We are tracking eastbound, 18,000 feet over the Long Island Sound, being monitored towards our destination of White Plaines by a very busy New York Center controller. It’s the International Departure push at JFK and Newark and a constant stream of heavy metal, piloted by guys with marginal at best English skills, is transitioning through his airspace on the way to the North Atlantic Tracks and Europe beyond. After repeating a clearance to a Lufthansa pilot he tells us to switch to Boston Center and have a good night. It’s my FO’s leg so I’m on radio watch. I get the new frequency set and check in.

Boston welcomes us aboard and all in one breath lets us know we should have been descending to a lower altitude a long time ago, tells us to hurry down to 11,000 feet and to contact New York Approach control. While I get the radio set up my FO spins in the new altitude, which I confirm with him. With the autopilot dropping the airplane’s nose to start on down the airspeed starts to build, even with the engines spooled all the way back. My FO pulls the spoiler handle all the way back, causing the four wing top panels to pop up into the slip stream. A familiar rumble and vibration accompanies the rapid decrease in speed.

The latest digital weather report from White Plaines appears on the FMS, showing the visibility has improved to just over 1 mile. This is much better than the ¼ mile that was being reported when we left Washington 30 minutes ago. With the weather good enough to now shoot the approach (we need at least ½ a mile) I get busy figuring out our landing speed and weight while the FO gets his charts set up. I do the same a minute later and as the plane levels at 11,000 feet he briefs the approach. That accomplished I hand over the radio duties to the FO and give the Flight Attendant a call. That is followed by a call to Operations at White Plaines to let them know we’ll be there in 15 minutes or so. The computer system normally does this automatically, but we are still required to make the call.

New York turns us back to the west now that we are under the Kennedy Departure corridor and descends us to 5000 feet. From previous experience I know that Interstate 95 which runs along the Connecticut shoreline is passing by our right wing, but tonight it’s hidden by the fog. On my display screen I watch the airports of New Haven and Bridgeport slide by. I smile in the darkness as I remember passing by these same cities in the back seat (and later the front seat and even later the driver’s seat) of a car as I went from my home growing up to visit my grandmother. Although I’m going to a different place and using a different form of transportation this time, sometimes the sequence of things doesn’t change.

The Approach Controller turns us to the north to join the instrument downwind for the airport and clears us to descend to 2500 feet. By 3000 feet we can clearly see the ground. Forward visibility, although restricted is now up to 5 or 6 miles. The controller turns us back to the west and then the south and gives us a clearance to join the instrument approach. My FO starts slowing and calls for flaps. Just as we turn inbound towards the airport I see off to the west the stretch of sodium lighting that spans the Hudson River across the Tappen Zee Bridge. Another set of car rides from the distant past float through my mind, quickly displaced by my FO requesting the landing gear and 30 degrees of flaps. As the gear drops into the foggy air we are handed over to the tower controller who tells us the wind is calm and we are cleared to land.

Despite the calm winds it is a bumpy approach. Due to a combination of geographic position and unique landform, it is always bumpy on the way into White Plaines. My very first landing in the CRJ was to this runway, although in the opposite direction that we are currently landing. It was incredibly challenging (mostly because I’d never actually landed the plane before other than in the simulator) and I was seriously worried I’d have trouble being able to ever land the plane. Now, almost 5 years later, some days I still wonder the same thing. My FO leaves no doubt that he knows what he’s doing however and manages a smooth touchdown. As the plane decelerates I look up to the south and over the Long Island Sound. The fog has cleared, and in the dark sky which is now visible I can see a line of blinking lights heading east. The International Push at JFK is still in full swing and somewhere in a dark room a New York Controller is trying to convey something to a crew whose first language is not English.

As I take the plane back from the FO and start the taxi towards the gate I realize for about the 5th time today that I really do like my job.

The dense, gray fog is passing by the window, briefly illuminated by the blue tinted landing lights, before it passes back over the wing and disappears into the darkness. This is a slightly different than normal view for me as due to a scheduling mess up I’m tucked back in the window seat at row 6 instead of up front. In the last few minutes the chatter coming from the half filled passenger cabin has tapered off to almost silence as we’ve descend into the fog and those who for the whole flight had ignored the outside world now have their noses pressed up against the glass watching the swirling nothingness roll by.

I realize I shouldn’t even be here right now and if the day had gone as planned I’d be blasting through the same fog but 100 miles to the east and doing it sitting in my normal seat up front. Scheduling called me out earlier in the day to deadhead down to Charlotte to pick up an airplane to fly to Clarksburg, WV where we have heavy maintenance done. Once in Clarksburg we were to pick up another plane that had just come out maintenance and bring it back to Dayton. Sometime after my FO and I got on our deadhead to Charlotte somebody actually thought to call Clarksburg to check if the plane there was ready to go and discovered (regrettably to nobody’s surprise) it wasn’t.

Hence the reason for my phone ringing in the middle of a quick dinner in Charlotte to inform me that instead of heading to Clarksburg we would be getting back on a plane to Dayton. My FO joked that it was awfully nice of the company to fly us to Charlotte for dinner but he’d just as soon stayed at home on his couch. Unfortunately, those of us on reserve don’t really get that option. When the company says go, we go and often times have to pick up the pieces later on.

I manage to snag an empty row on the flight home and spend the time dozing until I heard the engines spooling down and feel the nose pitch over at the beginning of our descent into Dayton. I’ve flown this route more than a few times and as I look out the window, the patches of ground lighting that should be there aren’t. The sweep of the Ohio River isn’t off the right. The bright lights of Cincinnati aren’t ahead. Instead, a solid blanket of fog covers the ground. Barely visible through the fog are patches of white and gold light, shining through from the obscured surface.

The Captain makes a quick PA informing us that we are starting our descent into Dayton and that for now anyway, we have the visibility to land. If the visibility drops much more we will be forced to hold for a bit and then probably head down to Cincinnati, which, while fogged in as well, has better visibility. In the darkness I roll my eyes. The same thing happened to me the night before as I was commuting in to start my work week. We needed 1800 feet of visibility to land and Dayton was bouncing back and forth between 800 and 1200. After holding for 30 minutes we headed south and landed in Cincy, where they promptly canceled the flight and sent the crew to a hotel, leaving 50 passengers and one unhappy jumpseater (me) to try to get up to Dayton some other way. I ended up renting a car and driving home, arriving at 1 in the morning. Tonight I’m in better shape as I am actually on Company time meaning they’ll have to give me a room or figure out how to get me home if we do divert and cancel.

We continue our descent towards the ground as the lighted tops of radio antennas pass by, sticking up out of the fog like buoys in the sea. There is a gentle whirring noise and I watch as the slats roll off the front edge of the wing. Seconds later there is a slight pitch change as the flaps slide out the back of the wing. And then we drop into the clouds and the cabin goes quiet.

In the silence I glance around at the people sitting near me. The tension of putting their lives into the hands of two unknown people and a complex airframe is clearly visible on many faces. I remind myself that flying is not a normal thing for the vast majority of people. Even the million milers are out of their element and have to trust that everything will go alright. I have no safety concerns. I know both the Captain who I flew with as a First Officer and the First Officer whom I’ve flown with as a Captain. Both are skilled and smart pilots. They are Professionals. I know our maintenance is top notch and that the aircraft is designed for tough conditions. I know that the probability of anything going wrong is so small that it’s not even worth worry about, and further more I know that if something does go wrong there is nothing I can do about it so worrying is a waste of time. I smile to myself as I realize my biggest concern is that if we divert somewhere else I won’t get home tonight to eat the cookies I baked earlier in the day.

A glow starts to materialize out of the gloom around us. Because I can’t look forward from my passenger seat, I can’t see anything but I know that the guys up front are seeing the wonderful, welcoming sight of the runway approach lights forming out of the fog ahead and solidifying into the line of lead in lights and the runway end lighting. There is a pulsing quality to the light as we pass over the “rabbit”, the string of strobe lights that start at the end of the runway and stretch back into the darkness, bringing ships like ours in from the land of the lost. Suddenly the engine noise decreases and the nose comes up into the final flare attitude as the runway edge lighting coming into view out the side window.

The plane settles to the runway with a whisper and we begin to decelerate. Slowed to a safe taxi speed I watch as a runway exit emerges out of the fog and the plane turns to the right and into a world light by the blue glow of taxiway lighting.

The remnants of a New Year’s Eve full moon still hang brightly in the eastern sky, faded only slightly over the last two nights. Below, through a tattered layer of clouds the lights of Washington, DC stretch to the north. We are dropping though 6000 feet on the way down to 3000 and the air is smooth. Overhead the millions of stars I’ve been gazing at on our ride north from Charlotte start to fade as the ground lighting washes them out. Ahead, the Potomac River cuts a path of darkness across the face of the City. Nestled on the western edge of the river, 15 miles away and rapidly approaching are the runways of Washington National Airport and the end of our day.

We pass through the scattered layer of clouds at 5000 feet and within seconds the ride goes from smooth as glass to uncomfortably rough. As the plane rocks hard to the left and then drops to the right, I can hear our Flight Attendant slamming drawers shut in the galley behind us. My FO reaches up and arms the continuous ignition as we take a particularly large lurch to the left. The surface winds are reportedly gusting to 45 miles per hour and here at 4000 feet they are steady at 60mph. For the next 2 minutes I focus on sawing back and forth on the thrust levers to keep the airspeed somewhat stable. As we pass through 2000 feet and fly over the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, National Tower clears us to circle to and land on Runway 33. I let out a theatric sigh and mumble “why me?” My FO manages to laugh between the bumps as he goes to work on the Flight Management Computer to load in the new approach.

When the winds are out of the north the normal arrival to DC is to fly up the Potomac River and straight on to Runway 1. Sometimes if they are trying to pump out a lot of departures they will have smaller aircraft circle to Runway 33, which is much shorter and involves a low level turn to align with the runway. Landing 33 can be a fun challenge but if you aren’t ready for it, or don’t make the turn at the right time, it can get a little ugly and it’s not unusual, especially on a windy day, to see airplanes powering up midway through the turn and breaking off to try again.

There is no traffic departing Runway 1 but because of the very strong winds out of the West, tower has given us Runway 33 to be more aligned with the wind. It’s a considerate gesture and in the end will probably make for a better approach. Despite that, it’s causing me to rethink the whole approach and instead of flying a simple straight in final with the autopilot following the ILS to the runway, I’m going to have to hand fly a visual pattern across the Naval Base and then back across the Potomac to the runway, all while getting buffeted by 35 knots of wind.

I dump the autopilot while the FO finishes entering the approach into the FMC. After a few seconds the computer decides it likes things and generates a small white snowflake on my display to give me some vertical guidance. Because the approach won’t be flown in a straight line the FMC can’t help out and the lateral path is all on me. I decide I’ll take what help I can get and call for the last of the flaps as we pass through 1600 feet.

The runway is easy to see despite the darkness and I try to picture a curving path that begins from where we are and arcs downward towards the end of the runway. It’s easy to see in my mind, but with the gusting wind it’s going to be a whole different matter to fly it. My FO calls off 1000 feet and I start the final turn to align us with the runway. I briefly mention that if I don’t have the plane on the ground in the first 1500 feet of pavement we are going around and trying again. He agrees and then calls off 500 feet above the river. By now we are aligned with both the runway and the wind which means at least the plane is now going where the nose is pointed. At 200 feet I make a small pitch adjustment I decide I like how things are going. At 100 feet the power starts to come out.

The white aiming point blocks, painted 1000 feet down the runway appear frozen in the windshield meaning we are tracking straight towards them. The plane calls out 50 feet and I pull the thrust levers back to the stops. In the sudden quiet I can hear the wind buffeting by the windshield as the nose comes up in the flare. We float for a few seconds and then settle to the pavement. I’m on the brakes before I can get the thrust reversers deployed, but then realize our ground speed was very slow on landing because of the strong headwind and we’ll have no problem getting stopped. At 80 knots I stow the reversers and increase the brake pressure. The plane slows to a normal taxi speed just as the runway exit comes up on the left.

As we taxi towards our parking spot my FO turns off the landing lights, turning the pavement in front of us a deep black. Despite the decrease in lighting I can still see debris and trash flying through the air, clearly illuminated by the taxiway lighting. It’s a nasty night out there and I’m glad to be done.

A Blue Moon on the last night of the year, surely a sign of better things to come.

Here we are, climbing out below a patchy overcast as the moon shines down through the clouds.

It’s 6:15pm and the same piece of wind blasted North Carolina hillside is passing by my window for the 5th time today. Like the 4 previous times I watch as the snow capped peak slides by, disappearing behind the left wing. The only thing different this time is that instead of sitting in my normal seat up front I am crammed into row 22 in the back of a full Airbus 321, headed for points West, finally.

…

My day started with a 7:30am show time to deadhead back to Dayton. The night before I had run out of duty time and been unable to deadhead home. Today, my last day of reserve for the week, the only thing on my schedule was the deadhead and an optimistic hope of an early release to catch a flight out to San Francisco and three days off. By the time I got out of the hotel van and into the airport that hope was already fading as I was assigned a Mobile, Alabama turn before catching a later deadhead back to Dayton.

While throwing a small wrench in the works, this still wasn’t too bad as the Mobile turn would get me back to Charlotte just after noon and I’d still have time to deadhead back to Dayton and head out or even better, drop off the deadhead and just head west from Charlotte on a direct flight at 4:40 or 5:55. With that in mind I met up with the crew and after loading up 45 passengers, blasted off towards Mobile.

A strong winter storm had rolled through Charlotte the night before and I had watched from the comfort of my hotel room as a mix of ice and rain fell for most of the evening. By morning the weather was heading up the coast where it would eventually dump over two feet of snow and shut down Washington DC. Charlotte still had a low overcast but by the time we were climbing out over the foothills of the Blueridge Mountains we’d hit the back end of weather and the skies cleared giving us a view of the snow capped peaks below us.

We eventually leveled off at 30,000 feet and as the ride was smooth I was debating turning off the seatbelt sign when we got a single chime and a STALL FAIL caution message. The Stall Protection System predicts an impending stall due to slow airspeed and high angle of attack and will alert the pilot via a warbling tone and a stick shaker. If the pilot doesn’t correct the issue the stick shaker turns into a stick pusher which will literally attempt to lower the nose of the aircraft in an attempt to prevent the stall. The system uses, among other things, small vanes that “fly” on the outside of the airplane to sense the angle of the attack.

The procedure for this message involves disabling the system so it won’t inadvertently deploy the shaker or pusher and then add 10 knots to your approach speed as you have lost some slow speed protection. The proper checklist run, the FO and I talked it over and decided we could safely continue to Mobile. I typed up a message to Mother (the Company) informing them of the issue and our intended course of action and while waiting for a response we discussed potential causes. After some investigation into the problem in the onboard maintenance computer the problem was traced back to the right AOA Vane.

Between the two of us we were able to conjure up enough system knowledge to guess that the due to all the rain and ice the night before some moisture had gotten into the base of the AOA Vane and once up at altitude it froze the vane in place leading to abnormal readings. There is a heater on the vane, but it may not have been enough to keep the moisture from freezing inside the housing of the probe. Either way, the situation appeared under control and Mother had agreed with our decision to continue and said they would work on getting a mechanic in place for our arrival.

As promised the mechanic was at the plane before the last passenger was off and after 30 minutes of trouble shooting was able to reset and test the system. The problem apparently fixed, we boarded up while he finished up the required paperwork. For a while I’d been worried that I might be indefinitely delayed and not make the last flight west but now that things were moving along again I was feeling good about my chances. That lasted until my phone rang with another message from scheduling letting me know that once we got back to Charlotte we’d be doing a Huntsville turn and then deadheading back to Dayton.

The return from Huntsville would get us back into Charlotte at 5:15 so in theory, if they let me out of the deadhead and I was really quick about it and we were on time and the stars aligned and… and… I could still maybe catch the 5:55 flight. The one problem was that they had a zero minute turn scheduled between our return to Charlotte from Mobile and heading back out to Huntsville. The good news was we kept the airplane and crew for the turn so we could try to be quick. I put all that out of my mind and watched as the FO kept the airspeed just below redline the whole way back to Charlotte. We touched down and were at the gate 25 minutes early, turning our zero minute turn into a relatively easy 25 minute affair.

Loaded up once more the FO again kept the speed up as we raced across the Blueridge for the third time of the day and then descended over the flatlands of Alabama into Huntsville. 10 minutes out I radioed Huntsville operations and let them know we’d like to do as quick a turn as possible. They said they’d make it happen and sure enough as soon as our last passenger was of the plane, all 12 of our Charlotte bound passengers were boarding and 14 minutes after pulling into the gate we were pushing back out. ATC cooperated as well and after a 2 minute wait I was rotating the plane off the 2 mile long runway that serves as an alternate Shuttle landing strip and turning east to Charlotte and hopefully my trip home.

Our luck held and we arced back over the Mountains doing 320 knots and benefiting from 60 knots of tailwind. ATC never slowed us and I touched down just after the sun dropped below the horizon at 5:05pm. By the time we got to the gate it was 5:15pm and I was off the plane as soon as the last of our passengers left. A frenzied sprint through the airport while talking to Crew Scheduling (who released me from the deadhead) had me at the gate just as they announced pre boarding for San Francisco. The gate agent had a ticket waiting for me (a window seat no less) and 30 minutes later I was dozing in my seat as we pushed back.

…

The Blueridge have passed by for the last time today. Somewhere 2300 miles away the Bay Area waits. I close my eyes and have a vision of our plane completely motionless in the sky while the earth rotates underneath us. I smile slightly and drift off to sleep.

By the time we get to the runway the rain is coming down hard enough to be heard over the engine noise as it strikes the windshield and fuselage. The airplane in front of us, an old Mainline 737, flips on its landing light as it is cleared for takeoff and starts rolling forward. The light beams cut a path through the heavy rain and the engines, set low to the ground under the wing, kick up a huge spray of water vapor. As the blinking strobe light of the 737 disappears into the murk and clouds we are cleared on to the runway and released for takeoff as well.

It’s my leg, and the 4th flight of a day that began 12 hours ago and has yet to show any sunshine. I gave up on that hope hours ago as it is rapidly approaching 11pm and the likelihood of seeing any sun now before we get back to Dayton is slim to none. With the landing lights on and the thrust levers up we start moving forward down the runway into the clouds of vapor left by the recently departed 737.

The FO calls out rotate and we are in the air. Before I can even call for the gear up we enter the clouds and the ride gets bad. I trying to remember when we dropped into the clouds on the descent into Charlotte earlier in the evening, but the day has been too long and I can’t remember. With that happy thought I tighten by grip on the yoke and watch our airspeed and climb rate yoyo back and forth. Due to the late hour and lack of other traffic the departure controller immediately climbs us to 14,000 feet and gives us a turn to the north and towards home.

Through 10,000 I turn off the exterior lights and am debating about calling back to our two Flight Attendants to tell them to stay seated when we break through the top of the cloud layer. The ride instantly smoothes out and I flip the Electronic Device sign off which is the cue for the FAs to get out of their jumpseats.

Overhead, now unobstructed by the clouds, a blanket of stars come into view. As we climb higher they seem to grow in numbers so that as we level off at 30,000 feet the entire dome of the sky is filled with splashes of white. Overhead a meteor flashes by, visible for only seconds as it skips off the Earth’s atmosphere and disintegrates in a burst of light. It is followed by another and then another and soon every 30 seconds the sky is torn by a streak of light that fades as rapidly as it appears. My FO and I stare, transfixed at the display as the darkened Kentucky and West Virginia countryside rolls by under the solid layer of clouds below.

Eventually ATC gives us a descent to 24,000 feet but I put off starting down as long as I can. Finally, when I can wait no longer and still keep the ride somewhat comfortable in the back, I roll the nose downward and pull back on the power. We slowly sink towards the clouds below where 100 miles ahead of us the Dayton Airport sits under a low overcast and rain showers. Above us the lightshow continues as the Geminid Meteor Shower passes over the darkened earth.

I’m 36,000 feet over Waterloo, Iowa, or so says the scrolling map in the seat back in front of me. Instead of sitting in my normal seat up front, I’m back in 9F with my laptop out, enjoying the free internet and in flight entertainment system. The down side of seeing the real time map is the distance to go number which is very slowly spinning down, currently reads 2600 miles. It’s worth it to get home though.

My day started at 9am this morning when Crew Scheduling called to tell me I was flying a single flight from Dayton to Washington, DC and then sitting 4 hours before deadheading back to Dayton. Today is my last day of reserve for the week before 3 happy days off so I requested to be released as soon as I got to DC. This sometimes works out and sometimes doesn’t. Today I got lucky and after ducking under the clouds, flying up the Potomac River and managing a nice circle to Runway 33, I was done for the day and released until Tuesday.

I then began a public transportation adventure, taking the Metro Blue Line from the airport to Rosyln, where I switched to the Orange Line out to West Falls Church. From there I took the bus to Dulles and then, once through security, a People Move (think giant StarWars like bus) to my gate. There were plenty of seats and I eventually ended up here in 9F.

Waterloo has passed by now. Webster City and Fort Dodge are coming up. 2550 miles to go. It’s going to be a long evening.

2500 feet finds us tunneling through a solid mass of fog and rain. We are lit up like a Christmas tree and due to the temperature the precipitation captured in the beams of the landing lights is a mix of rain and ice. The FO turned on the engine and wing anti ice system several minutes ago and I am comforted by the green flow lines depicted on the multi function display, showing hot air being carried to the leading edge of the wing and engine cowls. Somewhere below us the sluggish waters of the Potomac River are sliding by, hidden by the clouds and darkness.

Despite the weather the ride has been mostly smooth unlike earlier in the day when we bounced through the clouds on our way into Charlotte. And into Greenville, SC. And back into Charlotte. And down to Columbia, SC. I shake my head slightly and realize that out of 5 legs flown today, at no time have we seen the ground above 1000 feet, something all too typical of late Fall/early Winter in the North East.

At 2000 feet off the ground there still isn’t anything to see forward except a hypnotizing pattern of rain and snow that is blasting by the window. A mile back tower advised us to slow down as much as we could as we were getting too close to the airplane in front of us to allow a departure between their arrival and ours. We’ve slowed down but with 25 knots of wind pushing us along towards the runway there may still not be enough room. Behind us, the next airplane in line (a Mesaba CRJ 900) is throwing out their anchor in an effort to slow down as well.

Out of the corner of my eye I see a blur of lights and look straight downward out the left side window. A string of white headlights emerges out of the fog, stretching off into the distance before it drifts out of sight behind the wing. I take a second to get my bearings and realize I’m watching Beltway traffic cross the Potomac on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge. By now the lights are a faint memory and all that’s left is the momentary blur of raindrops, briefly illuminated by our flashing strobe light and beacon.

The gray darkness ahead starts to lighten and then lift as the ground lights come into sight. The runway approach lights are turned off but visibility is reported as 10 miles below the overcast so just the runway edge lights are more than enough. On the far side of the airport, on the other side of the bend in the Potomac and across the Mall, the headlights on 14th St stretch northward. Going from seeing nothing to the entirety of The District laid out in front of us in just seconds is a bit of a shock but fortunately the runway rushing towards us at 175mph forces us to focus on the task at hand.

The pavement starts just after the river ends and despite the steady rain and not so steady crosswind the FO manages a soft touchdown. We slow and turn off the runway. Behind us an American 737 starts accelerating down the runway we just vacated, it’s landing lights flickering behind the spray of water its engines are kicking up. Behind them, rapidly approaching down the river are the lights of the CRJ that was behind us. DC runs things tight, but as the lights quickly settle towards the ground, and the still accelerating 737 I realize they set this one up too tight. Sure enough ATC tells the arriving Mesaba jet to go around and their lights rotate upwards and within seconds they disappear back into the clouds.

The drama over I switch to “driving” mode in my mind and start looking for the line that will lead us to our rain swept parking space.

We are blasting our way eastward through the still morning air with the FO driving. I am splitting my attention between watching the slowly shrinking pattern of ground lighting below us and the healthy climb rate the instrumentation is showing. I’m also working the radios but at this early hour there isn’t much happening on that front. Razorback Departure hands us over to Memphis Center and after a brief conversation with the controller sitting in a room a hundred miles away, a room about as dark as the cockpit I’m currently in, I go back to looking out the window.

Our 5:35am departure out of Fayetteville, Arkansas made us the first flight to call the tower ready to go. FedEx and UPS had long since headed off to Memphis and Louisville and at the gates other Express aircraft for United, Delta and American were starting to load up to go but we had the taxiway and runway to ourselves. The plane, lightly loaded, was straining skyward by 130 knots and at 145 knots the FO pulled her off the ground and into the dark sky.

The lights of Fayetteville have disappeared behind the wing. To the north Memphis is clearly illuminated despite the early hour. 200 miles off our nose, just over the horizon Nashville is waking up to another day. 25 minutes from now, when we pass over at 33,000 feet the roads will be filled with the start of the morning commute and the first bank of departures will have already taken off from the airport. As we level off, almost 5 miles above the earth, the eastern skyline starts to turn from deep black to dark blue.

The ride is smooth and I turn off the seatbelt sign. I’m guessing most of our 20 odd passengers are sleeping but this way they can get up and move about it they want. With my seat pushed all the way back I stretch my legs out but my toes bump the rudder pedals. The CRJ cockpit was not designed for comfort or calisthenics, although apparently it is much better than some other airplanes flying around out there.

My abbreviated stretching session completed I go back to watching the horizon which is now a light blue with a line of pale yellow starting to show at the bottom. I take a second to dig around in my flight case to find my sunglasses. When the sun comes up, it tends to come up quickly and it helps to have things in place ready to go. The horizon is still uniform in color so it’s hard to tell where exactly the sun will pop up but I take an educated case and place the tinted sun visor on the overhead rail and slide it to where I think the curving disk of the sun will rise in a few minutes.

The horizon is now a pale gold color which stretches upwards 15 or 20 degrees. There is a perceptible switch in the intensity of the light and within the space of a minute the bottom edge of the horizon line goes from gold to orange to red and then the top of the sun, glowing brightly, clears the curve of the earth and daybreak comes as we cross over the top of Nashville. 400 miles away the sun is high in the sky over Charlotte where another day has already started.

We are headed north, climbing underneath a solid overcast. The southern Virginia landscape of hills and valleys is sliding smoothly by below us while the FO and I discuss the news of the day. Lately, the news has been the same. Service reductions, quality of life cuts, mergers and the threat of furlough and shut down, with the economy less than stellar, the industry is a mess. The trick of course is not getting distracted, as was highlighted by the unlucky Northwest crew who missed Minneapolis last week. Our focus shifts from the latest rumor to the task at hand as we climb into the cloud bases and the plane starts bouncing.

Somewhere ahead of us a King Air advices ATC that he is picking up moderate rime ice and needs another altitude right away. Center drops him down to 20,000 feet and asks the King Air driver to keep him advised. Ice can be serious business and there is no reason to mess around. We have a hot air heated wing and engine inlets as well as electrically heated windshield and probes and despite all that I still keep a close eye on ice buildup on the airframe. With that in mind I glance over at the total air temp gauge which displays the outside air temperature from a probe just below the FO’s side window: +4 degrees, prime icing conditions.

We climb another 1000 feet to 24,000 and the temperature drops to +1 degree. Within seconds a white crust of ice is starts to form on the nut that attaches the windshield wiper blade to the arm. It always starts there, just like static electricity, and then spreads to bigger surfaces as the icing increases. I look up at the overhead panel and see my FO is on the ball and has already turned on the wing and cowl anti ice switches. I go back to staring at the wipers as the ice buildup continues to grow and spread. The arm of the wiper blade now looks like somebody has spread a layer of frosting along it. Looking back I can see the last few feet of the wing and it looks silver and clear of ice. The winglets, which are unheated, are carry a thin load of ice now which means the tail which is also unheated probably has some ice buildup as well.

I’m still not overly concerned. If we need to we can easily descend back into clear, warmer air below us or climb a few thousand feet hirer. Although ice can form at any temperature between about +10 and -40 it normally is found only a small portion of that range, around zero degrees. Climbing will lower the temperature and hopefully get us out of the ice. I take a quick look at our flight computer and realize that we only have about 100 miles to go and climbing isn’t going to be too beneficial. Despite the almost inch of ice covering most of the wipers now the windshield is remaining clear and what I can see of the wings are clear as well. Our anti ice system is keeping up fine and as long as things don’t get worse we are ok to stay where we are.

Minutes later ATC descends us back down to 15,000 feet. Passing through 22,000 we exit the cloud bases and the temperature starts climbing again and the ice starts to shrink as it melts. As the integrity of the structure starts to break down, pieces fly off into the slip stream and zip by the window. By the time we get to 15,000 the ice is gone and the FO reaches up to turn off the anti ice switches. It’s good to know the system is working because it could be a long winter.