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Getting Above It All in Albuquerque
| Article
# : |
11651 |
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Section : |
LIFE
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| Issue
Date : |
9 / 1986 |
1,545 Words |
| Author
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Carl and Ann Purcell
Carl and Ann Purcell have traveled on assignment over three
million miles to eighty-six different countries. They both
write columns for newspapers in the United States and Canada. |
The old Toyota lurched and bounced across the washboard road leading into the launch site at Cutter Field in Albuquerque, New Mexico, the headlights stabbing into the cold pre-dawn darkness. A young woman with an illuminated baton waved us into the crew parking area between a pickup truck and a Winnebago. We sat for several minutes, our breath fogging the windows, and drank black coffee from a thermos. The hot liquid drove the cobwebs of sleep from our minds as we an anticipated the event we had flown over 4,000 miles to see.
It seemed an anachronism that we had arrived in Albuquerque aboard a TWA DC-9 to observe and participate in the earliest and most elementary form of manned flight. This was the annual Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta, one of the most spectacular events in America. Each October, Albuquerque is invaded by hundreds of balloon pilots, thousands of crew members and more than 500,000 spectators from around the world. Between 500 and 600 brightly colored and fanciful balloons take part in the fiesta. To give the event historical perspective, one of the Montgolfier Balloon, the ornate aircraft that made the first recorded passenger flight in France in 1783.
Stepping out of the car, camera bags tugging at our shoulders, we were aware of the shadowy figures of crew members moving around us in the darkness. Flashlights punctuated the black velvet of the night like desert fireflies flickering across the mesa. Gondolas and vast nylon envelopes were unloaded from vans and pickup trucks. Anticipation of excitement and adventure filled the air. The distant Sandia Mountains were a wash of black ink, barely discernible against the night sky. The rim gradually turned to a glowing pink from the hidden sun. Dawn does not come slowly to the New Mexico desert; instead it explodes and floods the arid landscape with molten gold. In that moment the desert came to life.
Walking across the mesa, we found ourselves among crew members assembling burners and fans, attaching wicker gondolas to the wrinkled nylon envelopes and preparing for the first mass ascension. One of the envelopes rippled to life, the turquoise and crimson stripes undulating like the skin of a prehistoric reptile stirring from sleep. The motorized fan pumped life into the lethargic monster and yellow tongues of flame slowly urged him into an upright position. Then, as if one some secret signal, more balloons across the filed came to life, giant mushrooms of color in a surrealistic landscape. Passengers and crews prepared for flight. Propane tanks belched flame into the open jaws of nylon, and mutli-colored pleasure domes rose above the lilliputian
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