Floating high: Gazette reporter glides through Valley skies in hot air balloon

By JACK SUNTRUP

@JackSuntrup

Published: 07-07-2017 10:33 AM

ABOARD THE THUNDERBUSTER — “Pull the lever and gooooo!” a farmer shouted at Paul Sena, a burly 63-year-old with shoulder-length gray hair who has been flying hot air balloons since 1991.

The farmer was brush-hogging goldenrod on his plot in Hatfield on Wednesday, close to sundown. When the 105,000-cubic-foot, multicolored hot air balloon — carrying our crew — drifted over the property, the farmer powered down his tractor, cupped his hands around his mouth, and wailed at us to scram.

“This guy’s been an issue before,” Paul told our crew as we floated away. Paul was blasting flames on-and-off into the balloon, lifting the basket between a couple dozen and 2,700 feet over the Pioneer Valley.

Crammed inside the basket were Paul, our pilot and owner of Worthington Ballooning; Gazette photographer Jerrey Roberts and I; and Jen Rosenthal and David Crussana, a young Amherst couple celebrating Crussana’s birthday.

Never before did I realize the diplomacy required of hot air balloon pilots. Then again, did I ever give them much thought?

“Oh, cool,” I would say, looking toward the vessels floating across the sky. Then I would turn my neck down again, focusing back on whatever was on the ground.

But Wednesday, I was in the air, looking out at rumpled mountain peaks and down at people going about their business.

They would stop, peering toward the sky until our balloon drifted over the treeline, out of sight.

An adventure begins

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I met Paul, his wife Judy and son Jared in the Northampton Big Y parking lot early Wednesday evening. Paul has a mustache and wore a ball cap. He brings to his work a go-with-the-flow attitude.

I mean that literally, because the only directions you have absolute control over in a hot air balloon are up and down. The wind, accompanied by Paul’s experience, is in charge of the rest.

His easygoing demeanor is tempered with knowledge of physics, safety, the atmosphere and air traffic control.

Paul was using his aircraft to promote the upcoming Green River Festival, which runs July 14-16 at Greenfield Community College. It features a musical lineup, but there will be 10 hot air balloons on hand for hourlong flights.

“Mother Nature picks our landing spot,” Paul told us before the flight.

What this means: We could end up in uncharted territory — a clearing in the woods (not ideal) or in someone’s bare field or driveway (ideal, with a friendly property owner).

“You’re always going to get someone you can’t please,” Paul said, adding that balloon pilots over time identify “red zones,” friendly “green zones” and “yellow zones” in the places they fly.

We were to take off from the Three County Fairgrounds, drift near the Northampton Municipal Airport, over the Connecticut River into Hadley, north into Hatfield, landing in Sunderland. It would be about an hour of flight time.

At the fairgrounds, Paul, Judy and Jared rolled out the basket on a cart, unfurled the balloon, inflated it with a fan, and had us sign a waiver that included warnings for risks like “arrest for trespassing” and “fatality.”

A sinking stomach

We were getting higher, but my stomach was sinking.

Every movement in this cramped basket shifted the balloon. So I didn’t move. We drifted over Interstate 91 and then over the Connecticut River at about 400 feet.

I was the tallest person in the craft, the top of my head close to the device shooting flames up into the balloon. Paul gave me a hat. I could feel the heat, and I checked my arms every so often to make sure my hair wasn’t singed.

Meanwhile, a sister balloon piloted by Don LaFountain, of Florence, owner of Misty River Ballooning, was drifting farther to the south.

“You could have 10 different balloons start in the same spot and you’ll end up in 10 different places,” Paul explained.

We drifted over potato and corn crops, over woods and subdivisions. Riding in a balloon is gentle and easy — except when someone moves.

Roberts was thumbing around his camera bag, swaying the basket. I felt like I might teeter — right off the side. But I got used to it.

We continued over Hatfield.

“Hi, how’s it going down there?” Paul shouted down to one man from about 200 feet. The man said we might see a mother bear and her three cubs in the forest.

We didn’t, but I did see a man toss a bag of trash in a dumpster.

Nearby, a neighbor — a large man alone in an above-ground pool — waved his arms at us like a castaway on a deserted island. A woman, maybe a girl, shouted “Helloooo!” from a nearby in-ground pool. Neighborhood dogs barked and yipped, but I could not tell if we were the ones on the receiving end.

We could smell our surroundings.

“You get to really smell the country,” Paul said. “The bad thing is when you go over a cow manure pit.”

We drifted near the unfriendly farmer’s property. He should not have flattered himself. We were not planning on landing there. Still, he hollered, “Keep going!”

Time to land

We did keep going, right over the river. We saw a bald eagle soar below us. Paul picked out a landing spot. It was a field in Sunderland with no unharvested crops in evidence.

He told us to bend our knees and grab on. We braced ourselves. We touched down. Hard. And then we lifted up again, and touched down again. And again. And again. We finally came to a stop, sideways.

I got out of the basket. While everyone was regrouping, I noticed a man standing on the edge of the field, about 75 yards away. I alerted Paul, hoping the man in a sleeveless yellow shirt was friendly.

“That’s cool as hell!” said the man, sporting what looked to be a permanent tan.

His name was Stephen Bak. The 22-year-old was sipping Pabst Blue Ribbon in his driveway after a day on the farm. He walked over, and his dad, Gerald, puttered over on a tractor.

They said they own all the land around the field, but not that patch. The elder Bak said a group out of Maine recently snapped up the parcel, planning to let it rest so it could be certified organic.

After Stephen helped load the balloon into the trailor Judy had brought over, Paul thanked him and gave him a bottle of champagne.

“Hey man, all in a day’s work,” Stephen said, laughing. “You never know what’s going to happen in Sunderland.”

Jack Suntrup can be reached at jsuntrup@gazettenet.com.

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