IN THE FLOW

by

Karen Fayeth

Since 1972 Albuquerque, New Mexico, has hosted the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta. Every year it grows a little more and is now an incredibly large event that draws hundreds of thousands of people. It has become much larger, I suspect, than the founding group of balloonists ever anticipated.

The Balloon Fiesta is held in the first part of October and has become a key autumn event and a New Mexico tradition. It is also a tourist destination because seeing hot air balloons fly is an incredibly unique experience.

In the early 2000s a new Balloon Fiesta park was built with plenty of space set aside for laying out the silks and launching hot air balloons.

Back when I was a kid, in the 1970s, the balloons inflated and took off from a place called Cutter Field. It was a regional airport, owned by Sid Cutter, one of the founders of the original balloon race that was later recognized as the first annual Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta.

To be honest, in the seventies this so-called International Balloon Fiesta was little more than a bunch of balloonists who liked to get together to race balloons and drink. A lot. On both counts.

So when the balloonists decided to have a fiesta, the rest of us Albuquerque residents showed up to what amounted to an empty lot and wandered around while the balloonists set up their rigs. The majority of the time, the balloonists had a lot going on and could use a hand or two getting their envelope inflated. They’d often ask random spectators to pitch in, and you never said no to that request.

We didn’t think about injuries or liabilities in those early days. We were there for a purpose: to get balloons up in the air.

My dad was the kind of guy who would help people out, whether they wanted it or not, especially if it involved hard or physical labor. He was built like a fireplug, strong as an ox and relentless.

On this particular morning I recall, I was somewhere around seven years old. Our family of five had bundled up in cold-weather gear, as it is rather frosty cold at a mile elevation in the month of October. We left the house at some ungodly hour of the morning. It was probably 5 a.m. because that’s when the balloons fly. We loaded up in our 1972 four-wheel-drive, blue-on-the-bottom, white-on-top Chevy Blazer and went bouncing out, as a family, to Cutter Field.

My dad was fascinated with flight. He loved airplanes and balloons and all manner of flying things. The physics of flight and the aerodynamics all appealed to his engineer’s brain.

So of course he insisted on attending the Balloon Fiesta every year. He loved it. Heck, we all loved it. The Balloon Fiesta is a fun and amazing event, an Albuquerque classic. To actually see a hot air balloon flying in the morning sky, well, it’s a really beautiful thing.

Here’s roughly how this thing goes: The balloonists get their rigs (basket, balloon, propane tanks, etc.) unloaded from a pickup truck. They unfold and spread out the balloon, what is called the envelope, on the ground. They use a huge fan, much like a table fan in your house, only really big, to begin pushing air into the envelope. As the air begins flowing into the silk, it starts to fill the corners and folds, and it helps to shake the fabric to get air into all the spaces evenly.

When a sufficient amount of air is trapped in the envelope, the pilot hits the propane burner, sending a blast of heat into the pocket, warming the air. The heated air expands and rises, and thus you have a full hot air balloon, ready for lift-off.

Be advised that the above explanation is pretty simple, and I’m not a balloon pilot, but that’s basically how things go.

So there I was, out in Cutter Field, with all the wonder and distractions of being a child. I mean, it was fabulous! People, colors, laughter. I trotted along behind my dad, who was checking out the rigs, talking to the pilots, and generally having a great time.

Suddenly there was a balloon ready to inflate, and Dad hustled over there and grabbed a section.

“Karen!” he barked. “Get over there!” He pointed to a spot, and by God I grabbed a handful. My brother and sister got similar barked orders, and they also stepped up and grabbed a hold on this animated piece of slick fabric. None of us knew what the hell we were doing, but we knew we were doing it!

As the air was pushed into the envelope by the fan, the fabric under my hands began to undulate and buck. I’m quivering, this silken cloth is quivering, and suddenly I don’t notice anymore that I’m cold. I’m pure adrenaline at this point. My knuckles are white and I’m holding on for everything I have in my tiny body.

“Shake it,” Dad barks and I comply. My brother and sister do too. Mom is keeping a respectable distance, worrying and watching. She knows better than to get involved.

We shake it and unfold the folds, and we watch as this beautiful beast emerges from what was once a pile of fabric.

And then, oh then, here comes the heat. Holy hell, that flame is HUGE!

The sound, oh, the whooshing sound, it’s indescribable! The smell of propane and the heat of the flame and the loud sound the burner makes when the pilot hits it. It’s all very visceral. You become little more than your senses at that point as color and fire and wind take over.

Slowly, with each blast of heat, the beast begins to rise. Okay, not so slowly, actually pretty fast, all things considered.

The balloon begins to have a life of its own, and we jump back and let go.

Then I hear, “Karen!” and Dad’s pointing to the gondola, the basket where the pilot and passengers ride the balloon. Now my father and my siblings and I are adding our weight to the gondola to keep it from taking off too soon. I’m clinging to this wicker basket with everything I’ve got in my maybe fifty-pound child’s body, half terrified and half hoping the balloon will take off with me still attached.

Finally the pilot is ready. He tells us to jump off and get back. We do. He drops the sand bags used as weights, and with alarming speed the balloon shoots off of the ground and takes off into the morning sky.

We wave to the pilot, and he waves back as he begins his flight.

I was actually sad to see it go. The balloon I once held in my small hands floats away into the clear, deep-blue New Mexico sky, now beginning to fill with sun.

The heat and adrenaline leave my body and I’m shivering again. I go and find my mom and tell her everything. She offers to buy me a hot chocolate, and I gladly take her up on it. That watery hot chocolate, served in a melty Styrofoam cup, is about the tastiest thing I ever had. I wrap my hands around it to warm up, and I watch as all the other balloons take to the skies.

Things weren’t always easy growing up in my home. My dad’s quick temper often sent us running in separate directions. But sometimes my family knew how to be a family, and those are the times I cherish.

THE END

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