Flight Level 390

Position: Eight miles above Lake Erie
Groundspeed: 600 mph (520 kts)
Destination: JFK

We have been flying, literally, all night. The sun set as we were climbing to cruise altitude on leg #1, yesterday evening. I put my Revos away 12 hours ago, but it is time to break them out again, as the sun rises in our faces.

Somehow, I am back on the east coast-west coast run. Back and forth we go, when it will end, only crew scheduling knows. Actually, trip scheduling is all seniority based. What ever one's seniority will hold, is what you fly. And that is why the top 100 or so pilots control the primo overnights, or they do not overnight at all. In fact, I know several Captains that do not spend any nights away from home. That also explains why I am unable to hold Anchorage every week in the summer. The top Captains are up there fishing on their overnights. Oh well, seniority hath its privileges.

The sun is intense this morning. A nuclear sphere of incredibly bright, white light. Our eyeballs are bloodshot from staying awake all night. We are hiding in the shadows. A few minutes ago, the number one flight attendant told me that most of the 150 passengers are still asleep, or what passes for sleep in the sitting position. As for the crew, we will be asleep long before we reach the hotel in Manhattan, only waking up momentarily in little spikes of fear, as the crew van driver negotiates the crazy New York City traffic.

Living the dream continues...

Freight Dogs and all that they bring to mind... They are sort of the Han Solos of our time, if you will.

Thankfully, I have broken free from the east coast, west coast route structure and am back in my beautiful Anchorage. The temperatures are moderating and the snow pack around the city is melting.

Last night, I walked to my favorite freight dog hang out and saw some of those pilots I have not seen for months. These are the folks that fly old 747 freighters to the remote corners of the planet in all weather and political conditions. They do not make big salaries, as airline salaries go, but on the flip side, do not have to clash with political correctness and the New World Order of the airline pilot. Most of them are divorced three times, maybe four... One of those women was probably a Thai beauty, or a Germanic goddess. They are gone two to three weeks at a time, or longer, if crew scheduling can talk them into an extension. These pilots are, for the most part, ignored by my fellow "major" airline types. Why? These are some of the most interesting pilots I have ever met.

One example: Several years ago, a pilot showed up in my flight deck asking for a ride to LAX. He appeared very familiar... I looked at his paperwork; Bill Lear's son. He looked just like his Dad, creator of many aviation advancements, including the Lear Jet. The son was a Diesel Eight Captain flying the Pacific routes out of LAX for a heavy lift freight operator. Holy Moly!

This morning, I decided to walk to the airport along the coastal trail and watch a few of my companeros take-off. After a 6 mile walk, I was at the end of runway 32 with camera in hand. The big Boeing turned onto the runway, shimmering in the sun warmed asphalt... Looking through my tele-photo lens, the acceleration is apparent, but still no sound. The wing tips begin to rise before the nose breaks ground. A few seconds later, the mains leave the runway and 750,000 pounds (or more) is airborne. Yikes! Still no sound, though. I can see the bottom of the fuselage start to disassemble as hydraulics force metal barn doors open in all directions. The huge landing gear assembly begins to rise into the belly of the beast.

The leading edge of the sound footprint washes over me when the aluminum overcast is three hundred feet above the asphalt. My finger pushes the shutter button and the camera starts a continous sequence of photos. I can feel the thrust in my body as they pass overhead. Go Baby, Go! The thrust feeling turns into thunder as they go feet wet over Cook Inlet heading for who knows where.

See you later...

The airline has allowed 36 minutes to unload/reload/refuel and get back in the air westbound. We have been doing quick turns all day. The brake temperatures have not been below 150 degrees Fahrenheit since we started, even after a couple of hours at altitude. The slipstream will cool them before we touchdown, but deceleration will heat them up again. It is a constant cycle of hot-warm-cool-hot-warm-cool... Amazing engineering, in my opinion.

Time to get my mind in the quick turn mode. Not a second to waste...

Position: 75 miles north of Wichita
Altitude: 36,000 feet
Groundspeed: 402 mph (350 knots)
Destination: City of Angels

Twelve O'clock high and 10 knots faster... Our company flight out of Cleveland. They are slowly pulling away from us in the lighter winds at their altitude. If only we knew who was in that flight deck, we could email them and ask for directions to LAX. If only...

Outside, harsh white light, thin air, and 115 mph (100 knot) headwinds. Over the last checkpoint, we were three minutes and 500 pounds of fuel ahead of the flight plan. Life is good over the center of the Empire. Tonight's overnight is Redondo Beach!! Without a doubt, one of my favorite places on the line.

As a whim, three years ago, I started writing this blog during off-duty hours in hotel rooms. It is hard to believe that much time has passed since I posted the first entry. Three years against the wind and still posting... There are a lot of hot issues that I leave, for the most part, untouched, such as: Union politics, erosion of Captain's authority, security related stuff, hostile passenger/flight attendant interactions, hostile management/employee relationship, and the list goes on and on. I intentionally chose to be non-confrontational in my blogging and will continue in that venue.

As the great George Bernard Shaw said, "I learned long ago, never to wrestle with a pig. You get dirty, and besides, the pig likes it."

One of the most relaxing things in my life is watching a line of thunderstorms on the Weather Channel (at home), looking at my wife and saying, "Honey, I'm glad I am not looking at those things up close and personal."

That is not the case now.

We are westbound for California with 127 passengers. Ahead, over Kansas (imagine that), a line of supercell thunderstorms. My dispatcher gave me a 500 mile heads up; and now, thanks to the miracle of weather radar, we can see the line on the nav display. They are huge, in fact, big enough to soak up all the microwave energy allowing no reflection from the far side. This is known (in my world) as a radar shadow. A radar shadow is a dangerous place for an aircraft. We cannot see it with eyeballs yet, but the radar returns are showing a break in the weather 30 degrees right and 220 miles away.

Thirty minutes later, we are flying through that hole at 36,000 feet. The supercell tops are towering above us... It is, for lack of a better term, staggering.

The turbulence above is still forcing us to stay low (29,000 feet). There is a huge footprint of rough air over the Midwest starting at 33,000 feet. We are covered in cirrus clouds; the thin and wispy clouds of altitude. The full moon is in sight through these clouds. No surface details, though. Only a bright circle of heavenly light sliding through this icy world. If you listen carefully, the hissing of the ice crystals can be heard sliding over the aluminum skin of our beautiful bird. Or, it might just be the hissing in my ears from too many jet engines. Either way, it is miraculous.