The Ascent

It was a cold evening at 25,000 feet, but nothing I couldn't handle. I had discovered the unique benefits of warm Eskimo furs, layers of long johns, and a hearty supply of sourdough. I stood in perfect stillness, palms against the wicker, admiring the sun approach the horizon. It was the most impressive arrangement of yellows, oranges, reds, purples and blues. Beams of light broke through the clouds and mist like spotlights over the miles of checkered corn fields. It was not a sight that could be photographed.

The basket was an interesting junction between freedom and prison. There was no certainty in these skies, no charting the wind or predicting the destination, no telling what sights or sounds I would experience. Each foot aloft brought me closer to the unknown and subject to the mercy of the elements. I had two choices...up or down, both precious options.

Hanging from a few threads, an engineer of terror could hardly compete with such a device...A cage destined for the dreaded numinous. But, a prison for some is concentrated life for others. Among the office politics and team meetings seldom did a minute pass without vivid dreams of my next ascent. No amount of hardship in the skies could possibly compare to the insipid ground below. Problems seemed so small up there, and I would imagine I was above them all. And, for those moments, I probably was.

It is not a choice. Not for some anyway. Sure, the dry air bites the cheeks and the currents drift on unexpected courses. But, something insists we blast the fire that lifts us toward those perilous updrafts. Then, when confronted with the indescribable and unexpected we can only hope to scrawl incomprehensible sketches. The sunset persists as a memory or a dream indelibly stamped beneath the bedrock of our skull; subtle tremors seldom hint of its existence.

Perhaps that's what draws one to the skies...the .001 on the Richter scale that somehow moved the first foot in front of the other. It brought us to the ballooning store where we wasted our hard-earned money on a large sheet of canvas and a wicker basket...wasted time assembling the burner and arranging the flight. Trading one problem for another. Which we did. But perhaps not one we expected.

So, I float silently with the first stages of hypothermia setting in; the sun completely gone in exchange for the sublime glow of the nimbus terrain. The burner is too high to provide much heat, so it will be a cold one as usual. But its sound is comforting, kind of like waves against the rocks. Fortunately I think have enough fuel to drift over the ocean as long as I maintain altitude...as long as there is air to breath and the slightest wind to carry me. If I can't make it, well, then I guess I have nothing to worry about either.