By STUART LLOYD
We are standing in a giant wicker basket, lashed to a film of nylon filled with gas. Behind us, the first golden rays of the sun greet the day over Port Douglas and Cairns. Below, in the soft morning light, you can pick out white-walled farmhouses, orderly plantations
and fruit orchards of the Mareeba Valley. In the distance, the Atherton Tablelands ridge rises like a giant green wall against the purplish sky.
It is eerily quiet, and there is no sense of motion: hot air balloons travel at the same speed as the wind, so your hair is not blown out of place as you might expect.
"There's not much lift here, we'll just take her up to 10,000ft [3000m]," shouts Allan as he fires up the gas cylinders, shooting jets of blue flames roaring into the colourful dome above us.
The noise is thunderous, a contrast to the tranquil scenes of Far North Queensland unfolding below us.
Our day had started with a 4am pick-up from the hotel. We drive in darkness to a large field ringed by pine trees, inland at Mareeba. A crew prepares the balloons.
The large blue and red (with distinctive yellow zig-zag) balloons of Raging Thunder are laid out on the field, their mouths held open while the propane gas inflates them in fiery bursts. They look like glowing light bulbs in the pre-dawn light.
An anchor rope holds the balloon in place to prevent it from taking off prematurely. My wife, son and daughter board, using a little set of steps to clamber over into the basket. It is made from several layers of intertwined wicker, with four compartments for passengers around the central gas tanks. These big grey tubes are topped by an elaborate silver barbecue device, the burners. A signal is given, and the anchor rope cast off.
It is not like an aeroplane take-off. It is slow motion; a barely discernible movement as we rise above the field. My knuckles tighten on the basket as we rise 30, 60, 100m drifting westwards on the wind. I am clinging even harder by the time we reach our first cruising altitude of 760m. A veritable basket-case.
The meandering Barron River can be seen as a blue reflective mirror. Tree-lined roads join towns and farms. Behind us is another balloon from Raging Thunder. It looks tiny floating in the sky. It makes me realise I am aboard an identical craft. Whose crazy idea was this anyway?
Mine, my family reminds me, each in their own little way, with different degrees of enthusiasm or accusation.
The pilot, Allan, carries a radio to communicate with the ground crew. It crackles with static as he reports in, stating his direction and probable landing point. We are at the mercy of the wind and the pilot has no real say in where we land.
By now the sun is fully up, revealing the diverse eco-culture of the region. Lush tropical farmland stretches from the coast to the mountains. Cars look like Matchbox toys on the slivers of grey tarmac. We can see the support crew, their white jeep following, approximately, our flight path.
After around 20 minutes, I am feeling comfortable enough and reassured with the equipment and pilot's capabilities to release my grip on the basket.
We pass over a dam and wave to our colourful reflection as we pass directly over it. It looks like a small puddle from this height.
It is at this point that we rise to 3000m. There is a ceiling of cloud above us, and soon we are enveloped in damp cotton wool. Just as suddenly, we rise up through it. And keep rising.
In all directions there is nothing but a sea of flat grey cloud beneath us, and a flawless, powder-blue sky above us. Sunglasses come out, some start rubbing sun block into their arms.
Looking behind, I catch the surreal sight of the other balloon breaching the clouds, its bulbous red top pushing through, followed by the rest. It is now several kilometres behind and looks like an insignificant speck.
The winds are stronger up here, and we seem to rush along faster. The absence of wind whistling or clothes flapping is still surprising.
The radio crackles to life again as Allan updates the crew on our direction and he pulls a rope which releases hot air from the top of the envelope.
We start descending through the clouds, and notice we are much closer to the mountains.
They were a backdrop before, now they form an imposing foreground. I can make out their dense rainforested cover.
Farms are laid out like patchwork quilts below us, their fields neatly sectioned off by a line of trees.
The white jeeps do their best to keep up with us, as Allan gives them another estimated landing position: "Probably McMaster's farm, over." He lets out another stream of gas from the balloon, and we dip.
"Yip, McMaster's it will be, confirm that, over," he says again. I can see a farm ahead in the middle of some good old Aussie bush, its homestead and sheds set amid fruit orchards and large fields where a few cows lazily graze.
Lower and slower now. We are going level to the ground, Allan pumping little squirts of gas to maintain our height over a flat field of green.
But what's that ahead? A row of tall pine trees, taller than we are high. "Have you seen those trees?" says a fellow passenger, with a curious mix of polite inquiry and near-panic in her voice.
She speaks for all of us. Sure enough, we are on a collision course with a row of trees, a windbreak. Allan is unfussed. We continue towards them. I brace myself for a messy end as the basket will surely be snared in the trees, tipping us all unceremoniously onto the hard red soil beneath.
Closer, closer with a last minute "whoosh" Allan squirts the perfect amount of gas into the balloon at the right time to lift us gracefully over the trees. A collective sigh of release, perhaps some spontaneous applause.
"That's what we train for," he says smugly, his 15 years of commercial experience showing. "Okay, hang on tight, we're going in," he says.
We descend and, as we touch down, a gust of wind catches us, and we ping-pong down the "runway" a few times, kangaroo-like, and finally come to rest gently with the basket on its side. We half fall, half climb out. A bit of urgency as we need to secure the anchor rope and stop the balloon taking off again, or ripping it on the barbed wire fences.
The ground crew is soon on the spot, and the errant balloon is tamed. Within minutes, they have it prone on the floor like last year's discarded toy. Hearts pumping with that last-minute unexpected surge of adrenalin, a mixture of satisfaction and relief comes over the group; happiness and smiles all around.
We board the mini-bus for the short drive to the local town, where a hearty Aussie bush breakfast - topped off with chilled champagne - makes it feel good to have our feet on terra firma again.
Tour options
Raging Thunder Hot Air Ballooning tours; half-hour or one-hour tours. Minimum age of five years.
Cost
Half-hour A$155 adult; A$99 for kids (NZ$175; $112), One hour A$245; A$179 for kids ($276; $202). An extra A$25 ($28) is payable for insurance, taxes and other costs.
Extras included: Pick-up from hotel in Cairns (extra $20 from Port Douglas), champagne bush breakfast, certificate.
More information
Raging Thunder website
By STUART LLOYD
We are standing in a giant wicker basket, lashed to a film of nylon filled with gas. Behind us, the first golden rays of the sun greet the day over Port Douglas and Cairns. Below, in the soft morning light, you can pick out white-walled farmhouses, orderly plantations
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