UnspecifiedCredit: Guy Wilkinson
From a floating wicker basket, Guy Wilkinson experiences the beauty of New Zealand's Southern Alps.
In a darkened paddock, his shoes coated with frost, veteran pilot Brad is mulling over my question about in-flight incidents.
"There have been a few dicey moments," he laughs, the look on his face betraying an alarming memory.
"Specifically?" I ask.
"Perhaps we'll discuss that one later."
In retrospect, asking the pilot of a 26-man hot air balloon for his horror stories just a few minutes before take-off might not have been the smartest move.
But then when you think about it, neither is floating in a rickety wicker basket hundreds or thousands of metres above the earth.
We are a group of about 20 and, judging by the number of blue lips and bloodshot eyes, I'm not the only one to be wondering what I'm doing here at this ungodly hour. The cold light of dawn has never exactly been a time of joy where I'm concerned but in this case I'm prepared to make an exception.
Beyond Christchurch are the stunning Southern Alps and on a fine morning like this the view from above is unlikely to disappoint. Besides, early morning flights are a necessity according to Brad. If you leave it too late in the day, the air inside the balloon can overheat, making landing virtually impossible.
Two gigantic gas-powered fans are now busy blasting thousands of litres of cold air into the balloon envelope. Being the largest in New Zealand, this particular one will require about 10.6 million litres of it before it's ready for take-off. There are some capable of holding twice that amount, carrying as many as 36 passengers.
"Once it's fully upright, I'm gonna need you all to jump in real quick," Brad shouts over the roar of propane flame.
"Otherwise it could take off without us."
It's hard to tell if he's kidding but before long we are all clambering into the basket, jockeying for a good position.
Perhaps the most surreal moment is the first few seconds after take-off. What's notable is the utter silence between blasts of flame. It's absolutely still.
We glide over hedgerows watching the first rays of sunlight burn the frost off the fields. Horses gallop in the other direction, startled by the roaring burners. I peer down at the earth below. A smattering of cows reminds me of the plastic ones I used to play with as a kid. It's all a bit surreal.
"So who wants to join the Mile High Club?" asks Brad, causing a few stifled sniggers.
"Up here we call it, the Wicker Wicker Club."
Clearly, our affable pilot delights in his role as the comedic aviator. Over the past seven years his career has taken him on many adventures throughout the world.
In recent times he's worked in Italy, Portugal, England, Turkey (where he holds fond memories of flying between two factory chimneys), Austria, Dubai and of course, New Zealand. Dubai was particularly memorable, mainly because the pilots, with their starched-white flying jackets, are afforded something of a celebrity status.
On the surface, piloting one of these ludicrous feats of modern engineering might seem the ultimate dream job. But sometimes I can't help feeling the onus of responsibility is lost on many people. It takes a skilled person to make it all look this easy and I wouldn't fancy being at the helm should anything go drastically wrong.
In fact, once safely back on terra firma, Brad admits it still takes him time to wind down after a flight. He tells me of a potentially fatal incident: he once found himself caught in a rogue air current. Despite his best efforts, the balloon began ascending at a terrifying rate. Eventually he was able to manoeuvre his way out of trouble without any of the passengers even realising they were in danger but it was not an experience he will forget any time soon.
As his clients later clinked champagne glasses back on land, Brad had to disappear for a moment.
"I just couldn't stop shaking for about five minutes," he says.
Before long we are sailing at about 600metres, said to be a good cruising altitude, although it's pretty much impossible to stay at the same height for long. The position of a balloon is constantly fluctuating with the air currents, though above 3300 metres, oxygen becomes dangerously thin. Other than Richard Branson, not too many pilots will attempt flying at that height.
Canterbury Plains stretch out to the west before reaching the foothills of the Southern Alps. To the east sparkles the South Pacific Ocean. Briefly, there is silence in the basket.
The sight of the drop is enough to make your palms sweat. Before long, my musings are shattered by the sound of the ground crew over the radio system.
"What is your exact location? Over," they ask.
"Hang on, I'll just fly a bit lower so I can read the road signs better," Brad quips.
We spy a sizeable paddock and, adopting our crouched landing positions, we slip towards earth. The balloon bounces awkwardly a few times over the wet grass but it's quite effortless.
Reflecting on my adventure over a chilled glass of bubbly later I wonder just what it is that makes a hot air balloon flight so special?
I glance across to the snow-dusted summits of the Alps, the cloudless blue sky providing the perfect backdrop. Perhaps it's that strange mix of serenity tinged with just a little hint of eccentricity that makes it the ultimate adventure experience.
TRIP NOTES
Getting there: Jetstar offers competitive fares to Christchurch. See http://www.jetstar.com, phone 131 538. Up Up & Away offers Christchurch hot air balloon flights for $NZ280 ($241) an adult and $NZ240 a child (aged 5-11). Phone +64 3 381 4600, see http://www.ballooning.co.nz.
Staying there: The George Hotel is a boutique hotel on the fringe of Christchurch's Hagley Park. Phone +64 3 379 456, see http://www.thegeorge.com. The Heritage is in a central location in a restored old government building. Phone +64 3 377 9722, see http://www.heritagehotels.co.nz .
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