Flight Level 390

On schedule, the co-pilot carefully advances the thrust levers to about 30%, allowing the V2500 engines to stabilize, before pushing the levers to the forward limit. Jet engines love cold air, especially sea level cold air, which is what they get leaving Anchorage in the winter. Outside, the snow flurries, illuminated by millions of candlepower worth of aircraft lights, are blowing across the runway at a twenty degree angle from the centerline. The runway surface is mostly dry and clear, giving us close to perfect conditions to levitate this heavy beast... Thick, cold air blowing toward the aircraft almost parallel to the runway.

I watch the EGTs (pilot talk for exhaust gas temperatures) rise as the engines approach the take-off thrust setting, which the co-pilot has calculated and programmed into the engine's fuel control computers. Unlike summer time EGT temperatures, they are far below the red line. As the engines pass 70%, the roar can be heard in the flight deck; that awesome feeling of thrust follows, mashing us into our seats. The airliner passes 92 m.p.h. in two heart beats, a mandatory how's it going check point. Everything looks good as we pass into the high speed regime of our take-off. The wings load up at 120 m.p.h.; you can actually feel it in the seat of your pants. Engine vibration is well within limits; fuel flows are huge, a never ending source of amazement. At 150 m.p.h. the beast wants to fly, but the co-pilot is keeping neutral stick. At 175 m.p.h., I call "V1"(pilot talk for we are committed to this take-off, no turning back), at 180 m.p.h., I call out "Rotate" (pilot talk for it's time to fly). The co-pilot pulls his stick back a bit, then stops as the nose lifts off the runway, leaving the main gear tires on the cold runway. Before the nose stops it's rotation toward the sky, he pulls the stick back more until the main gear tires leave the runway. The vertical speed indicator increases rapidly until in excess of 3,000 feet per minute. I call out "Positive rate", indicating a climb; the co-pilot replies with "Landing gear up."

The ship's hydraulic system goes to work as the gear handle is moved to the up position. Gear doors open into the slip-stream, latches unlatch, brakes slow the spinning wheels as large hydraulic rams push the gear into their respective wells with a thump, then a clack as the doors close. My eyes are looking at the engine instruments like a dog looking at a bone. At 1,000 feet above the ground, the co-pilot pulls the thrust levers back to the climb setting. The fuel flows spin down as the engines relax for the long climb to cruise altitude. We have lifted 124 passengers, two deadheading pilots, three flight attendants, several thousand pounds of bags, freight, mail, and Christmas presents into the Alaskan sky. Anchorage falls away quickly beneath the clouds as we climb to the east, clearing the terrain by four thousand feet.

Twenty three minute later we level at our initial cruising altitude of 35,000 feet. We will burn off fuel weight until we can climb higher. The aurora borealis is visible this morning, to our left, as we hold our southeast course. The charged particles are dancing in long green fingers of light, rapidly moving toward the heavens, then back again. It looks like God's oscilloscope, checking the pulse of creation.

One hour later, we are too far south to see the northern lights. Overhead, a canopy of stars and dark interstellar dust intertwined through the Milky Way. I will be looking at this sky three times from now until after the end of the year.

The sun will rise in 1,900 miles, until then, I will fight the sleep demons with coffee, ice, and oxygen.