Riding the Camel

Being an account of yr. faithful correspondent’s experiences with hot air ballooning.

Be warned:  this is a long one. 

At a panel discussion on writing that I attended lo, these many years ago, one of the participants–I forget who it was–made the point that scriveners need a wide and varied set of experiences to draw upon. For that reason, she said, the writer’s hand should be the first one raised when someone asks, "Who wants to ride the camel?"

Flash forward to earlier this summer: I was dining out with the Omaha Beach Party–a group of writers and friends that gets together whenever the illustrious Jay Lake is in town. There, I learned that Michael, one of our number, was training to be a hot air balloon pilot. I’ve known Michael for a few years now, but this came as a complete surprise to me. Then he mentioned that he was close to getting his license, and that he welcomed volunteers to help him crew his launches.

I exchanged a glance with my wife. At that moment, I heard a voice saying, Who wants to ride the camel?

So I volunteered. We both did, actually.

I had no idea what, if anything, would come of it. Michael said he’d be willing to reward anyone who helped him with a free flight, but I didn’t think that would be necessary. Many people have riding in a hot air balloon on their bucket lists. Not me. Though not terribly acrophobic, I get the willies riding on the aerial tram at the zoo. I’ve never been on a ferris wheel. I love roller coasters, but that first hill is always unnerving for me.

It would be experience enough, I figured, to learn a little something about ballooning. You never know when it might come in useful.

A few weeks later, late on a hot August afternoon, the wife and I found ourselves helping crew the launch for Michael’s first solo flight. There was work aplenty, mostly involving the moving of heavy things, like the basket and the envelope (that’s the actual balloon part of the balloon). I learned about pibals and crown lines. I watched with amazement at how quickly a balloon inflates and gets underway. And I celebrated with Michael and his crew after the successful completion of his flight.

A very cool experience–but wouldn’t you know it; my brain couldn’t let it rest there. Before long, inspiration struck. I didn’t quite know what kind of story I had, but I decided to go with it. I got to taking notes and poking around on the Internet for more info on ballooning. Of course, I had a prime source right in front me–Michael. Obviously, I would need to question him about some technical details.

It also became increasingly clear that if I were truly going to attempt writing a story about a hot air balloon, it might behoove me to actually go up in one. Gulp.

Michael was more than happy to answer my questions, provide me with some ballooning manuals . . . and to take me up. That put the ball in my court. Would I be willing to climb inside the basket?

Who wants to ride the camel?

Really, it wasn’t much of a question. The story demanded it. I had to fly.

We set the date and time–late afternoon, October 10th. (Most balloon launches are either in the early morning or late afternoon, when winds tend to be calmer.) When the day arrived, I was remarkably composed. Part of that can be attributed to the knowledge that Michael could scrub the flight at any point, if he deemed the weather unfavorable. Early in the week, the forecast had called for a chance of rain that day. By the time Saturday rolled around, however, the odds of rain had dropped away. Michael called to tell me the launch was on.

I had a bit of a cheering section: the wife, our friend Dani, and Dani’s daughter Emily rode with me to the little town of Waterloo, Nebraska, just outside of Omaha city limits. I warned them that even at this point, there was always a possibility that conditions could change, and we would have to call it off. As it happened, winds at the surface were a little stronger than Michael thought they would be. But he assured me that it was still flyable.

Michael’s crew arrived, along with a couple of other crews, setting up flights of their own. We hauled out the basket and the envelope. Some last minute details were ironed out. All the while, I remained calm, focused on the prep work.

Then it was time to inflate. Michael had me stand next to the basket as he started up the big, gas-powered fan that pumped air into the envelope.

That’s when it occurred to me that I was really going to do it. That’s when I got nervous. A little.

Michael fired up the burners. The air inside the envelope heated. It rose majestically from the ground, upright in a matter of minutes. Michael, already in the basket, told me to get in.

Moment of truth. Once I was on board, I knew there would be no getting out until we landed.

To my credit, I didn’t hesitate. I climbed in, followed by Michael’s father, Glen, another passenger for this ride. In moments, we achieved equilibrium. The basket began to move, straining against the line that held it down. Michael untied us, fired the burners again . . . and then we left the terra firma.

Here’s where I freaked out. A little. In mere seconds, we were above the Waterloo water tower. I found myself wishing the sides of the basket were just a little bit higher. Looking straight down was frankly terrifying. I had a camera with me, but with both hands gripping the basket, pictures were out of the question. But I remained outwardly calm. Pretty much. I figured (hoped) it would pass. Glen suggested looking toward the horizon, and that helped.

So there we were, moving almost due north, looking out over houses, trees, expanses of farm fields, and the meandering Elkhorn River, just to our east. The other two balloons were out ahead of us, doing their thing.

Eventually, I settled down. The balloon glided easily on the light wind. People on the ground waved to us as we passed overhead. Dogs barked and deer fled. I got comfortable enough to attempt a few pictures. I even reached a point where I could look straight down without my heart dropping into my shoes. We were in the groove.

As we flew, Michael pointed out some potential hazards to look out for:

Power lines. From a distance, you won’t see the actual wires, but you’ll see the poles.

Fences that indicate livestock enclosures. Not good places to land. Cattle spook easily.

Unharvested fields. Also very bad places to land. Farmers don’t appreciate you destroying their crops.

And, uh, trees. This might seem kind of obvious, but keep in mind that hot air balloons don’t exactly maneuver on a dime. They take about 10-20 seconds to respond to a burn. Some balloonists are so good that they deliberately skim the tops of trees. It’s called leafing.

Unplanned close encounters do happen, though.

Trust me on this.

Michael warned us it was coming, told us to brace ourselves. This beastly old thing, skeletal, probably dead, stood squarely in front of us. With no steering mechanism, we had no choice but to get as high as we could and power our way through the branches we couldn’t clear.

The impact wasn’t bad, but it almost stopped us. Michael actually leaned out of the basket to push some of the branches aside. Yikes.

Seconds later, we were past it. No problem . . . except for the terrifying way the basket bobbed when we came free. My heart might have stopped for a moment or two.

Michael assures me it felt worse than it really was.

With the Evil Balloon-Grabbing Tree behind us, the flight quickly smoothed out, and all was well again. Truth be told, I was actually enjoying myself.  But all too soon, it was time to think about landing. The other balloons were already descending.

This is probably the biggest crapshoot of the entire enterprise. The wind is going to take you where it will. It’s up to your pilot to scout out the land ahead and determine the best place to set down. Certain areas are strictly off limits–"red zones," marked on maps the pilot has committed to memory before takeoff. As mentioned previously, power lines are problematic, as are livestock enclosures. The ideal spot is somewhere near a road, so that the chase crew on the ground can get to you easily, and so you don’t have to haul the basket and envelope very far to load them back into the trailer.

But again, it’s a crapshoot. Sometimes the wind and the landscape conspire against you. We thought we’d spied a good place, but Michael aborted at the last minute, due to too much traffic on the nearby road. A few minutes later, another likely landing spot presented itself, but the wind shifted just a little, and we missed it. Michael became visibly frustrated.

We looked ahead of us. The Elkhorn River cut across our flight path. Beyond that, we could see no roads. None. Only trees and hilly country. But our fuel tanks were getting low; we had to set down. We spotted a fallow field just across the river. It would have to do.

Ever watched a hot air balloon land? Sometimes they come down softly. And sometimes, they, uh, bounce. And not like a ball. No, we’re talking about big, slow bounces. You hit the ground, and a second or two later, the envelope rebounds, and you’re airborne again. We bounced a few times before coming to a stop, safe and sound.

Success!

Except for one small problem: we were in the middle of nowhere.

The chase crew could not see the balloon, and had only a rough idea where we’d landed. That we had gone over the river complicated matters; the chasers had to locate a bridge. Michael was in touch with them via radio, but reception was spotty. Cell phone service was even less reliable.

Here’s what we knew: we were on somebody’s farm, probably near the rear of the property, given our proximity to the river. In the distance, we heard a tractor engine, but we had no idea where it was. We saw a couple of outbuildings to our north that appeared deserted. Michael had a GPS in the basket, but the only meaningful information he could give the chase crew was our latitude and longitude.

Glen decided to scout the area a bit, looking for a road. After a while, Michael went off to join him, leaving me to stay with the (deflating) balloon.

Yeah. Like I had anywhere else to go.

I tried calling the wife, to let her know we were fine, and not to worry. It took a couple of attempts to get through, but I managed to convey the message.

Glen returned, informing me that they had found a farm road that led to another field, then continued on to points unknown. Michael had forged ahead. Meanwhile, Glen and I swatted mosquitoes and waited. And waited. And waited.

Oh, did I mention the sun was setting?

Understand, I wasn’t overly bothered by any of this. Hell, I had just survived my first hot air balloon flight, Evil Balloon-Grabbing Tree and all. Compared to that, being lost somewhere in the wilds of eastern Nebraska seemed like a minor glitch.

My cell phone buzzed. It was Michael. He and the chase crew had found each other. They were on their way to us.

Before long, we heard voices and engines. Headlights came into view–a jeep and a truck. A brown Lab ran ahead of the vehicles and came happily charging toward me. Our rescuers had arrived.

The Lab belonged to a very nice lady named Janell, one of the property owners. Michael had come across her on his hike up the road. She’d seen the balloon go down behind her trees, but couldn’t figure out why it hadn’t come back up. So she’d gotten curious. With her generous assistance and good humor, everyone was reunited.

Darkness fell as we bundled up the envelope and loaded everything into the truck. As we drove out of there, I began to understand why we’d been so hard to find. It was at least two miles to the main road. Yeesh.

And so our ballooning adventure came to an end. The wife, Dani, Emily, and I stopped at a Dairy Queen on the way home and had a celebratory meal. Then we finally made it home.

Man, the things we writers will go through for a story. But rest assured, the next time another opportunity to ride the camel presents itself, my hand will be the first one raised.

Well, maybe the second.