It seems that every time I go to a rally in another city the one question that always comes up is "Where is the best place you have every flown?" Doesn’t matter whether it’s Albuquerque, Atlanta or Timbuktu I always use the answer "Right here. The people, the weather and the scenery make it unique."
Before balloons came into my life, I was wrapped up in surfboards. A couple of surfers and a couple of cameramen left California on a quest. To find the "perfect" wave. They traveled the globe and finally ended up on the east coast of Africa, a hundred miles from nowhere. This was the spot. The perfect wave. The film Endless Summer was the result of their travels. This was back in the 60s. If you never saw the film, go down to your video store and check it out.
Like most balloonists, I never had the time or money to do that with a balloon. Bill Arras, Bob Kinsinger and Brian Boland are always popping up in strange places. Maybe one of them will find that perfect place to fly. I hope when they do, it will be close enough for me to get to.
But I, like you have had flights to remember. Not the high winder, the powerline strike or the irate landowner flight. I mean the ones we think about when we close our eyes and move into our dream world. Would you like to hear a couple of mine? Well, you’re going to anyway.
Panama Hat: It was Indianola, the Nationals, in 1971. Every day my crew saw a man in a Panama Hat strolling through the crowds. One afternoon had light winds to the west. We were flying out of the Simpson College field. The guy in the Hat bugged me until I said "Hop in." We took off and it seemed like miles and miles of contouring the corn. Me in perfect control just nipping the tassels as we flew. An hour later we landed just before sunset in a farmer’s backyard. A very satisfactory flight.
Granny and the Kid: It was going to be just another passenger flight in West Houston. The parents had decided to surprise the riders. They showed up with a load of laundry in the back of the car. Seemed they were all going to the Laundromat to beat the crowds at 6 a.m. and happened by the Balloonport. We inflated the balloon as they looked on as spectators. The Kid, about six years old, was so excited by the balloon he was bouncing up and down. When I told these passengers it was their time to ride, the Kid flew into the basket with Granny right on his heels. We flew out to the west and as we flew we saw some deer and other things. These two people were so involved with the flight that they forgot I was there. They saw things and heard things way beyond my imagination. This was a flight to remember. When we finally landed, Granny was going to buy a balloon and the Kid was going to fly it. I saw him in the third grade a couple of years later when I took a balloon to his school. He came up and told me the balloon ride was his greatest adventure. I’ll bet it was for Granny too.
Kidnapped: Bill Meadows put together an event in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, Amish country, in 1973. Very few powerlines made for great flights. Fifty pilots came from across the country to try and win a brand new AX-6 Piccard balloon. This was to be the first of many Americana balloon races. I got there early and was able to make a couple of flights before the event was to start. On one evening flight an AP photographer took a picture of me flying Tradewinds II next to an Amish farmer breaking up clods in his field while riding a very basic harrow behind a horse. The farmer never even looked up from his work. The photograph made most of the newspapers in the country. Maybe you saw it.
On a morning flight over the rolling hills, I had a flight with a guy named George. The morning had a slight hint of fog in the valleys we flew into. It was like Brigadoon. When we topped one hill and came down for a touch, a young boy was in the field. We were about 200 yards from his house. We invited him to join us and he hopped right in. As we passed the house, his mother was on the porch. When she saw her child and he said "Good-bye, Mom" she about had a heart attack. We set down and let her son go. She looked very relieved. The weather changed and we didn’t make a single flight during the 5 days the event was scheduled. There never was another Americana event. I hung around to give George a couple more lessons. One day we were landing and the boy and his mother came up to the basket. No one at school would believe that he had flown. A Polaroid was taken of us in the basket and I signed it so he would have proof.
Maybe I will never fly in the perfect place, but I have had a few perfect flights.