The Balloon Fiesta has begun.
The traffic is slow, the lines are long, and still—people come. They come from every corner of the city, from quiet neighborhoods and dusty pueblos, from out-of-state hotels and small-town motels. They come in flocks and families, in rental cars and pickup trucks, all heading toward that same expanse of sky.
There’s something almost sacred about that patience—thousands of people inching forward, headlights cutting through the dark, chasing a sunrise that promises color and lift. When you finally reach the field, you feel the chill in the air and the hum of anticipation. It’s not just another event; it’s a pilgrimage.
For me, it doesn’t feel real until I see him—Steve Stucker, the man who for decades became as much a part of the Fiesta as the balloons themselves.
Even now, after retirement, the sight of him on-screen—covered in pins and smiling like he’s been greeting the dawn for a hundred years—makes it official: the Fiesta has arrived. His jacket tells its own story, each pin a memory, each one earned through years of showing up before dawn, rain or shine, to bring us the sky.
In a world that changes so fast, there’s something steady in seeing a face that’s weathered every kind of morning—warm, biting, calm, or unkind. That’s what the Fiesta does: it pulls us together not just around balloons, but around continuity. Around the faces and names that remind us that we’ve been here before, and that we’ll come again.
When the Wind Says “Not Today”
This year, the wind won.
The first mass ascension—canceled. But even that didn’t stop the people. They stayed. Walked the fields, drank coffee, ate breakfast burritos, told stories of years when the balloons had risen, and of mornings when they hadn’t. The disappointment didn’t linger long; it couldn’t.
Because the Fiesta isn’t just about flight—it’s about the faith that flight will come again.
Later that night, the “Glowdeo” filled the sky with candlestick burns—columns of flame roaring against the dark, balloons grounded but still alive, like sleeping giants stirring in their dreams. A drone show followed, lights moving in perfect symmetry—a new generation of flight, precision replacing intuition. I stood there wondering what comes next.
Drones and Dreams
The drones were beautiful. So were the balloons. But they spoke in different languages.
The balloons moved like old souls—soft, human, uncertain. They relied on wind and patience. The drones moved like thought—fast, bright, efficient. Controlled. Predictable. One whispered of freedom, the other of order. Both were beautiful, and maybe both are necessary.
Maybe this is what the Fiesta has become: a conversation between the past and the future, between the handmade and the programmed, between the art of drift and the science of control. The balloons remind us what it means to trust the air. The drones remind us what it means to master it.
I watched both, side by side, and thought: maybe one day, they’ll find a way to share the same sky.
Even without ascension, it felt right. People still looked up. Kids still pointed. Strangers still smiled. Coffee still steamed in paper cups, and laughter still carried across the cold morning air.
That’s the quiet truth of this place—the Fiesta doesn’t need perfection to be beautiful. It needs people. It needs presence. It needs the shared belief that, for one week every year, Albuquerque becomes something greater than itself—a city suspended in wonder.
And maybe that’s why we come back: not for the perfect flight, but for the reminder that even when the wind says “not today,” hope still fills the sky.
Kyle J. Hayes
kylehayesblog.com
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