Extreme Ballooning Features High Drama (and Hot Air)
Category:
Shopping around the world
Date:
07/24/2010 05:21:04
http://online.wsj.com/By: Stephanie Simon Courtesy Of The Wall Street Journal At the World's Biggest Festival, Unruly Winds Mess Up Pole Grab; 'Kissing,' Not Colliding
When he gears up for the annual battle of the hot-air balloons here, pilot Mike Kelly packs his wicker basket with a GPS system, a two-way radio and sophisticated gauges to measure his altitude, his rate of climb and the temperature inside the balloon. But his most important tool might be his bottle of water. "I spit over the side of the basket all the time so I can watch which way the spittle goes in the wind," Mr. Kelly explains. "I carry water so I won't dry up." That's competitive ballooning -- one part science, one part skill and, apparently, one part saliva. Up, Up and Away View Slideshow Steven St. John for The Wall Street Journal Pilots at the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta competed in the pole grab, where they try to maneuver within an arm's length of a 30-foot-tall pole and snatch an envelope off the top. More photos and interactive graphics The alchemy is on display here each fall in the world's biggest ballooning festival, a nine-day affair that draws nearly 650 pilots from around the globe -- and an estimated 800,000 fans primed to ooh and aah. The fiesta features breathtaking mass ascensions at dawn and an aerial parade of balloons that have been sewn into fanciful cartoon shapes. But the heart and soul of the festival are the tests of skill, in which pilots struggle to maneuver their bulky, balky craft toward targets spread across a big grassy field. The challenges, central to the fiesta since it began in 1972, play out over five days. They test not speed, but accuracy: Drop a beanbag at the center of a plastic X. Score 21 by dropping markers on giant playing cards in an aerial game of blackjack. The toughest task of all -- which this year drew 400 competitors -- is the pole grab. The setup is simple enough: Several slim white poles, 30 feet tall, are raised around the field. To the top of each is fixed a mystery envelope. It may contain keys to a new truck, an expensive watch, a voucher for a Cayman Islands vacation, even a gift certificate for a sporty cloud-hopper balloon valued at $30,000. To claim the prize, just grab the envelope. Good luck with that. Battle of the Hot Air Balloonists 3:09 At an annual Albuquerque festival, balloon pilots go head to head in aerial matchups of strategy and skilll. Stephanie Simon reports on the sport of competitive balllooning. Here's the thing about hot-air balloons: They stand as tall as an eight-story building, with a maximum diameter topping 50 feet. And they can't be steered. A pilot can control his altitude, more or less, by venting hot air in order to drop, or blasting heat into the balloon to rise. But direction? "You take what the wind gods give you," says Raymond Bair, who has been flying for 30 years. Up hours before dawn last Thursday to prep for the pole grab, Mr. Bair and his pit crew of a half-dozen friends scoured online forecasts and radar images. In the pitch-black chill, they walked onto the competition field for an official, if cryptic, weather briefing. (A sample: "At 4,000, we were 2-4-0 at 20" -- meaning that a test balloon sent to an elevation of 4,000 feet measured wind coming from a heading of 240 degrees at 20 knots.) Racing back to their pickups for a strategy session, Mr. Bair's team consulted stopwatches and compasses, pored over maps and plotted tactics in urgent huddles. The key to competitive flying is to take advantage of slight variations in wind currents at different altitudes. Need to tack northeast? You might have to soar to 11,000 feet to catch a wind stream heading that way. But be prepared to descend rapidly -- at more than 1,000 feet per minute -- to catch a more easterly current when it's time to adjust course. There's no way to reverse, so good pilots must think several minutes ahead while watching out for power lines and suffering distractions like chatty passengers. "'Gee, look at the pretty mountains!'" Mr. Bair mimicked, making a face. "That's not where my mind is." For the pole-grab competition, pilots must pick a launch site at least a mile from the field. Mr. Bair settled on a dirt lot near a construction site. "We'll take a shot at it," he said. "If we don't get [to the pole], we'll have a beer and wonder why." Out on the field, meanwhile, Paul and June Strong had plunked down lawn chairs, ready for action after their 14-hour drive from rural Missouri. The pole grab is their favorite event, mostly because frustration makes for such good drama. "They're stretching...stretching...stretching toward the envelope...they're so close...you just know they're going to get it," Mrs. Strong said, her voice rising and quickening as if she were Vin Scully calling another Dodgers home run. "And then..." Her face fell. "They don't make it." Her husband grinned. As sporting events go, he would rate this one "leisurely excitement." But he wouldn't miss it, and not just because he's partial to the chile verde at the concession stands. "The crowd, the noise -- it's just a happening," Mr. Strong said. As the first competitors drifted into view -- accompanied by a whoosh of propane burners flaring and subsiding -- a play-by-play announcer took to the public-address system: "The gold and black balloon, he's down low...looks like he's going for the pole...." And missing it completely. The crowd groaned. Jaunty in a rainbow-striped, balloon-shaped hat, J'Anne Gore shouted advice at the next wave of incoming pilots, though she knew they couldn't hear her. "A little to the right! A little to the left! Don't let him splat out of the basket!" The winds in this part of Albuquerque, hard by the Sandia Mountains, are famed for flowing in an unusual pattern for an hour or so after sunrise most days, with cool air streaming south at lower elevations and the prevailing winds streaming north up high. This "box effect" lets pilots trace giant rectangles over the field, making pass after pass at the pole. Scores of balloons often cluster around each pole, bumping and jostling -- though not, technically, colliding. "Midair collisions are a serious offense from the Federal Aviation Administration's point of view," Mr. Bair explains. "We call it kissing." The rules require pilots to keep both feet planted in their baskets as they reach for the prize, to avoid toppling. But accidents happen. Last week, a pilot clipped a spectator tent; the jolt tipped her basket and dropped a passenger 20 feet to the ground. He suffered a dislocated hip. This day there were no serious injuries. There was also no box effect. The winds had turned swirly and squirrelly and fast -- more than 25 miles an hour -- and they were driving even veteran pilots off course. Mr. Kelly's spit failed him and he botched his run. Mr. Bair was pushed so far east, he missed the 72-acre field entirely and had to land in an empty lot half a mile from the prize poles. So it was with some surprise that Gary Bennett, flying a red and green balloon, looked up and realized he was heading smack for a pole. He had gone with a risky strategy of wait-and-see, delaying his launch for half an hour so he could watch the other balloons and better calculate the wind currents. Now, tantalizingly close, he was thinking just one thing: "Don't screw this up." He reached out and, to a roar from the crowd, plucked his prize. His crew was whooping over his radio, shouting at him to open the envelope. It contained a voucher for $2,000 cash. But Mr. Bennett didn't find that out until he landed. Flush with victory, he still had the presence of mind to jam the envelope deep into his pocket so the fickle winds couldn't rip it from his hands.
