Ah, springtime.
The days are getting warmer and longer. The land is greening up, the sun charming forth bud and blossom - and also balloonists, eager to take flight after their long winter's
nap.
Most balloon pilots look forward to spring. I'm different. For me, spring is anticlimactic. It's a time to reflect on the very best flying season of the year.
Winter!
Jack Frost flying is my favorite, and has been for ten years.
I'm thinking about a flight I took one day last February, just an ordinary hop, really, but a perfect illustration of how winter is custom made for ballooning.
I took off with some friends a bit after sunrise, and soon we were watching a great blue heron wending its way along a winding stream We rose to 10,000 feet and looked out over a jigsaw pattern of melting snow. To the south the Chesapeake Bay lay hidden beneath a layer of fog. Fifty or sixty miles to the east, Philadelphia's skyscrapers stretched toward the morning sun.
Below, serene farm fields were beautiful in their winter desolation - all the more so because I knew we could land almost anywhere without wrecking a single corn plant or raising a farmer's ire.
What else did we see on that tranquil Sunday? Just one other balloon. My neighbors in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, include at least ten other flyers. After the autumn balloon festival at Hershey, many of them hang up their baskets for the year.
I'm not sure why.
Cold weather flying is quite a bargain.
Balloonists have physics on their side, for one thing. Cold air provides more lift. In the winter, I can carry three or four passengers and up to eight propane tank's under a 140,000-cubic-foot balloon. And I'll run out of daylight before I run out of fuel.
Winter air is often more stable than summer air, too - no sun-generated thermals a couple of hours after sunrise, so I can usually land standing up even after a four hour jump.
Aloft, the wind currents are tamer, so I can fly high without getting blown too far away. In cold weather, I always try to go up at least a mile and, 90 percent of the time, to 10,000 feet.
At that height, I can normally see much farther than I can in the soupy, stagnant old summertime. From my winter's perch far above the midsection of Lancaster county, I can take in a good chunk of southeastern Pennsylvania - and pieces of New Jersey and Maryland to boot.
Another benefit is the cold air layer that hugs the ground in winter. Rise above that, and the breezes are often warmer and more comfortable. Returning to earth can be a bit of a problem as the denser surface air tends to deflect the balloon on landing. On the other hand, it can also cushion the blow of a too-hasty descent.
Winter is when I make the most of my long jumps. My nursery business obligingly slows down during the cold months, and some years, I actually fly more during January than any other month.
This season, for example, I duked it out with my friend John Davidson in a Canadian competition. (He won, but I'll be back next year.) And Peter Blaser and I squeezed in a glorious passage over the Swiss Alps before bad weather shut down the Chateau-d'Oex International Balloon Week.
Backyard ballooning can be adventuresome too.
On one occasion this past fall, we squashed a couple of soybean plants while landing near Hagerstown Maryland. Six pickup trucks raced out to greet us - a previous balloonist had ruined some alfalfa - and I thought these guys with the gun racks in their cabs were going to take it all out on us.
"I've landed in downtown Leningrad," I complained, "and the Russians treated me better than you guys. "
They cooled down a little when they found out that my cousin, who was fortunately along for the ride, was a state cop. Before we left, I gave the farmer $25.00 for his beans and wished him continued good luck.
"What do you mean?" he asked.
"I hope you get as much per bushel for the rest of the beans in that field," I answered.
Then there was another time when we touched down on an Amish farm near Gap, Pennsylvania. I tethered the balloon and proceeded to take the whole family flying. Thirteen kids. Mom. Grandmom. Everyone but Dad, who steadfastly refused to go aloft. "If I want to see my farm from the air," he said, "I'll climb up the silo."
Down to earth they are. But the Amish horse and buggy folk love to kid, too. Many have a sense of adventure - especially if they are young and of a mind to chase a flying machine across the fields.
Need a hand putting your balloon away? An Amish schoolhouse plus a good fresh snowfall is the perfect formula. The teacher, who drives in by road, can't get there. The kids walk to class no matter what. And they're rarin' to
go!
That's fine by me. From my farm near the Susquehanna River, prevailing westerlies typically carry me over the heart of Amish country, an open sweep of farm ground bounded by the little towns of Gap, Strasburg and New Holland.
Deep snow can make packing up a drag - literally - but moderate coverage makes it easier to haul gear aboard my canvas sled. When the ground is frozen, of course, chase crews can sometimes drive directly over the fields to the landing site. Try that in July!
Cold, I suspect is what keeps many balloonists cooling their heels until well past the spring solstice. Over the years, technology has warmed up to winter flying, making it easier, safer, and more comfortable.
To pressurize their fuel systems, pilots now add nitrogen to their tanks. And because newer burners have two "O" rings instead of one, propane leaks are less worrisome.
Naturally, I have developed some gimmicks of my own.
While unpacking my balloon before a flight, I park the fan in front of the tailpipe on my truck. Exhaust warms the oil in the motor so that the fan starts on the first pull.
I make sure that the radio batteries are fresh, too, because they lose their punch a lot faster in frigid conditions.
And this time of year, I always make sure that my ski hat, gloves and boots are safely stored for the summer. Because October will be here before I know it.
Need a hand putting your
balloon away? An Amish schoolhouse plus a fresh snowfall is the perfect formula. The
teacher, who drives in by road, can't get there. The kids walk to class no matter
what. And they're rarin' to go!
