200 lb buckets of Jet-A

Position: Seven miles above Sea-Tac

Groundspeed: 350 mph (304 kts)
Fuel Flow: Eng #1- 3,200 lbs/hr; Eng #2- 2,700 lbs/hr
Equipment: A319
Pax-on-Board: 123 + 2 freight dogs

Day number two...

Airborne... After fourteen days in a place far removed from my daily reality, a cattle ranch in northern New Mexico, I am back in the cloud mines working the night shift. As we passed 10,000 feet on day number one, it was as if I had never been out of the flight deck.

Sea-Tac is passing underneath Fi-Fi's nose as we wing our way toward PANC (Anchorage). Last night, I had a stand-up (short overnight) in Seattle. As I drifted into dream land, I was thinking about tonight's fuel burn en route to Alaska. That's correct... Instead of the proverbial sheep, I count 200 lb buckets of Jet-A to fall asleep.

Three hours earlier...

My dispatcher and I decided, via the mighty iPhone, on a top-to-load fuel plan. That means fill all five tanks to the top, let them settle for a bit, and then pump a few more pounds until the tanks will accept no more.

As planned, thirty minutes before push, we had our max fuel load. The immediate goal was to use the least amount possible taxiing to the runway. Luck was with us, as we pushed four minutes ahead of schedule and beat the big evening departure bank by that many minutes. The co-pilot threw a match into number two engine and entered last minute weight and balance data while I taxied toward the end of the runway. There was no one ahead of us... That in itself is amazing!

We accomplished pre-takeoff checklists, warned the flight attendants, and were ready to go about the same moment as the tower controller cleared us for departure. Without slowing down, we rolled onto the runway and watched the fuel flow numbers increase dramatically as the co-pilot pushed the thrust levers forward. We used 300 pounds to taxi; an insignificant amount in the big picture.

Over Sea-Tac...

Every seat is full and we have two freight dogs sitting in the flight deck jump seats. These guys are fabulous. They are entertaining us with tales of exotic girlfriends in far away places and operational stories that would cause our Chief Pilot's desk to spontaneously ignite. Good Lord! The wife-of-my-youth is all I can handle; it remains a mystery to me why any man would want more than one women at a time in his life. Even so, it is fun to listen to these two contemporary versions of Han Solo.

Engine number one is approaching the end of it's service life and you can certainly tell by looking at the parameters. All are higher than number two, a low time engine. Due to unequal fuel flow, we will have to re-balance the tanks twice on this leg.

The winds aloft are from the west at more than 200 mph (175 kts). Currently, our ground track is only thirty degrees north of west which gives us a large headwind component.

Anchorage weather is marginal VFR (visual flight rules) with a similar forecast at arrival time. Technically, we do not need an alternate airport, but consider a few things that worry me:

1. Night time arrival
2. High terrain
3. End of effective fuel range
4. Unforecast Alaskan fog banks

There is an Air Force base usable for a landing alternate a few miles north of PANC. A close alternate along with the Electric Jet's low visibility landing capabilities, known in the business as CAT 3, goes a long way towards soothing my natural paranoia.

Abeam YVR...

The half-way gate is approaching and as agreed upon in our previous conversation, I work on an arrival fuel prognosis for my dispatcher. That would be a composite of Fi-Fi's nav computers and my No.#2 pencil/ hand calculator. The dispatcher will compare my forecast with his best estimate taking into consideration the latest weather forecasts, volcanic activity in the Aleutians, and any runway closures, equipment outages, etc. Then we will both agree on whether it is safe to continue with the remaining fuel-in-tanks. The mini-printer will be working hard for the next few minutes.

Through the gate...

We punch through the half-way gate with adequate fuel to reach Anchorage. The lead flight attendant calls the flight deck and reports the food replicator has completed our crew meals, but, sorry, there is not enough to feed the freighter pilots, too. Without missing a beat, the co-pilot and I volunteer that we are not hungry. They can have ours, no problem.

500 miles southeast of Anchorage...

The freight dogs are slumped over in their jump seats, sound asleep after scarfing the crew meals. Since they are not accustomed to our crew food, I hope they are OK.

The ATC frequency is quiet... Rushing wind, hydraulic fluctuations, and the cooling fans in the Star Trek bay are the only noises. It is one of those moments.

Outside, the black void southeast of Anchorage. God, I love it up here.

Life on the Line continues...

Morning's Earliest Light

Position: Six Miles Above Topeka

Groundspeed: 483 mph (420 kts)

Equipment: A321

Pax-on-Board: 183 plus 3 jump seaters

Fuel Temperature: -20 C

Airborne...

July 23, 1959

I was a little kid in a pressed white shirt and the hated bow-tie my mother forced me to wear on our first airline trip. My father and I were standing just short of the cockpit door waiting for the flight attendant to ask the captain if a well dressed young man could visit. I can remember (almost) every detail. It is where it all started... For better or worse.

My father, his opinion formed in the infantry crucible of world war, told me early on that all the smart guys were pilots. I was about to see, for the very first time, pilots. The flight attendant came back and told us that I could go ahead, but that they were busy so I would not be able to stay long. Dad leaned over telling me to stand up straight and say "sir" to everything, and then gave me a gentle push across the threshold into the cockpit of a Lockheed Super Constellation.

April 2, 2010

We are crossing the deepest hour of the night at seven miles per minute, well past the circadian rhythm OFF time for the human body. Luckily, I slept three hours before this leg and am in pretty good shape for the shape I am in.

Above the nose and a few degrees over the moon, the red giant Antares of Scorpius. We are in a new A321 stretch Fi-Fi with every seat full. She is tight, quiet, smells like a new airplane, and has crisp LCD screens that these old eyes can see very well. Lord, I love these aircraft.

Ahead, a collapsing line of storms associated with a strong low pressure area east of Kansas City. My dispatcher and I decided to pick our way through the line instead of going around the north end. Every minute or so, there is a flash on the horizon. Fi-Fi's airborne radar shows a good hi-def depiction of the line; we will be there in ten minutes. I ring the flight attendants and brief them on the imminent turbulence, ask them to stow the galley carts, and take their seats. Before the bumps begin, I pick up the PA handset and give the pax a heads up.

July 23, 1959

A man in white coveralls with the airline logo on his back was blocking my view of the cockpit. He was talking to an older man sitting sideways surrounded by gauges, levers, buttons, and seemingly hundreds of switches. I do not remember what they were talking about but it was animated. The older man saw me and said something like, "Hi ya kid! Come on up here." The guy in white coveralls moved out of the way and in that instant my life changed forever.

April 2, 2010

The line of storms has collapsed on itself and is being blown toward the northwest by a 120 mph wind blowing parallel to the line. Electrical entities born and maturing into mighty atmospheric machines are giving their lives back to the sky. We will clear the sheared tops by at least five thousand feet. I have seen three or four lightning flashes below us, the last spark of life from this line. The Electric Jet is shaking lightly as we reverently cross overhead. Her fuselage is so long that we get a little bit of oscillation in the flight deck. It feels weird compared to the 320 or the 319.

July 23, 1959

There he was... Captain of the Clouds, bigger than life, sitting in the left seat, map in hand and pointing out something to the co-pilot. The captain was an old guy, probably about my age now. The co-pilot was much younger and most likely an ex-Army Air Corps pilot. My little heart was beating hard and fast as the captain looked at me, smiled, stuck his hand out and asked my name. He introduced himself, the co-pilot, and the PFE (professional flight engineer). He then did something that I still do today, no matter how busy I am... He got out of his seat and told me to sit down.

April 2, 2010

We are cruising at the altitude limit for our current weight. The next climb point is 200 miles east. Below us, cirrus clouds smeared by the wind into a moonlit heavenly veil. Kansas City Center has advised smooth conditions ahead; seat-belt sign switch is OFF. The co-pilot sent an email to dispatch advising that the ride over the storm line was a non-event; piece o' cake.

July 23, 1959

The control column and wheel were massive, much bigger than my first grade sized body... I remember looking through the control wheel at the artificial horizon and a serious looking airspeed indictor.

Who were these men and where did they come from? My favorite comic book character at that time was Steve Canyon. Surely these men were from that ilk.

A few minutes later, after the captain thanked me for visiting and I was sitting in my seat inboard of number two engine, a Wright Cyclone 3350 radial, I confidently announced to my mother and father that I was going to be an airline pilot.

April 2, 2010

And so it came to be... At 35,000 feet and two hours before twilight, we are still well above landing weight. I reach in my flight bag and pull out a large fluorescent-green paper clip; write a note declaring landing weight(!!) and attach it to the glare shield at eyeball level.

Don't laugh... It works.

Life on the Line continues...