Have you ever wondered what it actually feels like to stand on the launch field at 7 a

Aspen —Have you ever wondered what it actually feels like to stand on the launch field at 7 a.m. while the first light catches the mountain ridges? For Dave Bair, the answer is a mix of chill, awe, and the kind of quiet excitement that only comes when you’re about to lift off into thin air.

Bair is stepping into the role of Balloon Meister for the 51st Snowmass Balloon Festival, which runs Sept. 25 to 27 at Snowmass Town Park. He takes over from Colleen Johnson, who has officially retired after leading the event for many years. The transition marks a new chapter, but the core spirit remains intact: a free, community-first celebration that invites locals and visitors alike to gather, watch, and participate.

The festival kicks off with Night Glow on Sept. 25, running from 7 p.m. to 9 p.m. Under the stars, guests can walk among tethered balloons, enjoy music, and grab concessions. Bair describes the scene as “a magnificent site,” emphasizing that being up close changes everything. “They are much bigger and much more spectacular close rather than when you are looking from afar,” he said. He encourages people to talk to pilots and crews, to ask questions, to connect.

Of the 25 pilots expected at the 2026 festival, 23 are returning. “This is one of their favorite events and the most beautiful place to fly,” Bair said. Balloon launches begin at 7 a.m. on Sept. 26 and 27. He advises arriving early, dressing in layers, and packing lightly. “We do launch very close to sunrise,” he noted. “It’s likely to be quite chilly in the morning, but it warms up quickly in the mountains.”

This year, Labor Day falls later in September, shifting the event’s timing. Bair sees potential in that shift. “I am hoping we are going to be getting some very spectacular pictures with all the fall colors and colorful balloons, and we’re open for bright blue skies,” he said. “I think it’s going to be a unique event to photograph.”

The new official poster, designed by Redstone-based graphic designer Jake Wheeler, features the hot air balloon “Bairly Awake.” It’s a nod to Bair himself, a playful touch that signals change without breaking continuity.

Bair grew up in Albuquerque, N.M., where he first saw hot air balloons at the International Balloon Fiesta. He started as a spectator, moved to crew, and became a pilot in 1989. “It’s been a family tradition ever since then,” he said. His father, brother, and daughter are all pilots. That lineage informs his approach to Snowmass: personal, attentive, rooted in shared experience.

There’s a warmth to the festival’s longevity. Fifty-one years is a long time to keep showing up, to keep tying ropes, to keep lighting burners, to keep welcoming strangers who become neighbors. The event doesn’t just happen; it persists. It adapts. It breathes.

If you look closely at the landscape of Snowmass in late September, you’ll notice the aspens beginning to turn, the pines darkening against the sky, the valleys filling with mist that burns off by mid-morning. Against that backdrop, balloons rise slowly, silently, their colors muted by distance but vivid up close. The sound is minimal: the hiss of gas, the creak of fabric, the occasional shout from a pilot calling down to the ground.

You can feel it in the air, that particular quality of high-altitude morning, crisp and clean, carrying the scent of pine and earth. It’s not loud. It’s not frantic. It’s deliberate. Each launch is a small ceremony, a pause in the day, a moment where gravity loosens its grip just enough to let something float.

The festival doesn’t ask much of you. Just show up. Bring a blanket. Bring a thermos. Wear shoes you don’t mind getting muddy. Stay for one launch or stay for all three days. Talk to someone. Watch the balloons drift over the valley. Let the silence settle.

When the last balloon descends on Sept. 27, the field will be empty again, the ropes coiled, the burners cold. The mountains will remain, unchanged, indifferent, beautiful. The sky will clear. The light will shift. And somewhere, a pilot will check their instruments, adjust their altitude, and head home, carrying with them the memory of rising, briefly, above the world.