D  e  s  e  r  t     E  x  p  o  s  u  r  e      january 2005

Up, Up and Away

The 13th annual Mesilla Valley Balloon Rally takes off January 15-16. Here's all you need to know to enjoy it as an expert, without a lot of hot air.

By Jeff Berg

A sheep, a duck and a rooster are in the basket of a hot air balloon. . . . It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. But actually, these three adventurous critters marked the beginning of hot air ballooning.

Masilla Balloon Festival, courtesy Las Cruces CVB

That was in June 1783, and the balloon they rode under was the product of two enterprising brothers, Jacques Etienne Montgolfier (1745-99) and Joseph Michel Montgolfier (1740-1810), who lived and worked in France. The Montgolfiers were papermakers who were looking for uses for their product, and created the first balloon.

The craft was made of paper and light fabric, and after a few test flights, the animals went first, at the insistence of the royalty in attendance, who included Louis XVI. Sadly, the rooster perished when the balloon had a rough landing. Shortly thereafter, the first manned flight took place, with a crew consisting of a physicist, Jean Francois Pilatre de Rozier (who was later killed in a flying accident), and an army officer, Marquis Francois d'Arlandes. Accounts of their ascent, which may have been witnessed by as many as 400,000 people, said that they flew for 25 minutes, stoking the fire used to create the smoke to make the craft fly with damp straw and wool, and at the same time extinguishing fires on the balloon envelope that started from sparks. (Initially, the Montgolfiers had tried to use "inflammable air," better known now as hydrogen, but later switched to "phlogiston" (smoke), thinking that the smoke was providing the lift, rather than the hot air.) Despite these perils, the balloonists were able to land safely and gently, and human beings had begun their conquest of the air.

More than 220 years later, hot air ballooning continues its rise in popularity in the clear skies of New Mexico, which has become a balloonist's paradise. As many as 700 pilots and craft show up at the annual Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta, which is held every autumn. A smaller fiesta, the Mesilla Valley Balloon Rally, is held in Las Cruces every year, with this year's event scheduled to take place Jan. 15-16 at the launch field on El Camino Real.  (See box below for details and schedule.)

Even before the Montgolfiers made history, earlier successful attempts of pioneering balloonists may have taken place as far back as the 12th century BC, during the Yin Dynasty in China. These craft were said to be smoke-powered, and might also have been used as observation craft during war, an annoying habit of the military throughout the ages.

In 1709, a Brazilian priest, Bartolemeu de Gusmao, was able to convince Johan V of Portugal to fund a prototype balloon, which was called the Great Bird. No record exists that the Great Bird was ever built, however, let alone flown.

Less than a month after the Montgolfiers' successful foray into the heavens, another pioneer of flight, J.A.C. Charles, flew the first hydrogen balloon over Paris. Charles flew at an altitude of 820 feet, covering 27 miles and staying aloft for two and a half hours. A "Professor Roberts" accompanied him, and was left on the ground after Charles made his first landing. Charles, who already had flying fever, took off again, solo this time, achieving an unbelievable altitude of 9,000 feet before again landing safely, after he was able to "sight his second sunset of the day."

For most of the next two centuries, balloons became a constant. They were used for everything from passenger carriers (with some crossing the Atlantic Ocean with up to 20 passengers, who were bathed in the luxuries of the day) to spy platforms for armies during wars all around the globe, including the US Civil War, World War I and II. Record altitudes were reached, with an American team reaching a height of more than 74,000 feet in 1935. The all-time altitude record, set in 1961, is 113,740 feet.

Nearly all of these early balloons (as well as dirigibles, zeppelins, blimps and airships) were gas fueled. It was not until 1960 that hot air balloons really found their niche, with the first prototype of "modern" hot air ballooning. Edward Yost was successful in a flight that took place in Nebraska, in a craft with a 30,000-cubic foot envelope, with the first propane-powered burner. A burner is similar to a blowtorch in theory; however, you can use the burner to give bursts of heat to keep the balloon aloft. Yost perfected his variation of the old standard balloon, and from there, hot air ballooning became, as one source describes it, "light-hearted activity (that) has to be supported by a comfortable standard of living."

Since 1960, casual hot air ballooning has not really changed all that much. The principle remains the same: Get it in the air and keep it in the air, land safely, and skip the theatrics.

Back in the 1980s, while living in western Montana but not having a "comfortable standard of living," I received a gift certificate entitling me to a ride in the Mountain Butterfly, an LTA (lighter than air) owned and piloted by a gentleman, one Michael Rees, who was an FAA (Federal Aviation Administration) scofflaw. The certificate, a Christmas gift from my then-girlfriend, Nancy, was one of the finest gifts I had ever received--or so I thought.

Hot air ballooning is historically and statistically the safest form of flying that exists. The chances of being in a balloon accident are minuscule, something that noted wing-builder, Icarus, should have known.

My inaugural flight took place in the Bitterroot Valley, south of Missoula, the following Easter. Getting up before dawn to head to the launch site, I had not a clue what ballooning was all about. But I really wanted to know.

I watched with fascination as the crew started to set up the balloon. They lifted the wicker basket, which was stuffed with the balloon's envelope and some of the other equipment, out of the old van that Rees drove (here is where I should have known better, since only serial killers drove vans like this). Then they helped hold the envelope of the craft open while a large fan was used to pump cold air into it for its initial inflation. Rees fired up the propane burner, filling the envelope with the delicious heat it needed to cause the balloon to stand up on its own. I was completely addicted the moment we were in the basket and the ground crew untied the rope and stepped back from the craft to allow it to gently ascend into the sky.

The Bitterroot Valley of Montana is one of the most beautiful places in the state. Ringed by high peaks, the valley is wide enough to allow for balloon flights, and at the time, not heavily populated. No view could ever beat the one that we had that cold April morning.

Rees was a good pilot. We bobbed along in the air, came down, and skipped across part of the Bitterroot River, doing what is called a "touch and go"--allowing the bottom of the basket to barely skim the icy water and ascending again, just like skipping a stone. We flew in almost complete silence, except for the sound of the burners and the occasional frightened sound of a horse or two-brain-celled cow. (Domestic animals are not fans of balloons. Must have been inherited from the experiences of the first passengers back in the 1700s.)

Our landing was spotless and gentle, and I knew without a doubt that ballooning was something I wanted to do with my life.

I began working as part of Rees' crew, getting up before dawn each and every Sunday. When he couldn't keep enough volunteers as crew, I started asking friends and co-workers to come and crew until his not overly sparkling personality drove them away, too. But I wanted to fly, and Rees had the only balloon in western Montana. I started trading lessons for crew time, and began to learn the ups and downs of "aerostat" piloting. ("Aerostat" is a high-faluting term for any craft that can float in the sky because it is filled with a substance that is lighter than air, rather than achieving flight by motion as an airplane does.)

One of the first things I learned about crewing was the special Montana balloonist's method of keeping warm: No heaters, no down-filled jackets, but rather jumping up and down in place as if you were standing on an invisible pogo stick. It became a routine joke we used with new crew and passengers alike.

For awhile, Rees began to do a good business. I promoted the hobby and the balloon every chance I got. I dreamed of the day that I would have my license, and be able to quit my horrific job as a city mail carrier for the United States Postal Service. I even designed my own balloon, a black skull and crossbones on a white background; I visited banks for loans, encountering more than a fair share of eye-rolling from banking officials.

Late that summer, I made my first and, as it turned out, only solo flight, which was required to obtain my license. That day, we flew in the Mission Valley, north of Missoula. It is an astoundingly beautiful place, edged by the huge peaks of the Mission Mountains, which are covered in snow year-round.

My flight went well, but at the end of the first hour, the winds stopped. And when they stopped, I was directly over a set of power lines, which of course are a pilot's nightmare. I took the craft higher, then lower, looking for any breath of breeze to push me just to one side or the other. (You cannot "steer" a hot air balloon; you are "steered" by the wind.) The needles on the propane gauges edged closer and closer to zero percent, and I began wondering if my life insurance would pony up for a mail carrier who had been refried on some electrical lines while floating in a balloon.

Not a moment too soon, Zeus or someone gave the Mountain Butterfly just the tender zephyr that it needed to get to a small clearing away from the power lines, allowing me to land in a field of juicy cow pies. Being the pilot, however, I got to stand in the basket and "walk" the balloon (using short bursts of heat) while directing my crew as they squished their way back to the nearest road.

But it was not long after that I discovered that Rees had taken liberties with my trust, as had my soon-to-be-ex-girlfriend, and my life started to feel like one of those very cow pies.

I ended my ballooning career at that point, and have only dabbled in it on occasion since then.

Being in New Mexico, however, has given me a new perspective on the sport. With the Mesilla Valley Balloon Rally just around the corner, I caught up with hot air ballooning by way of Sherry Richardson, a licensed commercial pilot, who is one of the organizers of this year's event. She has been flying since 1990 and is a member of the Greater Mesilla Valley Aerostat Ascension Association (GMAAA).

Ironically, Richardson learned to fly when an old acquaintance of mine, Bob Peck, who runs the daily newspaper in Riverton, Wyo., convinced city officials to purchase a balloon for promotional purposes (Las Cruces city officials, are you reading this?). Peck casually mentioned to Richardson and a co-worker that he needed pilots.

"There were five of us using the same balloon," she recalls, "so we took turns crewing and piloting."

"Crewing" refers to members of a balloon's "chase crew," a bunch of landlubbers who help set up the craft, assist with liftoff, and then follow the balloon, sort of, in a chase vehicle equipped with radios. The idea is that they can be on hand to assist with any problems that may occur and help with landing; they are also the ones who get permission from a landowner if an aerostat pilot needs to land on private property.

Balloonists are always in need of good crewmembers, and this is often an easy way to get started in the hobby and to perhaps earn a free flight.

When Richardson was training for her license, she was the only student. The pilot "way too over-protective. I finally told him, 'You're getting out, or I'll push you over the side!' I was that confident about my abilities."

Richardson took all of the training that was required, and got her private pilot's LTA (lighter than air) license on June 19, 1994, after finishing her lessons in Oregon.

"It was at the Rose Festival in Portland," she relates. "They (her fellow pilots and instructor) didn't tell me that I was taking my flight test--'You wouldn't have slept,' they told me. They didn't tell me, so I wouldn't have an inkling of what was going on."

Richardson is a former graphic artist who also did photo work and page layout for several newspapers, before making a complete career switch. Graduating from NMSU in 1997, she now works as a drug and alcohol counselor at the Southern New Mexico Correctional Facility. "It's my first time in jail, and my first experience with drugs," she says with a smile.

While she was earning her degree, her passion for flying was put aside and she did just enough flying to allow her to stay current on her license. She returned to the skies two years ago. She has a commercial license now, which allows her to fly with passengers and to give instruction to student pilots.

"Flying is my first love. Once you learn the winds, it's a challenge to get where you want to go. Besides which, I can go anywhere and have automatic friends," she says, referring to other ballooning enthusiasts. "There are between 15 and 20 pilots in the Mesilla Valley, and four of them are women. There are also three student pilots currently in training.

"Ballooning washes away my job stress--we have only four counselors available for 300 inmates," Richardson goes on. "I would go flying every weekend if I could, but I do try and go at least twice a month."

A former motorcyclist, she sold her bike to do ballooning. "When I sold my bike, I got visitation rights."

Two things are curious about Richardson and her flying. One is that she is always cold, even here in the desert. Early morning flying, no matter where you are, or the time of year, always has a chill to it. "I dress in so many layers," she says.

The other notable thing is that she has a mild fear of heights that are not balloon-related. "I'm OK in the balloon, since I am 'in control of the bus,' but if I go up in a building two or three stories, I am uncomfortable."

Although she has been searching, "I have not found a balloon that I can afford yet. I would like to be a corporate pilot. Many businesses now use hot air balloons for advertising and promotional purposes, and I am surprised that more of them are not taking advantage of balloons."

Ballooning has been referred to as a rich man's sport, but for those who discover and pursue the diversion, the effects of the experience are never-ending. Richardson says, "Every flight is different."

As I once did, she has discovered that the words of Major d'Arlandes after that first brave flight in 1783 are still true 222 years later: "The silence surrounding us surprised me."

Jeff Berg also wrote this issue's story on favorite "firsts."