THE alarm went off at 4.30 a.pi. and it was a Saturday. In other words dawn had not yet broken over Washington. But the point of getting up in the dark was to see the sunrise from a hot-air balloon.
I had a pre-dawn rendezvous with Randy Danneman and his balloon called Fancy Colours. He was also promising a champagne breakfast: "Champagne and propane - the breakfast of balloonists."
We were to take off from Urbana, in rural Maryland. American place-names are fascinating. When the frontier was being pushed out, everyone got a chance to name somewhere.
Driving up the Interstate 270 in the pre-dawn we passed German-town, Gaithersburg and Damascus. Why Damascus? Maybe Randy would know.
He was busy inflating Fang Colours in a field beside the Cracked Claw restaurant, the propane jets flaring into the swelling, multi-coloured envelope. The basket to carry Randy, two ladies from Chatanooga, Tennessee, and myself looked ridiculously small. I had had visions of a luxurious gondola like the one under the ill-fated zepplin, Hinderburg.
We fitted on our crash helmets while Randy mumbled the instructions for our "comfort and safety". Smoking was prohibited. Please don't touch the ropes, don't lean out of the basket or drop anything out of the basket.
"Almost all landings cause a bounce or jolt which can throw us off balance, warned Randy. "When flying close to the ground my full attention and concentration will be on observing power lines and other obstacles. Do feel free to help watch for and point out power lines. Are there any questions?"
Heck, nobody mentioned power lines before. But it was too late to take the road back to Damascus. We were soaring upwards in the half light and the helpers on the ground receded into specks.
Where were we going? Randy wouldn't know until we got up to 2,000 feet and he saw which way the wind was blowing. We were the plaything of Aeolus, the god of the winds.
Then the rising sun burst out from the clouds over Washington. It was beautiful as we drifted silently northwards towards the Gettysburg battlefield in neighbouring Pennsylvania. In the far distance there was a gleam of water indicating the inner harbour at Baltimore.
To the south was Sugarloaf mountain - just a hill really but with a craggy quartz point that contrasted with the rounded Appalachians to the west. We would not be flying over the Washington monuments. If we did Randy would be in trouble as it is too near the airport.
He would be in even bigger trouble if he got too near the Presidential mountain retreat of Camp David, whose general location he pointed out about 10 miles away. A fellow balloonist had floated too close to it one day and had the Secret Service waiting for him when he touched down. "They took away his ballooning licence for life," Randy said.
Actually, President Clinton rarely retreats to Camp David because it is bad for his allergies. But Randy was not taking any risks.
We stared down at cows frisking as our shadow fell on them. We came lower and people in cars waved and even stopped to stare as we skimmed the tops of trees and plucked leaves from them.
An endless goods train chugged along a single track letting out mournful whistles. A flock of geese suddenly took off. Horses started galloping around a field. Deer peered out from the edge of a wood.
For an hour and a half we swooped and soared and floated along in the light winds. Power lines and their dangers were forgotten as the sun rose higher and the world below looked better and better.
The only bad moment came when Ms Chattanooga whipped out a mobile phone saying "Wouldn't it be great to call someone from a balloon?" Then she remembered it was probably too early in the morning and our carefree voyage away from everyday life drifted on.
Now we needed a landing spot where the helpers following our course in the "Official Chase Vehicle" - a battered Chevvy van could grab our mooring line and anchor us on terra firma.
A golf course with a quiet road running through was just right and Randy manoeuvred the balloon over the greens and fairways to a landing which didn't disturb the swing of those on the nearby tee. On windy days it's not so easy and the helpers may have to carry the heavy basket for several miles to the nearest road.
But this was a perfect day. The champagne was broken out and some of it was poured over the passengers in a ritual tribute to the Montgolfier brothers who started it all in a flight in a paper balloon from the Tuileries gardens in Paris over 200 years ago.
My certificate says in golden lettering: "Let it be known that Joe Carroll has ascended into the sky in a hot air balloon. This memorable occasion took place in Urbana, Maryland." It has a nice ring to it.