Through some novice operator error, an odd mountain air current, or a combination of the two, our wicker basket of fun dropped unexpectedly. As we neared the tree tops--closer than intended--a large white oak loomed in our flight path. In case you aren't aware, balloons don't have rudders, so steering wasn't an option. And as we continued to drop, I quickly realized that seat belts and safety lines weren't options on this balloon, either. Before I knew what had happened, our basket had crashed into the top of the oak tree, every bit of 80 feet off the ground. As the balloon crunched through branch and bough it became snagged, and the basket flipped upside down. My uncle was dangling from the tubing that served as the "handle" of the basket; my father was somehow inside the basket with both hands and both feet bracing him on the inner lip of the basket's rim; and I was dangling out of the basket, holding the rim with both hands. If this predicament wasn't bad enough, my father was "standing" on one of my hands. I'm not sure how I held on, as I've never been that strong, but apparently adrenalin is a serious strength enhancer.