The balloon looked harmless while lying on the ground. Then the burners started. Flame lit the fabric from within, turning it into something enormous and alive. The crew pulled ropes, shouted instructions, and moved with the brisk competence of people who preferred not to discuss the physics with passengers. We climbed in.
Takeoff was strangely gentle. One moment the basket was touching dirt; the next, the vehicles and people below had begun to shrink. The world became quiet in a way I hadn’t expected. No engine. No road noise. Just occasional bursts from the burner and the soft movement of air across the balloon. The mountains arrived slowly with the light. First as a dark line, then blue, then edged with gold.
Our pilot pointed out villages, dry riverbeds, and roads that looked insignificant from above. He had been flying here for years and spoke about the wind as though it were an unreliable colleague he nevertheless respected. Landing was less poetic. We skimmed a field, bounced once, tipped slightly, and were told to crouch while the basket reconsidered its relationship with the ground.
Minutes later, someone produced coffee. The birds had finally started making noise. We felt unbearably accomplished for people who had mostly stood in a basket.
