[This 2002 (?) adventure was part of a Royalauto travel writing [!] prize.]
Yarra Valley.
It’s a name you see on wine bottles.
I never knew it was a magic kingdom on Melbourne’s doorstep, till I saw it from a hot air balloon.
When everything fell into place like the map from Peregrine adventures.
We were picked up at 5 am.
On the way we (I) asked questions to allay fears.
No, it wasn’t possible for crazed eagles to tear the fabric to shreds.
Even with the bottom two thirds gone, the craft would still float.
The valley has its own weather, more fickle than any software. This the crew discussed intently as we drove to our launch site. They were happy to field more questions.
The balloon cost $80,000.
The fabric was rated for 800 hours.
Ours was up to Hour 799.
Very funny.
It was one degree at the rendezvous.
Other passengers huddled in idling cars.
In the gloom sat a huge basket.
Why wicker?
Tradition, strength, flexibility, and aesthetics.
The frost glinted, and the cow-pats steamed in the first shafts of dawn.
All hands dragged the basket from its trailer, and the balloon from its bag.
There followed a gentle ballet of fans, fire, and ropes until the majestic dome billowed.
Crouched in launch position, pressed against the strangely comforting padded suede compartment dividers, we ascended in a state of grace.
For minutes, only the roar of flames broke the silence.
The trees fell away, the topography unfolded, and the wind gathered us up.
At last the pilot spoke, pointing out the Dandenongs, Lilydale, and the winding Yarra in a single sweep.
Ahead of us, three other balloons relayed conditions at their altitudes, giving us a modicum of control over our direction.
Halfway through, we dropped swiftly from 1,000 metres to 10.
A colder breeze struck.
Fascinated, we learnt we'd dipped into an invisible river of air flowing down from the mountains.
Caught in its current, we began to move backwards.
Too soon, the back paddock of Yering Station beckoned.
Toy cows ambled regally.
The wind dropped to a whisper.
Altitude: 0.5 m. Speed: 1.0 km/h.
A pulse of fire to ease us over a fence.
Perfect landing.
The closest thing to a flying carpet.
Later, at Debortoli’s winery, our pilot gave us the history of his trade, and recited the (then) delightful balloonists blessing.
After three champagnes, and a cooked breakfast, we enthusiastically cheered a beautiful adventure we won't forget.
Except for the year.
Pic by Sam Bark.