Soaring above the Outback

Steve Meacham is no stranger to hot-air ballooning, but the experience over the Outback is something else.

Unlike a plane with its rickety shudders as it rolls along the runway and finally takes off, our Outback balloon lifts off at Alice Springs with an effortless breath of warm air. Mind you, the departure lounge leaves a little to be desired.

John – our bus driver with an endless stream of dad jokes – picked us up from the hotel at 5.45am, anticipating a 6am launch. But Jason, our pilot, hasn’t even got the enormous balloon – made in England and the largest in Australia – out of its trailer when we arrive.

In a dark paddock populated by more camels than cattle, we watch and wait for 20 minutes as Jason, John and crew fill a nylon canopy that will hoist us aloft. I have been ballooning many times before but never under a balloon as big as this, or in a wicker basket licensed to carry 24 passengers in Australia (28 in Europe). We even have seats for landing and safety handles (more of that later).

As soon as we are aloft, Jason begins his commentary. We will avoid the magnificent MacDonnell Ranges, he tells us. The air from the desert sweeps over the ridge line, dumping dangerous air currents this side of the divide.

Instead, we make do with the sunrise catching the colours made famous by painter Albert Namatjira. I am on the outside fringe of the basket, which I am grateful for each time Jason interrupts his commentary to send a sharp loud burst of fire into the thin skin of fibre above.

The initial part of our flight is barely 20 metres above ground, although we eventually rise to 300m, travelling at a top speed of about 50kph.

All the time, Jason keeps up his introduction to ‘‘the Alice’’. Everything that was essential to creating this town lies below.

See those telegraph poles? Jason asks. They were the reason Alice Springs was born. The telegraph (the 19th-century equivalent of the internet) had to cross central Australia from Adelaide to Darwin, and Alice was halfway.

Those poles needed transporting, so Afghans and their camels were employed – hence the worldfamous Ghan railway, which Jason points out.

Meanwhile, an enormously long freight train thunders below, followed by a three-vehicle road train, each dashing to deliver goods a day away. We also get a glimpse of the satellite surveillance base, Pine Gap.

Most of my fellow passengers are busy taking selfies or photographing the wildlife beneath the basket. After 50 minutes, Jason is ready to land.

We will have travelled 10km, and the recovery team, including John and his dad jokes, have had to drive four times as far. There is earnest discussion over the walkie-talkies. Where will we land safely?

Jason warned us before we touched the ground to stay in our seats, hold on to the safety handles and not – repeat NOT – leap out of the basket without permission: ‘‘Otherwise the balloon may take off again.’’

Many of my fellow passengers, particularly those with a fear of heights, are scared of the landing. But it is gentle at first, then it turns into a Luna Park rollercoaster ride as the basket is dragged by the sagging balloon across the paddock, leaving us all upside down – safe, grounded and giggling.

John is there as we emerge, with more dad jokes, Champagne and cheese.

Apparently, the Montgolfier brothers – who pioneered balloon flight in the 1780s – insisted that any ‘‘successful’’ balloon trip should end in a glass of Champagne.