IFR Range

Position: 50 miles west of Billings, Mt
Altitude: 34,000 feet
Groundspeed: 480 mph (417 kts)
Pax-on-board: 150
Destination: KSEA (Sea-Tac)

Maximum landing weight is still 2,600 pounds away. That, in itself, is interesting since we have been airborne five hours. We rolled out of the sack at 0200 hrs. (circadian time) and will arrive, knock on wood, at 1100 hrs.

Fuel burn -vs- landing weight... Fi-Fi's powerful nav computers are whispering to me, "Don't worry captain, we've got this under control."

Maybe... All the same, my stubby No.#2 pencil and pocket calculator are in the stand-by mode.

The Electric Jet has an IFR (instrument flight rules) range of about 2,300 nautical miles, plus or minus a few. That means that she can fly a leg of 2,300 nautical miles, hold a few minutes (or make one approach), then bug out to an alternate 200 miles away. This morning, our leg is 2,250 miles with light winds. The performance engineers (bless 'em) add miles, instead of time, for headwinds. With light and variable winds at altitude, our fuel burn miles remain steady at 2,250.
Even so, we have to be very careful with the fuel load, since we are at the IFR limit. We fly these aircraft at the performance limits on a regular basis, something I would never do with a personal aircraft.

Imagine, if you will; I have won the lottery, i.e., the Big One... I can now afford my very own A320. I will have my wife's nick-name painted on the nose and hire my favorite flight attendants to crew the cabin (on their days off, of course...) at $500 per hour. Why don't we load my new A320 to max gross weight with friends and family and fly it to an exotic destination with a short runway at the end of the fuel range? How about some nasty weather at our arrival time; blowing sand and thunderstorms?

Say again, please... Uh, I don't think so. Not in my new airplane.

Back to reality... Well, we can all fantasize, right?

Air Traffic Control offers a more direct routing, but I decide to remain on the flight plan for the wind forecast. Believe it or not, a direct route will (sometimes) burn more fuel, something we cannot afford this morning.

How much do we actually weigh? No one really knows. The gross take-off weight is calculated using average pax and bag weights, plus cargo weights of unknown accuracy, so it is an educated guess. We could easily weigh plus or minus 2,000 pounds (or more) from calculated weight. The only thing that matters is the landing weight (zero fuel weight minus fuel burn) which is recorded on the optical disk, whether or not it has any basis in reality. Fi-Fi can actually sense her own weight, which can be 10,000 pounds (or more) different than our load sheet. Is that weight accurate? Depends on which expert you talk to... Our performance engineers seem to think theirs is closer to the mark, and I agree. Still, it is interesting to look deep into Fi-Fi's mind and see what her little electric brain cells are thinking. She is an amazing flying machine.

This is day number two of a four day trip. Early tomorrow morning, it is back to the eastern edge of the Empire.

Life on the Line continues...

The Spirit

Eighty-two years ago... Think about that for a second. Eighty-two years!

This beautiful aircraft carried a young air mail pilot into the clouds of Olympus. That young air mail pilot has been gone for 35 years, but the Spirit is still with us. Is not that the way of life? Our stuff stays long after we are gone.

Yep, in my view, the most important aviation artifact ever. I have stood underneath the Spirit numerous times and am always astonished by the essence of glory that still radiates from the airframe. It is simply amazing.

Lindbergh's Grave

Palapalo Ho'omau Church Cemetery, Kipahulu, Southeast Maui

That long green swell that sears my eyes

As I lie in this bed of black stone,

Is it the Irish coast rising in the dawn

Beyond the brushed silver of my blind cowling

Where, throughout the night,

I trusted Not in some desert God's directions,

But in the calibrated compasses of man?

That rushing sound,

is it the hordes at Orly,

Swarming past the barriers and lights

To scavenge my Spirit,

and lift me up

Into the air that only heroes breath?

Or is it the age-old sigh of sea on stones,

Known to those who pace the shingle

And the swirled black sands that seep

Up from the sea's loom to wrap

Impossible islands in a shawl of waves?

That painting daubed on the chapel's window-

Not the roselined mandala at Chartres

Where flame in glass misprisoned sings-

But a cruder Savior, bearded, browned and popular,

An icon obtainable to plain sight,

a trim God Flat upon the glass in dull gesso limned,

And, when light moves behind it, looking down....

Is this the sign in which, at last, we conquer?

Conquer? I'd laugh the laugh of stones

Had I but eyes to see and lips to breathe.

No, I am content here where man and apes

Together waltzing lie, having done at last

With all horizons, having done at last with sky.

If you would see me now pass by

The small green church where ancient

Banyans looming shade and guard

The tower and the bell which you

May toll for me, or you, or all those

Not yet delivered to the stars and sea.

And then, retreating, heed the trees

Whose tendrilled branches hold but air,

And shadow both the church and stones

Beneath which wait both apes and men,

Who, foolish with their hunger for the air,

Swung branch to branch up all the years

Until, letting go at last, they learned

Through me, at last, to rise.

Sea, stone, tree, ape and Savior.

These now my boon companions are.

Better here, I think, in this dank green

Cartoon of Paradise, this slight-of-hand Eden;

Better here beneath the pumiced stones

Where strangers drop a wreathe from time to time;

Better here than there, hovering over waves,

Alone between the new world and the old,

Trusting in a man-mad compass

To take me home along

The sharp cold blade of air.

Better, much better, here

Where the sound of the waves enfolds

That fire they could never snare.

Gerard Vanderleun

American Digest

Life on the Line continues...

Five Years Against the Wind

Five years ago, I asked my laptop's screen, "What is this blogging thing all about?" The rest is history. Over 500 posts and still gaining altitude. Unbelievable!

Dash 8, part 4

Kick 'em when they're up,
Kick 'em when they're down,
Kick 'em when they're up,
Kick 'em all around,
We got the bubble-headed-bleach-blonde,
Who comes on at five,
She can tell you 'bout the plane crash,
With a gleam in her eye,
It's interesting when people die,
Give us dirty laundry.

Dirty Laundry- Don Henley


Exceeding the F-Word limitation

Ok, I realize that I said there would be no more posts on this subject, but I am going to override that decision. Normally, I have the patience of Job... Just ask any co-pilot that flies with me. Especially, the new ones who are hanging on to Fi-Fi's tail. A hard landing? An embarrassing go-around? No problem... I will take the blame for it and do the paper trail (if needed) afterwards. It is part of my job. On the other hand, there is nothing that trips my profanity trigger quicker than a large breasted news blonde with that understanding twinkle in her eye talking about a plane crash.

The wife of my youth, a high-class, beautiful women, who has little tolerance for profanity, especially from her Captain, suggested I go out into the man cave and cool off before I throw something at the TV.

Where do I start? Maybe I should just shut-up. Seems like everyone is an expert on aviation matters nowadays. Yes, I have an idea that might fix all of the air carrier problems. The old Soviet carrier, Aerflot (yes, they are still flying) is a good model for our brave new airline. We can call it Ameriflot and staff it with good comrades who always get enough sleep, good low calorie vegetarian crew meals, and love their management... er, I guess that would be the government.

In the flight deck behind the pilots, there will be a Political Correctness Officer, a mobile NTSB investigator, a Government Aviation Official, and a Conflict Resolution Official for any arguments between the captain and the co-captain. There will be six people in the flight deck. Everyone must use mouthwash.

There will be no charge to fly Ameriflot, only a waiting list. If you want to go to grandma's house for Christmas, you get on the list. Of course, it will not be this Christmas or next Christmas, but you will get there eventually... That is, if you can pass the needs test. Why do you need to go to grandma's house, anyway?

On the serious side of this subject...

Lets get real here. Aviation safety has never been better than now, today, at this moment. You think it was good during the Golden Era? You are wrong. It was horrific! Airliners (main line) crashed on a regular basis crewed by ex-military combat pilots from WW2. They were the best of the best; yet, they still made big-time mistakes.

The mainstream media is dragging these two pilots through the mud with glee and then urinating on their memories. Yeah, it looks like the captain let his aircraft get away from him. The co-pilot was young, inexperienced and working for low wages, but chances were good that she would have made it through her servitude. She did not, though. My God, what a nightmare... A plane load of passengers gripping their seats as the Dash 8 spun in, upside down.

From the man cave, Life on the Line continues...

Over the Marker Beacon

Position: Over the Marker Beacon; KBOS (Boston)
Configuration: Landing gear extending, flaps 20 degrees, slats 22 degrees
Groundspeed: 172 mph (150 kts) and slowing
PAX: 124


Our A319 has descended out of the celestial sphere with every seat full. Admittedly, three hours behind schedule, but I have an excuse; thunderstorms on a planetary scale, huge and towering, easily punching through the tropopause. Thankfully, the monsters were collapsing back on themselves as we quietly and nervously tip-toed past them over Ohio.


Yep, it is 0340 hrs local time. We are running about one hour ahead of the freighters; most of the outbound crews are still sleeping in their hotel rooms about to be rudely awakened by the alarm clock. The co-pilot and I have struggled to stay awake, as we were supposed to be in bed by this time, fast asleep. The lead flight attendant has been helping us with super-strong airplane coffee, a vile mixture of lowest bidder coffee bags and fetid liquid from the 200 gallon potable water tank in Fi-Fi's belly. It is strictly an emergency measure to stay awake. No mystery to me why most airline pilots do not live long after retiring.


The glow of Boston has diffused the clouds with orange light as we penetrate the wispy ceiling over the airport. The spoilers are fully extended as we maneuver for the downwind leg, high and fast. Our engines have been at idle thrust for the last 100 miles and 35,000 feet. I am trying to arrive at the marker beacon using only gravity for airspeed and altitude control. The secret is to carry a bit of extra energy (altitude) to use in the airport area. If you do not need it, there are several methods to get rid of it, such as S-turns, spoilers, landing gear, and steep bank angles. Fi-Fi is slick and clean, indicated airspeed of 250 knots, as she descends beneath the cloud deck, feet wet, east of the airport.


The co-pilot tells the tower that we have the runway in sight. Tower clears us for the visual approach. This is so very, very cool... The airspace east of KBOS is mine to do with as I wish. I have three 90 degree turns to accomplish before lining up with the runway. I can use each one to shed a substantial amount of energy. The vertical path is clear in my mind's eye and I am now sure that I will not need any withdrawals from my energy account I built during the descent. Time to toss it into the early morning sky for the next crew that might need it.

Nose up a few degrees, thirty degree banks, engines idle thrust... Do it three times and we are over the marker beacon lowering the landing gear, flaps and slats. Ahead of us are the approach lights identifying the end of the runway; they look so awesome. After thousands of miles, rarified atmosphere and stratospheric thunderstorms, there they are...

Life on the Line continues...