Fall Flight

Making Memories
Copyright 2007, V1VrV2

Fall is here. It’s my favorite time of the year, even though I wistfully hold on to each descending ray of golden sunshine as if my very soul were slipping away. Sunset rudely interrupts my outdoor activities several minutes earlier with each passing day, and the first cool fingers of Canadian air have tentatively reached down into Illinois, poking at us.

Late September is a good time for taking stock of summer accomplishments. Not the kind that can be hung in a frame on the wall of one’s office, but the kind of experiences that return with clarity throughout the rest of our lives, when we need reminders of what’s important and good and true. In a four-season climate, where the weather often determines your activities, life settles into certain rhythms. In the fall, the contents of my closets rotate. Batteries in the smoke detectors get changed. The snow shovel gets hung more prominently in the garage. But the change with the most personal impact is one not many people appreciate. Renting the local flight school’s Piper Cub is a seasonal treat, and with the arrival of cool evening air, the Cub’s days are numbered. Soon, it will be stored away until the spring. Oh, sure, my various Cub-owning friends will bravely persist, some even fitting snow skis to their planes when the conditions are right. But my solo opportunities to fly low across the cornfields, examining the land and the lives of those below, are once again dwindling.

I went up for an hour yesterday, in the soft, smooth light of sunset. Like a man saying goodbye to an unrequited love, I tried to soak in every sensation and color, attempting to save it all someplace for the long winter ahead. I’ll get perhaps one or two more of these flights before the Cub will take a well-deserved slumber.

It’s been said that we are lucky to experience disappointments and sadness with our successes and euphoria, lest we fail to appreciate what we have. I suppose if I flew a Cub every day, I might not feel the same mind-altering sense of joy every time my tires lift off the grass. So perhaps an imposed winter sequestration is healthy. In the mean time, I’ll count the days until March.

Vacation

Light and Shadow
Copyright 2007, V1VrV2

In the life of an airline pilot (as with most professions), few things are anticipated and welcomed as much as scheduled vacation time. The lures of two weeks of relaxation, an unencumbered calendar, and limitless possibility for doing as one pleases always loom large in the weeks and days leading up to the blessed day.

Why, then, do I dread my time off? Perhaps, it's because I know that it will pass too quickly; I will accomplish only half of the monumental to-do list I've built. I will squander too much of it doing things I usually do on layovers in far-away hotels, such as reading books or exploring the internet. My expectations for the time off will be too lofty, as usual.

But perhaps, it's much simpler that all that. Perhaps I dread my time away from what can only be called one of the greatest office windows around. No one in the "conventional" workplace, not even the loftiest CEO or the smuggest politician, sees what I see when they go to work. From my workspace, I can look out at thousands of square miles of the planet in one glance. Light and shadow meld into scenes that defy description. Nature shows her utter dominion over man. Realms unfold as if painted by masters. Mountains of clouds, stacked to the upper reaches of the sky, release their energy in violent zig-zags of light. Colors shimmer through their spectrum. On even the rainiest day, I can enjoy sunshine within minutes. Godlike, I can cause the sun to rise in the west, if only for a little while. Time itself is even shifted by my passage -- an experience no other endeavor grants or asks of its participants. Day turns to night turns to day as I pass through the ether, quietly watching the earth revolve under my feet. Shooting stars and comets and aurora and circular rainbows and St. Elmo's Fire entertain me. Red sprites shoot into the heavens.

Away from all of this, I am restless. Can you blame me? So it's the mundane that causes my vacation anxiety. I might have to take a trip somewhere, just so I can look out of that special office window again. In the mean time, I'll try to enjoy what normal people enjoy. It'll be tough.

A New Kind of Search Party

I spent an hour this morning looking for Steve Fossett.

Really.

First, a little background. Amazon.com has a program called the “Mechanical Turk.” It allows people to do tasks that human beings are better suited to accomplishing than computers are. For things like pattern recognition, matching, interpolation, and the like, our brains are still far superior to computers’ abilities. On Amazon’s Mechanical Turk program, various tasks are “farmed out” on a volunteer basis. Certain companies and organizations pay a small amount for each Human Intelligence Task (HIT) that’s accomplished. (Not all of them pay, and the amounts are pitfully small. You won't want to do this to make money). The tasks might be something as simple as looking at a series of photographs and determining whether there’s a dog or a cat in each photo. This kind of work is repetitive, boring, and sometimes not as easy as you’d think. The point is that, with our current level of technology, human brains are still the only way to go for certain tasks. The Mechanical Turk program is actually a giant Research and Development platform for what will be the next generation of Artificial Intelligence.

So let’s say your family member has gone missing in the Nevada/California wilderness. You acquire some brand-new satellite imagery, put it on Amazon’s Mechanical Turk program, and make a HIT out of it. Now, thousands of people can help in the search, grid by grid. This is exactly what has taken place, and it’s a great idea (and a fascinating use of technology).

Each participant is assigned a random series of squares to visually search using Google Earth. (You must update your database with the new imagery overlay, of course. They show you how to do this). If you see something that might be a Bellanca Decathalon-sized airplane, or part of an airplane, you flag it and comment on why you think it’s worth checking out. For error-checking purposes, grid coordinates are assigned to multiple people.

If you want to participate, you can sign up at http://www.mturk.com/. Then, after you sign in to the Mechanical Turk website, search for “Steve Fossett.”

Several things become apparent as you scan the landscape from above. First, there’s a lot of wilderness out there. Second, many things look like airplane parts when you’re really looking hard. Best wishes to the people who are actually out there, in helicopters and light airplanes, eyeballing the desert, forests, and steep canyons of northern California and western Nevada.

Sublime Approach in Anchorage

Long Shadows, Short Final
Copyright 2007, V1VrV2

The end of a long ride in a cockpit jumpseat is nearing an end. My legs are stiff, and I’m cranky after six hours of listening to the Captain vent his unconsidered opinions on everything from gun-control to immigration. The First Officer is mostly silent. He’s a good F/O. He knows there’s no point in discussing important matters with someone wedded to illogic. He flies the plane with purpose and steadfast calm.

As we turn final, swinging our tail into the bright, low sun behind us, a landscape of intense color and depth emerges ahead. It looks like a painting, and I instantly understand where the term “purple mountains’ majesty” originates. My gloom evaporates into elation. The camera tells what I cannot.

Summit Closeup

Summit Closeup
Copyright 2007 V1VrV2

There’s a little-known departure procedure at Seattle-Tacoma Airport that allows you to level-off at an intermediate altitude, navigate to a point very close to Mount Ranier, and get a spectacular, up-close view of this dormant volcano. A couple of weeks ago, while I was deadheading to Los Angeles, the Captain on the flight asked for permission to fly the procedure, and got it. The passengers were practically falling over themselves to look out the left-side windows. I lucked out and had a window all to myself, with no wing to interfere with the shot.

This photo of the summit was so easy to get, I couldn’t help but think of all the dedicated mountain climbers who’ve hiked and struggled for days to make it up there. They should have just rented a plane, don’t you think?

I'm kidding, of course. My perfect view lasted for no more than 20 seconds, then it was onward and upward, climbing to the upper Flight Levels, where even mighty mountains become ripples in the tapestry below. It's lovely but rather two-dimensional up there. Most interesting aerial photos are taken at considerably lower altitudes. Photographer-pilots must balance good photography with strict adherence to Standard Operating Procedures -- in this case, the one that restricts the use of cameras below 18,000 feet. This makes getting good photos while I'm at work a challenge, but one I enjoy.

Aeronautically Odd?

That Just Ain't Right...
Copyright 2007 V1VrV2

No matter how many times I see them, the elevator assemblies on McDonnell-Douglas MD-80 series airplanes always give me a vague sense of unease. Unsymmetric flight controls that flop around in the breeze just don't look right. Yep, I know they're un-powered, and they streamline during takeoff. I know the elevators move as a result of the movement of the balance tabs. I know the system works splendidly. But still...

Even Simple Flying is Endangered

Kansas Twilight Storm
Copyright 2007, V1VrV2

I’ve noticed a fascinating fact. The further into my aviation career I get… and the more advanced-technology aircraft I get to fly… and the higher and faster I travel… and the more complex the airspace I must traverse… and the more complicated the procedures I must learn -- the more I’m attracted to “simple, low, and slow.” Perhaps the constant, looming threats of more government regulations, fees, taxes and other evils have given me an increased appreciation for the opportunities I have to climb into a Cub or similar airplane and go sightseeing for an hour over the rolling Midwest farmland, with the door down and the vague smell of hay drifting up to my not-so-lofty altitude.

As I cruise slowly though the lowest reaches of the atmosphere, burning 4 gallons of gas per hour, in nobody’s way, I wonder at the intransigence of a system and a government that will undoubtedly seek to one day equate this minor activity with that of a major airline or a business jet operation. Even as I enjoy the elevated view of a red-painted barn glowing in the bright rays of sunset, lately I’ve have to fight interfering thoughts. Distress, mostly. Partially, it’s anger at how the activity I most love and cherish is being dismantled. But perhaps my anger is a bit misdirected. Maybe I should blame myself for wearing rose-colored glasses for so long.

It was probably the naiveté of youth that caused me to miss the negative aspects of a career in aviation. The world of flight, to me, was always an unlimited world. Opportunities abounded, and there didn’t seem to be any real threat involved in choosing aviation as a career. Oh, sure – in the 1970s and 1980s, I read about a few airlines going out of business now and then, and new regs and Airworthiness Directives that seemed to spark lots of letters to the editor in the pages of Flying magazine. But I never felt like these threats were of such a serious nature that they threatened the entire industry. I never felt like there was such a hugely concentrated effort by lawmakers and special-interest groups to tax, restrict, and eventually ground certain facets of General Aviation. Until lately.

Are they aiming to restrict my evening J-3 flights? Probably not. But the manner in which the latest bills are being stuffed through the legislative process, with nary a clue as to their eventual impacts on the aviation industry, tells me we’re dealing with lawmakers of a different breed than we’ve seen before. They’re using a different recipe for getting what they desire than I’ve seen before. I hope they're as interested in their political careers, and the threat of losing the support of their constituency, as previous generations of politicians are, because I’ve been sending several letters per week to let them know how I feel.

If you're a pilot, a mechanic, an airplane owner, a business person, or just a dreamer and airplane lover, I believe time is short. I’m asking you to write a couple of letters. You don’t have to write them yourself. They're already written. Go to the Alliance for Aviation Across America website, and click on a few links. They’ll do all the work of sending an email to your Senators and Representatives for you. Or, you can print the pre-addressed letters and mail them with a stamp.

I am an optimist. I have a tough time imagining U.S. general aviation taking the disasterous form it has taken in Europe. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, watch some of the videos produced by the AOPA.) But I'm not taking any chances. I'm striking back with as much written effort as I can muster, by flooding my lawmakers' in-boxes. You should, too.

In the mean time, I’m going flying.

Sundog II

Sundog II
Copyright 2007 V1VrV2

This is not the best photo, from a technical standpoint, but I thought I'd share it anyway. I've written about sun-dogs before, so I won't bore you with the details. I love the sight of an airplane's shadow racing along the face of a cloud. It conveys all the speed, power, and utter magic of flight like few other sights. Too bad this isn't video; sights like this are even more impressive when they're moving!

Learning to Un-Stifle the Muse

Cumulus Rising
Copyright 2007, V1VrV2

Soaring freely through space -- it’s a dream unfulfilled by all but those who fly. As a kid, before I had access to the kind of airplanes that could propel me with essentially unlimited control and three-dimensional freedom, I used to dream vivid flying dreams. Perhaps it was my mind’s way of getting what I couldn’t yet experience in real life.

The dreams were all very similar. Usually, I’d tour my neighborhood at treetop height, suspended in the air with no pressure on my body, and face down. I didn’t have to flap my arms or “swim” -- I just thought about where I wanted to go and I’d slide that direction.

Another variety of dream, more rare, found me suspended high over a field. Suddenly, I’d drop rapidly downward, accelerating at a rate far greater than freefall. Then, nearing the ground, I’d turn and zoom laterally, just a few feet over the ground, laughing with a giddy sense of freedom and fun. I would awake with my skin tingling, and tears in my eyes.

Later in life, as an Air Force pilot, I reveled in the occasional opportunities to zoom up and around clouds-tops, then dive though puffy holes, rolling and pulling and pretending the clouds were mountains and hills. With the visceral need for aerial freedom now apparently satisfied, the flying dreams ceased.

The mind knows what it needs, I guess, but I miss the dreams. They were the ultimate expression of a part of my mind that I wish I could tap into more regularly. It’s the part from which individual creativity, spiritual energy, artistic pursuit, and romance flow. True artists say it’s an unlimited well. It’s a shame I have not learned how to tap it better. My artistic muse works in short, intense bursts, seemingly carefully-controlled and metered. It sometimes seems as if I am allotted a certain amount of inspiration and output per day. Beyond this level lies…what? Desperation? Madness? If I were to fully let go and succumb to my artistic passions, part of me fears I might lose my analytic, left-brain skills and instantly and permanently become some kind of irresponsible, long-haired hippy. When an artistic period hits, I always feel that I must not accept too much of its gift, or I’ll change into someone else, someone who’s incapable of doing rational things like flying airplanes. I know this is a silly thought-process, but it is one that has vexed me for as long as I can remember. This blog continues to be a form of sticking a tentative big toe into the creative waters that spread out before me.

I work sporadically on a book manuscript, begun years ago. Every so often, when I go back and pull it out of its manila envelope, it’s like reading another writer’s work. I’m pleased to find that the writing is passionate and pretty interesting. It has real potential. Yet I’ve long been paralyzed by the prospect of sharing it with the world, for fear of exposing my most private, inner self to outside ridicule and critique. In recent years, by thinking too much about the social consequences and therefore stifling the muse, I’ve allowed some choice opportunities to slide past me. Articles and books have gone unwritten, photos un-taken, loves lost.

I vow, here and now, to begin to reverse that course. I must stop second-guessing the whole process. The math turns out to be pretty simple. The more I fly, the happier I am. The happier I am, the better I write, take pictures, capture moving images on video, and a lot of other right-brain endeavors.

So I’m off to the airport. And I’m inviting my muse along for the ride. Wish us luck.

Familiar Skies

In 1981 I was a 16-year old high school student living in Delaware. I have to admit that, at the time, I wasn't much interested in the free education being provided to me by the taxpayers of the State. A solid "C-average" student, I excelled in only the subjects which interested me and which seemed to have some relation to what I thought was "fun." My parents were undoubtedly annoyed to see a kid with so much potential squandering his education and hurting his chances at attending an institution of higher learning any more noteworthy than Bartending Academy.

My parents knew that my primary love was aviation. My mother, recognizing an opportunity to motivate me using flying as an incentive, made a stunning offer during my sophomore year: If I brought my grade point average up an entire letter-grade, she would pay for me to attend a two-week Private Pilot sailplane course in upstate New York. I was overjoyed.

Growing up, I had flown in light single-engine airplanes and the occasional helicopter, and I knew from age four that I wanted to be a pilot. Later, in 7th grade, I had been given a 30-minute sailplane ride at a local airport as a birthday present, and I had been in love with the sport ever since. Soaring silently in an engineless airplane, gaining altitude by using the heat of the sun and one’s carefully-acquired skills seemed to be the purest, most unadulterated form of flight. From the moment the glider lifted off the runway, and throughout the rest of that ride, my lifelong desire to be a pilot was reaffirmed a thousand times over.

With the opportunity to actually become a pilot now solely in my hands, I did what I had to do and improved my grades to the required level. And so it was that on a fine June morning in 1981, I found myself in the front seat of a Schweizer 2-33 sailplane, 3000 feet over the Elmira-Corning Regional Airport, in Elmira, New York, receiving my first official sailplane flying lesson from Dale Gustin. Dale was about 50 years old, friendly, patient, and had a dry sense of humor similar to my own. He taught me takeoffs, straight-and level-flight, turns, climbs, descents, airspeed control, stall recoveries, patterns, and landings. We made three to five flights each day, and I soaked up his instruction like a sponge in water. Just as I was getting used to the routine with Dale, he left for his summer vacation and turned me over to another excellent instructor, Phil Cross, who continued my aerial education with steep turns, Dutch Rolls, coordination exercises, turn-stalls, spins, rope-break procedures and other emergencies, off-airport landings, and covered-panel flying. On my fourth day of instruction, after I did a nice landing on the wide grass runway in front of the soaring school building, he hopped out, patted me on the back and said, "OK, I want you to take a tow up to 2,000 feet and do a pattern by yourself. Just do it the same way you've been doing it for the past few days with me. I smiled and said, "I had a feeling this was gonna happen today..."

My first solo was anticlimactic. I was towed aloft, and followed obediently behind the Piper Super Cub towplane until we reached 2,000 feet above the field. Then I pulled the red release knob on the instrument panel which, with a loud "pop," severed me from the relative security of the tow-line and left me alone to contemplate the empty back seat where my instructor usually sat. I remember noticing that the plane wasn't descending nearly as quickly as usual without all that dead weight in the back, and I enjoyed the feeling of total control over my situation that soloing gave me. I took the experience very seriously, aware at every moment of the huge, adult-size responsibility that had been given to me, and of the scrutiny being paid to my performance from many sides. It was one of the great and defining moments of my life.

My landing was good — not perfect or magical — but good. Phil, in keeping with generations of aerial tradition, grabbed a big pair of scissors and snipped off the back of my shirt. On it, he wrote my name, the date, signed his name, and drew a crude picture of a sailplane. It was the best piece of artwork I'd ever seen, and the grin on my face lasted for days.

Throughout the following week and a half, I learned more maneuvers and polished my new skills, both solo and with my instructor. My confidence grew with each flight. Within a half-dozen flights, I was cleared to fly the school's single-seat 1-26 gliders, which felt like fighter planes after the docile two-seat trainers. I especially enjoyed the occasional opportunities to take a 1-26 up for some "ridge flying," staying aloft for hours at time by using the upslope wind that blew along the faces of the local hills.

My Private Pilot check flight came quickly, and before I knew it, I was a newly-minted, licensed glider pilot. My first passenger was my sister, who rode with me the morning after my checkride. She enjoyed the experience almost as much as I enjoyed providing it for her. I was as happy as I could be. That afternoon, with my parents and sister, I left Elmira, New York behind, never imagining the circumstances under which I would see it next.

Years went by. I immersed myself in college, was commissioned as a Lieutenant in the US Air Force, flew fighter jets and became a military flight instructor, and later became an airline pilot. I continued to fly small airplanes of various types, but hadn't flown a sailplane for several years. With the passage of time, I now rarely thought about my soaring school experience in New York during that long-ago summer.

June 1999: As a First Officer with United Airlines, I was flying an Airbus A320 from Chicago to Boston. Our 140 passengers were just finishing breakfast, and the flight attendants were beginning to collect the dishes. The Captain and I had just been discussing movies we'd seen recently, when I glanced out the window, down and to my right.

There, six miles below, bathed in the bright morning light, was the entire Chemung Valley, laid out like a diorama. The Elmira airport runways were clearly visible, and I could easily see the old Schweizer Soaring School building. A half-mile to the south, the imposing mountain ridge along which I used to soar looked like nothing more than a tiny crease in the landscape. To the east, I could just make out the roadside motel where I'd stayed, and the restaurant where I'd eaten breakfast each morning so many years before. Viewing it all from this vantage point really emphasized just how far I’d come. I was seeing, in one glance, the entire extent of my early flying world — a world which, at the time, was vast beyond words.

A flood of memories returned. I remembered Dale and Phillip, my instructors. I recalled in vivid detail the excitement and adrenaline of my first spin, which Dale talked me through in his patient, laid-back style, even as the earth became a rapidly rotating brown-green blur in our windscreen. I remembered the airport dog, Skippy, who spend his days snoozing on the porch of the flight school, waking only to receive an occasional pat on the head from a passing visitor.

But mostly I remembered the feeling of utter possibility in the air. As each day passed, I was becoming a pilot, right in front of my own eyes. My earliest childhood dream had been to fly an airplane, alone and high across the tapestry of that great open space. Before I knew anything about the physics of how airplanes flew or what was involved in learning to do it, I knew that the third dimension held excitement. While learning to fly sailplanes, I was confirming my impressions and living that dream. I’d lived the experience of flying so many times in my imagination that mustering the courage to do it was not even an issue. I was simply executing my pre-destined flight path through life. And I knew that this first step into the sky would lead me on to more rewarding, challenging paths, which would lead to even more rewarding ones, and so on. And I was right.

A bright glint of sun, reflected off the cockpit window, slid over my eyes and brought the present back into focus. The jet was automatically turning — banking to intercept the next airway on our journey to Boston. The landscape slowly rolled by, and a minute later, the familiar valley had receded behind us, and out of view.

Someday I’ll return to that airport, and walk around on the grass, and maybe pat Skippy’s grandchildren on the head. I want to see if another generation of pilots is setting in motion the special experiences that will form the fabric of the rest of their lives. Until I return in person, it’s nice to know that I can find it from my new vantage point any time I fly between Chicago and Boston. The world connects us to our past and future in strange, wonderful, and unexpected ways. I’m looking forward to the next one. Maybe someday I’ll look down from an orbiting space station, catch a glimpse of the eastern United States and say, “I used to fly airliners down there...”

"Of Flight and Life"

Westward Track
Copyright 2007 by V1VrV2

"I grew up as a disciple of science. I know its fascination. I have felt the godlike power man derives from his machines -- the strength of a thousand horses at one's fingertips; the conquest of distance through mercurial speed; the immortal viewpoint of the higher air. I have sensed the harmony of muscle, mind, and mechanism which gives the illusion of life to substance until levers move with thought as hand or foot, until the rhythm of an engine is geared to the beat of one's own heart, and wing in turning flight seems an extension of one's own body."

--Charles A. Lindbergh, "Of Flight and Life"

Solitary Cu
Copyright 2007, V1VrV2

Stearman Salute
Copyright 2007 by V1VrV2

Thunderstorm over Dallas

Majesty
Copyright 2007, V1VrV2

This photo was taken northwest of Dallas. A line of wicked weather was moving through the DFW metroplex. From my vantage point fifty miles to the south, the tops of the storms, crimson-lit by the setting sun, looked almost peaceful. I think back to the times in my military flying career when we would circumnavigate such areas with no onboard radar, and therefore no clue. While flying in high cirrus, we'd often ask the controllers to point us in the best direction -- and since the controller's weather-radar depictions were primitive at best, we'd occassionally find ourselves skirting pretty close to monsters like this. These days, by comparison, it's relatively easy to remain clear of the big red and yellow blobs on a modern weather radar screen. The radar is only an aid, though. Sometimes, storms don't contain enough moisture to show up well on the radar, and you have to use your eyeballs, your gut feelings, and your experience to stay out of trouble. This is one of the reasons why there won't be autonomous, un-piloted airliners. At least in our lifetimes...

Mount Ranier Sunset

Evening Light
Copyright 2007 V1VrV2

Every so often, when you’re flying, you're granted a bit of real glory. On a recent flight into Seattle, it happened to us. No one on board was necessarily looking for it or expecting it. It was the kind of thing that made passengers get up and move over to the left side of the airplane, despite the illuminated Seatbelt sign. In this case, they were forgiven. I can assure you that the faces of the pilots were pressed against their windows, too, along with my camera, of course.

Just a quick reminder to keep your eyes open. Look for glory. It’s literally everywhere.

Aerial Border Patrol

Calexico/Mexicali
Copyright 2007, V1VrV2

They say the loftier your view, the less you can see man's impact on the earth. Astronauts say they have to look very carefully to see any of our scars, geopolitical lines and other influences. From 39,000 feet up, though, some borders are painfully obvious.

This is the U.S.-Mexico border between the cities of Calexico, California (left) and Mexicali, Mexico (right). Mexicali's population is over 800,000, in contrast to the approximately 30,000 residents of Calexico.

It's fascinating to study this image. It clearly shows what some in our society are loathe to admit: Our neighbors to the south are practically stumbling over themselves in an effort get over here. The way many of their cities spread out along the border, filling every acre of land right up to the fence line, is a metaphor for what their society is doing. Whether or not a tall border fence is ever erected along the Mexican border, immigrants will try to cross, whenever and however they can.

Another fascinating contrast, only partially apparent in this photo, is that between the color and vibrancy of the land itself. U.S. soil is rich, the crops green and lush. Mexican soil, mere hundreds of feet away, is dry, brown, and appears to be much less productive. Culture? Agricultural technology? Who knows? (I'll try to get a photo that better illustrates this phenomenon, and post it here sometime soon.)

Supersonic Glory Days

Call it an affliction, but I revel in noticing details. Most of the time, it's for my own enjoyment and, some might say, as a self-verification of my level of Situational Awareness.

Some people go through life looking, but not really seeing. There are some really interesting things out there, if you slow down and look around. Here's an example:

The next time you're boarding a United Airlines airplane at the San Francisco Airport, take a moment to look at the jetway control panel:

I wonder how many people have passed this console and not seen the square buttons along the left side of the panel? These buttons are pre-set positions for the jetway -- buttons that could be pushed to move the jetway to match up with the entry doors on certain types of airplanes. The jetways controls at SFO were built in the late 1960s and early 1970s -- in the heady days of commercial aviation when everyone thought we'd be flying hypersonic space-airliners by 2007. At the time, United Airlines held six delivery positions for Boeing's upcoming Model 2707 SuperSonic Transport, or SST. In 1969, it was natural to assume that we'd all be zipping around the world in SSTs very shortly.

And there, on the jetway panel, is a remnant of those days:

Besides the "SST" button, the panel is also a showcase of some of the long-gone aircraft that United Airlines has flown over the years: L-1011, DC-10, A300, B-707, DC-8, B-727, DC-9, BAC-111. It's aviation history, right there in front of you.

Interesting sidenote: Most of the Customer Service agents who operate these jetways have never even noticed the buttons, and have no idea what the letters and numbers mean. Man, am I getting old...

Denver Sunsets

Denver Ramp Sky 1
Copyright 2007 V1VrV2

Denver Ramp Sky 2
Copyright 2007 V1VrV2

Without a doubt, Denver Airport is a great place to go to see photo-worthy sunsets. The sky there always gives you something new. Oh, sure, you can go to the island of Maui and see spectactular colors every evening. Maui's sunsets look like postcards (which is why there are so many postcards of sunsets available there). They're peaceful -- the prototypical sunset that sends you off to bed with memories of fluffy, pink clouds and whatnot.

Denver's sunsets startle you with their aggressiveness (and sometimes, their blunt weirdness). It must be the proximity to the mountains that causes them to surprise you with colors and patterns you don't see on any Hawaiian beach.

These sunsets taken were 24 hours apart. And I'll bet that if I had stayed another day, I'd have a third photo to share with you.

Lazy Summer Sunday

Lazy Summer Sunday
Copyright 2007 V1VrV2

This photo is for all my pilot friends in the midwest U.S. who are now suffering under a blanket of unexpected and uncalled-for snow.

Patience. Summer is coming. April is certainly living up to its reputation as the cruelest month, but May is coming soon.

I like this photo because it evokes something far away and slightly blurry in one's memory. Like green grass...

New General Aviation Safety Study: A Waste of Time of Monumental Proportions

Safe Arrival
Copyright 2007, V1VrV2

You know, there ought to be a Federal law that prohibits university eggheads from publishing anything related to aviation unless they hold an Airline Transport Pilot (ATP) rating. It’s my opinion that far too much money gets spent on worthless “research” like this – research that rediscovers facts we already know, makes no useful contribution to anything, and is full of fundamental flaws. Here’s the latest farce from the world of academia:

A pair of researchers at Johns Hopkins University in Baltimore has released the results of their study which found that general aviation (GA) aircraft are 82 times more likely to be involved in a fatal crash than airliners. Their research was published in the Journal of the American Medical Association.

According to a Reuters article, “the researchers called so-called general aviation flights a public safety problem and urged the Federal Aviation Administration and the National Transportation Safety Administration to do more to improve safety of small airplanes.”

“I would like people to realize that the huge majority of aviation deaths occur in general aviation,” said epidemiologist Susan Baker, who wrote the analysis with Dr. Guohua Li, a professor of emergency medicine. According to the study, over 91 percent of U.S aviation crashes involved General Aviation. The rate of fatal crashes per 100,000 flight hours has remained steady for many years at around 1.3 in GA, versus 0.015 for the airlines. This means that the airlines are 82 times safer than GA.

The article defines General Aviation and lists some of the types of flying encompassed by the definition: Recreation, business jets, emergency medical services, sightseeing, flight training, traffic reporting, search and rescue, firefighting, crop dusting, logging or other purposes.

OK, first of all, is General Aviation really a “public safety” problem? Other than the extremely rare times when a small plane crash-lands in someone’s back yard, how much is the “public” really involved in GA? Recreational General Aviation is a fairly esoteric endeavor pursued by only a small percentage of the population. It’s an activity that requires a high level of training and what I’ll call “specific intent of purpose.” In other words, it’s not something a person can simply decide to do one day, like playing golf, renting a jet-ski, or attempting to ride a unicycle. For this reason, people who fly must involve themselves in it for a long period of time in order receive even the lowest levels of qualification and access to the activity itself. The other forms of General Aviation are even more esoteric and specialized.

Flying airplanes is a skill-set that is perishable and subject to all sorts of variables – atmospheric and weather conditions, natural aptitude, personal motivations, pilot distractions, health issues, maintenance factors, infrastructure and air traffic control limitations, communications, and many others. These factors affect every airplane that leaves the ground, whether it’s piloted by a 20,000-hour professional or by a newbie student pilot. The difference is that, in airline flying, these variables are highly controlled and their consequences mitigated, partially because of the vast difference is capability of the airplanes and the behind-the-scenes maintenance and operational guidance that supports them, and partially because of the vast depth of experience and judgment of the crewmembers that fly them. Airline companies are in the business of making money. They make money by safely flying millions of people each year from Point A to Point B. Crashing airplanes for any reason is highly undesirable to their bottom line, and they go to extraordinary and expensive lengths to assure the safe conduct of their flights.

My point is that comparing General Aviation with the airlines is like comparing a one-person, 12-foot sailboat with a 1,000-foot long cruise ship. There’s simply no point in comparing them. Other than the fact that they’re both “watercraft,” and they’re both commanded by human beings, they are of a completely different nature.

Worse, the Johns Hopkins study includes types of general aviation operations that are of an inherently dangerous nature, like crop dusting and firefighting, and lumps them in with far less risky types of operations like business and corporate transportation. If comparing airline operations with General Aviation as a whole is pointless, then comparing these diverse subsets of GA is at least as pointless. The study might have narrowed its focus and compared only business aviation with the airlines, but if it did, those results were not released in the reports that ran in the media.

What, exactly, are we to glean from this study? Should the government require advanced ratings and thousands of flight hours in order for a pilot to qualify to fly a 4-seat Piper Archer? Should the FAA mandate the installation of $10 million worth of weather radar, traffic collision avoidance systems, ground proximity warning systems, auto-land systems, autopilots, IFR instrumentation and other improvements in all 1940s-vintage Piper Cubs (an airplane worth around $25,000)? Should flight schools and Fixed-Base Operators (FBOs) provide customized dispatch services utilizing the latest digital satellite datalink capabilities to upload real-time flight planning and weather routing information to the cockpits of each and every weekend pilot who rents a small plane from his local airport to go sightseeing with his family every weekend? Should manufacturers re-engineer every 450-pound recreational ultralight airplane with 40G-capable seats, six-point, computerized airbag-equipped harnesses, and titanium roll cages? Should agricultural applicators (crop dusters) be banned from flying low, since low-flying is cited as a dangerous endeavor?

Of course General Aviation has a higher accident rate than the airlines. It always will, and no amount of money or technology can make the GA accident rate as low as commercial aviation. Driving a jet-ski will never be as safe as taking a Caribbean cruise on an ocean liner. While we can certainly try to improve the GA accident rate (and we’re always trying), we cannot regulate or even mandate it down to anywhere near the levels the airlines enjoy. It’s just an economic and technological reality.

I don’t mind if people want to research topics like this. I even support the efforts of such research if something good and truly reasonable comes from it. Aviation safety is a concern to all aviators. My concern is with the ridiculous overall premise of this particular study, the highlights of which were widely reported in the mass media for a two day period, and were read and/or heard by millions of unsuspecting laypeople.

Why are researchers allowed, and even encouraged, to grandstand in this manner? Maybe media outlets are so desperate for filler that they’ll print anything that sounds interesting, regardless of its validity. Maybe these particular researchers (one of whom is allegedly a private pilot) simply decided to spend their grant money on an easy-to-research topic that was almost guaranteed to get their name in the papers. Whatever the reason, it’s another example of spurious and foolish science, foisted upon us by people who ought to have better things to do.

Contrails and Other Imaginary Things

Trail in the Blue
Copyright 2007, V1VrV2

My Mom says that one day, when I was about three years old, I was sitting in the grass behind our house watching an airliner pass high overhead. I turned to her and said, "Plane pulls line 'cross sky, Mommy."

I watch contrails from close-up now, and I still can't think of a more concise way to describe them. They're still fascinating, and still beautiful to me.

Just for a laugh, I occasionally check up on what the "chemtrail" kooks are doing. These are the people who sincerely believe that contrails are a government conspiracy to secretly spray the public with dangerous, DNA-altering substances. These people have extensive websites containing hundreds of photos purporting to be "proof" of the massive program to control our minds (or whatever it is they believe). Every one of their photos looks like to me like normal contrails in a normal sky. Some days, the sky is covered with spread-out contrails, and some days there's not a single one in sight. Sometimes the trails cross in interesting ways: X's, Z's, tic-tac-toe crosses, and even oblong ovals. All of this is utterly normal, everyday stuff, and yet there are folks who see something completely different when they look up. It's an interesting sociological phenomenon.

It's very similar to the widely-reported "Phoenix Lights" event in 1997. A city full of people "saw" something. A big, V-shaped, black something with lights on it that flew over the city. I saw video footage of the object, and what I saw was something I've seen many times before: A military fighter aircraft, many miles away behind a mountain range, dropping regularly-spaced flares. In fact, I used to fly aircraft that dropped flares just like them.

Every once in a while, a passenger on my plane will frantically ring their Flight Attendant Call button and point to something out the window. It could be a far-off aircraft landing light, or the twinkling lights of a nighttime city passing behind a cloud, or something else they can't figure out. Most often, it's a meteor, or the Northern Lights, that gets their attention.

One time, we were crossing the Atlantic on our way to Amsterdam. It was 2:00 AM. We were 400 miles northeast of the coast of Newfoundland. The Captain and I were deeply immersed in eating our fine Rubber-Chicken cuisine and discussing the day's news between bites. The cockpit's bright, overhead lights were on, so we couldn't see much outside. Suddenly, two Flight Attendants called us at the same time, from two different locations in the airplane's cabin.

The first F/A said, "The passengers are really concerned about what's going on outside, and frankly, so am I." The other one said, "Yeah, what IS that?"

The Captain and I looked at each other. We had no idea what they were talking about. The Captain reached up and turn off the dome lights, plunging the cockpit into darkness. There, stretching from in front of the aircraft's nose to far behind our left wing, was the brightest, most pulsating, and most bizarre example of the Aurora Borealis either of us had ever seen. This wasn't just the usual shimmering curtain of gentle blue/green light. It was a wild, gyrating swirl of blue and white light, like what time-travel looks like in a bad sci-fi movie. It was a veritable light storm.

No matter who you are, there are times you just end up using the f-word, because no other word will do. This was one of those times. (Actually, I believe we both added the prefix "Holy," which makes it OK because it's sort of a religious thing.)

We watched the lights for awhile, then the Captain made an announcement to the passengers, carefully explaining what everyone was seeing. It was a good announcement -- soothing and calming without being too wordy, technical, or dramatic. Nevertheless, when we reached Amsterdam and the passengers were deplaning, one burly man strode up to us and loudly proclaimed, "You don't expect me to believe that was anything but a UFO, do you? There ain’t no way those were some kinda 'Northern Lights,' or whatever..." Then he was gone, before we could even reply. He didn’t want to hear any explanation.

Or maybe he merely had to hurry off to his hotel for the Chemtrail Enthusiasts Club's annual "ChemCon" Convention.

Risky Photography, Part 2

Position and Hold
Copyright 2007 V1VrV2

Approach Light Perspective
Copyright 2007 V1VrV2

These photos were taken shortly after the one in the previous entry. My goal was to capture the excitement and technical nature of airport operations. And, of course, to not get myself arrested...

Shortly after I took the second photo, a white Chevy Blazer rolled up. The driver, a uniformed officer, wanted to know what I was doing. The smart-aleck part of my brain briefly considered answering, "Looking for signs of intelligent life," but instead I held up my camera and my airline ID and said, "Just taking some artistic photos." He examined my ID and said something like, "Well, don't stay here too long."

The absurdity of this reply was stunning. "Why?" I thought, "Do I look more suspicious with the passage of time? If taking lots of photos of this airport is illegal, is taking only a few of them somehow MORE legal? How long is OK, and at what point do I become a criminal? Isn't this a public street? What the hell are you talking about?"

I also briefly considered telling him that, two hours before, I had landed a Boeing 757 on that very runway, and that there wasn't much I couldn't have already seen in the course of my job.

I didn't say any of it. I smiled and said, "OK." And that's why you're looking at these photos now. Silence is the better part of valor, I guess.

Risky Photography, Part 1

B-777 Approach, LAX
Copyright 2007, V1VrV2

Some photos are taken at significantly more risk than others. Standing in the middle of Sepulveda Boulvard in Los Angeles is risky enough. Aiming a camera at a commercial airliner, closeup, might also get you harrassed by the airport cops. If you stand 100 feet underneath a Boeing 777 on approach with full flaps extended, you have about three seconds left before you'll nearly be knocked off your feet by the downwash.

All three factors came into play with this shot, so I hope you enjoy it. It's all part of my service to you, the loyal blog reader.

An Adventure Has Begun

Riveting Experience
Copyright 2007 V1VrV2

"I had always wanted an adventurous life. It took a long time to realize that I was the only one who was going to make an adventurous life happen to me." -- Richard Bach

I've been "offline" for a few months -- not blogging, not writing a whole lot. My spare time, what little there is, has been consumed with an airplane. In this case, it's a home-built airplane project, a Vans RV-8.

Its arrival in my workshop signified the beginning of a new, great adventure for me, and I've been throwing myself into the construction process with all the zeal of a kid building a sand castle at the beach. The rewards have been tangible. My outlook on life is clearer, I'm less concerned with what's going on in the popular and media cultures, I notice more details in everything, and I've made some new friends along the way.

It's like anything else in life -- the more you devote your attention to something, the more important it gets.

This project is something I've looked forward to all my life, and half the excitement of the past several months has been watching myself enjoy the process so much. In the past, I've had a tendency to put off the really Big Things until conditions are "just right." However, as a wise person once pointed out, if you wait until conditions are just right, you will never get started. This project has only begun to teach me things. I have a feeling that drilling, de-burring, countersinking and riveting are merely the smallest lessons. The real lessons are coming from a whole different level.

Fire up your Microsoft Flight Sims

Meigs Field, January 2007
Copyright 2007 by V1VrV2

This week marked the 4th anniversary of the destruction of Chicago's Meigs Field by mayor/tyrant Richard M. Daley. The above photo depicts what the airport looks like today.

Today, I flew around KCGX's virtual traffic pattern on my computer, just to spite Mayor Daley and his arrogance. It's a shame this is the only way we can enjoy the place anymore. I don't think I'll ever be able to walk in the park that replaced the airport without my blood pressure rising to unsafe levels.

Let's vow to never let this kind of thing happen again.