Champagne toast in a place called Flom

As I was watching Adam Pitman’s wonderful documentary about the Whitefish Winter Carnival recently, I was reminded of the carnival’s connection to the St. Paul Winter Carnival in Minnesota.

Organizers of the first Whitefish carnival drew several ideas from the annual Minnesota carnival that dates back to 1886. In the early years of Whitefish’s event, St. Paul’s carnival queen traveled by train to Whitefish, where she got, well, the royal treatment.

The St. Paul connection jogged my memory about the time I almost got to participate in the time-honored celebration. The year was 1980 and I was a student hot-air balloon pilot. True story.

A group of balloon enthusiasts had the idea to launch their hot-air vessels from Detroit Lakes, Minn., where I was a cub reporter, and let the wind carry them to St. Paul for the opening ceremonies of the carnival.

I begged my editor for the assignment — a first-person account of a beginner balloonist. When he gave me the nod, I dutifully took the student pilot course and still have the certification to prove it.

After a couple of practice launches and balloon rides around the rural area, I was sure that in an emergency, say if the regular balloon pilot had a heart attack, I would have the wherewithal to land the aircraft without snagging a power line or tree. But as I think back on that premise, I imagine I would have been terrified to operate the massive propane burner by myself.

The idea of floating from Northern Minnesota to the Twin Cities was not a far-fetched plan, or at least it didn’t seem so at the time. I now question the sanity of those particular balloon zealots.

Typically the prevailing winds are from the northwest, which would have put us directly in line with St. Paul. I could picture it in my mind. Multicolored balloons galore descending on St. Paul to the cheering adoration of the multitudes.

Here’s what really happened.

It was, as usual, brutally cold the morning we were to launch. It was either late January or early February and it’s a warm day back there if it’s even a few degrees above zero. I believe it was below zero. My pen and my camera froze up not long after we got up in the air. Luckily I had a pencil to take notes, and by tucking my camera inside my coat, under my ski sweater, I was able to get off a few shots at intervals before it froze up again.

Even with the extreme cold, it was beautiful up there, being one with the wind and having a panoramic perch.

The biggest problem, though, was that the wind changed directions and instead of sailing southward, we were headed to the northwest. Our grand entrance to the carnival was not to be. Instead, we put down in a cow pasture outside the tiny — very tiny — community of Flom.

By that time we’d made our peace with our thwarted adventure. Part of the pomp and circumstance that accompanies an inaugural balloon flight is getting christened with champagne. So I got down on bended knee as the ice-cold bubbly splashed over my head.

From there on out it was one big party. Champagne flowed throughout the day and by evening we were soaking away the frostbite in a hot tub.

I haven’t been in a hot-air balloon since that eventful winter day.

I did get a story, just not the one I’d planned. It was a beautiful full-page spread with photos. I recall using the word camaraderie to explain the tight-knit nature of the group.

And somehow, champagne has never tasted as good as it did when we clinked our glasses together and toasted an unforgettable ride to the wilds of Flom.

 Features editor Lynnette Hintze may be reached at 758-4421 or by e-mail at lhintze@dailyinterlake.com