A hot air balloon ride over Edmonton: a 78th birthday present, "Up, Up and Away!" by Beatrice Daily Huser

A seventy-eight year old woman is given a hot air balloon ride for a birthday present.

On my seventy-eighth birthday, my daughters gave me a ticket for a balloon ride! I pinch myself to make sure it is true.

I phone the office of Windship Aviation and we agree on the morning of October 9th. I must be ready for the pilot's call before 8 a.m., then be at the launch site in an hour. Saturday, 7 a.m., I am up before the alarm rings. Part the curtains. In the morning dusk I see grey mist shrouding the houses across our little park, blurring the street light. The call comes. No go. I phone the office at 9:00. There is room in the morning flight tomorrow. I re-book.

Again I am up, dressed and waiting. Yes! The ride is on. Excitedly, I phone Karen. She wants to drive me to the launch site, take pictures and see me off. Soon, she and a friend, Peter, are waiting outside my door.

We drive across the sleepy city to Laurier Park. I am dressed, as suggested, "in layers"-warm pullover sweater, jacket, tam, gloves. A van transports the passengers to an open area. Karen and Peter follow. Crews are unrolling the two giant balloons. As the helium is pumped in, the balloons writhe and swell, grow and lift, their baskets still tethered to the ground. Our balloon has six compartments. Two passengers will occupy each of the two end ones, the pilot, Lee, stands in the back centre with his instruments in front. He instructs us how to climb in, telling us to give no thought to decorum. So on order, we each scramble over the breast high sides. My companion is the second crew member, a young uniformed woman.

Hot air and flames "whoosh" into the round opening above us. The life-off is sol gentle that I do not realize we have actually left the ground until I look down and see the widening gas as terra firma drops away.

We are flying! But so gently, so softly, so smoothly, I can hardly believe the sensation. As we drift and lift upward, we brush the tops of the fall-yellow poplars that surround the clearing. My companion reaches out and pulls off a leaf. My hands are still glued to the rim of the basket.

The morning wind currents bear us eastward. The panoramic view of the Saskatchewan unrolls below us, the water a translucent greeny-blue. White gulls fly, wheel and swim in patterns against it. Yellows, golds and bronzes of autumn march along the banks, spread back into the geometry of streets and buildings. Greens of ravines and parks –more green that I'd ever imagined. Playgrounds, circling roads, the University, bridges. Stately homes surrounded by lawns and trees. Lovely hues of rose, gold and yellow circle the ornamental trees on the green slopes of the city centre valley-a rainbow blending of colours. The Edmonton Queen, serenely waiting and dreaming. And always the river, that winding turquoise ribbon twisting its way between wooded banks, cliffs and parkland. Shutters click.

We are not cold, do not need gloves. Bursting jets of flame flare upward; the heat reaches down to caress us. Now we are drifting over the eastern industrial area and small windrowed fields. Lee contacts the van driver who is following us on streets somewhere below. "I'm going to try for that hayfield east of the Celanese Plant."

Skillfully he executes a northerly turn. We drive on. Minutes pass. At last he maneuvers the craft downward toward a grassy expanse. A startled jack-rabbit hops out on it, hears the explosive whooshes of the jets. He bounds wildly this way and that trying to escape this strange monster coming at him from the sky. The backs of his ears and the back of his tail are white, the rest a grayish brown. He looks comical, but my heart goes out to the poor little beast in his frenzy. Finally he streaks away.

"Hang on! Bend your knees!" Suddenly we are down, the basket bottom scraping along on the rough terrain, the balloon out in front, pulling us forward.

"Climb over the back! Hang on to the edge! Pull back!" The young people in the back compartments are over the edge and obeying. "Now you! And you! He called their names. Not mine. "Stay put, Bea. Lit it tip!" Slowly the basket goes over forward. "Now, Bea, just crawl out." I do, on my hands and knees. I have been given special treatment because of my grey hairs.

We are all out in the cool ground air. A slight breeze is blowing. I am glass now of my warm clothing. A patrol car from the Celanese Plant comes out onto the field. Our pilot talks to the driver, presents him with a bottle of liquor, and gets directions on where to exit. Almost immediately our transport van and trailer roll onto the field. A flock of Canada geese wing majestically overhead. Now we all help to deflate the big balloon, working to push out the air and fold in the sides as the pilot crawls along it and rolls it beneath him. Incredibly, it finally fits into a large box which strong arms (not mine) hoist into half of the trailer compartment. The basket goes beside it. Our whole aircraft fits into one little flat trailer! We climb into the van and bump slowly across the field.

At the gate, our driver pulls over and we all get out. The two women-driver and crew member-bring out a bottle of champagne, silver goblets and doughnuts. Lee gives a little talk on the Montgolfier brothers and the history of ballooning. He presents us with certificates to commemorate our flight, discount coupons for future trips and balloon lapel pins. In the brisk autumn outdoors we toast the occasion with champagne and orange juice, munch on doughnuts. The air is cool, clear and peaceful. High clouds texture the sky. Late fall colours stretch around us. The city seems far away. I glance at my watch. It is just after eleven o'clock. Church will have started, and here am I having a different kind of communion with these strangers with whom I have shared one short ecstatic hour of my life.