Something Fishy

Chapter 9: Hot Air Balloons, A Trap, and The Truth About Ron's Grandma

      “Okay, you can look now.” said Uncle Fry.

       I opened my eyes. “Holy cow, Fry, you never told me you had a hot air balloon!”

      “It’s nothing that special,” he said, modestly brushing some moss off the basket. “I store it in the Morgan National Forest Preserve most of the year.”

       “So, are we going to ride in it?” I jumped up and down in excitement.

      “No, I just dragged it out here and blew it up so we could sit here and stare at it. Of course we are!”

      “Sweet!” I began to climb into the basket.

      “Hold your horses! We have to make sure we have everything first. You have your bag of items?”

     “Check.”

      “Emergency kit.”

      Check.”

      “Head lamps.”

      “Check and check.”

       “Baby elephant shrews.”

      “What?”

       “Kidding!”

        “Okay.”

      “Allergy meds.”

       “Check.”

       “Binoculars, energy bars, blow darts, night vision goggles, extra socks, and sleeping bags?”

       “Sleeping bag? Isn’t this a one-day mission?”

       “You never know,” said Uncle Fry. “So? Do we?”

      “Check times six,” I said.

        “Then we’re ready,” said Uncle Fry. “Climb in.”

       In a few moments, we were high. Very high. When peering over the side began to make me dizzy, I turned to Uncle Fry again. He was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the basket, gazing fixedly at a map of Troutface and the surrounding land. “So, we’re about here,” he said, pointing. “Where was it that you found the…the lever?”

      “I already told you! It was in the field outside the Cattery!”

      “Right,” he said.

       “How exactly do you steer this thing, anyway?” I remarked.

      “Simple. All you got to do it adjust the altitude until you find a breeze heading the direction you want to go. And you adjust the altitude by increasing or decreasing the heat.”

       We shot downwards so fast I was sure I had left my stomach behind. Sure enough, we began drifting in the direction of the Cattery.

       We touched down in the middle of the field. “Do you think anyone will notice us?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

       “Nah, they’re all at the trout thing,” I said.

       “Right, right,” he said. “So, where was it?”

        “Over here,” I said, leading him across the field. “It was right around…nope, not here. Maybe it was over there…”

       “Here it is!” Uncle Fry gestured towards the grass. Sure enough, a small and inconspicuous metal lever stuck out of the grass.