KEY POINTS:
In the dead of night my phone rings. It's George Currie, co-founder of Aoraki Balloon Safaris. "We're on," he says.
I leap from my bed and minutes later I'm behind the wheel, cruising the empty streets of Christchurch then heading west on State Highway 1 to Methven.
It's 5.30am, the air is sharp, and the road a long dark ribbon into the silent unknown. The weather might be right for flying but it occurs to me that I've dressed too lightly for this early-morning lark because I can see my breath.
It's still dark when I reach the meeting point where 10 others - who also received the wake-up call - pace the room beneath harsh fluorescent strips. The first surprise is the balloon, which is balled-up in the trailer on the back of the van. If we want to go anywhere in it we're going to have to assemble it.
But first, some introductions. "When you're in a basket it's nice to make friends," George says.
Turns out we're a motley crew from places as diverse as Timaru and Derbyshire. We collect rubber overshoes from an old champagne box to protect our feet from the wet grass. All we need now is our pilot, Bruce Leonard who, George says, is "doing a little technical job".
Bruce appears and we pile into the van for the short trip to the launch site. We then proceed, in the moonlight, to unravel $85,000 of balloon. It's a seemingly never-ending multi-coloured riot of rip-stop nylon which coils like a snake from an oversized bag, then ripples like water across the field as it gently inflates.
The basket, by comparison, is minuscule and split into compartments like a case of wine - we're the bottles. We clamber into our allotted sections - an even-weight distribution is important - and practise a landing demo in the event of the basket tipping over.
Then, just like that, we've left the ground, all two tonnes of us, balloon included. So smooth is our ascent that if you shut your eyes you wouldn't know you were moving.
The sounds from the ground become thin and distant. It's as if someone has turned down the volume on the world. The top of our heads are toasted by the heat of the gas firing our craft and our faces glow in the rising sun.
Higher we rise until the white peak of Mt Cook emerges 150km away. To the east, the city towers of Christchurch pierce the skyline and further south you can see the coast. The fields below are a ribbed patchwork, scattered with grains of sheep. "This," says Bruce, somewhat majestically, "is the view from my office."
He tells us about this rich land of wheat and barley, vegetables, grasses and clover known as the granary of New Zealand.
We squint into the sun for photos and can't believe our luck with the spectacular sunrise.
Bruce starts to scout for a safe spot to land and says we'll try to make it to a dairy farm emerging on our right.
As we descend, the familiar sounds of life on the ground return and, all too soon, we bump back to Earth, gripping the basket's inner handles and ducking down as we had practised.
The basket tips over and we all get to know each other a little more intimately.
But the fun is far from over.
First we have to roll the balloon back into the bag - imagine deflating a gigantic air-bed which sleeps several thousand people. Then breakfast.
George, who has been following our unmappable journey in the van - the chase vehicle - has reinvented himself as a champagne waiter, complete with top hat and tails, and hosts breakfast from a fold-down table by the van. Jam and cheese croissants with a glass of bubbly never tasted so good - at 9.30am or otherwise.
Ballooning is a voyage of mystery, George tells us.
"You don't know where you're going, who you'll meet, or where you'll land," he says, effectively explaining why ballooning never took off as a popular mode of transport.
Bruce shows us sketches and photographs of early ballooning expeditions.
One of the traditions that remains is giving a bottle of champagne to the farmer whose field you land in, hence our splendid champagne breakfast.
The bubbles take effect and Bruce asks us to kneel on mats in the grass facing the mountains as he recites the Balloonist's Prayer and anoints each of us with the champagne cork.
We arise as balloonists - or, as George perhaps more accurately puts it, balloonatics.
Just after we set off for Methven, Bruce jumps out to give a bottle to the dairy farmer, our unwitting host. Just like old times.
- Detours, HoS
