Christmas Day 2006

Christmas Day 20o6

Position: 100 miles south of Salt Lake City

Altitude: 30,000 feet

Groundspeed: 530 m.p.h.

Fuel flows: #1/2690 #2/2700

The Chief Pilot promised turkey, gravy, and dressing for his crews working today. My co-pilot and I are licking our chops... Historically, the airline provides good food on Thanksgiving and Christmas. We have a 52 minute turn time in Phoenix. That will be enough for a quick meal, pre-flight, re-fuel, paperwork, and tighten the cinch for Anchorage.

The sun is setting in the west; Santa's sled is back in the hanger at the top of the world. Last night, at midnight, we were level at 38,000 feet enroute to Salt Lake City. I did my best Santa Claus has been sighted crossing the border of Canada routine; the one I do every Christmas for the children on-board. I asked the number one flight attendant what the reaction was.... Not much. I guess children are getting more sophisticated.

Feet Wet, 4.5 hours later...

We are over water, a few miles past the half-way point to Anchorage. Our expected Christmas meal in the pilot lounge did not happen; only food shrapnel remained on the floor, but there were several of my buds lying around like my cat does after she eats, "Hey Dave, you should have been here a bit earlier. It was really good!", as they rub their pooched tummies. Yeah, well, our maximum speed is Mach .82 (82% of the speed of sound). Looks like we needed a bit more to make the 2006 Christmas feed.

Ten minutes before pushback for Anchorage, the airline delivers hot Christmas meals to our airplane, plastic plates wrapped with foil. The Chief Pilot kept his word. I was impressed...

Now, at 36,000 feet, both of us are face against the heated Plexiglas looking up at the heavens. It is one of those nights of extremely clear skies. My co-pilot is an astronomy nut, as I am. We are calling out the asterisms (constellations) we can see from our respective side. Directly above the airplane lies Cassiopeia, the wife of King Cephus. Behind the left wing, Orion, my favorite... And many more in all quadrants. The star cloud of the Milky Way is... Well, words cannot describe the beauty. It is inexpressible in human terms.

The Anchorage weather, tonight, is typical Alaskan winter weather - freezing fog, low visibility, low clouds, low temperatures, and an icy airport surface. The runways should have good braking action, though. Our landing alternate is an Air Force base located at Fairbanks, 49 minutes north of Anchorage. Their forecast was better than any others within fuel range of our A319.

And so it goes in these few remaining minutes of Christmas Day 2006...

God's Oscilloscope

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.

Ink Well

Passing over Sandspit en route to Anchorage at 36,000 feet, we are crabbing mightily toward the west against a 160 m.p.h. crosswind to maintain our course. Outside, deep cold and blackness; no moonlight, no aurora borealis, and not much starlight. There must be a thin layer of cirrus clouds over us. The air mass, moving at 160 m.p.h. from the west, is absolutely smooth. That, in itself, is incredible. In fact, it is smooth enough to take an eight second exposure of the ink well outside.

We have been on duty eight hours, with about three more to go. The Anchorage weather is not too bad; light snow showers, broken cloud layer at 3,000 feet, 5 miles visibility, 15 m.p.h. winds from the southwest, and 20 degrees Fahrenheit. Although, the forecast is marginally OK, we still have a landing alternate. The fuel tanks were completely full at takeoff, minus 300 pounds taxi fuel. She was a heavy beast... The co-pilot used a sharp pencil to figure the take-off speeds and flap setting.

Far ahead of us... A tiny twinkling light. It is a big freight wagon on the same routing and altitude. We have been watching him for hundreds of miles; our speed must be the same. The air traffic control frequency is eerily quite... Very little traffic up here tonight. The controller will give a new frequency to the freight dogs ahead of us, then when we get to that same point in the black sky, we get the same frequency. It is kind of cool, actually.

The third hour's fuel burn was 5,200 pounds and we moved 502 miles closer to Anchorage. When I compare my numbers to the flight plan's numbers, they are very close. Life is good tonight in the Earth's shadow.

Around the Clock

Sun light is streaming through the hotel gymnasium windows and bouncing off the reflective material on my Asics light weight running shoes, as they pound away on the cheap treadmill found in most hotel gyms. Guns and Roses is helping me ignore my middle-aged body pains. I am in the middle of a four day trip, flying around the clock, operating on minimum sleep, reduced calorie/high fiber diet, and strong coffee. Yesterday, we flew eight hours in a fourteen hour duty day. Today, we will be gear up by 4:00 PM and fly most of the night. Trying to manage the body clock is a full time job.

The pain of the treadmill allows my mind to shift into overdrive, probably from the increased blood flow. I am remembering one of our Captains who died three weeks ago, while at home on days off. He was in his last year in the flight deck, about to retire to the proverbial farm. He survived 100 combat missions flying an F-4 over Southeast Asia, and then lived another 34 years before flying west for the final time. I will miss him...

And so the life of the line pilot goes, around the clock, year after year of dodging the bullet and hoping to live until the big city is in the rear view mirror for the last time.

The electrically powered rubber road is slowing as it reaches the 30 minute mark. It is time to get ready for work in the cloud mines.

Just Another Day on the Line

Position: 200 miles north of Mexico City
Altitude: 36,000 feet
Groundspeed: 530 m.p.h.

The co-pilot did his hourly systems check and discovered low fluid level in one of our main hydraulic systems. "Hey Boss, look at this." It was seriously low and getting lower by the minute. Obviously, we were leaving a trail of hydraulic fluid behind us. The hydraulics work under a pressure of 3,000 pounds per square inch, so if there is a leak... Well, you get the picture.

As expected, the affected system lost all of it's fluid leading to a shut down of that engine driven hydraulic pump. Next, we isolated and re-powered important items from that system with another hydraulic system's motive power. I love this stuff... We accomplished all of the checklist reading and switch/button pushing while descending into Mexico City preparing for an instrument approach. After a routine landing, we taxied to the gate where we were met by Mexican aircraft mechanics... Five of them.

Fluid was pouring onto the ground, from number two engine cowling, as I walked down the jetway to meet and greet the mechanics. They were ready and eager to help the Americano Captain. In a minute or so, they had the engine cowling open. They found a stainless steel hydraulic line with a one inch long crack... Yep, that would do it. Two of the mechanics left for their parts warehouse while the other three cleaned the mess inside the engine cowling. Thirty minutes later, they had replaced the steel line and were pumping fresh hydraulic fluid into the system. After clearing the area around number two engine, we started the engine and checked for leaks... None. The mechanics had provided outstanding service.

Position: Three miles south of Salt Lake City
Altitude: 1,000 feet
Groundspeed: 150 m.p.h.

Six hours later, we are flying an instrument approach into Salt Lake City with 150 happy campers in the back. It is snowing outside; our landing lights are illuminating the snow flakes as they rush toward us at 150 m.p.h. If you look at them for too long, you will experience vertigo. The runway approach lights burn through the snow clouds when we are about 1/2 mile from the end of the runway, then the runway edge lights come into view. The main landing gear touches down on the slushy runway on schedule. As we taxi to the gate in the falling snow, I go over the days events in my mind. This is the first day of a four day trip...

As we say amongst ourselves, "Just another day on the line."

Metal Storm

Sixty-five years ago, as the sun rose in the east, a metal storm came from the west and covered Pearl Harbor. The old warriors, from both sides, are slipping into the river of time. I previously blogged on this, two years ago; so this entry is short.

To those that were under that metal storm, I salute you...

Geometry of the Night Sky

Position: 40 miles south of Chicago
Altitude: 39,000 feet
Groundspeed: 610 m.p.h.
Destination: New York City
Time: 2:30 A.M. local

The half way point is ten minutes ahead; thank goodness. Day number one of a night trip is always the toughest, because the pilot must switch the internal clock to the vampire mode after living in the sunlight for a few days. One's circadian rhythm starts kicking in about this time, though, and it is a mental battle to stay awake. A few minutes ago I visualized drifting over the center-line on my Japanese death missile and hitting a truck head-on; good-bye Captain Dave. My next thought: My buds lined up at the front door offering condolences to my beautiful wife, suddenly a beautiful widow. I am not sleepy anymore, because I know how pilots operate... Must make a note to myself... Slow down more in the curves.

Outside, soft white moon light bathes the air frame and the cloud deck far below. The air mass has been smooth this morning, so far. The moon is directly above the flightdeck, out of sight but not out of mind. I can see some of my favorite asterisms (constellations) overhead, showing me the way, as they have been showing Captains for centuries. Oh, how I love the geometry of God's night sky.

All systems operating normally... Fuel situation is acceptable: 50 minutes at JFK. The big aluminum bird is happy. The Captain is happy... Life is good.

Holding

Please pardon the hiatus... I have an excuse, as in vacation. I will be back in the saddle in a few days. Until then, FL 390 is holding; right turns/10 mile legs/ fat on fuel. Life is good!