It was supposed to be a spectacular sight

Hundreds of hot air balloons filling the Albuquerque skyline. Not just any hot air balloons, either. The special shapes. Translated from hot air jargon, that means hot air balloons in the shape of castles, cowboys, cats, fish, frogs, ducks, you name it.

The Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta is the largest in the world, according to everyone in Albuquerque. Thousands of people from all over come to gawk and take pictures, and for the elite few who can afford a balloon and balloon piloting lessons, participate.

But it's incredibly, ridiculously frustrating work.

Most of these balloons can comfortably fit one person in the basket, but usually squeeze in two. And to get these suckers flying takes a crew of seven or eight. That means at least two or three cars full of people. (Not counting the pilot who drove separately with the balloon stuff stuffed in his camper).

Since there are nearly 1,000 balloons launching, you have to find a good, wide open space (preferably away from houses, electrical lines and tall trees) to launch from.

This, apparantly, involves endless driving around in circles, much conferring with other balloonists (or balloons, as the balloon pilots are called here) and if you happen to be in a rented Chevy Suburban with two elementary-age children and their tired monther and grumpy grandpa, much patience. And if your pilot is possibly an ex-marine with poor communication skills you may also want to bring one of those stress balls to squeeze.

This is the time for you to dwell on the fact that you dragged your ass out of bed before the crack of dawn to see the special shapes and you have not seen a single special shape and your pilot is taking so long you might not see ANY balloon.

All this before you found a decent launching pad. And it's not even 8 a.m.

But eventually, you will find a friendly farmer willing to let you borrow his alfalfa field for a launching pad. Then the six or seven crew members (who will not get to ride in the balloon) get out of their two or three cars and start unfurling huge-ass nylon balloon while you and the two elementary-age kids find more interest in playing with the farmer's dog. And the dog is more interested in watching the farmer's horses.

But finally, in a process that involves a huge-ass fan and a fiery propane tank, (you're sketchy on the details here since you spent more time playing with the dog) the balloon sails away.

Yea! Hooray! Much cheering and waving. This lasts about 10 seconds.

Then you scramble back into your huge-ass rented Chevy Suburban wake up the tired mom who'd napped through the whole launching process, herd the kids in and immediately strain to see where exactly your balloon is.

Is the balloon going north? South? Over the river? Not over the river? This all matters because the crew's work is not done. The crew has to follow the balloon so that when the two people in the balloon basket land, the crew is there to help them out of the basket and fold up the huge-ass balloon and pack everything back into the pilot's maroon truck so he can drive back to Ohio or Nevada, or wherever in peace.

This is tricky business because while the pilot sure seemed to take his sweet ass time choosing just the right launching field, it is difficult to predict where he is going to land. He's in a balloon after all. He can go up. He can go down. The rest is up to the wind.

So chasing such an erstwhile balloon with nothing but a staticky walkie-talkie connecting you to the pilot may seem like an improbable task at best, but it is also fun.

Chasers go nuts. They make sudden U-turns, they get hysterical and shout at each other in increasingly shrill tones. They speed along sidewalks and throw caution to the wind.

"Watch out for that semi!" Grumpy Grandpa might say at one point.

"Nevermind!" Tired Mother will snap. "We have to find our balloon! Nothing is more important than finding our balloon!"

The guy in the lead car (the one with the walkie talkie) doesn't seem to know what he's doing. Then he yells back at you that the pilot told him he was aiming for a particular field.

So you haul ass to that field, climb more sidewalks and get there just as the pilot is landing.

All six crew members rush to grab the basket before it crashes into the rocky ground.

The elementary-age kids are oblivious to the near disaster, finding more joy in breaking rocks to admire the minerals within. You join in and before you know it, the balloon is repacked and the pilot is gone.

How did that happen?

You have no idea. But some of those rocks sure are pretty.