This Sunrise Hot-Air Balloon Ride Over Phoenix Was Worth Waking Up For

Enter: Phoenix. Until my recent trip to the Arizona capital, I had no idea that the city—or, rather, the desert just beyond it—was also a hot-air ballooning hub. On previous visits, I’d admittedly dismissed the area as a sprawl, a never-ending expanse of overly air-conditioned malls and restaurants. I was vaguely aware that the desert surrounding the metropolitan areas had a few serious gems—Frank Lloyd Wright’s winter home, Taliesin West, for example, and the succulent-rich Desert Botanical Garden. Still, until my most recent trip, I had no idea that this part of Arizona had so much opportunity for outdoor fun, from extreme sports such as ATVing to hot-air ballooning.

So when I got the opportunity to take a morning hot-air balloon flight over Phoenix, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. I’d finally get to see a different side of the area while also fulfilling my hot-air aspirations. Better still, I’d be beating the heat of the day in notoriously sweltering Phoenix, even if it did involve the daunting prospect of waking up before the morning birdsong.

I mentioned my hot-air aspirations to a couple of friends over dinner on the eve of my adventure. One friend told me she’d done it herself before and had a great time—though her flight was pretty calm, she did get a little adventure in the form of an unexpected landing in a suburban neighborhood. The other told me that as someone who was not fond of heights, she found the whole idea of a hot-air balloon ride a bit unsettling.

I was still in a half-haze when I met Jim, my crew chief at Hot Air Expeditions, in the lobby of my hotel at the dark-and-early hour of 5am. Though I’m not at all a morning person, I knew that the soft light of the sunrise “golden hour” would lend itself to some beautiful photographs during the flight, and I was right.

I hopped in Jim’s comfortable minivan and we headed out to our launch site. All I knew was that it was somewhere in the sagebrush-strewn Sonoran Desert, but we first stopped at another hotel to collect more passengers and then again to pick up a few more budding balloonists at the Phoenix Deer Valley Airport, the meeting point for people who had their own cars and didn’t need to pay extra for a hotel transfer. (As I didn’t have a rental car of my own—and frankly, wouldn’t have felt like driving while half awake—I was grateful to have opted for a pickup.)

I didn’t—and wouldn’t—expect much from the launch site itself when hot-air ballooning, as a rule, and especially in arid Phoenix. According to Jim, “the launch point can change depending on conditions … so we always stay in touch with the FAA.” As expected, our eventual launch point was nothing to write home about—just a desert field on the side of the highway, but I knew that the real appeal of this adventure was the balloon itself—but I was relieved to hear that the Federal Aviation Administration regulated hot-air ballooning. I asked him about safety, thinking back to the story I’d heard the night before of bumpy descents back to earth. Were crash landings common? Not at all. Had they ever had an accident? “Never once in the entire history of the company.”

The sky had already begun its transition from navy to azure when we spilled out of the minivan, a swift 45 minutes after Jim had picked me up. Up until this point, many of my ideas of what hot-air balloons should look like were largely influenced by old Victorian lithographs. I’d expected either an old-timey wicker basket, maybe with some fanciful curlicue embellishments, or something decidedly modern—maybe made of carbon fiber or another material I hear a lot about but know nothing of. Turns out, it was something in between.

When we arrived in the desert our basket was tipped over on its side—all perfectly normal, I was assured. Spread out on the ground in front of it was a rainbow-colored balloon emblazoned with a giant cactus, ready for inflation. Jim confirmed that the basket was, indeed, made of wicker, just as they had been for generations (apparently, I would later learn, this lightweight, flexible material is better suited to the impact of landing than more modern alternatives). We kept a safe distance while the balloon crew positioned two massive fans at the bottom of the balloon and began to blow it up, before approaching one-by-one to take pictures of its expanding rainbowed interior. We then stood back again while Jim ignited a tall jet of propane into the expanded balloon, nudging it upright into its full 10-story form. It was time to climb aboard.

Despite my lack of caffeine, I was excited to hit the open skies. I joined 11 other passengers in the basket, which was divided into four 3-person sections for optimal balance, plus a middle compartment for our captain, Tommy. After a quick safety briefing—which included instruction on how to brace ourselves for a safe and comfy landing—it was time to fly. Within minutes we were floating gently off the earth. Jim waved as we drifted away, and I watched him grow smaller by the second. Soon we were floating high above the Sonoran Desert (around 3,000 feet, or around 915 meters, according to Tommy—a tad higher than the Burj Khalifa, taking in views of expansive arid landscapes peppered with a few toothlike hills and occasional freeway or factory. Our high-up perspective made these industrial features—which I’d normally dismiss as drab eyesores from the ground—look like adorable miniatures. I could faintly make out the Phoenix skyline in the distance, but my new aerial perspective made me realize that while the city seems vast, its sprawl is insignificant compared to the ancient desert that surrounds it.

Tommy was a man of few words, and conversation with the other passengers was a bit difficult; every time we started to chat, Tommy would fire up the fuel source, casting a deafening woosh over the basket. So, instead, I took the opportunity to soak up the views, happy to be alone with my own thoughts as I took in the vastness of it all.

The ride was eerily smooth, as if we were still and it was not us—but the scene below—that was in motion. We spent the next 40-odd minutes taking photographs of the landscapes, of each other, and of other hot-air balloons on similar voyages (the Phoenix metro area’s year-round sunshine translates to good visibility for pilots, which has helped the area become a hot spot for ballooning). Every so often, Tommy would give the balloon a little burst of thermal energy by cranking the propane, and warming our cheeks in the process.

The amount of time we spent in the sky to be just perfect (and ideal if you’re only passing through the area)—just long enough to get some great shots and enjoy the peace of floating above the earth, but not long enough to risk getting bored. By the time we began our descent, I felt incredibly relaxed, not because I was massively sleep-deprived, but simply because the gentle float through the sky had lulled me into a state of calm. We descended quickly and although I braced myself—quite literally—for the prospect of crashing hard into the earth, I needn’t have bothered. Our landing was the definition of smooth.

Jim had been waiting for us below, and had been tracking the balloon from the ground the whole time—while balloonists typically have a rough idea of where they will land, it really depends on where the winds blow. He helped us get out of the basket before leading us over to a pair of picnic tables draped with fringed tablecloths. It was time for the grand finale of our hot-air balloon experience: bubbles and breakfast.

The spread was perfect for just after a flight, featuring quiche and cheese (or vegan and gluten-free muffins for those of us with dietary restrictions), plus lots of freshly cut fruit. Jim served us our choice of sparkling wine, mimosas, or orange juice in Champagne flutes. Each was engraved with the words of the “Balloonist’s Prayer,” a quintain that’s traditionally recited—along with a toast—at the end of each hot-air balloon journey. (Legend has it that back in 18th-century France, when hot-air balloons were just becoming a thing, farmers were not too happy about giant balloons landing in their precious fields. One day, upon landing, a group of balloonists offered a bottle of Champagne to the farmers as a peace offering. This developed into a post-flight ritual that’s continued for centuries.)

We raised our glasses to the sky from which we’d just descended and then brought them down for some clinks, toasting to our enchanting (and, thankfully, smooth) adventure—plus our safe return to terra firma. I couldn’t believe I was even awake, much less drinking, at 7am. But if there’s one thing I learned from this up-and-away experience, it’s that sometimes it really is worth waking up before the crack of dawn.

This Viator tour was provided courtesy of Experience Scottsdale.