As Joe Kittinger found out in 1960, it’s hard to jump from a height of 102,800 feet—let alone in an open gondola, in minus 100 F temperatures, wearing 160 pounds of equipment—and survive. As Michel Fournier reaffirmed this weekend on an airfield in Saskatchewan, it’s even more difficult to break that 50-year-old record for the highest free fall.
The French parachutist attempted, for the fourth time, to rise to a height of 130,000 feet in a pressurized capsule dangling beneath a high-altitude air balloon, then step out of it and hurtle toward Earth at supersonic speed, breaking the sound barrier. One of the previous attempts, which began in 2002, left Fournier remaining on the tarmac due to bad weather; another resulted in a torn parachute and a mechanism that fired prematurely, separating the capsule from the balloon just as it took off. This year he returned to North Battleford with a brand new balloon and launch team—American pilots who told me they used vacation days to “come up here and get this guy to where he wants to go.”
The surface winds at 2:30 am on Sunday, when the team began setting up for the attempt, were around 6 knots—right at the edge of the window of safety for launch. The headlights of a forklift pierced the blackness as it lumbered from a small metal hanger on one end of the airfield to another, ferrying a large plywood box with the balloon packed neatly inside. In the distance, Fournier’s silver capsule, shaped like a bullet, sat illuminated in a cone of light. At 4 am, the sky lightened to a deep purple, then a smoky blue, and by 4:18 the Canadian flag whipping over the main terminal had slowed to a lazy wave, and then finally hung limp from its pole.
The plan, the team’s meteorologist had told me earlier that morning, was to be off the ground right at dawn, the quietest hour. The weather, he said, was the one problem they couldn’t Fed Ex or solder their way out of; if it wasn’t safe they’d have to put the brakes on the attempt, and the weather forecast deteriorated steadily throughout the week. At 5 am, the small crowd of local observers, peering through binoculars along a chain link fence at the airfield’s perimeter, could see the polyethylene balloon stretched out for 400 feet along the runway. Fournier, in a bright yellow space suit, sat prebreathing pure oxygen in the open door of the capsule.
Winds were still calm at 7 am, two hours after the balloon team had planned to launch, when fire trucks arrived to observe the balloon being loaded with helium. The transparent fabric, shimmering in the morning sun, began to float up off the runway. Then, the low hum of the helium truck stopped. Fournier’s press agent answered her ringing cellphone and took a few steps, repeating a plaintive “oh, shit.” Fournier’s reserve parachute had popped open in the capsule during a pressurization test. The attempt had to be terminated for the day.
But, stratospheric balloons are made of a sheer, low-density plastic. They’re for one-time use. Once inflation has begun, it’s difficult to stop. The team carefully spooled the balloon back in, but the top 30 or so feet suffered stretch marks. By the time they returned to their base, a tiny motor lodge in North Battleford, the pilots were not only frustrated but concerned about the balloon’s integrity. Because a problem with the fittings of Fournier’s spacesuit had caused the two-hour delay, they had also lost confidence in the rest of the effort. They took a vote.
This morning, the team (with the exception of the manufacturer) is flying back home. It was a narrow flight window, and a difficult mission. Everything had to go exactly right. The weather, the team’s meteorologist said, had been beautiful—a perfect day for a flight. They feel sympathetic for Fournier. He’s 66 years old, and a charming man; this may very well have been his last chance to make the history books. But they’re pilots, and they make decisions based on the available facts. They followed procedure. The record stands.
The French parachutist attempted, for the fourth time, to rise to a height of 130,000 feet in a pressurized capsule dangling beneath a high-altitude air balloon, then step out of it and hurtle toward Earth at supersonic speed, breaking the sound barrier. One of the previous attempts, which began in 2002, left Fournier remaining on the tarmac due to bad weather; another resulted in a torn parachute and a mechanism that fired prematurely, separating the capsule from the balloon just as it took off. This year he returned to North Battleford with a brand new balloon and launch team—American pilots who told me they used vacation days to “come up here and get this guy to where he wants to go.”
The surface winds at 2:30 am on Sunday, when the team began setting up for the attempt, were around 6 knots—right at the edge of the window of safety for launch. The headlights of a forklift pierced the blackness as it lumbered from a small metal hanger on one end of the airfield to another, ferrying a large plywood box with the balloon packed neatly inside. In the distance, Fournier’s silver capsule, shaped like a bullet, sat illuminated in a cone of light. At 4 am, the sky lightened to a deep purple, then a smoky blue, and by 4:18 the Canadian flag whipping over the main terminal had slowed to a lazy wave, and then finally hung limp from its pole.
The plan, the team’s meteorologist had told me earlier that morning, was to be off the ground right at dawn, the quietest hour. The weather, he said, was the one problem they couldn’t Fed Ex or solder their way out of; if it wasn’t safe they’d have to put the brakes on the attempt, and the weather forecast deteriorated steadily throughout the week. At 5 am, the small crowd of local observers, peering through binoculars along a chain link fence at the airfield’s perimeter, could see the polyethylene balloon stretched out for 400 feet along the runway. Fournier, in a bright yellow space suit, sat prebreathing pure oxygen in the open door of the capsule.
Winds were still calm at 7 am, two hours after the balloon team had planned to launch, when fire trucks arrived to observe the balloon being loaded with helium. The transparent fabric, shimmering in the morning sun, began to float up off the runway. Then, the low hum of the helium truck stopped. Fournier’s press agent answered her ringing cellphone and took a few steps, repeating a plaintive “oh, shit.” Fournier’s reserve parachute had popped open in the capsule during a pressurization test. The attempt had to be terminated for the day.
But, stratospheric balloons are made of a sheer, low-density plastic. They’re for one-time use. Once inflation has begun, it’s difficult to stop. The team carefully spooled the balloon back in, but the top 30 or so feet suffered stretch marks. By the time they returned to their base, a tiny motor lodge in North Battleford, the pilots were not only frustrated but concerned about the balloon’s integrity. Because a problem with the fittings of Fournier’s spacesuit had caused the two-hour delay, they had also lost confidence in the rest of the effort. They took a vote.
This morning, the team (with the exception of the manufacturer) is flying back home. It was a narrow flight window, and a difficult mission. Everything had to go exactly right. The weather, the team’s meteorologist said, had been beautiful—a perfect day for a flight. They feel sympathetic for Fournier. He’s 66 years old, and a charming man; this may very well have been his last chance to make the history books. But they’re pilots, and they make decisions based on the available facts. They followed procedure. The record stands.
