sordid collection of ne’er-do-wells on dubious errands skulking through the night unburdened by the presence of prying eyes, critical commentary or sneering countenances. It is only after several decades of false assumption that I have been introduced to the truth: there are others afoot in the sooty darkness. They are silent in their curious mission, invisible to the bulk of humanity as they careen through the remnants of night, borne along deserted country roads by mud-encrusted vehicles bouncing awkwardly across the high desert in search of a launching pad. They feel no cold, these pioneers, sense no fear, tolerate no obstacles, for they are on their way to Gloryland. These are the few, the brave, the rarely-seen Balloon People, a collection of pilots, proletarians and passengers, racing the dawn to be first in the skies. Salute them, for they will win the day.
Dawn breaks over the New Mexico hills as Jeannie and the gang prepare the balloon.
The Ultimate Wake-Up Call
The Inn on the Alameda is one of the premier hostelries in Santa Fe, New Mexico. The grounds are beautiful, the rooms are large and spotless, the service is swift and smiling and the downtown plaza is a mere three blocks away. Most remarkably of all, the lobby is open 24 hours a day, or so said the desk man. Well, nobody’s perfect. When Siobhan and I arrived for a comfy wait for our balloon transportation to arrive, the place was locked up tighter than a clam’s ass at high tide. We sat down on a well-placed bench outside the building checking out what 4:30 in the morning looked like. It looked quiet. There is not a lot of hell being raised in Santa Fe at 4:30 in the morning or any other time, matter of fact, and if you’d like to raise some the constabulary there will be happy to pack you up and ship you out on the first bus to Tucumcari.
Pre-dawn pick-ups are notorious for unreliability, the human penchant for grogginess being what it is, but not this time. Promptly at the appointed hour, a nondescript pick-up truck whistled around the corner and out popped Jeannie with the light gray hair, a sixtyish cowgirl skinny as a rail but in possession of a smile that would melt Winterfell. Jeannie was Santa Fe Balloons’ girl Friday, one part taxi-driver, several parts balloon wrangler, flight chaser and breakfast provider, the hardest working cowgirl in show business. After us, she picked up two young women at a nearby hotel and we were on our way to the launch site over 30 miles away, just north of the town of Espanola. As we rode, Jeannie regaled us with tales of derring-do performed by Johnny Lewis, the owner-operator of SF Balloons and our pilot for this flight. Johnny, apparently, was one of a kind.
While other kids were laboring over their GTOs or throwing the old pigskin around, Johnny Lewis was developing an itch for the wild blue yonder, first as a pilot for any old crate you could mash together, then for the last 30 years as a balloonist extraordinaire, logging thousands of hours in the basket. Johnny has been a designated examiner for the Federal Aviation Administration and currently is an FAA Certified Instructor with hundreds of trainees to his credit. He has a spotless safety record, is a regular speaker at ballooning seminars, has flown for National Geographic and numberless corporations and participated in balloon races around the world. To hear Jeannie tell it, Johnny may have even perched on that rock where Moses stood. Before takeoff, Johnny told the assembled gathering of seven riders that he had one overarching rule: Johnny doesn’t hike. Which meant he would put the balloon down exactly where the chase vehicles expected, in case you were worried.
First, the air from a simple fan, then add a bit of flame, get yourself vertical and load ‘em up. Then---VOILA!---takeoff.
Q. & A.
You have questions, we have answers. First, why take off so early? The average Joe likes to ease out of bed sometime after sunrise, grab a muffin, put on the coffee, ingest the sports page. Turns out, at dawn wind conditions are calm and balloon pilots can fine tune the altitude of the thing by heating or venting the air inside. During the majority of the day, the sun heats the ground causing thermals, columns of rising warm air which spiral skyward and displace the air above causing up and down drafts which can effect the pilot’s level of control. This process can also create the mixing of calmer, slower winds closer to the curvature of the earth with the generally faster-paced winds higher in the sky. Such mixing can lead to strong gusts and unpredictable conditions, and ballooning is not an activity where participants appreciate funny weather surprises. During certain times of the year, dusk flights may be possible in some areas but it is far more difficult to schedule one of these than it is a dawn extravaganza.
Next, how many people can ride at one time? On our trip, we had eight, including the pilot. Johnny likes to pack ‘em in so riders will not be floating around the basket. The weight of the passengers doesn’t seem to be an issue. If Johnny has an abbreviated group, he uses a smaller basket. We were shoulder to shoulder but not uncomfortable and everyone was able to move around slowly, take pictures and perform conservative yoga poses. No Zumba allowed.
The Ride
Most of us have a romanticized notion of what a balloon ride is like. I saw a television show once where a fellow looking to impress his inamorata led her over the rise of a hill to a fully inflated balloon with an open basket gate. Johnny and the gang would chortle at that one. Such an enchanting experience may be offered somewhere, suffice to say it will not be a product of Espanola, New Mexico.
The balloon arrives with Johnny, in a large box on a flatbed towed by Lewis’ pick-up. He and his crew of three others, which includes two fit twenty-year-olds and the everpresent Jeannie, shove the box off the truck, stretch out the 100-foot envelope and begin to inflate it with a common fan. When a modicum of inflation has occurred, they switch to the flame until the balloon stands erect. This takes a good half-hour or more, during which the passengers don light jackets in the nippy pre-dawn desert. Once in the basket---which has no fancy-schmancy gate, by the way---the flame provides sufficient warmth, especially if you are not wearing a hat.
The balloon ascends very slowly, almost unnoticeably, borne to the south by a light wind. For anyone with delusions of rising to 1000 feet or so (me), a combination of a mere hour in the air and Johnny’s determination not to override the terminus and wind up on Indian land restricts our maximum flying height to less than 300 feet. Several times we approach hills which are higher than the basket but Johnny zaps the flamethrower and air currents near the hillside unfailingly carry us clear. It is patently obvious even to the rank amateur that a balloon pilot better know what he is damn well doing because there is plenty of room for calamity. Lewis gets a little excited now and then but is very cool in the saddle, cracking jokes and revving up his customers. One of his favorites is announcing that “Absolutely the most important thing you must do while on this trip is to….” and then noisily goosing the flame so that his further advice is indecipherable. Just a little whiz-bang from your friendly neighborhood pilot.
Land Ho!
What goes up must come down, right? In this case, the coming down can be an issue. Just as your preconceived notions of balloon glamour were not exactly fulfilled by the limited altitude of the ride or the lack of breathtaking beauty to surveil while traveling, neither will you be floating gently to the ground like, say, Tinkerbell. Remember, this is the blue-collar balloon trip. Johnny will be using the mesquite, sagebrush or whatever the hell is at hand to glide into and slow down the aircraft. After all, nobody wants a boring end to their adventure. The mighty beast descends, the basket lurches noisily through the underbrush, felling one of our heavier contemporaries and then Johnny suddenly announces that we should jump out and hold the thing down. Gee, where was our pre-ride training period? Siobhan and I are nothing if not game, however, so we hop off and grab the basket, along with one of our compadres. The husky balloon laughs at our efforts and fights back. Finally, the crew arrives, the beast is tamed and everyone exits. It might not be what the passengers expected but all will have a jolly tale to tell.
No one seems one whit disappointed. That’s what a hefty jolt of adrenaline will do for you. And now here comes Jeannie with a basket of breakfast vittles and a bottle of champagne to celebrate the fact that nobody died or was seriously injured. While we nosh, she fills out our graduation certificates in monk-worthy calligraphy. Afterwards, we have the celebration of the Processing of the Credit Cards and tips for the crew. A good time is had by all, especially Johnny, who gets $260 a head for this business, enough to retire to his native Texas for six months a year. Jeannie, meanwhile, keeps the home fires burning. There is paperwork to clean up, office matters to attend to, the detritus of modern business. Oh, and it take a very long time to wash a 100-foot balloon.
That’s all, folks….
Next Week: The rest of the Santa Fe story, a colorful tale of folk art festivals, museums, Siobhan’s increasing obsession with rock shops (hospitalization could be required) and Austin, the pedicab man. No further crash landings are anticipated.
