Up, Up and Away…
By
B.F. Barcio, L.H.D.
May 7, 2007
© MMVII
“Stand over here out of the way,” said Tony Sandlin, the pilot and owner of Midwest Balloon Rides. “But be ready. As soon as I tell you, come over to the basket and climb in.”
After a brief flashback to the 17 years I had stood in fields just like this coordinating the construction and firing of replicated ancient Roman catapults, I took my spot, a little confused about how I was going to get into the 4-foot high wicker basket in which, by tradition, there was no door.
“O.K., everyone,” Tony shouted to his five helpers who were straining to control the floppy nylon bag was rolling from side to side on the ground after it had been partially inflated by a large portable by a large portable fan, “hang on to it. I’m going to start filling it with hot air.”
Tony had climbed into the upper structure of the basket that was lying on its side and had tilted it up to rest a support bar on one of his knees. Then, being careful not to singe any of the maze of nylon cords that connected the balloon to the basket, he ignited two rotatable propane burners.
WHOOSH!
The sound was deafening.
After a short blast, he stopped to see how the half-limp balloon bag would roll.
“Pull it over to the right some more!”
Another deafening blast of the burners.
After several more attempts it became obvious the balloon was twisting the wrong way.
“O.K.,” shouted Tony. “I’m going to deflate. We’ll have to start all over again.”
A small crowd of spectators was gathering on a hill to the east of us, attracted by the activity and the colorful “Inflated Ego Midwest Balloon Rides” sign that covered the sides of the Tony’s trailer hitched to his chase vehicle, a seven-passenger Chevy Suburban.
Since Tony lives nearby, he was able to obtain permission from the Fishers, Indiana Parks Department to launch his balloon from this small, un-mowed prairie in the middle of Heritage Park located near 116th Street and Allisonville Road.
The balloon deflated a little, and after the wind calmed a bit, he was ready to try again.
Since no crewmember had responded to Tony’s request that the large fan be brought back over, I took it upon myself to muscle the fan with its gasoline engine into position.
“Start it up,” said Tony.
A crewmember pulled the fan’s starter cord, and the blades slowly worked their way to full speed.
The blast of the fan blades blew the T-shirt up the back of a young man who was holding tightly to the nylon ropes at the mouth of the balloon, revealing drooping jeans and the top of his boxer shorts. He tried in vain to pull his shirt down with a free hand, only to have it work its way back up to his shoulders.
“Everyone ready?” asked Tony.
“Fire away,” called a heavyset air force veteran who stood across the field holding a guy rope attached to the very top of the balloon.
“Here we go again!” Cut the fan,” said Tony as re-ignited the two noisy burners.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH!…WHOOSH! WHOOSH!… WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
Slowly, the droopy bag with its blue, red, orange and yellow banana panels began to inflate, assume its intended shape and lift itself off the ground.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH!…WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
“Everyone put your weight on the basket,” called Tony. “O.K. Bernie, put your foot in the hole on the side of the basket and hop in.”
He had already cautioned me not to pull on the red strap or the black fuel lines but to grab only the brown padded upright supports or the padded top edges of the basket.
During the entire inflation process, a nylon cord tethered the basket to a hitch at the rear of the trailer. Tony had assured me that the balloon did not have the capacity to lift the trailer and Suburban into the air.
“Hang on to the basket everyone,” Tony instructed his ground crew. “I’m loosening the tether.”
WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
We were clear of the ground.
“We’ve got it,” yelled Tony. “You can all let go.”
“Channel 7?” asked a ground crew member as he confirmed their two-way radio link.
“Channel 7!” replied Tony.
Before beginning to stretch the nylon fabric of the huge balloon onto the tall grass of the small prairie from which the launch was to originate, Tony had released three small helium filled balloons to check which way the wind was blowing.
“You won’t be able to see that yellow one very long,” complained a crewmember. “I’m gonna have to get you some black ones.”
During the day, Tony had carefully checked the wind velocity with the weather service at the nearby Noblesville airport. Although he preferred the one or two mph winds that could be relied upon in September, he was willing to work with the five mph wind that was still blowing at 7 p.m. on this evening. Everyone just had to struggle a little harder to control the balloon bag during the slow inflation process.
“We’ll meet you somewhere northwest of Noblesville,” shouted a ground crew driver.
Back in the 1980’s, I used to carpool to work at Carmel H.S. with Genene Kambs, a teacher of German. On crisp fall mornings, as we drove north on Keystone Ave., we would look wistfully at the hot air balloons that would occasionally float above the highway.
“You know, Genene,” I used to comment, “wouldn’t it be great to have the leisure just to be floating around up there rather than having to go to work?”
And now, after only 20 years, it was my turn to be floating around “up there.”
Peggy Taylor, a Tucker realtor, had sold our old house after we had decided to build a smaller home. Although that was nearly four years ago, Peggy continues to mail me Tucker promotional and informational fliers. In the fall of 2006, one of those fliers featured several different Indiana companies that offer Hot Air Balloon Rides, including Midwest Balloon Rides owned by Tony Sandlin.
After giving some careful thought to filling this long-held dream of mine, I had e-mailed Tony in the fall of 2006 and received some basic information, including a quote of $195. And so, as with most dreams that turned out to be a little more expensive than we planned, I filed the information away for future reference.
Then, back on April 19, out of the blue, as it were, I received another e-mail from Tony.
“Want to take a balloon ride this weekend? The weather is looking great, and I have a few openings.”
DID I? This time I was ready.
Unfortunately, after we confirmed all our arrangements for a 6:30 a.m. flight on Sunday, April 22, Tony called late Saturday evening to say that the forecast did not look good—30 mph winds at 1,000 feet.
This was especially disappointing because Tony had agreed to honor his original $195 rate despite the fact that he was now charging $210. So, once again, my dream of a hot air balloon ride had been filed away…until Monday morning, May 7.
“Bernie. Are you up for a hot air balloon ride tonight? We can meet at 6:00 p.m., and if the winds cooperate, we should be able to launch by 7.”
And here we were, slowly gaining altitude over Heritage Park at 7:15 p.m.
“You know,” I confided, once Tony, and a second passenger (a recent Ball State graduate) and I were relaxed enough to begin chatting, “this isn’t as spine-tingling as a ride up in one of those glass motel elevators. In fact,” I continued, ”a couple weeks ago as I was hiking along 1-foot wide paths on a 100 foot high cliff in Southern Illinois, I was having second thoughts about wanting to be up in a hot air balloon. Maybe it’s the high sides of this basket, but I really don’t feel insecure up here at all.”
By then, the altimeter indicated we were at 640 feet.
One glance out at the scenery, and I could easily understand what an important role tethered hot air balloons played in the Civil War reconnaissance. Even a few hundred feet up gives a balloonist and amazing perspective.
WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
The blasts of the burners triggered the barking of dogs far below, and we rose higher – eventually leveling out at 1000 feet.
“There’s Clay Junior H.S.,” Tony pointed out as we slowly floated over 136th street.
“Look at those homes!” observed the graduate. “Almost every one has its own swimming pool.”
“That guy there,” said Tony as he pointed to a small farm where horses were nervously reacting to our presence, “must be holding out against the developers. Horses get nervous when we fly over.”
I had no idea there are so many ponds around which the upscale Fishers, Carmel and Noblesville housing developments are being built.
“I guess we wouldn’t get wet if it rained with a big balloon over our heads,” I observed.
“If there’s any rain forecast within a hundred miles, we don’t go up,” was Tony’s terse reply.
Tony and his crew know the many “inherent dangers” involved with ballooning, dangers “that no amount of care, caution, instruction and expertise can eliminate,” so they carefully avoid those that are obvious, such as going up when there is any danger of lightening or of being blown by high winds into trees or power lines.
Although I realized that a competent lawyer could probably challenge it, I had gone ahead and signed, and repeatedly initialed, the AGREEMENT AND RELEASE OF LIABILTY that Tony had handed the graduate and me before his crew even began to inflate the giant balloon.
“1. I hereby RELEASE AND DISCHARGE (____)initials, Mayfirst, Inc. d/b/a Midwest Balloon Rides, their officers, directors, agents, employees, instructors, riggers, pilots, ground handlers and the owners of the balloon, equipment manufacturers, landowner and airport or other take-off or landing site utilized for balloon flight or activities (hereinafter collectively referred to as “Released Parties”) from any and all liability, claims and demands or causes of action that may hereafter have for injuries and damages arising out of my participation in the Balloon Activities, including, but not limited to losses CAUSED BY NEGLIGENCE OF THE RELEASED PARTIES. (_____) initials”
By initialing two subsequent paragraphs, I further agreed to not to “SUE OR MAKE A CLAIM,” and personally assumed all “RISK OF DEATH OR PERSONAL INJURY.”
Paragraph 4 of the agreement gave me the option of purchasing a “waiver of the RELEASE OF LIABILTIY COVENANT NOT TO SUE AND ASSUMPTION OF RISK provision contained in paragraphs 1, 2, and 3,” but since this waiver would cost an additional $300, I initialed choice B, the “NOT PURCHASE” option. If a tragedy occurred, my heirs would just have to see how well the release form would stand up in court.
Throughout our flight, we could always see the chase vehicle, with its brightly decorated trailer maneuvering small country roads, as the ground crew attempted to anticipate our route.
Forty-five minutes into the flight, Tony began to let the balloon descend as he used his two-way radio to discuss possible landing sites with the ground crew.
“Why don’t you shoot for Thunder Park? Over.” Came the suggestion from the ground crew.
Thunder Park, now dismantled and abandoned, had once been a water amusement park south of Noblesville.
“O.K.,” said Tony, “I see it. 10-4. Over and out.”
As we neared the deserted park, Tony received another message.
“Negative on Thunder Park. Over.”
“10-4,” replied Tony.
Not only did there turn out to be a lot of debris in the park, but the gate was also locked and the ground crew couldn’t get in.
“There’s a field a mile or so to the northwest,” said Tony into his radio. “Why don’t you head that way. I’ll let you know when you’re close and you can see about getting permission from the owner. Over and out.”
Before long we had descended to within 150 feet of the ground and were skimming along over tree tops and undisked farm fields.
“You’re there,” said Tony to the ground crew. “Ask permission at that house on your right. Over.”
“Will do,” came the reply. “Over and out.”
“We’re going to descend and do a test touchdown to see how rough it’s going to be,” Tony advised us. “Bend your knees and hang on tight. It’s going to be bumpy, and we may pitch forward and tip.”
And it was. And the basket did tip. And we hung on for dear life.
“We’re going a little too fast,” observed Tony. “Hopefully, once we get over this next row of trees, we’ll have a little wind break that will slow us down a bit.”
WHOOSH! WHOOSH!
As the balloon gently rose, we barely cleared that next row of trees. But Tony was right. We slowed down dramatically once we lowered again and could take advantage of the buffer the trees provided.
“Do you have permission?” Tony asked into his radio.
“We’re O.K.,” came the reply.
“Hurry out here and walk us up to that grassy area near the farmhouse,” ordered Tony. “This field has already been planted, and we don’t want to tear it up.”
Neat rows of 3-inch high corn were about to get mashed.
“Bend your knees and hang on!”
Womp! Drag. Womp again. Drag some more.
I kept my knees bent and hung on.
“We’re going over! Hang on!” said Tony in as calm a voice as he could muster.
But just then one of the ground crew reached us and held the basket upright.
WHOOSH!
A little blast of hot air raised the basket a foot or so off the ground.
“You guys on the ground grab on to the basket,” he said to the four members of the ground crew who had now reached us. “Did the farmer say it was O.K.? The field’s been planted.”
“Yah! He’s O.K. with it. He says we’ve landed on his property before.”
“Walk us up to the grass. Stay to the right of those wires.”
As soon as we reached the grass and there was enough room ahead of us for the balloon to be stretched out on the ground, Tony pulled the red strap that he had cautioned us not to touch. This opened a large flap that covered the inside of the top of the balloon and all the hot air rushed out, as the ground crew scrambled with guy lines to lay the deflating bag neatly on the grass.
“Climb out of the basket,” Tony said to me, “But hang on to it so it doesn’t get pulled over.”
The graduate followed me out, and then Tony joined us and we three held the basket while the rest of the crew worked with the deflating balloon.
I looked to the west and noticed that the sun was just beginning to set on the safe realization of my twenty-year dream.
“Thank you, Lord!”
While the crew carefully worked with the balloon and began dismantling the basket, I walked around the farmyard. Behind a storage barn, I came across a huge hollow tree trunk that had to be at least six-feet in diameter.
“That tree has to date back to the Civil War,” I said to Pat, the tall, lank farmer owner who had come out to watch.
“You think that’s something?” he asked. “Come with me, and I’ll show you something that will amaze you.”
We walked over to a two-car garage that stood separate from the 1890’s farmhouse in which he lived.
“Don’t mind the mess,” said Pat. “We had a garage sale and didn’t sell everything. Here’s what I want you to see.”
On a workbench lay a square block of wood that Pat had cut out of the huge tree.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked, pointing to an oak stake about 8 inches long that was imbedded in the middle of the block.
“Is it an old plane?” I asked.
“Nope. Look again.”
Then I noticed that threads had been tooled onto the top of the stake and that shards of green glass were imbedded in the wood around them.
“That’s from an old power line or telegraph pole,” I said triumphantly.
“Yup. Let me tell you, I got the shock of my life when I cut into those glass insulators with my chain saw. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what could be buried in the middle of that branch.”
Pat then told me to look closely at the growth rings he had revealed.
“Look how fine they are. See that mark there? We counted 127 rings to that spot.”
And that was just one branch of the ancient tree that, without a doubt, dated back to the 1860’s.
By now Tony and his crew had the balloon packed and reloaded into the trailer.
“Thanks for talking with me, Pat. Have a good night,” I said as I shook his lean, muscular hand.
“Want a water, Bernie?” asked Tony as we were all climbing back into the Suburban.
I guess I must have been thirsty because it sure tasted good.
“Look there,” said Tony as we drove out the driveway past a window of the farmhouse. “He’s hard at work at his computer already. Times sure have changed out on the farm, haven’t they?”
As Tony prepared to turn right out of the driveway, his crew objected.
“No! Not right! Turn left to get back to Fishers!”
“I want to go get more fuel in Noblesville first. We have two flights tomorrow, and I don’t want to have to get up at 5 o’clock in the morning to drive up here for propane.”
It was dark by the time we got back to Heritage Park.
After thanking his crew and coordinating their schedules for the next day, Tony handed me a small acrylic plaque that said, “Thank you for flying with us!” on its base. The upper part featured a colorful photo of the balloon with the circular inscription,
*Inflated Ego Balloon Team * MidwestBalloonRides.com
“I still have to pay you,” I said as Tony reached out to shake my hand.
“Oh, yah. I forgot about that,” said Tony, a little embarrassed. He then returned to the Suburban to get my release form on which he wrote my charge card info.
The whole adventure had lasted three hours. As I drove home along Allisonville Road, I began to consider that, at most, Tony could carry only three paying passengers. I wondered how he could break even, considering the cost of his balloon and its fuel, the Suburban chase vehicle with its trailer, and the fact that he needed a five-man ground crew to work with him during every flight.
But when I got home and had a chance to read the back of a business card he had slipped me, I understood.
“Tony’s passion for hot air ballooning began in 1989 as a crew member and today he is a Commercial FAA Certified Lighter than Air pilot. Tony’s second greatest joy is sharing his love of ballooning with his family and friends.”
And of course, like so many others with expensive but rewarding hobbies, Tony has not quit his day job.
Finis!
