Some years ago I was asked by my friend Rick, who was then a student, to give him a lesson in somebody else's balloon. He worked for another ride operator and had access to all the equipment, since he pretty much ran most of the operation. After I confirmed that he had permission to receive lessons from me, I said sure. After all, he had crewed for me many times and had done several other favors that I was grateful for.
Rick was never seen without his dog, Noel. When we met for our lesson in Perris, California, Noel was there to help with fetching balls, rocks and sticks. She would fetch almost anything and would continue to fetch to near exhaustion. On hot days we would stop throwing the ball for fear that she would keel over dead. Even though we wouldn't continue to throw the ball, she would stand there panting heavily, looking like a bad night out, and would periodically move the ball to a position in front of our toes. If we moved, she moved the ball to the new position. So it would go until we finally gave up and threw the ball. She was relentless.
I knew only one other dog that could have out-fetched Noel. This dog was a Labrador, and her name was Barney (when you asked the owner why he named a girl dog Barney, you always got a different answer, so you soon stopped asking). Barney would fetch a stick in the lake as well. Since her eyes were near water level, she would occasionally lose track of the stick or ball.
When she lost sight of the prize, she would turn directly to the thrower, waiting for directions. Whichever way you pointed, she would start swimming in that direction until she found the treasure.
Barney and her person would frequently hike together. Barney was expected to carry her share of the load. She had a fitted backpack that would carry her own bedroll, her food bowl, and her own food. Since 1985, she's been resting in a secret site in Yosemite. She was always happiest there.
Other than these two dogs that would fetch, there was only one dog that, to this day, controls my heart. He was my dog, Pierre. Actually his name was `Robes Pierre of Concord' and as the highly bred name suggests, he was dumber than a rock. Possibly he was smart, too smart to chase after sticks, balls or rocks, but I'll settle for dumber than a rock. That was his most endearing quality.
By the time of our lesson, Rick had been working with and around balloons for quite a while. He assembled the system without delay or error, as expected. The balloon was finally standing and we were ready to take off. Noel stood there waiting for her invitation into the basket. Rick asked if she could go. I asked if she had ever flown before. I recalled a lady in a full-length rabbit coat who wanted to take her foo-foo dog on a balloon flight. I told her that I didn't think it was a good idea, but she insisted. When the burner announced its intentions, the dog clawed the lady to the point where she tossed the dog out of the gondola.
On the other hand, we had to give Noel the opportunity to get involved. We recalled a friend's dog, Sadie, who had been his designated crew chief.
According to him, she was the best crew he ever had. She was loyal, she was always available to crew, she never complained about waking up early to go flying, she worked for table scraps, she guarded the beer until the pilot said it was OK, and to top it off, she could handle the crown line in calm weather.
Rick said, "No, Noel hasn't flown before, but she'll be fine." We casually discussed the possibilities and figured if she didn't like it, we could land and let her out. Before the word `on' (as in "Come on, Noel") had been spoken, she was standing on the floor of the gondola.
During the flight, she had her nose sticking out the step (window) in the Aerostar basket we were in. Whenever we approached for landings, she would bark at the advancing ground. Our flight had been about an hour and a half long and we had performed many tasks. We had done level flight, and several approaches to landing; we had simulated emergency procedures and landed using only the metering valve. Rick was doing very well.
Toward the end of the lesson, we were in level flight at about 2500 AGL. I spotted a small branch on the floor of the gondola. I picked it up and was in motion to toss it overboard, when my arm skidded to a stop. I looked down. Both Rick and I were looking down at a dog with saucer eyes, fixated on the stick, cocked to go. Carefully I put the stick back on the floor of the gondola. Rick and I looked at each other, wondering at the possibilities.
Over the years, we have laughed about that moment and discussed the possible outcomes, but there is one thing we both are sure of. If the stick had flown and Noel had launched, she would have gained the stick before......well, you know.