The ground simply falls away as our balloon lifts off.
“We are literally lighter than air,” says our trusty pilot, Phil Jackson, a jolly, laid-back guy who’s been flying hot-air balloons since the early ’70s.
We rise over forests and church steeples, the green mountains of Vermont to our right, the Adirondacks to our left. Verdant farmland stretching out as far as we can see. A deer darts out of the forest and bounds across an alfalfa field. The sound of a dog barking reaches us, clear as a bell, 2,000 feet up.
It all seems so peaceful, so free, so easy, but getting here was anything but.
The first thing I learned when I booked a ride over the Adirondack Mountains is that hot-air ballooning is very complicated. Conditions have to be just right, and trips can get canceled, sometimes at the last minute.
Too hot? Look out for those thermos — essentially, unexpected gusts of winds — that can make the ride, especially the landing, a bit hairy.
Chance of rain? You’re grounded. Even rain the night before a trip is a problem. An evening shower can leave behind a blanket of fog in the morning; if you can’t see where you’re going to land, you don’t go up in a balloon.
One Saturday morning in late August, after multiple weather-related cancellations, nature smiled on my high-flying aspirations. I meet Phil, whose company is Adirondack Balloon Flights, and my photographer, Alex, at 6:15 a.m. at a gas station upstate. We drive around Washington County in Phil’s van, scouting out takeoff spots.
All you can do with a hot-air balloon is make it go up and down. The direction you fly in is up to the wind, so Phil sends up small black helium balloons at each potential takeoff spot — first a turkey farm, then a patchy grass runway that Phil’s assistant Baker calls “North Argyle International Airport” — to find out which way the wind is blowing.
“This is very scientific,” Phil says as he releases a balloon. ‘‘We don’t want to end up in the mountains. And we want to stay to the left of Route 40 because of the swamp.”
“I certainly don’t want to land in a swamp,” I say. “But if we do, I can swim.”
Phil and Baker laugh.
“A guy lost his pickup truck in that swamp,” Phil says. “They dragged the swamp, but they never found it. If we land in the swamp, we’re basically landing in quicksand.”
So much for my breaststroke.
Phil deems a field behind a school ready for takeoff. He and Baker unload the basket from the van and unfurl the balloon. It’s massive — and expensive. Phil tells me that the total cost of a hand-crafted hot-air balloon — basket and burners included — is about $50,000.
It takes 10 minutes and a fan to inflate the mass of multicolored nylon. Alex and I climb into the basket. Phil gives the balloon a couple of blasts from his huge blowtorch and we begin to float.
I wouldn’t call it a takeoff, since that implies a burst of energy and speed. A hot-air balloon rises, gently. It’s mellow, relaxing, very Age of Aquarius. It’s easy to see why ballooning became popular in the ’70s.
“Peace, love, tranquility — it was a mellow sort of thing,” says Phil, who started ballooning in 1973. “There was always a party.”
“What sort of things did people do up there in those beautiful balloons,” I ask, innocently.
“I’m not telling you,” he says, eyeing my reporter’s notebook. “Let’s just say anything you can do in a basket, we did.”
Unlike those wild early years, today, the Federal Aviation Administration keeps a fairly close eye on the sport. Repairs to the balloon, basket and rig must be done by an FAA-approved specialist.
Ballooning is largely the province of tourists, with fall a popular time because of the colorful foliage. Most balloon festivals take place in September or October.
After an hour or so of mellow flying, it’s time to return to earth.
Phil wants to land at the Pole Valley Player’s Club golf course in Hartford, NY, but the wind has died down and, he fears we’re “running out of juice.”
“We’re not running out of fuel, are we?” a slightly panicked Alex asks.
“No,” Phil says, with a laugh. “Juice means wind. We’ve got plenty of fuel, [but] we may not make the golf course.”
Never mind the golf course, I’m thinking to myself. Where the hell is that swamp?
We’re at treetop level now. In fact, we’re headed right for the tops of several trees.
“Aren’t we flying a little low?” Alex asks.
“Treetops are very pliable,” Phil assures us. “You can fly right through them.”
And indeed we do.
A gust of wind hits, sending the balloon gliding down to the golf course.
“Fore!” I yell.
We scrape the fairway, leaving a rather large divot, bounce once and then settle down on the ground.
A man and his young son drive out in a cart to meet us — turns out he’s the course owner. He helps Phil and Baker deflate and pack up the balloon. The once-huge orb is stuffed in a large canvas bag that fits in the back of the van. We’re 30, maybe 40 miles from where we started.
“Well,” says the kid, “it was nice having you guys land here.”
Adirondack Balloon Flights, Glens Falls, NY; 518-793-6342, adkballoonflights.com. Group flights: $250 per person for about an hour of flying.