There it is... 3,000 feet below the aircraft. We have a good view of the ridge line that a 727 struck at 270 m.p.h. thirty two years ago while attempting an instrument approach into Dulles International. One can look down at the ridge, then toward the southeast and see the runway; the minds eye will draw the approach path they were following. If you are an airline pilot seeing this, it will make your gut churn. I can imagine the scene in the cockpit as the two pilots and flight engineer prepared the 727 for approach, slowly descending toward the terrain, oblivious to the fact that 92 lives were seconds away from eternity.

The accident was one of those that , every 20 years or so, causes a lot of changes in my industry. New air traffic control procedures and aircraft instrumentation advances were a direct result.

Today, the Virginia weather is beautiful and we have a clear view of the airport. The air mass over the Virginia hills is stable and smooth... Control inputs, from me, are instantly obeyed by the aircraft as it merges with the radio beam delineating the assigned runway. It sounds silly, but I ask the co-pilot, "We are cleared to land on one-nine-right, correct?" He thinks a second,"Yep, one-nine-right" and then points at the runway with his right hand.

I call for landing gear down, flaps to 75% extension, and the landing checklist. Thirty two years ago, the 727 Captain would have made the same request... If only they had made it this far.
 
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We are level at 34,000 feet... A heavy Chevy. The flight management computer gives a maximum "recommended" altitude of 35,300 feet at our current weight. Being a natural born skeptic when it comes to flight management computers, I whipped out my stubby #2 pencil, hand calculator, and performance book... OK, Mr. Flight Management Computer is darn close. We can reach 35,500 feet, but the fuel burn would be 600 pounds per hour higher. Anyway, it is a moot point... (Heck, I am just killing time.) During daylight hours, air traffic control will not give us 35,000 feet. That is an eastbound altitude and we are westbound against the sun. In a few more hours and a few tons less fuel, we can make 36,000 feet.

Today, our weather avoidance route spans the southern reaches of the Empire. We followed the east coast to Savannah, then banked toward the west and the City of Angels. Five more hours and we will be there.

Yesterday, a new Directive came from The Management Bastion addressed to all line pilots. It concerned unauthorized reading material in the flight deck, such as newspapers, books, magazines, and the Big One... Laptop computers. The next crew who is caught reading or using any of the afore-mentioned items (in flight) will be in trouble, or so the Directive threatened.

So, that leaves performance manuals, flight operation manuals, and my favorite... The A-320/319 aircraft manual. I think I will calculate the cruise altitude again.

 
Spring is a busy time for cowboys. It is the time of round-up... Days that are fast disappearing as the cowboy life is increasingly viewed as politically incorrect. Nevertheless, I will always be fiercely proud to be the son of a cowboy. And, after driving 800 miles to the frontier with the wife of my youth, we have put aside the ways of the big city for the hard tack existence of the cowboy... For a week.

My sister, a cowgirl extraordinaire and ranch foreman, has given out the assignments for the day. I am to prepare the corrals for the cattle which will be arriving in about two hours. My wife will ride a horse today helping gather the cattle. I am secretly thankful my boots will stay on the ground today, because, even though I work out (almost) daily, I am too soft to ride horses in a working capacity. Tomorrow might be a different story, though.

I pre-flighted my wife's horse and saddle, helped her get on board, as she is very small, then reviewed a couple of things about horses with her. We only ride a few times a year, so I want to be sure to review the most important items. I was raised horseback; she was not. As the cowboys, er, I mean cowpersons, rode away, I began my assigned chore of preparing the corrals.

Overhead, a few contrails of high flying airliners winging across the deep blue New Mexico sky. I might know the crews... So amazingly cool!
 
I have been blogging about life as a line pilot for two years and two days. It has been interesting, to say the least. In that two years and two days, I have flown in heavy weather, operated in extreme crosswinds, wondered about how much ice a transport category aircraft can really carry, made three or four terrible landings, lost two comrades to the final checkride, attended four retirement parties of close friends, and worried as a very close relative spent one year in combat.

All in all, though, life has been good... Very good. Borrowing from a common saying among line pilots at my airline, "The blogging will continue until moral improves."
 
At 35,000 feet looking through two inch thick plexiglass at the setting sun I am thinking about many things. I have 150 happy campers behind me on their way to sin city (they will be less so on the way home minus their cash...). My co-pilot is a young kid (Herc pilot) right out of the Air Force. He is sharp and trying hard. Was I ever that young? The flight attendants are happy to be here; the male has his girlfriend along, so he is very happy. Uh oh, my mind is taking a different route. Happiness; a concept that is nefarious. Hence my tripod theory(I think I heard this from a preacher, but I like to give myself credit...)The tripod of life goes like this: Three legs of equal length and they are physical health, mental health, and spiritual health. Self explanatory.... Whoa! Back to the cockpit. Fuel flow is right on target at 5300 pounds per hour. Las Vegas is 1000 miles ahead and the sun has just slipped out of view. Life is good at this moment in time and space.
 
Position: Seven miles above The Black Rock Desert
Groundspeed: 570 mph (496 kts)
Souls on Board: 156

Every seat is full plus one hitchhiking 757 pilot going to work. The end of a four day trip is in sight... My policy, though, is not to day dream about it. If I start counting on it, number two engine will say, "Bye- bye" and we will be looking for a place to land, i.e., "Honey, guess what happened?" No, it is best to think only ten minutes ahead. Let the end of the trip approach with the normal ebb and flow of time. Do not try to force it...

Outside, the wind is coming from the west at 92 mph (80 kts) giving us a quartering tailwind. The air mass is smooth and the sky above is a cold blue. Below us, the coyotes that live in the Great Basin are enjoying a beautiful day. They better enjoy it, because the heat is coming soon.
 
Eastbound with the moon over my left shoulder and the wind on our tail. In fact, it is a perfect tailwind of 101 knots (116 mph); the ground speed is 100 + 1 greater than the true airspeed. There is something about that combination that gives me the warm fuzzies. Behind the reinforced flightdeck door are 136 passengers with tickets to Indy.

Earlier, one hour before sunset:

The wife of my youth straightened my tie after completing her pre-departure checklist, then said, "Don't be crotchety or an old grump bear. I don't want your co-pilots complaining to their wives or girlfriends about you."

"OK, Honey, I'll be good... Promise"

It is her way of reminding me about some of the Captains that were, uh, shall we say, cantankerous, when I was a co-pilot and the stories I would bring home. Even so, I miss (most of) them... A lot. Then, with a last second pat on her shiney hiney, off I go into the wild, black yonder.

Midnight, Lost Wages:

We are number five for take-off. One eye on the fuel quantity and the other on the second hand. In eight minutes, we are out of taxi fuel. My dispatcher and I agreed to a maximum revenue load with fuel burn off to landing weight. In other words, load everything on the aircraft (passengers, freight, mail, Grandma's poodle...), then figure the fuel backwards from the destination at maximum landing weight. The second option is to load the fuel first, then load revenue until maximum landing weight at destination. In the business, this is known as weight restricted. Sometimes Grandma gets left behind using this option, but if the Captain is nervous about the destination (weather, closed runway, traffic, or a creepy feeling), then this option is the safest. Tonight, though, the big picture is good. All forces are in a state of balance. Put Grandma and Fluffy on the plane...

"Crank number two."

The co-pilot opens the start valve and number two engine starts turning. At about 25% revolutions, the kerosene/air mixture lights off with a "whoof" sending the internal engine temperatures skyward, literally. Metallurgy is an amazing science! How can the hot section go from outside air temperature to hell fire in a few seconds without cracking? Unbelievable! Our hands are moving quickly as we push buttons, pull levers, turn knobs, run checklists, and get our ducks all lined up for take-off. We are now number two; the fuel is about minimum amount for take-off.

"Flight attendants, please be seated for take-off."

"Cleared for take-off runway 25 right. Caution wake turbulence from preceding 767."

I am the flying pilot on this leg; I let Fi-Fi roll onto the runway without stopping and advance the thrust levers forward about one inch... Then, we wait while the engines think about it for a few seconds. When they are convinced that I am serious about this take-off, the engines slowly spool up from idle thrust and stabilize, ready and waiting for more kerosene.
Thrust levers forward to the stops. Fi-Fi pushes us into our seats as the fuel flows head north. A last glance at the fuel quantity... Minimum; exactly as planned.

Airborne at 165 mph (143 kts), positive climb rate and "Gear up." The barn doors open into the slipstream and the landing gear is pushed and pulled into the belly with several clacks and a few thumps; barn doors close, flight deck gear lights extinguish indicating all is well.

Twenty minutes later, we level at our first cruising altitude of 35,000 feet. We climbed through thin cloud layers and turbulence, but up here it is smooth. The next three hours will be spent nursing the fuel load and tailwind hunting. My goal is to touchdown at Indy with one hour of fuel remaining.

No shortcuts tonight... We have to watch that landing weight.
 
My day started out with humor. My young co-pilot set off the alarm (twice) at the T.S.A. airport security check point in Las Vegas. I knew that he would because of the amount of metal in his hat, shoes and watch, but I didn't say anything. He was certain that he could make it through the magnatometer successfully. He didn't and they, the T.S.A., stuck a probe up his butt looking for a pair of scissors or a pocket knife. Hold it a minute...let's think about this...the government takes our pocket knives away, but they let us command an aircraft later...oops! I forgot; it is the zero tolerance policy. If an airline pilot questions this stupidity, that individual will be led away in handcuffs as a possible security threat. Can you say "public education?" It is embarrassing for our country. Our society is being dumbed down. Want another example? In Philadelphia, recently, I witnessed a Muslim woman ( wearing traditional Muslim clothing ) operating a security checkpoint's x-ray machine. The middle aged T.S.A. supervisor was twenty feet away reading a magazine. What's the problem, you say? Well, for starters, the terrorists involved with the Madrid train incident were embedded and trusted members of Spanish society. Uh oh...

I really do try to keep this blog aligned with the operational aspects of daily airline operations, so I will step down from the soap box. After the co-pilot was strip searched, we started a long and arduous day of short hops in the western United States. We flew five legs and had three different aircraft. Our last leg was from Phoenix to Orange County arriving at 10:56 P.M., four minutes before the landing curfew. We barely made it! Orange County airport has 4,800 feet of usable runway, which is not much for an airliner. The flying pilot must be in the groove when landing on such a short runway. My co-pilot seemed to be on the ball, so I decided to let him land two times at Orange County today. As I suspected, he did a magnificent job. I could not have done it better myself. Stopping a large jet aircraft with aggressiveness is a really cool event. The flying pilot must transform the aircraft from the airborne state to the ground state in a short amount of time and distance. The amount of energy that must be dissipated is incredible.

Orange County is a really cool place, literally. I love it! After a hard day in the cockpit, it is nice to shower and put the shorts and sandals on and go for a walk in the cool night air.

So, that is what I did...
 
The aircraft assigned to us in Oakland was brand new. The airline had put it in service the day before. The co-pilot and I were excited about the possibility of flying her all the way to Florida. The gate agents loaded her to the gills with passengers, bags and freight. We taxied out on schedule for a runway 29 departure. After we received take off clearance the co-pilot slowly pushed the thrust levers forward and at that time one of the hydraulic systems failed. I took over and rejected the take off at about 50 mph; turned off the runway and started trouble shooting the problem. Long story short- the problem was an electrical relay that controls the hydraulic pump on that system. Did we have one in stock at Oakland? No way! Flight cancelled...hop on another airline to Las Vegas. Arriving in Las Vegas one hour late for our Miami departure, we were told by crew scheduling that we had been re-routed to Chicago and to please have a good flight. We hustled over to the Chicago gate and found our airplane to be one of the oldest in the fleet. I have flown her many times. As usual, we filled every seat to Chicago and blasted off one hour and fifty minutes behind schedule. The ride over to the windy city was uneventful and really quite pleasant. The night sky was gorgeous and the tailwinds were strong. Our arrival into Chicago with the rising sun was one hour and twenty late, so we made up thirty minutes. Not bad, considering.... I am extremely exhausted; must lay down. Tonight we are scheduled to Phoenix. Yeah!! Two days off, I hope.

 
Where did July go? Wow, it's incredible how fast time passes as one ages. It's a cruel joke that Mother Nature plays on all of us. As an eighteen year old with no money and no life experience, time is like cold molasses pouring from a jar. All the old silver haired Captains that I used to fly with as a young co-pilot are long gone; many have flown west for the final checkride. Yes, I remember well their sage advice about many things. Uh oh! Now, years later, I am that silver haired Captain. Incredible!

I am on day two of a four day. We arrived this morning into Orlando at sunrise after flying all night. We left Phoenix and flew over to southern California, then to Las Vegas, and finally on to Florida. This morning, over the southern U.S., we watched Orion the Hunter rise. It is my favorite constellation of the night sky. It also signals the coming of winter, a much sought after season for Arizonians. August is the hottest month in Phoenix. It is a month when the sunlight feels heavy on your body. As if it actually presses you toward the ground with hot hands.

Well, it's time to saddle up for the night's flying. We are scheduled for Las Vegas and Oakland. There is a lot of storm activity over Florida this evening. It will be a busy departure tonight....