Midnight in Anchorage

After 14 days of vacation and training, I am back in Anchorage arriving on schedule at midnight. Fortunately, I was able to put my lovely wife onboard the completely full aircraft, along with three other off-duty employees trying to hitchhike to Alaska. Four ticketed passengers did not show for the flight, which is exactly why airlines overbook.

The landing alternate for our flight was Juneau, about 400 miles southeast of Anchorage, which required a maximum fuel load to meet the Federal Aviation Administration's rules on fuel remaining at the destination and/or alternate airport. We had a completely full passenger load and several thousand pounds of bags, mail, and freight bringing our take-off weight to maximum allowed. A bunch of maximums tonight, for sure.

Six hours later, we landed via a visual approach in light snow showers, light winds, overcast skies, and 5 degrees Fahrenheit. Our hotel room was warm and welcoming, though. In a few minutes, my wife and I were on the way to meet some of my freight dog buddies.

Midnight in Anchorage with my wife... It does not get any better!

Not at Best Glide Speed

Originally, I was scheduled to fly the simulator in January, but last minute re-schedules are common. Today, finally, I completed my proficiency check, i.e., checkride. Simulator training is really cool because of the ability to practice very dangerous scenarios. Having said that, there is an unsettling side of sim training, and that is what happens if the pilot screws the pooch during the checkride. One of my best buds at this airline, a former B-52 bomber pilot, had a bad day in the simulator last year. The ensuing result was membership in our pilot remedial training program, which led to a stress related loss of his First Class Medical certificate. This meant that he was grounded until the smoke cleared.

Holy Moly! I was freaked out for a week. Why? Well, I have known this guy for years, in fact we flew together at another airline prior to this one. He is a pilot's pilot. Obviously, if this could happen to him, it could happen to me.

The simulator exercises can get the pilot into the proverbial box which he or she may not be able to get out of... Sort of like the fictional Kobayashi Maru simulator scenario from Star Trek. There are basically two ways to get in this box:

1. The pilot makes mistakes which the simulator instructor takes advantage of to make the situation even worse. These self-induced scenarios can be difficult to get out of and may lead to a failed checkride.

2. The simulator instructor puts the pilot into a scenario to see if he/she can extract themselves. These boxes usually have a back door of which the pilot can take advantage. For instance:

Yesterday, during my pre-checkride simulator session, the instructor flamed out both engines over Reno, Nevada, at an altitude of 5,000 feet above the ground. The scenario was as follows:

We were landing visually (at night) during high surface wind and turbulent conditions. At about 500 feet above the ground on final approach, we encountered wind shear. I applied full thrust and commenced a go around maneuver to escape the wind shear conditions, which we did at about 1,500 feet above the ground. The control tower (simulator instructor) then cleared us to climb to 5,000 feet above the ground. At about 4,900 feet above the ground and climbing at an airspeed of 200 m.p.h., both engines flamed out.

Our immediate problems were:

1. Terrain south of the Reno airport.
2. Lack of altitude.
3. Not at best glide speed, which is defined as most distance covered across ground with least altitude lost. To gain this speed I would have to lower the nose and pick up 20 to 30 m.p.h.
which would eat altitude rapidly.
4. Lengthy Dual Engine Flame Out with Fuel Remaining checklist. Two pages of advice and instructions which are meant to be read while gliding down from altitude with time to spare.
5. Not at best engine re-start windmilling speed, which was 80 m.p.h. faster.

We were in the box and the door behind us was getting smaller by the second. The co-pilot was dutifully reading the emergency checklist when I stopped him and said, "We don't have time to complete that checklist." I told him to pull the thrust levers back to idle and move the engine master switches to "Off." I punched the chronometer to begin a 30 second engine clean out countdown. This is the classic procedure to re-start a jet engine (if it does not re-start on its own... Igniters automatically start popping when a jet engine flames out). Of course, during a simulator ride, they will never re-start on their own accord.

The saving grace, or the door out, was that the aux power unit (a small turbine powerplant in the tail) which provides electricity and pneumatic pressure was up and running because of a previous problem that required it's use. This little powerplant can be used to re-start the engines if the airspeed is too low for a windmilling start.

I started a gentle banking turn back toward the Reno airport where the terrain is lower. Yes, a banking turn eats altitude in greater quantities than straight ahead, but simple geometry was a problem with the rising terrain. During the turn toward the airport the radar altimeter came alive at 2,500 feet and was decreasing rapidly. This was going to be very close. I told the co-pilot that we were running out of altitude and to position the engine master switches to start before the 30 seconds had elapsed. Come on, Baby... Start! The start valves opened and the aux power unit filled the duct work with compressed air which began turning the engines. At 20 % rotation speed, I introduced fuel and waited for the igniters to light the fire. Come on, Baby... Start! The co-pilot, still reading the checklist, reminded me that a hot start was a possibility in our situation. I, in turn, reminded him that a hot start was the least of our problems.

Radar altimeter= 1,800 feet

Come on, Baby... Start!

Radar altimeter= 1,500 feet

The ground proximity warning comes to life with, "TERRAIN, TERRAIN, PULL-UP!"

Number one engine exhaust gas temperature began increasing. One of us said, "Number one is starting!

"TERRAIN, TERRAIN, PULL-UP!"

Radar altimeter= 1,200 feet

Number two engine refuses to light off, but I can work wonders with one engine. Start baby, start!

Radar altimeter= 900 feet

"TERRAIN, TERRAIN, PULL-UP!"

Number one engine increased in rotational speed and gas temperature. I decided not to wait for a stabilized idle and shoved the number one thrust lever to the forward stop.

Radar altimeter= 600 feet

"TERRAIN, TERRAIN, PULL-UP!"

Number one engine roared to life producing maximum rated thrust. My left foot instinctively mashed the rudder pedal to the stop to counter the yawing motion from the serious thrust on the left wing. This is the stuff that pilot dreams are made of... I pulled back on the stick and glanced at the radar altimeter... 370 feet above the ground.

400, 500, 600... We climbed away from the ground and flew out of the box on one engine. Whew!

After the simulator instructor debriefed us and signed our pre-checkride session as completed, the co-pilot and I walked toward our vehicles in the parking lot feeling smug and confident. We shook hands and said something like, "See you tomorrow!" I got into my pick-up truck and inserted the key into the ignition. Nothing! The battery was completely dead! I glanced at the headlight switch and saw it in the ON position.

Great! I had time to run the pick-up shut down checklist, but did not. I giggled and whipped out my cell-phone...

Return from the Frontier

Every muscle in my body is aching from hard physical labor. Twelve hours on the interstate highway system and we are back in Gotham City. The wife of my youth and I worked hard during our vacation, helping her parents on their farm, and my cowboy father on his ranch. Conditions are grim on the frontier... No rain for a long time.

Even so, life is totally different for those folks out there. It is a double-edged sword, as in no road rage, murder or mayhem. On the other hand, those people will always wonder what could have been... Our minister often says that the two most destructive words in the English language are "If only."

Time to pack my bags for a trip. I must go back to work to rest.

Fly Over Country

The wind is blowing hard from the north, enough so that long fingers of dirt and sand are whipping around my ankles. I am on a morning jog trying to stay in the groove while my wife and I are visiting fly over country. My mother-in-law's seventieth birthday will be celebrated tonight. I am within 39,000 feet of this little midwestern town many times during a typical month of flying. If I am lucky, we will visit twice a year. It feels very surrealistic to be down here, as I am usually up there, so to speak.

I am getting a lot of stares from farmers passing in pick-up trucks. You can see them thinking, "Who the heck is that moron running in the wind, dirt, and cold?" Not many people exercise here... Life is hard. There is no industry anywhere in the area to offer big wages, so these folks barely scrape a living out of the ground. Their young people leave as soon as possible to seek the life they see on television. The city of millions where I live is growing so fast that there is a waiting list for concrete and lumber; here there is no construction at all. It was not always like this... When my beautiful wife was a child here, this town was a vibrant community. There were stores on main street, a movie theater, multiple restaurants, two car dealers, five gas stations, and well kept homes. Today, it is not so... Too bad, I say.

As I turn left into the wind, the airborne sand particles sting my face. The chill factor has got to be around 20 degrees Fahrenheit. I normally run on a treadmill with my MP3 player, but treadmills are not a big thing here, and the nearest gym is 60 miles east. Anyway, stray dogs and potholes add a certain flavor to the morning run.

I almost forgot... The nearest Starbucks is 100 miles south.

Time Flys

Time flys when you are having fun, or so I have heard. In my case, it is literal. We are enroute to the capital city of the Empire with 124 passengers, a full load for our A-319. Was it really five days ago that I was in my favorite city, Anchorage? Since then, I have covered many thousands of miles. I wonder, sometimes, how many miles I will have flown at the end of my career. I could probably wag it by multiplying average groundspeed X estimated flight hours. I must look into this...

My co-pilot is a young guy (aren't they all?) with one year of service. Not a gray hair on his head. When he is my age and sitting in the left seat, I will probably have flown west for the final checkride. Will he remember me? As I watch the small farming communities of the midwest slip underneath our nose, I remember some of the Captains of my youth who are gone from this Earth. Oh yes, I remember them well. I have an ear to ear smile thinking about some of them.

Funny what a person thinks about at 3:00 A.M. eight miles above the Earth...


Groundspeed= 632 m.p.h.
Fuel on board= 22,000 pounds

Maximum Range Cruise

It is cold in downtown Anchorage... Deep cold. The sound of my shoes crunching the ice and snow is the only sound as I walk to my secret hang out. I am wearing my fully lined London Fog over warm clothes with hi-tech long underwear, thick gloves, a woolen cap, a long and thick felt scarf, and two pair of socks. Even so, it is cold!

One hour ago, we landed twenty minutes behind schedule after an epic flight against the wind which stretched our fuel to the legal limit. The little red "uh oh" light in the back of my brain started flashing when the fuel checks began showing we were falling behind. The winds aloft forecast was obviously incorrect. I decided to climb higher and slow down to maximum range cruise. (Last night, one of my Captain buds had to land in Seattle for more fuel on the same route because of higher than forecast winds.) After checking miles to go versus fuel in tanks, then throwing in my guess on the headwind component, I decided we could make it with our legal fuel reserve. Basically, it is groundspeed/fuel flow x fuel remaining in tanks = range. Then, and this is very important, throw in some what if scenarios, like... What if the landing gear does not extend on the first attempt, or what if the flying pilot blows the approach and a go around must be flown. Go around fuel flows are ugly.

I asked the co-pilot to double check my numbers, then I emailed my dispatcher and asked her to run my #2 pencil scribbling through her software. She agreed, and was OK with my plan to continue. To keep things legal, the Captain and the Dispatcher must mutually agree on all aspects of the flight, especially changes.

Of course, when we arrived in the Anchorage area, thick fog had covered the airport. I was reasonably sure this would happen, so I was not surprised. After a low visibility approach and landing, we taxied across a thin sheet of compacted snow and ice to the gate. Now the outbound crew is 20 minutes behind schedule, but the headwinds that slowed us down will give them two extra warp factors of ground speed. They should arrive early at their destination.

And the snow crunches under my shoes as I turn the corner and walk thru an alley to a little watering hole that only a few freight dogs (pilot talk for freighter pilots who fly diesel eights and old 747-100 series freight wagons for little known companies...) and bush pilots know about. My face is numb from the cold... It's about time. I tug on the entrance door and am met by cigarette smoke and throbbing music from a cheap stereo system. Ah yes, the secret society of freight dogs. I see a couple of old 747 Captains I have known for a few months waving me over to their table. We trade insults and shake hands. Like me, they have just arrived. These are tough guys working under tough conditions.

It is like being on another planet...

Surface of Mars

We are level at 22,000 feet enroute to Orange County's John Wayne airport, the shortest runway in the system, with 150 passengers, three flight attendants and four pilots in the flightdeck... That would be yours truly, the co-pilot, a check airman, and a reserve pilot deadheading to Orange County to relieve a sick pilot. The check airman is giving me my annual line check. With my peripheral vision I can see him checking little boxes on the clipboard and writing short comments under each parameter that he observes. How many of these have I been through over the years? A bunch, but I still get a bit nervous when these guys show up. Please tell me why it has to be to the shortest runway in the route structure...

The noise level in the flight deck is tremendous! We are cruising at a low altitude per my dispatcher's request (ATC preferred altitude today)... I like flying down here once in awhile. The atmosphere is dense at this altitude, relative to higher flight levels. The nose of the aircraft is slicing through much thicker air, hence the high noise levels of rushing wind. Fuel flow numbers are staggering at this altitude. Fairly cool, actually...

Underneath the aircraft, the desert floor looks like the surface of Mars. If I blow this landing ahead, I will wish I was on the Martian surface! That itty-bitty runway is only 75 miles ahead. It's time to command the engines to reduce thrust for descent.

And down we go...