Up, up and away...

BY MINTY CLINCH

Our novice balloonist comes back to earth with a bump

ON April Fool’s Day 1998, during his third solo attempt to reach the North Pole, David Hempleman-Adams lay exhausted on the ice and watched the vapour trail from an aircraft 35,000ft above. He wondered if there was an easier way to travel than dragging a heavy sledge packed with survival kit over treacherous ice.

By the time he reached the top of the world four weeks later, the 42-year-old adventurer — who had already climbed the highest mountains on seven continents and visited the South Pole — had a new ambition: to fly a balloon to the North Pole from Spitsbergen. But first he would have to learn to fly one.

When Hempleman-Adams returned to his home near Bath, the ballooning capital of Britain, he went to see an expert trainer, Terry McCoy, who taught him so well he was able to set off for the Pole once more, but this time in the relative comfort of a balloon.

McCoy initiates enthusiasts into the mysteries of the sport in the gentle green spaces of Bath’s Victoria Park. As I arrived for my first lesson, the vast purple and yellow envelope was laid out on the grass, the burners mounted in the leather-bound wicker basket. Normally a single tether is enough to secure the balloon for an inaugural flight, but on this occasion lines were attached to three cars, and Hempleman-Adams and McCoy were looking anxiously at the trees.

Conditions are usually at their calmest at dawn and dusk, but the wind was rising ominously above the predicted three knots. Deciding that sooner would be better than later, McCoy turned on an electric fan to pump cold air into the envelope.

Balloon sizes are measured in cubic feet, from the minimum 31,000 required to lift one person in a chair to a monster 500,000 capable of carrying 25 joy-riding passengers, but this one was a neat 80,000, easily manoeuvrable for a beginner. Or so I chose to believe.

As the envelope filled with air, Hempleman-Adams switched on the burners to heat it up until it was ready for lift-off. I scrambled in and we rose gently into the sky over the city. “Safety first,” said McCoy reassuringly. “We’ve never lost anyone yet.”

Lesson one is about burner control. Too much heat and the balloon rockets upwards out of control. Too little and it stays where it is. None at all and it plummets back to earth. As we stood, swaying gently in the basket, Hempleman-Adams issued instructions on opening the valve in short bursts, causing the flames to roar into the envelope.

Dazed by the noise, I didn’t know whether I was going up or down, but I gradually achieved some semblance of control. Then I had to land. Beginners suffer from ground shyness and have an irresistible urge to fire up the burner one last time to prevent a knee-juddering impact.

When the balloon stayed airborne as a result, I went too easy on the burner, causing it to descend too fast. Hempleman-Adams is renowned for his own landings, so he knew what would happen next. “Bend your knees and hang on,” he said as the basket slammed into the turf. Nothing for it but to go back up and try again.

The tethered flight — in my case, we did not rise more than 50ft, enough to practise keeping the balloon level — is the first step in getting a private pilot’s licence. This consists of five written exams in air law, navigation, meteorology, balloon systems and human performance, plus a flight test with an examiner, followed by a solo flight conducted under observation.

Preparing for the checkout flight requires at least 16 logged flying hours, plus four flights with an instructor. The investment in time and money — at least £3,000 — is about the same as for fixed-wing pilot’s licence, but once you’re free to go it alone ballooning is cheaper and less regulated than flying.

It is also far less predictable. You are allowed to take off from your own garden or field, but since balloons are at the mercy of the wind, where you will land is anyone’s guess. In 1897, the Swedish pioneer Salomon August Andree and his two companions came down on the way from Spitsbergen to the North Pole, then died after eating infected polar bear meat on the long haul back to civilisation.

In 2000 Hempleman-Adams followed their projected route, leaving Spitsbergen on May 28 and getting within 12 miles of the Pole on June 1. He saved the worst for last, enduring the threat of imminent death for 30 minutes as the envelope dragged the basket at high speed through broken ice off Spitsbergen.

In the end, the helicopter came to the rescue, but he knows he would get an easier landing almost anywhere else.

“In Ireland,” he says, “they fight to give you breakfast, then they open up the pub at seven in the morning. You’d be lucky to leave before noon.”

But why enjoy yourself when you could be notching up another record by flying over Everest, north to south, Tibet to Nepal? That’s Hempleman-Adams’s next adventure. As for me, I’m half Irish so it’s no contest.