Flight or Fright?

Its going to be below 40 F, so I plug in the heat tapes with a timer and a night light. I am asleep by 9 PM after checking FSS and TV weather, but I awaken by 3 AM. I am anxious. I look out the window to make sure the timer went on. The temperature is 34 . I go outside to feel the weather on this early November morning in Farmington, Connecticut. It’s harder to judge the wind now that the leaves have dropped off, but it’s quiet, almost still. The TV weather shows winds south at 4 knots. The isobars are getting nice and wide. Barometric pressure is 30.14 mb. All signs are good, but when I call FSS, the winds aloft forecast for 3000 feet is 270 at 29 mph. This is not good; I want 20 mph or less.

I find myself second guessing FSS. I am bothered by a few unreliable reports this past few weeks, during foliage flying. When I spoke to FSS about this, they admitted that several pilots had complained. The very best weekend of the year, a bad report kept us on the ground. Soon after that, they gave a good report, and it turned out to be windy. Now I am confused. I think about the gusts of 1988 that left me with 19 holes in my envelope. The front that had been carrying the recent high winds is two hundred miles past us by now. I call FSS back and tell him my concerns. He confirms with me that ‘winds aloft’ are not an actual reading, but a forecast. He tells me that the forecast for the coming afternoon is only 16 mph at 3000 feet. He says that the predicted forecast is often more or less than what the actual winds become.

In my discussion with the briefer, he agrees that the winds aloft forecast is probably falsely high. He also tells me that the current briefing forecasts the surface winds at less than 6 mph till 8 PM. I am reassured. I decide that either the winds aloft will be less than forecast, or if not, they are diminishing as we speak. I make it a go.

At 5:05 AM I call FSS from a pay phone. The less than six is now only good till 8 AM. After 8 AM the surface winds are forecasted to be 10 mph till 8 PM. This is only slightly alarming. Usually wind does increase on a sunny day, and it usually starts a couple hours or more after sunrise. I expect to be back on the ground no later than 7:30.

It’s 5:45. Everyone is on time at our launch site west of Hartford, Connecticut. The pibal moves lazily to about 100 feet, then begins to move toward the northeast at about 5 mph. Rising, it gains only slight speed in the same direction.

After doing my "tttt", (temp. time. tell & top), I thank Don, Mark and Donna. Floating upwards with two passengers at 6:25 AM, our faces reflect the orange sun that was hiding behind the ridge.

John, a Superior Court judge, exclaims, "Look at the pumpkins!"
Nancy, his friend, says, "There’s hundreds of them."

Next to a field of corn we see a lot full of farmer’s junk from the past 50 years or more. I spot a ’53 Pontiac, a ’49 Ford and others I don’t recognize. There’s remnants of old trucks and odd pieces of rusty farm equipment lamed into the ground.

We "krurrhh" several times; at 1500 feet we are moving too rapidly towards the Hartford city skyline, so we drop down to the bird’s eye view again. We are flying contour over the trees now; glancing to our left, we see a lady jump from her bed and wave. After passing the dump we catch the tall trees with the basket; slowed down, we slip to the river below, seeing our colorful reflection. I gauge the descent to stop and hover about two feet above the water. The balloon takes a right turn following the curls of white mist creeping downriver.

We dip to 50 feet and wave to ‘Fuzzy’, the shovel operator in the sand bank. Climbing, we catch a westerly flow over the wooded valley to Fisher Park. I think to myself, I could, and probably should, land here - but it’s only 7:05 AM, forty minutes since takeoff. Above the trees to 100 feet - the wind is 180 at 7 mph. I decide to stay low to get to Route 44 where there are many places to land. The stretch ahead is all woods.

Nancy spots a startled doe’s white tail. As we look, five more deer come to life, and dart through the forest past an old stone building in crumbling ruins. The land beneath us is disappearing faster. To my right a red tail hawk is riding the air. My concern grows; hawks are less apt to be in the air when it’s calmer because the wind assists them in flight.

I believe we are going over 10 mph now. By the time we approach a low spot where I expected to land, the wind suddenly feels like 15 mph or more at ground level. Not enough room.

I climb to 500 feet to cross Route 44. I have never moved this swiftly this close to the ground before. Landing is beginning to feel impossible. My fear level is racing as fast as the land beneath me. It looks like we need three football fields. Although there are fields around, we have been directly over powerlines since we left 44. If I climb much higher than 500 feet, I’ll lose my ability to drop in when I get away from the lines, and it might get even faster. I am blasting almost constantly to keep us at altitude. All tanks are registering. Two tanks are at 15%, the other two at 25%. I decide to open the other tank that is 25%. Now I have two open.

The powerlines curve; we curve with them. We should be veering left of them now according to the past wind. I decide to hold for a bit. Our only possible spot to land is left now. I think left, lean, hope, and wish left. I am thinking that if I don’t get away from the lines in the next few seconds, we will have to climb and take our chances. Almost instantly, we veer left. I pull the vent; I pull again. I am still too high and going fast; I’m afraid we’ll miss the field. I pull the vent again. I fear I may have pulled too much. We are not making the field, even as long as it is, but there is another, behind a row of trees and an empty parking lot. I do a blast. We begin to drop just in time to whack the basket into a tree top to slow us down. The noise told us that we smacked it solid, but it didn’t stop us. We passed through it like melted butter, swift and smooth. We whacked a big pine tree next, again going strong. Between trees I switch off the pilot. I am pulling on the vent with all my might. The last blast is fighting me.

I yell to John, "John, help me pull this line."
I see Nancy drop to the floor. "Nancy, get up," I cry. It’s too late. We touch, and drag to a stop with John and me still pulling the vent line. Actually the last blast prevented us from hitting hard. We drag until the envelope is nearly empty. A few lumps make it look like a withering beast on the grass of the industrial park where we have landed.

"Is everyone alright?" I ask.
They answer "Yes!" in unison.

It’s 7:25 AM. John and I crawl out, and help Nancy. They dust themselves off, and Nancy says, "Wow, that was the most adventure I’ve ever had."

John says, "I can’t wait to go again."
I think to myself, that was the scariest flight I’ve had in my ten year career. I have a strong feeling of being lucky, but I don’t feel good about it. Luck is for lotteries.

I need more knowledge about weather, specifically relating to ‘season transition’ winds associated with the jetstream and frontal systems. I will never second guess weather briefers again. If I am going to err, I’ll make it in favor of staying on the ground. Remember, briefers are reporters, not decision-makers.

After pondering heavily on the ‘one hour time frame’, and recognizing that most of my uncomfortable flights came from trying to make the flight a full hour, I decided that the ‘one hour flight’ is a mindset that ought to be discarded.

It may hurt to cancel a flight if it turns out to be perfect ballooning weather, but it’s better than breezing along with only trees beneath you; or worse yet, powerlines; or even worse than that, gusts, low fuel and powerlines; or worse than all of that, dusk, gusts, low fuel and powerlines.

After this flight I called FSS to find a reason for the unexpected high wind. The briefer said it was probably because the jetstream was at a lower latitude this time of year.

Although there is more than one jetstream, the reference in the U.S. actually refers to the polar jetstream which, though extremely variable, generally snakes and fluctuates across the U.S. from southwest California diagonally up through Wisconsin into Canada and back south into Maine, then continues around the globe. Its altitude is about 34,000 feet, and can be as wide as the Northeast or much narrower. It is the dividing line between the arctic air and the mid-latitudinal air. Generally wind shears are greater on the polar side of the jetstream than on the equatorial side. Its latitude is usually north of Connecticut in the summer, and south of Connecticut in the winter. In the fall it is generally over Connecticut.

Since that flight, it is of special interest for me to know where the jetstream is relative to Connecticut, especially in the transition weather months of October/November and April/May when patterns start changing. New weather can sneak up on you. Land when your gut tells you to, even if "the hour" isn’t up.