Outside in the humid Alabama air our ramp crew looks like they are having a blast. I can see the tug driver shaking his head and smiling as he watches one of the other rampers do a theatrical jog to keep up with the airplane as we push back. Not satisfied with the jog he begins skipping next to the nose of the plane, his head bouncing up and down outside my window. The tug driver now starts laughing out loud and I get slightly concerned if he’ll be able to stop us smoothly or not. I have no need to worry though as he brings the airplane to a halt and between laughs tells me to set the parking break.

I give the ok to start the engines and while the crew outside disconnects the tow bar the FO spins up both engines and we run the associated checklists. As the tug pulls backwards from the plane towards the gates I check the travel on the rudder and flip on the hydraulics for the nose wheel steering. With everything working as it should I release the parking brake but before I can add power and turn out towards the runway I notice that two of the rampers are having a dance off as they head to the gate with the tug. Realizing we still have 15 minutes until our Air Traffic Control release time I reset the parking brake and we watch.

The skipping ramper starts things off with the classic Running Man. The other ramper quickly responds with a weak Lawn Mower. Even from 100 feet away, through the increasing rain I can see the first ramper shaking his head in mock disgust. Apparently he thinks the Lawn Mower is part of amateur hour. He then ups the ante by busting out the Sprinkler. The dance move challenged ramper gives it another try with the Mail Man straight into a duck walk but the other ramp just turns his back still shaking his head in disgust, although as he turns around I can see he’s actually laughing. My FO and I are also laughing hysterically at the show going on and I wonder for a second if our passengers in the back can hear us and are wondering what is going on.

They finish up the dance off with a combination of moves that carry names I have no idea what are. I think I spot some moon walking and a bit of the cabbage patch but I’m not really sure. My FO, who actually grew up during the disco days of the 1970s can’t place them either. As they finish up the contest, they solemnly bow to each other and I wish I had a horn on the plane. Instead I release the parking brake and rev the engines in appreciation while turning the aircraft tiller to the left. We start a slow taxi out towards the runway as the rain starts to come down in earnest.

4 hours ago

The Charlotte Airport is a zoo. I try to find a quiet spot behind the gate podium and stay out of the way. The last bank of the night is getting ready to leave and people are everywhere. I’m starting a modified high speed which is basically a trip where you fly out the last flight of the night and then fly the first flight back in the morning, ended up with somewhere between 2 and 6 hours of time at a hotel in between. The downside is you get very little (if any) sleep during the trip. The upside is that you don’t start your day until after 9 at night are done with your day by 7 or so in the morning. Despite the beating your body takes while flying them, high speeds are popular among a lot of crews and tend to go pretty senior in a bid.

My high speed is actually made up of three legs instead of two. I start the trip with a deadhead up to Akron where there is a plane that needs to be shuttled back down to Charlotte. Once in Charlotte I will go into the “rest” period of my high speed before heading back to the airport at 6:30 in the morning to deadhead back to Dayton and be done for the day. Of course I don’t really plan on going back to Dayton but rather head home on the first flight west in the morning. That’s the plan anyway.

The crew for the flight to Akron finally shows up and after they get the plane ready we start to board. 20 minutes later we are taxiing out to join the line for takeoff. 10 minutes after that the wheels are up and my eyes close as the plane picks up speed heading northward.

2 hours ago

I’m sitting in the left seat of the plane that brought us up to Akron while my FO organizes our bags in the galley. Outside two mechanics have the plane hooked up to a tug and are pushing us back across a rain streaked ramp towards the hangar where our plane is waiting. I’m “brake riding” for the mechanics which sounds way more glamorous than it really is. We are secured to the tug which is more than capable of stopping the plane’s momentum when they get to the hangar, however, just to be safe and just in case the tow bar gets disconnected somebody has to keep their feet on the aircraft’s brake pedals. Through the rain I see the lead mechanic make a kill it gesture and after warning the FO it’s about to get dark I reach up and flip off the auxiliary power unit which is providing power to the aircraft. The lights fade and then turn to darkness as the generator spins down. I flip the last several switches by feel and as the plane goes cold the tug rolls us back into the hangar, joining the three other airplanes already in for the night.

Once secured there the FO pops the door and we drag our bags back out into the rain to the plane we will be taking back to Charlotte. The thoughtful mechanics have powered it up for us and the cabin lighting looks inviting through the midnight rain drops. Once on board I start checking the systems and setting up for the flight south while the FO plunges back into the rain to do a walk around. By the time he’s back on board after pulling the chalks I give the ok to shut the door and we settle down to setting up the flight. It ends up being my leg and after running a few checklists I brief the departure and spin up both engines. A remarkably upbeat for the hour ground controller clears us to taxi and I pop the brake and start towards the runway.

Halfway there we are cleared for takeoff and we run the final checklist just short of the runway. Everything completed, I roll onto the runway, push up the power and start splitting my attention between the increasing airspeed indications and the rapidly blurring runway which is passing by through the rain splattered windshield. The correct speed comes and goes and I rotate the nose skyward into heavily laden rain clouds. The tower controller clears us to 15000 feet and tells us to turn to the south towards Parkersburg, West Virginia and then hands us off to Cleveland Center.

In the clouds the ride gets bumpy but with no passengers in the back I’m not overly concerned and roll to the right to turn south. The radar isn’t painting anything so I let the speed build up in the climb. At 8000 feet we pop out of the top of the clouds into an arctic looking landscape. The moon is full and directly overhead, illuminating the cloud tops like an ice field. Out to the distance in the east a few thunderheads rear up over the landscape, sullenly flickering in the moonlight. Our route to the south looks clear and through 10,000 feet I pitch the nose over and let the speed build up to 310 knots. It’s 1 in the morning and there is another airplane within 100 miles of us.

30 Minutes ago

Charlotte is reporting a broken clouds layer at 5000 feet good visibility so we set up for a visual approach as we descend back towards the dark earth. Dropping through the clouds we find ourselves at 4000 feet with nothing visible below us. So much for the weather report I think. While my FO lets the approach controller know that we will need vectors to an instrument approach I pull the approach plate out of my book and start resetting data for an instrument arrival. Approach Control spins us around to the localizer and I dump the autopilot to increase the rate of the turn. Things work out just fine and we end up riding down a radio beam in the sky towards a runway somewhere in the darkness ahead of us. The clouds break up at 2000 feet and the runway appears where it is supposed to be.

With no passengers or bags on board we are very light and I misjudge my flare and end up thumping down on the runway. Only the FO and my pride are there to judge it so I don’t worry too much. We clear downfield and taxi in towards parking. Ramp Control has long since gone home for the night so I call up Company on the radio and ask where they want me to park the plane. After a bit of discussion they tell us to put it in remote parking which is fine with me as that way we don’t need somebody to wand us in like we would if we were parking at a gate. At this hour of the night finding somebody to do that could take a while as all of the rampers are long gone for the night.

I roll to a stop on the deserted ramp and shut down. While my FO starts to put stuff away I jump out and find some chalks lying nearby to secure the wheels. That accomplished I shut down the plane and start bring my bag down the stairs. While waiting on the FO to finish his walk around a pickup truck pulls up with an operations supervisor. She says she’d offer us a ride back to the terminal but only has one seat in her truck. While she’s explaining this another ops person pulls up in a golf cart and she immediately offers us the golf cart and says she’ll catch a ride in the truck after cleaning the plane. I look across the ramp to the terminal and then think about the long walk through the terminal and immediately take her up on the offer. My FO and I throw our bags in the back of the cart and after reminding myself how to drive a golf cart (I worked at a driving range years ago) we take off across the ramp.

Now

The ramp is silent other than the quiet rumble of our little golf cart motor. I drive around the end of the express terminal and turn towards gate E1, the closest gate to the main terminal and our eventual exit from the airport. We pass underneath tails of darkened airplanes and around rows of empty baggage carts. The lighted jetways pass by in the darkness, looming like something out of Star Wars. I pull in next to gate E1 and turn off the cart. Our single headlight fades away while somewhere above the clouds a full moon continues to shine down.

I call for the flaps to 20 degrees and trim back slightly to account for the change in pitch caused by the wing changing its shape. The airspeed starts to roll back and I add a bit of power to hold it. Somewhere in a subconscious portion of my mind I am compute turn and pitch rates, airspeed and thrust vectors and what other numbers are going to have to come together to get the airplane turned 180 degrees around and descending to the end of the runway somewhere out there in the darkness. The loop closes and a little voice tells me to turn now which I do.

We are now heading west across the valley. Below us, somewhere in the scattering of ground lights the grounds of the Biltmore are passing by. Ahead, the western edge of the valley flares upwards, visible as a black wall against an almost black sky. The runway is clearly in sight now, several miles to the south out my window. I call for the landing gear and 30 degrees of flaps, which quickly drop out into the night sky. I push the nose over slightly and roll the plane to the left towards the approach lighting system just forming out of the hazy darkness.

On final now with the last of the flaps sliding in to place I make a few adjustments to our track and trajectory downward. Everything seems to be coming together nicely. With the sun long since set the ground has cooled to an almost uniform temperature and the bouncy thermals that plague daytime operations in the summer are thankfully absent. At 1000 feet I look to the left at the terrain rising to the right of the plane. Off the left, at the eastern edge of the valley the hills slope up quickly towards some the highest peaks in the Southeast.

The runway stretches out in front of us and I remind myself that there is an almost 150 foot difference in elevation between the arrival and departure ends meaning we will be landing downhill. Despite that, Ashville has a relatively long runway for an airport up in the mountains and the downslope shouldn’t be much of a problem assuming my landing is halfway decent. At 500 feet the plane is all but flying itself towards a nice landing. At 100 feet I have to counter a slight rolling motion, probably generated by airflow over the terrain. 50 feet passes by and I bring the nose up slightly while slowly reducing the power. At 20 feet the last of the power comes out and the plane hovers over the runway. The radar altimeter calls off 10 feet and then there is a slight bump and we are here.

Clearing down field I switch over to the tiller and taxi back towards the gate. Above us the airport beacon cuts a path of alternating white and green light through the hazy night.

Spread out below us are the rippling peaks of the West Virginia Hills. I spent an enjoyable 4 years of my life going to College just north of here and roamed the hillsides of the Monongahela National Forest we are currently flying over. My FO tilts his head slightly, looking forward at the light which is now starting to move towards us, or us towards it as at night sometimes it is hard to tell relative motion. “I think it’s a fire” he says and after a moments contemplation I agree with him.

At night there are fewer light sources, namely the sun, to reflect off the particles in the air and hence visibility goes up. On a clear night, it’s not unusual to be able to see splotches of ground lighting hundreds of miles away, just dropping over the edge of the curvature of the Earth. However, just because you can see forever doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll know what you are looking at.

While teaching in Phoenix I would take students on night flights out of the Valley of the Sun to Yuma, 150 miles away, where what is left of the Colorado River, most of its water long since shuttled off into various irrigation canals, passes into Mexico. We’d leave just after dark and slip out underneath the Phoenix Class Bravo airspace towards the West and the darkness of the Sierra Estrella Mountains and then pick up the line of car taillights creeping westward along Interstate 8. Besides the lights on the highway and the periodic scattered ground lighting as the small towns of Gila Bend, Welton and Fortuna passed by, the trip was made in darkness.

I normally instructed from the right seat, with my student in the left seat. Often times on the return trip eastward, I’d press my face against the glass of the side window and stare off into the blackness to the south. Passing by, just a few miles off our right wing was Restricted Area 2301, one of the few military training areas in the contiguous United States that still allows life fire training missions. Defined on one side by Interstate 8 and on the other by the Mexican border, several of my students who flew F16s out of Luke AFB or Davis Monthan down in Tucson had told me stories about flying out there. Most of them involved the wording, almost part of the pilot credo, “so there I was…”

Winging eastbound towards the bright lights of the Phoenix Valley, I’d normally see nothing to the south, but every once in a while I’d be rewarded with a some strange light show that I could only assume was flares or tracer fire or missile trails or who know what. Phoenix has a almost yearly tradition of UFO reporting (just google “phoenix lights” if you don’t believe me) and while I certainly wouldn’t ever classify anything I saw as a UFO in the little green man sense, I certainly can say there were unidentified flying objects out to the south.

All of this is in the back of my mind as we cruise across the dark West Virginia hills. As Washington hands us over to Cleveland Center the fire on the mountain gets closer and closer until the whole sky is filled with a flickering orange light. We drop down to 5000 feet as the flaming pyre passes along the right side of the aircraft, just out my window. At almost 300 miles per hour, the specter quickly slides back into the darkness but as we pass abeam it I see what I think is a clearing on a hill top, lit by what looks like bright white stadium lighting. In the center of the clearing huge orange flames or rising skyward, clearly visible even from almost a mile up. I see no flashing red lights of emergency vehicles and before I have a chance to classify what I am seeing it slides back underneath the wing. I look over at my FO and shrug. He shrugs back and we start looking forward trying to find out destination, hidden among the hills ahead.

An hour later we are airborn again, this time heading south back towards to Charlotte. It’s after midnight and somewhere to the east, hundreds of miles out over the Atlantic Ocean, the rising sun is rushing towards us. Much closer, low on the eastern horizon a flickering blob of orange light is still dancing in the darkness.

The air temperature is warmer than normal and with a full load of 50 passengers in the back the plane is sluggish to climb. We finally reach 28,000 feet and settle in for the flight south. Below us, off to the left of the aircraft the Delaware River springs from almost nothing to a full blown river as it passes by Philadelphia, forming the border between New Jersey and Pennsylvania, and later on as it empties into Delaware Bay the line between New Jersey and Delaware. As the plane rolls a few points to the right the setting sun reflects on the car ferry working its way across the Bay towards Cape May, New Jersey.

Ahead of us now, a line of bright gold across the darkening landscape the Susquehanna River runs from the Pennsylvanian hills and across the flatlands of Maryland before dumping into the top of the Chesapeake Bay. Much farther upstream we sometimes get a close of view of the river as it passes by the airport at Harrisburg, PA before curving around Three Mile Island on its eventual way to the Bay and then the Sea.
The Chesapeake spreads out below us catching the last of the sun’s setting rays as we follow the western shoreline passing over Baltimore and Annapolis before turning inland away from the Bay and towards the ridgelines just visible in the now hazy distance. Below us, Washington, DC clings to the confluence of the Potomac and Anacostia rivers surrounded by the solid ring of traffic fighting rush hour on the Beltway.

The millage continues to roll down and the haze in the distance turns into a solid line of weather which forms a series of red and brown splotches on the radar display. The last rays of the sun slip over the horizon as full moon appears on the opposite side. It slowly rises into the sky as we continue southward listening to the growing number of planes on the radio requesting deviations for the weather ahead. Within minutes we are in the line as well and get approval deviate as well. We slip around the edge of one cell that hasn’t quiet made up its mind if it’s going to go big or go home and then turn south again to avoid another one that is throwing off lightning in all directions.

Bouncing through a overcast layer as we descend towards the dark ground below an apologetic controller lets us know we will be holding ahead and that we are free to slow down if we want to. As the FO starts to slow the plane I immediately begin worrying about fuel and options. We have enough gas to wait out a bit of a delay but not as much as I’d like. So it goes these days. We enter the hold at 22,000 feet and are immediately cleared down to 18,000 feet. I hold off on telling the passengers anything yet as it seems we may get out sooner than expected anyway. Surrounding us in all quadrants are sleeping giants filling the sky with a blue glow of almost constant cloud to cloud lightning.

The route south to Charlotte, now just 70 miles away looks mostly clear on radar and indeed several airplanes stacked up below us in the hold are getting cleared to continue south to the airport. Before I even have time to get too worried about the fuel situation it is our turn to go and we reenter the waypoints towards the field as the autopilot dutifully follows the pretty pink line on the screen. Atlanta Center passes off to Charlotte Approach who clears us to join the localizer and head towards the runway. As we drop through 10,000 feet the City comes into view on the left, ablaze in light, backlit by a huge storm to the south which is raining down huge orange bolts of electricity. Just to the north of the final approach course which we are following is one more undecided cell. Every minute or so it flickers a light yellow color as it tries to generate some electricity. It is showing bright red on the radar display but as we slide by it at 2000 feet and descending it passes without a whisper of turbulence or lightning.

The runway comes up quickly from the sea of airport lights and we thump down on centerline. Clearing down field I flip off the radar as I happily note the lightning detection system is showing yellow lights meaning the ramp is still open. We just need a bit more luck and we’ll get our passengers off and on the way to where ever they are going from here.

Engines shut down, passenger door open, jetway attached, we are once more moored at the gate, unloading our cargo. Overhead the first drops of rain start falling from the sky, pinging off the fuselage and running to the ground. I place my headset and rubber duck (long story) in my bag, grab my rolling bag from the closet I the back and follow the last of the passengers up the jetway as the ramp lights start to form halos in the now steady rain.

To the west, just visible on the distant horizon a lone thunder head works its way across the countryside spitting out bolts of lightning at the sleeping population below. I turn my focus back inside and adjust the radar to its maximum useful range of 160 miles. 130 miles out and well to the left of our route a red splotch appears on the screen as the radar dish in the nose sweeps back and forth across the cold, empty night sky. To be showing up that clearly this far away it’s got to be a big cell, which judging from the amount of electricity it’s throwing out it appears to be.

The rest of the scope is clear and I go back to watching the stars outside and the distance to go number on my multi function display slowly roll back towards zero. I’d expected to maybe still be in a plane at this time of night (or morning) but I’d been hoping I’d be in a seat in the back or maybe the jumpseat upfront heading west and home. Instead, due to a plane breaking down in Daytona Beach I got tapped for an extra round trip and then flying the last flight of the night back to Dayton. Within seconds I went from walking towards freedom to the reality that I wouldn’t get home until at least the next morning. Such is life on reserve at the bottom of the pile.

The “quick” turn I’d been assigned to Knoxville turned into a nightmare in its own right as the next 5 hours entailed waiting for a Flight Attendant, trying to cool a way to hot airplane, weaving our way through scattered storms, sitting out a 2 hour ground stop to get back to Charlotte, weaving through more scattered storms and then trying to find a gate in the pouring rain in Charlotte. It only got worse from there as I waited another 45 minutes for the inbound plane I was taking back to Dayton to arrive and then for another FO as the one assigned timed out while waiting. Finally, at 12:15am we had a plane, a full crew and 70 passengers.

Airborne finally, ATC wastes no time in turning us north. There is almost no traffic at this hour and before we even pass through 10,000 feet we are cleared direct to our destination. Despite a full load of passengers the engines have the cooler night time air on their side and get us up to our cruise altitude quickly. Once level with the power pulled back the engine noise is barely audible from the cockpit and the only sound is the slipstream washing by in the darkness. Above us millions of stars cover the night sky…

I pull my seat forward again and tune in the weather for Dayton. The next 5 hours or so have become a series of checkboxes in my mind. Get the weather. Land the plane. Walk to my car. Sleep in my car for 2 hours. Wake up (if I ever fall asleep). Go back inside the airport. Get on a plane to finally travel that 2000 miles to home. It’s not glamorous but at the end of the day it’s all worth it to get home.

Years ago I flew over these same swamps in a much smaller plane, with much less redundancy; namely just one engine and a piston driven one at that. Mostly it never bothered me, but every once in a while, while cruising low across the Gulf of Florida or watching the plane’s shadow skip across the mangrove swamps of the Everglades, I’d get a little chill and try not to think about the “what if”…

Today we have two turbine engines purring quietly 50 feet behind the cockpit. Just outside my window Interstate 95 heads south to Palm Beach, Lauderdale and points South. In the distance to the west, Orlando is lit up, it’s ground lighting reflecting against towering thunderheads clear across the State, spitting lightning out at the Tampa Metro area. At altitude, Florida is a narrow state, and even on a marginally clear day it is possible to see from one cost to the other.

The latest weather comes up for Melbourne. The storms have moved off shore (or stayed across the state) and the winds are light. Visibility is slightly restricted by haze, even this late at night, and a scattered layer of clouds has taken up residence 1500 feet above the ground. Despite that, we shouldn’t have a problem picking up the field visually once we get closer. Just in case things don’t work out as planned, my FO loads up the instrument approach.

The engines are still at idle thrust as we pass through 8000 feet. The small towns along I95 start to take shape out of the constant stream of lights that run down Florida’s eastern coast. The Intercostal Waterway cuts a path of darkness between the lights on the mainline and the hotels and resorts that cling to the Barrier Islands, and Route A1A.

The lights on the other side of the Intercostal diminish and fade to nothing as we pass abeam Cape Canaveral. Visible even from a distance of a mile up and 15 miles away, the launch gantries on the Cape are illuminated and look just like the lighted superstructures of coal mines in far away West Virginia. Once upon a time, long ago while flying down this same airway in a small Cessna, I watched a rock lift off and followed its smoke trail as it arced out over the Atlantic. To this day it is one of the coolest things I’ve seen while in flight.

The Cape fades off into the distance as we descend through 5000 feet. Orlando Approach is busy vectoring around airplanes full of people going to visit Mickey. The storms over Tampa have taken an odd turn to the East and from the sound of things the controller who has the Western Sector is starting to see his airspace get crunched. Out on the east side things are quiet and we pick up the Melbourne’s beacon from 10 miles away. Orlando is glad to get rid of us and wastes no time in passing us over to the Tower Controller who clears us to land.

We manage to keep the field in sight as we slip through the patchy layer of clouds at 1500 feet. By 1000 feet the FO has the plane slowed and configured. The air is still and as the humidity increases more and more moisture is getting pumped out of the vents in the form of mist. Visibility in the cockpit momentarily drops to inches and then quickly clears as the temperature changes and the water stops condensing. The runway come up quickly and we gently thump on to the pavement. The exit we want is all the way at the end so I take the plane back from the FO as we slow through 60 knots and let it roll all the way to the end of the 10,000 feet of pavement.

Safe at the gate with both engines spooling down, I flip off the seatbelt sign which cues the Flight Attendant to open the main cabin door. The door pops open and my ears adjust to the change in pressure. Seconds later the rolling wave of humidity and heat engulfs the cockpit and I knew we are here.

Climbing through 12,000 feet we momentarily break into the clear. Sliding Between two layers of clouds I can just make out the cells we are passing between. I have my FO ask ATC for a few degrees left which they approve and I give the monster to our right a little more space just as we slip into the clouds again and visibility drops back to nothing. The radar still shows a clear path ahead so we are surprised to suddenly enter heavy rain and nasty turbulence that shakes the plane hard enough to spill the coffee my FO has been sipping. The rain increases in intensity, getting to the point where it is nearly impossible to hear the radios over the noise of it striking the airframe. Before I can even make a PA back to the cabin to get the flight attendant seated we are out of it and break into clear skies to the east of the weather.

Our arcing flight path heads up the eastern seaboard, crossing the North Carolina/Virginia border 30,000 feet over the town of Skippers, VA. We level off at 32,000 feet somewhere to the northeast of Richmond, VA before passing east of Washington, DC. A solid overcast has covered the countryside below since we left Charlotte but the clouds tapper off as we start a slow descent over the New Jersey landscape. Philadelphia appears out of the haze to the west just as the Washington Center Controller passes us off to a New York Center Controller who is located in a rather unremarkable building in Ronkonkoma on Long Island. I laugh to myself as I think for about the 100th time that it is a good thing they call it New York Center because there is no way I could ever pronounce Ronkonkoma correctly, especially at the end of a 12 hour day.

At Cliffwood, NJ we head out over the Lower Bay where New York Approach clears us down to 4000 feet and direct to the Verrazano Narrows Bridge and up the Hudson River. Free to maneuver as needed now I switch from NAV to Heading mode and point the nose of the plane at the bridge. Once there I spin the heading bug to the north and we turn up the River. Below, the water is filled with inbound and outbound boat traffic that I can only assume is organized and controlled by somebody somewhere.

The Statue of Liberty passes by out my window and I turn a few points to the left to keep the nose of the plane centered between Manhattan and Hoboken on the left bank of the river. My FO is splitting his time between working the radio, watching out for traffic and admiring the view out his window as the City rolls by below. North of Central Park we are cleared down to 3000 feet and I have to adjust the heading again on account of the wind. We pass over the George Washington Bridge with it’s Little Red Lighthouse warning off ships below just as we are turned to the east to follow the American Eagle regional jet ahead of us.

Both my FO and I quickly pick him up visually, a white smudge against a blue sky, and are cleared for the approach behind the traffic. I dump the autopilot as we pass over the top of the Bronx Zoo. I vaguely remember visiting there when I was 5 or 6. I think they had big elephants. I quickly put that thought out of my mind as I call for flaps and gear and turn in towards LaGuardia’s Runway 22. As the plane rolls out on final I quickly point out the Throgs Neck and Whitestone Bridges off to our left as they cross the top end of the Long Island Sound to my FO. It’s rare to have Air Traffic Control use either of the bridges as a navigation point, but it has happened and he had asked which one was which earlier in the flight.

The final flaps come out as we pass through 1000 feet. For a second there are three airplanes on the runway in front of us as the Eagle Jet we are following rolls out, departing traffic rotates off a crossing runway and a third plane crosses on it’s way to taking off. Then the runway is clear and for our use alone. At 500 feet we float by Rikers Island which according a US Today article I’d just read is once again suffering from overcrowding. By 200 feet I have a feeling it is a going to be a good landing. At 50 feet I slide the last of the power out and hold the nose where I want it. The left main wheels barely kiss the pavement and as I wait for the right side to settle the plane decides we are on the ground and throws up the spoilers on the wing. What lift we had left is immediately chocked off and we drop the last 6 inches out of the sky with a gently thunk.

As the reversers deploy and we begin to decelerate all I can do is shrug. I did my part today. The FO did his. The weather cooperated. ATC didn’t hold things up too much. The plane just decided it was done flying a half second before it should have. All in all I’ll consider it a good day.

We’ve spend the afternoon bumping along over a solid overcast and taking off and landing in winds approach 40 miles per hour. This is our final leg of the night and in typical fashion it’s probably going to be the worst. Akron is reporting winds out of the west at 25 miles per hour with periodic gusts approach 35 miles per hour. That’s not a huge issue on its own, but their western runway is closed for construction meaning we will have to land to the north or south with a huge crosswind. I run some quick trig in my head (with the help of a cheat sheet published in our speed book) and realize with the current winds being reported, we will be legal by about 3 miles per hour of wind.

The plane issues a single chime as we drop through the clouds to advise us that it senses ice accumulating on the airframe. A quick look at the windshield wipers confirm this as the quickly crust over with milky white rime ice. I double check that the anti ice switches are on and hot engine bleed air is heading out to the wings, which it is. However, in order to descend and keep the speed back my FO has the thrust levers back at almost idle and we are in danger of not producing enough air to keep the wings hot so I tell him to put out the spoilers. The plane slows quickly, which allows him to increase the power, which in turn increases the hot airflow to the wing to keep the ice off. It’s an awkward process that one would think wouldn’t be necessary in a jet made in Canada.

We pop out of the clouds over a green rolling Ohio country side. The ride gets bumpy as we descend through 4000 feet. I’d already warned our Flight Attendant to get seated early and as the plane starts to pitch and roll I can hear her slamming her jumpseat into place behind us. The FO already has the continuous ignition armed for both engines so all we can do now is press onward. The approach control asks if we have the airport at about our 10 oclock and 10 miles away. I see it, double check the FO has it as well (which he does) and report that in fact we do see it. We are cleared for a visual approach and handed over to the tower controller.

My FO dumps the autopilot and turns towards the field. I’ve got the radar on but it’s not painting anything. About 5 miles on the other side of the airport it looks like somebody has dumped a piece of dry ice into a swimming pool and it takes me a few seconds to realize what I am looking at. Despite the radar’s negative returns there is evidently a heavy squall line to the west of the field that is dumping rain on the ground. The surface winds are blowing the rain along the front, creating the billowing steam like quality I’d first seen. I do some quick math and realize we should get to the field before it does.

As we drop through 1500 feet the gear comes out and the last of the flaps lock into place. Tower reports the winds at 20 knots with gusts approaching 30. We are still just within our legal limit. At 1000 feet he again calls the winds, this time at 15 knots. Hoping we are going to get lucky and land during a lull we continue onward. I consider asking for another wind check at 500 feet but decide ignorance is bliss and instead keep an eye on our airspeed which is holding steady. At 300 feet we take a couple of hard hits, probably from the surface wind rolling over a small hill next to the airport, but my FO managed to keep the wings level and we keep heading towards the wet runway ahead of us.

At 100 feet everything is looking good. 50 feet and we are flaring. The plane seems to almost hover and tries to slide sideway, pushed by the crosswind, but the FO kicks the rudder in a bit more and we keep moving straight and lightly settle onto the pavement. The reversers pop out as designed and we quickly slow to a safe speed. I take the controls back and clear the runway just as the first drops of rain from the rapidly advancing squall line start to fall.

The top edge of the glowing disc disappears for the third and final time of the day and I take of my sunglasses, wearily rubbing my temples where the frame had been digging in underneath my headset. In the right seat my FO tosses his glasses back in a case for safe keeping until next time and then goes to work rigging the cockpit lighting for night operation. Wedged into the jumpseat between us our extra passenger, a company Dispatcher out on his yearly familiarization flight, is still gazing out my window at the rapidly darkening western skyline and I’m reminded for about the billionth time of how different this job is.

It’s been a long day of 4 legs flown, in and out of the weather and with full loads on all but one leg. We are also carrying our third jumpseater of the day, but the first one who isn’t actually a pilot. Behind the jumpseat, on the other side of the locked cockpit door, our two Flight Attendants are busy doing a drink service for the 70 paying passengers and two lap children crammed into the back. Behind the last passenger, hopefully well secured in the aft cargo bay, is just about one metric ton of luggage.

The sky slowly changes from light blue to dark blue and then to black as night comes flooding in from the east while the distance remaining numbers on the Flight Management Computer slowly spin down until they are in the double digits. We get the latest weather report from Dayton and discover the wind is gusting to over thirty miles per hour underneath a low overcast. My FO jokes that he’s glad it’s my leg and our tag along dispatcher jokingly asks if he should be worried. It quickly becomes apparent that neither one of them has much faith in my skills.

A friendly Dayton Approach controller turns us onto the ILS and clears us for the approach. Shortly thereafter Tower clears us to land just as I call for the landing gear. At 1200 feet above the ground we break out of the clouds and a fine mist of rain drops immediately fills the windshield. Despite that, the approach lighting for the runway is clearly visibly 3 miles away. By the time I get the airplane into a flare at 200 feet the winds have died down some and the rain is holding at a light drizzle. I take a guess at about where the runway should be compared to the wheels and pull back a bit more on the yoke. For once I get lucky and the plane settles to the ground with a whisper as the wheels spin up on the wet concrete below.

As the plane slows to a manageable taxi speed the rain picks up and I flip on the wipers. As I stare through their swinging arc at the dark, glistening pavement ahead I realize how tired I suddenly am, and how glad I am to be done for the day.