There is a dire helium shortage plaguing the world. 

Not joking, Helium is a natural gas and until another major source is located there is a hold on all helium ballooning. Apparently the thought of using Hydrogen is appalling.

This is one of the many odd facts learned in the last two days. 
None of us knew what to expect from New Mexico in general on the rather taxing drive through the desert to get to Albuquerque. We knew we'd unintentionally timed our visit with the yearly Hot Air Balloon Fiesta held here, but thought that, at most, we'd spend an hour or so taking cool pictures of hundreds of balloons. We had no idea that we would step onto that field yesterday and enter a dimension of intensity and cult-like obsession rarely seen outside of a professional sport arena. 
Yesterday as Lyndsay (our lovely host in Albuquerque) lead us onto the field, Phoebe and Allison and I were struck by two realizations:
1. We had severely underestimated the weather, and no amount of bad coffee or breakfast burrito was going to keep us from losing our fingers and toes to frost bite.
2. We had entered a DIFFERENT WORLD.
Phoebe and I quicky realized we were outsiders looking in on a hobby/sport/obsession not unlike that depicted in Best in Show. If you've never seen it (and, yes, I am sitting here judging you all), Best In Show fictionally chronicles the exploits of handlers at a Kennel Club Dog Show. It's too hard to explain the plot and the humor so just go out and watch it now and then finish reading... 

Done? Cool.
Walking out onto the inflatable graveyard that was pre-flight balloon fiesta , the frost on our hair and razor sharp nips were momentarily forgotten in favor of listening to the eccentric announcer (he would probably prefer the title entertainer). See, the mind numbing cold was greatly exacerbated by a rather extreme wind over the field that morning, which both made spectators miserable and kept balloons on the ground way past their 7:07AM sunrise launch time. This eventually lead to our successful schmoozing of balloonists to allow us onto their crew, but more on that later.

This first morning at the balloon fiesta, as the balloons continued to lay stretched out in a macabre scene of cartoon-like devastation, our dear dear announcer took it upon himself to keep the freezing masses entertained. As a blogger, I was more than happy to be treated to gems from the life of an Albuquerque-an radio host such as this:

Announcertainer: "We’ll maybe get things moving here in a moment, good people, we’ll keep you updated. You know, something exactly like this happened when I was here in 1980. You see that balloon coming up over there with that ring of hearts. That pink one. Actually that's not it, but still there was one sort of like that back in 1980 called the Sacred Heart balloon that I took a picture of. I sold it for like $50 to a post card maker. Well wouldn’t you know it that you can still buy that postcard to this day. TO. THIS. DAY. in Texas. And I sold it for FIFTY DOLLARS! Should have held out and now I could have been a millionaire! Life lessons…life lessons, folks."
Quality stuff.

Mr. Announcertainer opened our minds enough to the oddity of this ballooning world that when approached by Kenneth of the Black Magic Balloon- while watching a host of British Storm Troopers frantically inflate Vader’s head despite the wind- we barely even batted an eye. Ken's particular fondness for Lyndsay (despite the significant age gap, he barely registers on the trip’s creep-scale, but that’s another blog) lead us to meeting the balloon-team he was crewing for at the fiesta. 

The team he was helping, who rocked the epic motto of Chicks Fly! , was lead by one very bad-ass female pilot. Her name, Kelly Rawlins. Her passion, miniature pigs named Patty and Link. The first day of the festival, as only the most daring balloonists and the renegades (those rebels of the balloon world not invited to the actual festival) took to the air, Kelly secured our services for the next day's flight.
We had become part of the chase crew, bound to rendezvousing with the Chase Commander RV at 5:30AM and committing to a long morning's worth of manual labor in the service of an inflatable duck. We were totally jazzed, obviously.

The next morning we rose before 5 and met with Ken of Decatur, Alabama at his heartily patriotic 4x4. We rode over the bumpy back roads of Albuquerque, heads leaning out over the "Support Our Troops" decals, through the gates and right into the heart of the ballooning world, where I venture few outsiders have been before. There were skirmishes over spread space for the deflated balloons, and grumbles from those apparently unfortunate teams who had to set up too near the pavement. We set to work immediately, Kelly delivering orders like a balloon-sweater clad Patton, her infectious intensity forcing us all to bear down like we were heading into hostile hot-air territory. 
We laid out tarps, drew out balloons, packaged the envelope (put bumpers on the basket), kept the ropes away from the propane tanks, and acted as human ballast. As the zebras (jargon for balloonist referees) gave us the go-ahead, Kelly looked at her crew and told us to pick numbers for who would actually fly. I've never been more disappointed to not pick the number 13 in my entire life. Erica and I stayed on the ground as Phoebe and Lyndsay, comfortably nestled below our duckling's bow tie, climbed thousands of feet above the field into a sea of the world's most colorful nylon. 

Back down with the Chase Commander, Erica and I raced alongside the ground crew chief to repack the tarp and leave the field in time to keep eyes on Kelly and our friends. I can't count how many times Ken joked that balloonists are professional trespassers, meaning that they rarely, if ever, have pre-determined set down sites. 
Balloons aren't driven with steering wheels or ropes. Pilots pay attention to the direction of the wind at different altitudes, and use only elevation and guesswork to determine their routes. Therefore, a chase crew literally keeps eyes on the balloon and tries to get to an estimated landing spot in time to catch their compatriots. Fortunately, the second day of Balloon Fiesta had virtually no wind and Kelly was able to make an upright landing despite the Chase Commander's late arrival.

We had gone through the rather time-consuming but uneventful task of deflating and repacking the balloon when Kelly emerged from Commander with a bottle of sparkling apple juice. Lyndsay, Erica, Phoebe and I were lead out into the field where the duck had landed and told to kneel. Kelly then announced that we'd been welcomed and inducted into the cult that is ballooning. In a ceremony fitting of the cult-like world we'd stumbled into, Kelly had us kneel in front of half-filled glasses of "champagne" as she theatrically recounted the birth of modern ballooning. As the 10 minute story came to a close we were told to drink our champagne without hands. Kelly took the opportunity to pour a bottle of water over our heads, and ended what was undoubtedly one of the oddest mornings of our lives. 
Albuquerque is beautiful in its own rite, but I highly recommend that all looking to visit do so during Balloon Fiesta. In parting, I'll leave you with the balloonists prayer we were given as we left the Chase Commander. (Sidenote: This was also apparently recited as Kelly dumped the ashes of Edward, a boss's friend's friend, from the side of the ballon mid-flight)

The winds have welcomed you with softness. 
The sun has blessed you with his warm hands. 
You have flown so high and so well 
that God joined you in laughter 
and set you gently back into 
the loving arms of Mother Earth.