Now I know why the Fifth Dimension sang about up, up, and away, but didn't mention down, down, and back.

Last fall, we regained our senses and sold our condominium apartment and returned to a house. We went through a prolonged period of home-selling experiences that could only happen to us. On the night we listed the apartment, the police discovered an old woman's body that had been in her bed for two weeks. The building had to be evacuated while exterminators dealt with the flies and other creepycrawlies that had moved into her suite, and spread throughout the building. The building association nixed one sale because the buyer's dog was two inches too tall. We also dealt with several agents who did not rise to the level of their profession's standards. The one who broke the towel bar off the bathroom wall stands out, as does the one who called us to tell us, in no uncertain terms, what he thought of our agent because she had gone away for a weekend.

When all was said and done (and plenty of what was said cannot be printed in a mainstream newspaper) our agent asked us if we would like a certificate for a dinner at an upscale restaurant. A dinner out doesn't mean a whole lot to us. In fact, the best thing we know how to make is reservations. We pointed out that the agent's company logo was its hot-air balloon, and asked if she could arrange for us to go for a flight sometime.

And that's where the up, up, and away comes in. A couple nights ago, we took our long-awaited balloon flight. There were six passengers and the pilot, giving the whole adventure a Gilligan's Island feel.

I think I now know why hot-air balloons never caught on as a mode of transportation. It's that there's-no-way-to-steer-this-thing problem. Once aloft, you are basically at the mercy of the wind. The wind that night wasn't feeling particularly merciful.

Actually, it was a fantastic trip, although I do have videotaped evidence that my wife's comment on the ascension was, and I quote, "Woe-oh-ho-oheeeee ooooo," followed by some fear induced giggling.

We rose to 2,200 feet and slowly sailed along heading east over farm fields and forests. The plan was that we would land at a farm a few miles from the small airport we left behind. That was the plan. It was a good plan. It just wasn't the wind's plan.

As we started to descend, the wind shifted and started pushing us north, away from the planned landing site. We skirted along at treetop height looking for another place to come down. First there was another farm field, but the pilot decided that hot air balloons and power lines didn't go well together. That thought gave me a new, heightened appreciation for his skills. We then aimed for a golf course that lets the balloon company land on its fairways when necessary. The only fairway on our trajectory was narrow and lined with tall trees. The pilot also thought hot air balloons probably shouldn't land in tall trees.

Did I mention how much I was starting to like this guy?

We sailed over a group of houses, just a couple of hundred feet over their rooftops. Dogs, as only dogs can do, ran in circles, loudly calling their masters out to see the thing overhead. One family waved to us. I shouted down to them, asking if we were anywhere near Kansas.

We finally aimed for the riding ring in a large equestrian center. We all crouched in the basket as it hit the ground for a brief instant. It lifted again, and came back down, this time tipping on its side. Naturally, I was on the side closest to the ground, with the weight of four other passengers pressing down on top of me.

Oh sure, I kissed the ground when I managed to extricate myself from the basket, but given the opportunity, I'd do it all again tomorrow, but only if they give me the same pilot.

I liked his style, and that no landing in power lines policy.

©2007, Gordon Kirkland