The Height of Folly

by Dean Kramer
November, 2005

For many years some friends of mine have wanted to take a hot air balloon ride. They've wanted me to go with them. I'm not terrifically fond of aerial activities, finding them slightly sickening in a thrilling sort of way. But my friends convinced me that I'd enjoy myself.

Up until recently, the closest we’d come was a tethered hot air balloon ride at the Inner Harbor in Baltimore, MD back in 2000. We went up level with the tops of the tallest buildings in Baltimore and, when I could forget that fact, I was entranced with the views. That experience was particularly exciting because the gondola (the part you ride in) was actually a circular mesh catwalk affair with waist-high railings and a hole in the center (imagine a flat donut made of steel mesh with waist-high railings). To get from one vantage point to another you had to walk around the circumference while keeping a death grip on the railing. We weren’t able to do much walking, though, because our guide and pilot said that we had to stay relatively still and evenly spaced so as not to tip the platform (imagine a whole group of people standing in one spot on a flat steel mesh donut suspended from a string level with the tops of the tallest buildings in Baltimore.)

In those days I was able to do more walking than I can at this point. In Baltimore, I had left my manual chair in the loading area, walked up the gangplank, and went aloft. But now it was taking us so long to find a “real” balloon ride (i.e. the kind Dorothy just missed in The Wizard of Oz), and my walking ability had so deteriorated, that I wondered if such a ride would be accessible when we finally arranged one.

Overcoming my initial hesitation, I soon found myself an outspoken advocate for the Disabled Person’s Right to Hot Air Balloon Rides. I had a list of questions for the companies my friends were calling: Was there handicapped parking? Could I get into the gondola in a wheelchair? How much walking would I need to do? When all along the question I really should have been asking was, “What kind of person wants to go up in the air in a basket attached to a gas bag by strings and piloted by a complete stranger?”

I am not afraid of heights. As long as they stay above me, where well-behaved heights belong, we have a good relationship. When I had excellent balance and flexible legs I occasionally enjoyed activites involving height. I did the Cliff Walk in Newport, RI. I climbed a fire tower in Maine. I even made a parachute jump in Orange, MA (in the days before frivolous lawsuits made such entertainments a thing of the days before frivolous lawsuits).

[Speaking of which , the tethered balloon ride in Baltimore was closed down when the balloon sideswiped one of the tallest buildings in Baltimore. Maybe the day was too windy, or maybe everyone had disobeyed the pilot and stood in one place on the circumference to see what office workers might be doing on the thirtieth floor that day. In any event, the company closed its doors following that incident and its obligatory frivolous lawsuit.]

These days I’ve come to see that height and danger are a matter of perspective. My balance is poor and I get these shock-feelings in my legs sometimes. They’re the same feelings I used to get standing on a height looking down, but now I get them when I’m sitting watching TV. I had to hang a Roman blind last month. I needed a stepladder. It was a challenge just getting the blind, a screwdriver, hardware, a hammer, and my legs up a few rungs. My hands are often numb, so I drop things early and often. I’d set a screw, give one turn with the screwdriver when, Ping! CLICK, click, click...

“Shoot! Where’d that darned screw go?”

By my fifth trip up the ladder I didn’t care about the height anymore. It wasn’t a height. It was just where the shade had to go. I called on my inner Larry-the-Cable-Guy to git ‘er done. Twink thought I was crazy to even attempt the ladder. Too dangerous. Too risky. The following week during a perfectly normal walk down the stairs, I fell and busted a few ribs.

As for the real hot air balloon ride, I was told we’d park on a paved lot right next to the balloon. Once we were aloft, a truck would follow us, keeping the balloon in sight, and would pick us up and return us to our cars when the ride was over. The ride would last an hour and the pilot knew the prevailing winds. He probably had a pretty good idea as to where we’d end up. I was all set to go until I discovered that the gondola had no room for a wheelchair. The other passengers would be standing. Where would I be?

“She can sit on the fuel tank.” The pilot told my friends. Looking at the forecast I saw that there was a slight possibility of late afternoon thunderstorms. I tried to picture a non-ambulatory person with broken ribs sitting on the fuel tank of a hot air balloon hundreds of feet above the ground in a thunderstorm and, for the life of me, all I could see was the defining moment of a Road Runner cartoon with me as Wiley Coyote. I recalled reading that people with MS usually die of causes other than their disease. I wondered whether reckless stupidity was on the list of Other Causes.

In the end, I said, “No thanks!” I think my friends understood. In fact, I think they were somewhat relieved. I know I was!

This Thanksgiving at Cripple Creek, I have many reasons for gratitude. My continuing existence is pretty high on the list, but not so high as to give me vertigo.