Balloon Fest
Fourteen years ago, my family and I were introduced to the wonders of watching the launch of hot air balloons.
On a morning when we would otherwise sleep in, we roust the family from their beds at 05:30, load up the car with kids, blankets, chairs, cameras, and some sweets (donuts, muffins, or some equally high-carbohydrate treat), and make the half-hour drive to the launch site.
On a large grassy field, a wide perimeter is marked; chairs and blankets must be outside of that curve, but watchers are free to walk around between the balloons. Years of experience have provided us a favorite place to set up our blankets and chairs. Soon, we hear an occasional announcement over the public address system; it’s a familiar voice — I think he has been the announcer every year that we’ve been there. The drone of huge fans is heard all around as balloons, carefully unfolded, are given an initial inflation with cool air. Soon after, we hear the unmistakable roar of gas-fueled torches — short bursts, only a few seconds each, driving hot air into the balloons to help them achieve their final shape. Mostly these are inverted tear-drops, but sometimes we’re favored with a house, or pig, or dinosaur, or Smokey Bear. The strawberry-decorated balloon is a favorite among the children as the pilot will drop handfuls of candy right after lift-off. The sun creeps over the nearby mountain peaks, and then comes the music: a few low and rhythmic pulses from a timpani set the stage for the brass to pierce the cool morning skies with 3 notes, and then 3 more. The opening bars of Aaron Copland’s “Fanfare for the Common Man” has become the traditional herald for the imminent ascent of the balloons.
By this time, we’re seated, upright, and looking out across the field. For the next 20 minutes or so, we watch the balloons complete their pre-flight preparations. One by one, the balloons confidently defy gravity while our repose slowly yields to gravity. Within a short time, we’re lying on our backs, with gazes fixed upwards. Slow streaks of color converge toward the center of our view as shapes shrink to dots.
Then the games begin. Dots expand back into shapes and soon we recognize people in gondolas as they race back towards us to try to throw their markers onto an X on the field, and then try to pop rubber balloons tethered to the ground.
It doesn’t work out that well every year. Sometimes there are delays for unfavorable wind currents, or the ambient temperature is too warm for the balloons to get the desired lift. Most of the time, it goes according to this script, and is a glorious and exhilarating experience.
By 07:30, we’re back in the car, heading home, and watching for the last signs of airborne balloons as we drive away from the launch site. Conversation is subdued. We’re all still absorbing the experience, and words aren’t necessary. The younger ones in the car might be thinking that it is still too early to be awake, and that this is a good time to catch up on some missed sleep. A quiet satisfaction is painted on our countenances for the rest of the day; the long-anticipated event has finally come to pass, and we have been refilled.
Thank you, Layne Cannon, for being the mentor — opening our eyes to this and many other wonders.
Photo of the Week
2007.07.23
