Ice Man

Position: De-icing spot #9; Cleveland's Hopkins International Airport





Thanksgiving on the airways... It is not so bad with the wife of my youth in the back. If you can not be home, bring home with you. I brought her into this cold and windy city on the shore of Lake Erie yesterday morning after an all nighter, followed by an instrument approach through ice and turbulence to a smooth landing on a slick runway three minutes ahead of schedule.

We ate a good Thanksgiving meal (with real turkey) at the hotel. I was shocked! The staff put on a great feast for the many air crews spending their Thanksgiving away from loved ones. Later, we congregated in the crew room to watch football. For me, with my wife sitting beside me, it was an excellent Thanksgiving day.

This morning we arrived at the aircraft during a snow squall, winds blowing horizontally and the aircraft covered with three inches of snow and ice. It had been sitting for eight hours and was in a cold and dark hibernation. Battery switches "ON", auxiliary power unit "START", and begin thawing out Fi-Fi's smoke and mirrors.

After we loaded 150 passengers and bags, the tug crew pushed our aircraft shaped iceberg back while the co-pilot started number one engine. Ground control cleared us to taxi to the ice pad. As I advanced number one throttle, Fi-Fi slowly slid on the icy ramp in the direction of the thrust vector. Ooops! Not good... We are forced to start number two for symmetrical thrust. Slowly, very slowly, I taxied to the Ice Man's ramp which was full of airliners being sprayed with hot de-icing fluid. Ice Man, actually a woman, asked us to proceed to spot #9 and configure the aircraft for de-icing fluid. Then, in a last second change of plans, she asked us if we could proceed to spot #7. I turned the nose wheel left but Fi-Fi kept going straight.

"Tell her we can't accept spot #7."

Ice Man said, "That's OK. You'll just have to wait a few minutes longer at 9." Ahead of us in #9, another airliner, dripping warm de-icing fluid, was about ready to taxi. I stopped Fi-Fi and set the parking brake to wait until the spot was open. The thrust continued to push us on the ice a couple of inches per second. I glanced at the parking brake gauge... ON. The co-pilot said, "Hey, Boss, we're movin." There was no de-icing fluid on this side of the ice pad, but plenty on the exit side, dripping from the air frames as they left the ice pad. We skidded straight ahead about four feet until the tires encountered glycol over spray. I remarked to the co-pilot, "That was interesting."

Ice Man started spraying us fifteen minutes after we pushed from the gate. Both engines were at idle thrust, burning through our fuel at 33 pounds per minute. A truck on each side of the aircraft removed Mother Nature's snowy blanket in short order. We completed our post de-ice checklist and began taxiing toward the runway. The friction coefficient was much better on the exit side of the ice pad. We had no further trouble with skidding.

The tower cleared us for take-off 35 minutes after push. Not too bad for winter ops. While holding the brakes, I increased thrust to blow any contamination out of the engines. After seeing all the engine parameters in the green, I pushed the thrust levers all the way forward. Jet engines produce maximum thrust in cold, thick air with minimum exhaust temperatures, i.e., a perfect combination. The vigorous acceleration pushed us to take-off speed quickly. In a few more seconds, the hydraulics raised the landing gear as we left a cloud of thrust blown snow behind. Fi-Fi carried us into the morning sunlight and away from Ice Man's world.

Tomorrow... Florida and the beach. Life on the line continues...

High and Fast

How did this happen? I am high and fast on final approach to the Anchorage runway after a six hour flight, and, to make matters even worse, I am the flying pilot. I can sense a tail wind in my peripheral vision, i.e., the lights on the ground are receding behind us at a rate faster than 180 m.p.h. (156 kts). A glance at the inertial nav confirms it; 9 knot tail wind. Great! I call for the landing gear down, flaps 30 degrees, wing spoilers full up and shove the nose down to get with the program. The program is not cooperating, though. Over the outer marker, I am 800 feet high and 40 knots too fast. This is not a stabilized approach. I stow the spoilers and call for full flaps. The visual approach slope indicator is burning through the light snow showers showing me too high. I am getting that "uh-oh" feeling in the pit of my stomach. Real quick, let me run through the possibilities here:

1. Can I blame it on the co-pilot? No, he is a young Air Force guy. Super intelligent and respectful to the Captain. He has done nothing wrong the whole flight.

2. Can I blame it on ATC? No, unfortunately... They have been more than accommodating with us, even going out of their way to reduce our ground track to save fuel and time.

3. Can I blame it on the 747 freighter ahead of us? No, for our benefit, they kept their speed up until the marker.

This is not working... The silver haired captain has, somehow, screwed up. I've got over 8,000 hours in the 320/319 and sometimes get a little cocky. It is times like this that make me want to start swearing, but the wife of my youth tells me that indicates a small vocabulary.

I tell the co-pilot, "Well, this is not looking good. I'm goin' around." I pull the stick back and shove the thrust levers to the forward stops. The engines roar to full thrust, mashing us back in our seats. The fuel flows go thru the flight deck roof throwing out any savings that may have been gained with economical flight planning. The co-pilot raises the landing gear and flaps in sequence. In a New York second we are at 2,000 feet... I pull the thrust levers back to maintain 220 m.p.h. on the down wind leg. ATC asks us if we need any assistance. Maybe... The captain might need some flying lessons.

The second approach went well with the mains touching down on the snow covered runway 12 minutes late. As we pull into the gate, I can see the two pilots waiting behind the jetway operator. Oh No! They are buds of mine, and they are grinning like Cheshire cats.

I will never hear the end of this...

Ground Track

Position: Southeast of Portland
Altitude: 39,000 feet
True Airspeed: 503 mph (438 kts)

The co-pilot is bathed in green light from the cathode ray tubes and looks like he is contemplating something important. I ask him, "What day is it?" He replies, " Monday, I think, but it could be Tuesday." Oh well, it doesn't really matter. I could look at my watch, an excellent aviator's watch that the wife of my youth bought me. It has a calendar function, but it is for young pilots to see, as in very tiny numerals. I have to use a flashlight and reading glasses to see the date at night and that is if I am not too tired.

Monday, or maybe Tuesday. Close enough... We still have thousands of miles and many cities to go before this four day trip is done. The day is not important.

Anchorage is 16,400 pounds behind us. Sin City is 14,000 pounds ahead. Outside, -60 C., total darkness, and strong crosswinds. They are from the west at 175 m.p.h. (152 kts) causing Fi-Fi's nav computers to command the auto-pilot twenty degrees right to stay over the ground track. Consider the fact that we are above most of the atmosphere at 39,000 feet, not many molecules per cubic foot relative to the surface, yet the air mass is still moving at 175 m.p.h. How can this ultra-thin air move at such speeds and how can it exert enough force to cause a twenty degree course correction? Twenty degrees... That is amazing! Meteorological mechanics are very cool; literally so, here.

On the eastern horizon, Orion is in full view. Sirius will be rising soon. The red beacon on the top of the fuselage illuminates the left winglet every few seconds, otherwise there is nothing out there. Very dark; no moonlight.

We left the snow of Anchorage this evening and will be arriving at the sands of Redondo Beach in the morning. Day number two is going well. That's it; day number two... Not Monday or Tuesday. Why did I not think of that earlier? Maybe the 8000 foot cabin altitude...

Overhead and Crossing

Back in the saddle after a week off-duty... Vacation! As usual, five minutes after the landing gear is back in the wells, it is as if I never left the flight deck. I waited months for this week of vacation and, poof, it is gone. Such is the ebb and flow of time thru this life aloft.

We are flying a coast-to-coast leg westbound with 117 passengers. There is about two weeks remaining of the annual early winter slow down and then... Yikes, it is the chaotic time from Thanksgiving thru January. There was a time in my career when I fretted mightily about big loads, big airports, and big snowstorms. Now I am older and wiser... One day and one snowstorm at a time.

The winter winds are back, right on schedule. They are fabulous going east, but really hurt westbound. We've got 172 mph (150 kts) on the nose. Ouch! The fuel tanks, wings and center, were completely full when we left Logan. It will take most of the load to make SEA-TAC with a Portland alternate.

Three hours down the airways, ATC pointed out some Air Force folks overhead and crossing, i.e., merging from our right and 2,000 feet above. The co-pilot gets a visual... "I got 'em; here they come, right over the top." I hurriedly fired several shots with my flight bag camera as they came over the top of the flight deck. What a sight! And then they are gone. Awesome!

Three hours to go...

Life on the line continues.