Friday, August 24, 2012
 
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The quiet thrill of the fly-in

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[August 24, 2012]  This weekend, thousands of folks will turn out for the wide variety of events that will take place during the Lincoln Art & Balloon Festival.

Among the most popular of these are the Friday and Saturday night balloon launches and glows at the Logan County Airport.

During that time the airport is a bustle of activity with live entertainment going on at the main stage, kite flying, dozens of food vendors selling their wares, the VIP and beer tents both open, and much more.

As the evening grows dark, literally thousands of folks flock to the edge of the grass runway and take in the extreme beauty of the balloon glow.

Watching the light dance through brilliant-colored orbs like giant Chinese lanterns is awesome -- something no one who has seen it can even begin to deny.

However, there is another almost equally awesome activity that takes place in the very early hours of the day on Saturday -- something that if you have never been there, it might be worth the effort to come out and experience for yourself.

The early morning fly-in of the balloons at the Logan County Airport on Saturday is an entirely different experience than the activity of Friday and Saturday nights, and in a few short words, the best way to describe it is "simply beautiful."

A great deal of the "beauty" of the morning happens before the balloons even arrive. As folks venture out of their homes and drive to the airport, it's just a bit after 6 a.m.

Many park their vehicles close to the flag barriers that mark the balloon-only spaces at the airport. They emerge from their cars with large mugs of hot coffee and a bag of early morning snacks.

They set their lawn chairs in strategic places and then they wait, quietly. The sun is peeking over the horizon and rising over the fields to the east. Sometimes there is a hint of a fog, a crisp coolness in the air and the glistening of dew on the grass. In all, it is a moment of simply enjoying what Mother Nature provides.

Down the row of parked vehicles, a young family emerges from a van. Kids sip on their juice boxes and play in the green space of the grass runway.

Then come the questions, typical kid questions: "When are they coming, Dad? Why aren't they here yet, Mom?'

Patient parents tell them they have to wait a bit, and they watch the horizon all the way around because they don't know which direction the balloons will come in from.

Down the way, an old-time meteorologist sticks his finger in his mouth, then raises it into the air. With scientific certainty he reports that the balloons will come in from the southwest this year. All eyes turn to that direction, and everyone strains to be the first to see that tiny hint of color that doesn't belong to the natural landscape.

On the runway, festival volunteers are setting up the target space for the competition that takes place during the fly-in. Among the crowd, one person will explain how the balloonist will steer his or her vessel over the target and, at the hopefully perfect moment, drop the yellow-tailed bag.

While many who are there already know the process, hearing it spoken out loud validates what they believe to be true.

As conversations lull and folks enjoy the freshness of the day, someone finally shouts out, "There's one!"

Everyone takes notice, and soon all are scanning the sky so they might be the first one to see the second one. Within minutes they are satisfied, as they spy another brightly colored balloon heading toward the target.

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As the balloons erupt on the horizon and draw near, folks on the ground shout out to the pilots, who in return wave and shout back, before turning to the job of the day -- hitting the target on the ground.

Strategy for hitting the target varies from pilot to pilot. Some choose to bring their balloon as low to the ground as possible and then simply drop the bag into the target zone. Others fly a bit higher and toss the bag toward the target. Some hold the bag by its yellow tail and swing it around and around, letting go at what they hope is the perfect time for it to soar through the air and land strategically in the center of the target.

As the bags hit the ground, shouts and cheers go up for the various pilots who have come close to the center mark.

There are also those balloonists who miss the mark, by a long shot. Almost every year a balloon will experience a change in the wind, and when it arrives at the airport, it is dozens if not hundreds of feet from the target. Spectators watch with sorrow and sympathy as they come to realize that this balloonist is really not even in the competition.

While some eyes are turned to the skies watching the balloons arrive, others soon turn their attention to what is going on after the pilots throw toward the target. Some of those who fly low to the ground will land their crafts at the end of the runway. Landing a basket isn't an easy task, and just for the record, not all the baskets land on their bottoms.

While their "crash" landings usually take place in what is almost slow motion, it is kind of a rough and somewhat comical landing for some. As the audience turns their eyes on these landings, they see the baskets sometimes hit the ground in a kind of "skip," take back to the air a foot or two, then slowly and almost painfully fall on their sides, leaving the pilot and his guests with no option but to just hold on and brace for the landing.

Then there are those who choose to stay in the sky because, after all, it is a perfect morning for flying.

Those who watch will often comment: "Where are they going? When will they land?"

And some will try to guess: "They're going to the college. That one is headed for the high school." And some will surmise, "He's up there and he isn't coming back!"

When the morning is done, it is almost a letdown. It's like taking a bite when you'd really like to eat the whole thing. Some wish there were more, some linger awhile, hoping there will be one last balloon, and some just sigh, because they know it's over and it's time to go on back home, or out to breakfast, and all that is left until next year is the memory of the thrill of the fly-in.

[By NILA SMITH]

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