Magical moments on high

Just days before the Carterton balloon tragedy Sunday Star-Times columnist Billy Harris took the same trip.

Watching the earth drop silently away was eerie.

It had been on my bucket list for years, but the chance came out of the blue: "Bill, we're going for a hot air balloon ride for my birthday," Clare, my sister-in-law, said. "You coming? It can be an early birthday present for you too."

There we were at 4.30am the next day – my brother Guy, Clare, their boys Joe and Jake, and me – heading over the Rimutakas and into Wairarapa. At 6am we pulled up next to a small field in Carterton, my stomach in full butterfly-mode.

I'd expected to see a balloon sitting there, all plump and pretty, just waiting for us. But that's not how it works. First there was admin. The pilot, Lance Hopping, and the ground crew, Clive and Emma, needed three pieces of very important information – did anyone have any heart, hip or knee problems, how much we weighed, and most importantly, what we wanted for breakfast after the flight.

The next job was to fill the balloon, a monster named Mr Big, a Cameron 210 that when filled with 210,000 cubic feet of air is the kind of thing you see on postcards, a 30-metre-high bubble of colour in the sky.

"I need two people to give us a hand," said Lance. Joe and Jake were volunteered, and they held open the mouth of the balloon while Lance started the "cold inflation" by blasting air into it with a fan. It started to slowly fill.

All the while, official photographer Geoff Walker was busy taking photographs as we stood around.

The balloon was soon full, but lying on its side. Now Lance got hold of his burners and aimed them into the mouth. With Mr Big rolling around a little, the flame would occasionally get close to the edge of the mouth, called the skirt, which prompted the obvious question. "Why doesn't that burn the balloon?" Answer, because it's flame resistant.

As the air heated up, Mr Big lifted slowly off the ground, and was soon floating above the basket, with just enough heat to keep him airborne but not straining at the leash. In we climbed.

The basket was divided into three compartments, with Lance in the one at the end, from where he'd operate the burners. With him were the propane tanks, a walkie talkie and various gizmos including an altimeter, which got a solid workout with the boys constantly asking how high we were.

The seven clambered into the other two compartments.

"Your attention please," said Lance.

"When we come in to land, hold on to the sides, and crouch slightly to absorb the impact.

"If we're drifting to the left as we land, lean to the left so that your shoulder is touching the rail. If we're drifting to the right, what way will you lean?" We got it in one.

"And do not get out of the basket until we've secured it and told you it's OK, otherwise the balloon will take off again." And with that, he fired up the burners, and without even noticing, we were leaving the ground.

Watching the earth drop silently away was eerie. No windows, no noise, no wind, no g-forces. Just houses, cars, roads, people, animals and trees shrinking into the distance.

Shortly we were way, way up. The science wasn't comforting. Was it just me, or was everyone else thinking what I was? If you fall, could you survive? If the floor suddenly collapses will you have time to grab the side? I wrapped an arm around a pole, just in case.

By reminding myself that ballooning is one of the safest forms of travel and that Lance was an experienced pilot with an impeccable safety record, I was able to relax and enjoy a ride made even more magical when the sun crept up over the horizon.

As we floated lazily, Lance would blast his burners to maintain altitude.

I'd been surprised when we took off to learn that there was no way to steer. I'd felt sure there'd be a little propeller somewhere.

But no, you just go with the flow.

All too soon, it seemed, our time was up, and Lance was communicating with the ground crew about where to meet us for pick up.

As the ground loomed we braced ourselves. But it was hardly necessary. With small blasts of his burners, Lance skilfully manoeuvred the basket, with everyone still inside, on to the back of a truck, where it was fixed in place.

As we disembarked we were given one final chore. With Mr Big fully deflated and laid out on the ground, we helped Clive and Emma pack him into a bag.

"I can see why we have breakfast after the flight," said Jake. "We'd have struggled to get off the ground with all this in us."

We were the second-last passengers on Mr Big.

Five days later, on Saturday, January 7, came the news that shocked the country. Hot air balloon crash in Carterton. Pilot Lance Hopping and 10 passengers – among them people, like us, who were celebrating birthdays – all dead.

Our wonderful memories of that day are now darkened forever.

- © Fairfax NZ News