On this rainy Friday, the spectators will be disappointed. On Friday, Saturday, and Sunday after Labor Day, as the balloonists gather at the bottom of the Stratobowl, thousands of onlookers peer from vantage points around its rim, marveling at the sight of hot-air balloons rising from below, lingering at eye-level, then sailing off overhead as they catch a puff of wind. Now, each year in September, a dedicated group of balloonists returns to the bowl to commemorate those primal pinpricks in Earth’s upper atmosphere. It is no exaggeration to say that the space age began inside the Stratobowl. Using data from those early ascents-as well as later Stratobowl balloon launches in the late 1950s-NASA and its predecessors studied the survivability of ultra-high-altitude travel. At its base lies a large circular meadow protected from wind-a hot-air balloonist’s paradise. Beyond a stand of trees, the land suddenly drops away into a sheer, semi-circular rocky chasm. “The bowl” is a rock-walled, 450-foot-deep natural pit that yawns just a few yards from this highway pullout. “We’re gonna go down into the bowl to play.” But as I glance around, the crowd seems surprisingly upbeat. And he should know-he’s president of the Balloon Federation of America. “I would definitely not recommend going up this morning,” West finally announces. “That’ll take us to Mount Rushmore.” And there’s more bad news when he calls the Rapid City National Weather Service on his cell phone: The previous night’s rains, while abating somewhat, will hang around.Ī knot of us-just about all wearing face masks as the COVID-19 pandemic stretches into the month of September-gather around to eavesdrop on the conversation. “It’s going in the wrong direction,” he says. Our heads are all tilted upward, our eyes squinting to keep sight of a tiny black dot-a small helium balloon released a few moments ago by Mark West, a tall, silver-haired fellow whose usual easy smile has turned to a tight-lipped frown. I am standing amid a few dozen folks shivering in the early morning chill at a highway rest stop in the Black Hills, just west of Rapid City, South Dakota. One thing is clear: No one is going ballooning today.
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