Peter said, "Here comes a wind shear."
Turbulent air kickboxed the balloon like Jean Claude Van Damme, closing the mouth and caving in the side until I could look up and read the logo on the outside of the envelope. I could feel the auctioneer's hammer closing down on our heads. I was sure we'd bought the farm.
The flight from Chateau-d'Oex, Switzerland, had started tranquilly enough. Peter Blaser and I had driven to the snow-blanketed village the previous day for the David Niven Cup long distance hot air balloon competition. The seed for the trip had been sown three and a half years earlier in far away New York State, where Peter had been visiting the Blaser family lubrication plant.
He wanted to fly his special shaper while in the United States but didn't have a bottom half. I loaned him a basket.
Begun in 1979, the International Hot Air Balloon Week at Chateau-d'Oex regularly attracts talent from around the globe. In 1983, Frenchman Michel Arnould set a record by flying 320 kilometers. In 1993, the competition was cancelled for the first time because of bad weather. Regulations introduced later that year restricted the volume of the balloons. Solo flights were banned and a two-man crew requirement (pilot and copilot) was instituted. That's where Peter and I came in.
Opening day of the 1995 event, Saturday, January 21, dawned brisk and sunny. We piled our gear on aluminum sleds and dragged it to the launch field outside town. Ian Ashpole lifted off in his Unipart balloon about 11:15 a.m. Some 70 other craft followed his lead in what was to be a simple hare and hound race.
Ian drifted down valley, then climbed high and came back over the launch area, passing directly over us and disappearing from view. When we finally sighted him again, he'd passed over the mountain ridge above town and set a course for the next valley. The chase was on. But as we climbed for altitude, an unexpected message crackled over the radio: Ian had been disqualified. By now, all the balloons were adrift in the Chateau-d'Oex valley, gorgeous splashes of color against snowy fields. We had reached 5,000 or 6,000 feet, and I could see the Alps braking jaggedly in all directions.
Peter looked at me with a question. "We can't get back to the launch field from here," he said. "What are you going to do now?"
I thought about the weather forecast, which promised a dismal stew of rain, ice and snow for the next five days. I thought about why I'd come to Switzerland. The way I saw it, we should at least attempt to hop over the mountain. "I'm here to fly the long jump with you," I said.
"You fly, then," Peter said, and reached for the map.
I took the balloon to a little over 10,000 feet. By that time, Ian and two other balloons on his trail had crossed the mountain and landed on the other side.
However, our speed was so great that we completely missed the next two valleys. On we whizzed past the exclusive ski resort of Gstaad. I dropped about 1,500 feet to get a closer look at some roped-together hikers crossing a high ridge. Our shadow skimmed over them very quickly, and over a nearby mountain hut where I noticed the Swiss flag standing straight out in the wind. At that moment, I decided to fly on.
Fuel? No problem, Peter said. The envelope temperature was 60 degrees (Celsius), about half the maximum [envelope redline], so we would be flying very efficiently indeed. Drifting between 7,000 and 11,000 feet, we boomed along face to face with one of the more spectacular mountain shows on the planet. The JangfrauÉ The EigerÉ Just the sound of the names made my heart pound.
An hour and a half of dizzying scenery slipped beneath our basket. We'd used about half of our allotted 40 gallons of fuel and had switched to the second tank. Directly ahead loomed the loftiest mountain in our flight path. Peter suggested we climb a bit. We'd have to maintain altitude for several more minutes before beginning our descent into the valley on the other side.
Abruptly, a cloud overtook us, blocking my view of the mountain. We were descending 1,200 to 1,400 feet a minute when Peter announced approaching turbulence. I thought nothing of itÑand then a great fist of wind bowled us over 20 degrees, pinching the mouth of the balloon nearly shut and twisting the envelope into the shape of a question markÉ Would we make it?
Peter took the single burner and carefully directed flame through a small opening. The envelope filled back out. But the mountains weren't done beating up on us yet. We had the good fortune to survive two more wind shears before finally reaching calm air.
Peter got on the radio and told his ground crew where to find us. By that time, of course,
we were regularly jettisoning juice from chewy malted chocolate candies, which provided a
rich contrast to the white snowscape, Spitting, venting and burning, we completed the
liveliest descent I ever want to make. Getting down took a total of ten minutes or less, but it
seemed longer than the entire two-and-a-half-hour flight.
We landed in mid afternoon in a farm field near Thun. The farmer came out to greet us. A bit more preparation, Peter mused, and we could have flown directly to the Blaser house. On the other hand, I ventured, it's better to be down wishing you were up than up wishing you were down.
That week, as rains and flooding ravaged Europe and scrubbed all hopes for a long distance competition, other pilots got plenty of chance to test my philosophy. Peter and I had weathered some tough moments during our flight. We escaped with a handful of photographs and some memories I'll never forget. I came home with a resolution, too. If Peter ever needs a basket again, it's his for the asking. Because paybacks are toughÉ
