by Daniel Stukas
The sunrise promised a beautiful, hot summer day near Atlanta, Georgia, but I was a bit nervous. We had planned a two-hop flight and my passengers were already thirty minutes late to the meeting spot. I had already done all the preflight duties, including a call to the FAA weather forecaster. The forecast was "clear skies, surface wind 300 degrees at 5 knots all day." However, the wind direction now dictated a move to another launch site, which was going to make us even later getting airborne.
My eight old (all over age 65) passengers were from Ireland, visiting America for the first time, and this was the only day in their busy schedule for a balloon ride. When they FINALLY ARRIVED, it was obvious that the entire group was moving through life in a different "time zone" from your average commercial balloon pilot. However, they were a tight-knit, jovial group, full of energy and ready to get on with the show. We soon arrived at the selected launch site, only to discover a newly-installed, locked gate (another delay).
"Not to worry," I said. "There is another field right down the road that we've used many times." We are now about one hour past sunrise. We arrive at the second launch site and this group of "Wise Ones" go to work like a well-oiled machine. The balloon is soon standing tall and mighty, ready for a great flight, when the crew chief points out to the pilot that the vent line is stuck high up in the balloon. We have to partially deflate the balloon to get the wayward line down into the basket (another delay). Finally, the first group of four passengers board and we slip the surly bonds of Earth, an hour and forty minutes past sunrise.
Our plan was to fly for about half an hour, land where chase could get to us with the second load of four passengers and fly for another half hour to "complete the mission." Thirty minutes after takeoff, there is nothing but a forest of Georgia pine trees beneath us. Forty minutes after takeoff, a new subdivision with new roads and no houses yet built, appears below. With light winds, I delay the landing until I can visually direct the chase crew through the forest to my landing site. We do a quick passenger change and swap one empty 10 gallon tank for a full one, "just in case." We again depart Mother Earth - two and one half hours past sunrise. My plan is to fly just to the next clearing, about fifteen minutes downwind. The air is smooth and the sky is beautiful. Life is good, SO I PASS UP THAT GREAT CLEARING, and I decide to fly another ten minutes to the next perfect landing site that is clearly visible just up ahead.
During the final approach a downdraft from nowhere causes me to miss that landing site. I think,
"Oh well, I've got lots of fuel and there are a couple more good spots just ahead." The next landing attempt is missed due to the wind shifting from the predictable "right" that was with us all morning to a "left" on the surface. Sooo.. I set up for another field and, as I approach, the wind now swirls us near some tall powerlines. Another missed approach! The wind has become totally UNPREDICTABLE in direction and the speed has increased to about ten to twelve knots. With the shifting winds, we are now flying toward a heavily populated area, lots of powerlines and very few large landing spots. We have now been flying over an hour on this second hop, and it is over four hours past sunrise. I begin to feel a bit uneasy, thinking that it is only with good luck that this flight will have an uneventful conclusion. I let pass two possible landing spots, because they would have required a relatively hard landing. These people with old brittle bones may not survive that very well. This also weighs heavily on me. I very seldom think about "words of wisdom" from older and wiser aviators, when I am "in a pickle." During this flight, however, I can hear an old balloonist and friend's voice in my head. Over and over, I hear him say, "As long as you have fuel, you have a chance to find a good landing spot. Never give up. Do not accept a `crash' as the ending to your flight, as long as you have fuel." I knew I was low on fuel. My tanks had been "talking" to me for a long time, the clanking getting louder and louder. I tried to be honest and optimistic with my passengers, while evaluating which ones I would need to protect and which I could call on for help. A book could be written about the swirl of emotions that filled that basket as we drifted along.
I saw a small clearing ahead, behind a cemetery and next to a church. The worshippers were just beginning to file out to the parking lot, after the Sunday morning service, and we could hear the noon church bells. I thought briefly that I should ask for permission to land.
"What a stupid thought. I don't have a choice. I doubt there is fuel enough to fly on. I WANT TO LAND MORE THAN ANYTHING," I said to myself. And that is just what we did! We landed! A stand-up landing! No one is hurt. The balloon is not damaged. I have my passengers slowly get out of the balloon, and then we try to walk the balloon over to the edge of the small clearing. Then it dawns on me how close to catastrophe we had been. One of my passengers asked me, "How much fuel did we have left?" Did I lie to her, or tell the truth? Reader, how much fuel do you think I had left?