Balloon ride

In September of 1986 I went for the ultimate in adventure—a hot air balloon ride. Two friends of mine, Walter and his wife Theresa, wanted to do something to commemorate the ninth anniversary of living in America, having emigrated from Switzerland with their two young sons. Walter suggested a balloon ride, he being an airplane enthusiast (he flew gliders among the mountains of Switzerland when he was younger). I was invited along. I knew the family ever since they came to America. It was the first time for the three of us and it was a novel way to see a portion of America from the air. As it turned out, we saw more of America than we bargained for.

The weather was perfect; you could see for miles and miles. We arrived early at the Quakertown, Pa. airport and waited for the balloons to arrive. At 5:15 p.m. they arrived in vans and were inflated with regular fans, blowing up the huge sack until it ballooned out. When they were fully inflated with cool air, they were set upright by gas jets which threw out a four-foot flame, the heating apparatus which we then depended on during the entire trip. We climbed into the basket: Walter, Theresa, myself, and the pilot. With a prolonged whoosh of the gas jet the flame heated the interior of the balloon and we were soon airborne and climbing. Every minute or so the pilot would apply more flame and we coasted along with the wind. There really was no wind, just a slow-moving air mass. We didn’t feel any wind at all because we were adrift with it.

Below you could see the gathered onlookers getting smaller and smaller as our vista expanded. We were on top of the world. There was absolute silence when the flame wasn’t lit. Occasionally you could hear dogs barking, or the murmur of human conversation when we briefly descended. The pilot said he used to belong to a club of balloonists where they had leaf-picking contests—to see who could pick the most kinds of leaves on a single trip. We hovered among the tree tops for awhile. Higher up we could see the skyline of Philadelphia about 40 miles to the southeast.

It was crowded in the basket, standing room only, but each of us had an exclusive view. There were no windows and the top of the basket came up to about chest-height. I leaned out of the basket and looked underneath to the ground 2,000 feet below. My knees felt kind of quivery. I was relieved to hear the pilot’s explanations of the strength of the ropes and balloon, and the dependability of the flame. The temperature in the basket was a pleasant 67 degrees. The sun was setting and the outside air was cooling down. The temperature inside at the top of the balloon was around 215 degrees. The difference in temperature kept us aloft.

The flight normally takes about an hour. However, this flight was anything but normal as we found out later. We started looking for a place to land the craft. There below us was the parking lot of the Bethel Baptist Church, a good place to land. But no, there was an evening meeting there and the parking lot was full of cars. We would be disturbing the meeting if we landed near there. We looked for another spot. Meanwhile we could go only where the slight breezes took us. We had to time our descent along with the forward movement of the balloon, to land in a clearing. There were lots of trees around.

With a burst of flame we again soared skyward to look for another landing spot. As we descended once again the air movement along the ridge of trees shifted and we drifted in the opposite direction. I was getting a little apprehensive, but the pilot was calm about it; he knew what he was doing—everything was under control, except for the finicky wind direction. He always allowed enough fuel as reserve. What if we landed in the trees? No problem. In a case like that we would only have to descend through the trees to the ground.

Oh joy! There up ahead was a large open clearing below. We descended as rapidly as possible, about four feet per second. We were also drifting forward and—rats!—we overshot the clearing. We were now in the woods and up the creek! Literally in the woods, just skimming the tops of the trees. The pilot gave a few bursts of flame to gain altitude. The sun was setting now and the air was too cool and the flame was feeding on emptying fuel tanks which produced a flame too cool to heat the balloon to lifting capacity. We stayed at a constant altitude for a short while but it was below the tops of the trees. I reached and pushed on a hefty branch. We lifted right over the tree, the entire craft! But we just went deeper into the woods. The pilot gave repeated bursts of flame to lighten the craft and we still settled gently earthward, right on top of a tall…dead…tree!

I could hardly believe what was happening; things like this happen only to other people, but the pilot calmly instructed us to keep our hands inside the basket so we wouldn’t get pinched as we descended farther. We had only to settle down to the ground. But would you know it!, the balloon snagged on an upper branch and held fast. The basket, with us in it, was still a good 40 feet off the ground, and there we stayed.

When we realized we could descend no farther, the pilot dismantled the burner and took out ropes to fasten the basket to the tree. The balloon rapidly cooled down and after a few minutes it collapsed, draping protectively over us like a canopy; the snag holding fast high above. It was around 6:45 p.m. and the sun was down.

The woods is a nice place to be in the evening as the sun beds down for the night. There is hardly a whisper of a breeze and the air is cool and smells like…like the woods—a clean fresh fragrance. We called and whistled to attract attention. We attracted attention all right! About all the dogs in the adjoining neighborhood must have answered us.

About a half hour later we heard a booming voice in the distance, shouting the pilot’s name. It was the chase crew. We answered but they didn’t hear us. We just waited, knowing that eventually we would be rescued. I volunteered to climb out of the basket and shinny down the tree but the pilot thought it would be safer to stay put until help arrived. Anyway, there was a long distance from the lowest branch to the ground.

The most alarming part of the problem was the fact that we were in a dying tree and didn’t know how strong the limbs were. We were sitting right on top of what appeared to be a strong limb and the limb above us appeared quite strong but occasionally we were startled when the basket shifted with a jolt! But there was no panic, which amazed the pilot—our attitude toward the whole ordeal. I told him this was our first time in a balloon and we were too inexperienced to be scared. But we weren’t perfectly calm either.

The conversation shifted away from the immediate problem. We asked the pilot his name and where he came from. He spoke with a decided British and German accent. Asbjørn Damhus came from Denmark. He was in the States for only a few months. He seemed well versed in American and Danish history and economics and he had a cultured manner about him. His calm attitude constantly reassured us. His only emotion was expressed in his regret that he allowed us to get into this situation.

Another hour or so passed and we suddenly heard voices and saw the glimmer of flashlights through the trees. In the darkness we guided them to our spot by calling to them. They were startled to hear our voices coming from high above them and they then realized what kind of predicament we were in. They tramped back through the woods for help, guided the the occasionally barking dogs. They gave the rescuers a sense of direction.

Another hour passed by and the woods then came alive with the chatter of voices and the beams of bright lights. To the rescue came the East Rockhill Police Department and the Perkasie Fire Department and Rescue Squad. They had rappelling gear (the kind mountaineers use) and they carefully instructed us on how to use it. Asbjørn was vaguely familiar with the tangle of harnesses, ropes and carabiners and her helped us put on the equipment. There were no nearby roadways or paths into in the woods for the fire truck to bring its ladder so we had to rappel down by rope.

Theresa was the only woman aboard the flight and they sent up a jump-suit for her to put on, a gentlemanly consideration—she was wearing a dress. They told us to let the lady go first, a not-so-gentlemanly gesture under the circumstances—we did not know if the branch would hold properly. And she never rappelled down a rope in her life. Furthermore, it was quite crowded to put on a jumpsuit. Someone else had to go first.

I volunteered. I was single with no one to mourn my passing if a worst-case scenario would present itself, except for my parents, five sisters, two brothers, about 10 aunts and uncles and over 50 cousins. Oh well. I just have to be careful. I proceeded to put on the harness around my chest and another around my waist and it was connected by the huge buckle, or carabiner. Asbjørn assured us how much weight these ropes and harnesses could hold so we didn’t have to have any qualms about it. But it was rather unnerving to get out of the basket and step out into open space with nothing else to hinder a free fall. It wasn’t like we were in orbit or anything, but we did have the force of gravity to contend with. The speed of a falling body increases 32 feet per second per second. I could hit the ground before I could say, “I hope this thing is safe.”

I legged over out of the basket, entrusted all my weight to the ropes and rappelled down the tree trunk. Rescue was holding the other end of the rope and they played it out as I guided myself down. When Theresa saw that I landed unscathed, she was relieved, knowing what to expect; and there was now room in the basket to don the jumpsuit. I didn’t watch the rest of the rescue; I was escorted out by the ambulance crew and given a checkup (required by law) and we were none the worse for the experience. I checked my watch. It was 10:30 p.m.

I found out that they had videotaped the rescue operation. It is rare to extricate people from tall trees so this taping was requested for documentation for training purposes. One of the flight team told me we were in good hands with Asbjørn. He was an experienced balloonist and he was also a sailor—having sailed as crew with Thor Heyerdahl about eight years before. Whether or not he mishandled the flight is up to the balloon flight team to determine. I wrote them a letter of appreciation and commendation on his behalf on the way he handled us as his passengers. Asbjørn wrote me a letter describing his task of mending the torn balloon fabric and encouraging me not to write off the incident as a bad adventure.

The part of America that we didn’t bargain for was that which is often taken for granted—people’s concern for those in need of help; where strangers become friends, whether from a civic duty or personal concern. Where faith in mankind is renewed and we can be content with the knowledge that, as wild as this world has become, there are many people who are willing to exemplify their true character. But I never went aloft in a balloon again.