The rain is cold but not unpleasant. Despite the altitude (we are up in the hills of western North Carolina) and the early hour, it’s not too cold out. Spring has arrived, but I am glad to have my blazer (required for another three weeks) on to ward off the chill. I splash through the puddles and push my bag and flight case underneath the body of the airplane to keep it out of the worst of the rain. With no weight onboard the landing gear struts are full extended and the plane sits much higher than normal. I have to reach up well above my head to grab the door handle and as I do rain runs down my wrist and arm. I rethink the whole not cold thing and shiver as I finally manage to pop the door handle and step back as it opens outwards, slowed by its assist cable and motor.

With the door sitting on the ground, leading steeply upwards to the empty plane I take a step back and check for the rest of the crew. They are still inside, looking at me through the glass door I recently exited. I grumble to myself as I lug my bag up the steps and out of the rain. It takes two trips and by the time I walk up the steps for the second time, a ramper has appeared in the jetway cab to move it against the plane. I now understand why the rest of my crew has remained inside. Sure enough, a minute later they join me in the forward galley, dry and warm, while I still shake rain off from my coat. My only consolation is that the FO still has to go out and do a walk around and endure the same conditions I just did. Of course he wastes no time in pulling an umbrella out of his bag and heading out while I think how nice it would have been to have that a few minutes ago.

By the time the FO is back inside I’ve got the plane running and am finishing up the early morning checklist items. The rain is still coming down and I flip the windshield wipers on and off a few times to clear this glass. There’s nothing to see outside except the gray wall of the terminal building and the short, stubby ATC tower that sits on top of it, but I do it anyway. Our passengers begin arriving shortly thereafter and the normal drama of our two Flight Attendants dealing with them begins.

Eventually we are loaded up and ready to go. It’s daylight now but the light is flat and gray, filtering through the low clouds overhead and the still steady rain. The rampers, covered in bright yellow raingear push us back, disconnect the tug, wave, salute and fade back into the terminal building. ATC tells us to expect no delays (which I find hard to believe with the amount of weather between us and Charlotte) so we spin both engines and taxi to the runway. I rebrief the departure one more time, taking time to highlight the fact that we are surrounded by 6000 foot tall mountains on all sides and what special procedures will be needed if we have problems on takeoff. That completed we taxi out onto the runway, I push the power levers all the way up and off we go.

The clouds obscure the view by the time we pass through 500 feet. Solid streams of water cascade across the windshield but as my focus is inside on the instruments, I don’t really care. I have the terrain display up on my side and it’s depicting brown and red swaths of obstructions everywhere. As we climb out the browns will fade to yellows and then greens as the terrain falls away below us. The FO has his weather radar on and it’s showing browns and greens as well. Unfortunately these won’t necessarily disappear out as we climb.

ATC clears us direct a fix down the road and after quickly checking that we will be above any terrain between our present position and there (something an ATC clearance technically does, but I don’t ever fully trust) we make the turn. As we roll out on the new heading, still bouncing through a gray, wet cloud filled world, I flip off my terrain display and switch on the radar. The image stabilizes and shows a mass of cells between us and the airport, now just 85 miles away with the white course line on the MFD heading directly into the middle of the mess. It’s not even 7:30 in the morning and I realize it’s just going to be one of those days.

There is a momentary pause and then a solid clunking noise as the landing drops out of the belly of the plane. I can feel a slightly slewing motion as the gear doors momentarily deflect the airflow as they transition outwards and then upwards up against the bottom of the wing. It always amazes me that such a small surface can move such a large mass, but one only has to look at the small movements of an aileron on a wing to see this happen.

With the gear hanging out below the aircraft we quickly slow and the runway ahead of us slows it’s up and down pitching motion. Tower advises us that a flight of three military helicopters will be landing on a taxiway to the south of the runway and that they have us in sight. A quick scan spots three black dots, rapidly approaching from the south. I visualize our flight path (a straight line) and theirs (a leftward down sloping curve) and realize we will be ahead of their arrival so even if they overshoot where they are going and encroach on the runway, we will be well out of the way.

At 1000 feet we are still rocking side to side and the controls feel sluggish. I remind myself that this is how the plane feels and go back to my scan that is so ingrained into my mind that a simple two week break hasn’t put a dent in it. The airspeed is staying stable despite the gusty wind. I break sterile cockpit rules to comment to the FO that it is always windy and bumpy on this approach. He simply nods and calls of 500 feet to go. Obviously, I’m not the professional here.

At 200 feet I start to visualize my flare. The 70 seater (well, actually 67 seater now that there is a first class on board) requires a slightly earlier flare than the 50 seater due to its longer fuselage and longer landing gear. It also runs out of power much quicker so you have to leave the power in longer or you will find yourself falling the last 15 feet out of the sky. At 100 feet I start to increase the pitch and use the rudder to center up the nose on the runway centerline. At 50 feet I bring about half the power out and keep pulling back on the yoke to keep the nose up. The plane settles quickly in the swirling air currents and I realize I pulled too much power but there is nothing I can do about it now.

The plane quickly counts off 40, 30 20 and 10 feet. I pull the last of the power out and there is a gentle (ok, slightly more than gentle) bump and we are on the ground. The reversers quickly deploy and then stow as we slow through 90 knots. A gently brake application slows us to taxi speed and we turn off the runway towards the gate just as the first of the three Army Apaches touches down behind us.

It’s the last leg of a four day trip. All that waits for me, 200 miles away in Charlotte, is a two hour sit and then a deadhead home where I am done for a few days. The FO and Flight Attendant are also both done in Charlotte, but only have a quick car ride to their respective houses. The joys of being outstation based once again rear their ugly head. Despite the slow speed we are flying and the 20 minute sit we just endured by the runway in Montgomery, Alabama watching Navy BeechJets fly practice approaches, we are still showing landing 15 minutes early thanks to an early push in Montgomery and favorable tailwinds. I’ve got no place to be but for the rest of the crew, ever minute makes a difference.

Due to a new fuel saving program, we are now being dispatched with less fuel than ever before. The thought is that “extra” fuel we used to carry around weighed a lot and actually burned even more fuel to carry it around. Spread across a fleet of 50 airplanes doing 8 flights a day, 365 days a year, the numbers add up. Apparently. The company brought in an “expert” who explained all of this to a number of captains and management pilots. I came away from the session understanding the reasons, but wondering about the specifics. After two weeks of flying under the new program I’m still wondering about the specifics.

The immediate effect of this program is that if we are planned for a certain speed in cruise, our fuel load is based on flying that speed. Flying faster burns more gas, and while in the past with larger margins we could bump up the speed if we needed to (or felt we needed to), it is no longer always feasible. We are currently showing landing right at our minimums. I check the weather report at Charlotte, guess which runways they will be using and mentally add that into the fuel burn calculation. The number doesn’t improve so I leave the thrust levers where they are and go back to watching the world slide by.

15 minutes will have to do.

The rain beats down on the cockpit glass, running in rivulets down the side and then being blow backwards by the wind which is now gusting to 30 miles per hour. Off to our left a Net Jets Gulfstream blasts off from the runway amidst a cloud of water kicked up by it’s engines. As it disappears into the low clouds I watch the wing tip nav lights dance in the turbulence and think that maybe we should just go back to the gate and forget about trying to get to Washington. It’s been one of those days.

I picked up the trip in Charlotte several hours ago and got to the plane as a very light rain fell. Charlotte was just ahead of a large line of weather that was stretching from Alabama up to the east coast to about Vermont. It was moving east a good rate, driven along by almost 150 miles per hour of wind aloft. On the surface the gusts were hitting 40 miles per hour. Our planned route to White Plaines would take us right along (and at some points into) the leading edge of the front. Obviously this wouldn’t work, but as dispatch didn’t seem to inclined to work with us on a new routing, and plenty of extra fuel in the tanks, I figured we could just pick our way farther east if needed to stay out of the weather.

With that plan in mind we took off into a windy sky, bumping our way up to 31,000 feet. We were able to work our way to the east a bit and stay out of the worst of the weather, although we were in moderate turbulence for a good part of the trip. Fortunately, because of the hefty tailwinds the normal almost 2 hour flight took less than 90 minutes. Despite that, it was a physically exhausting flight due to the constant bumps, trying to avoid the cells, dealing with a way overworked ATC who was trying to vector too many airplanes in not enough airspace and an approach to minimums in the fog and rain when we finally got there. Thankfully we were 30 minutes early arriving so we had a little bit of time to catch our breath before the next load of passengers arrived for our flight to DC.

While waiting I called Dispatch to discuss the weather on route again. Having just fought our way through it heading north, I really had no desire to do so again heading south, and this time down low. Our dispatcher told us that most of the weather was well east of Washington now and the only stuff we would face was on the climb out from White Plaines, heading west until we got behind the front and turned south. The radar map on my phone showed about the same thing and when the FO picked up the clearance from ATC there were no delays anticipated so I gave the go ahead for the gate agent to start boarding.

It started pouring as soon as the first person got on board, leaving our other 41 passengers standing in the rain outside, trying to cover their heads with a mixture of bags, coats and newspapers. Some gentle prodding from our flight attendant got the line moving along and soon everybody was out of the rain and on board. ATC told us to expect no delays so we started up and taxied out, only to be told that we had a 30 minute wait. And thus our game of chess moves began.

We first were moved up to and short of the runway, then crossed over to the other side and told to taxi straight ahead and then take a right. Then we were told to instead, keep going straight ahead and then take a right on another runway, then a right turn off that runway and then turn into a holding pad in the middle of nowhere, which is what we did. After 30 minutes of sitting and waiting and watching the rain come down we were moved up to and short of the runway and told to expect to go shortly. They then change their mind and told us that all the west bound departures have been stopped due to turbulence.
The tower controller asked if we could turn around and go back to the holding pad to wait so we weren’t blocking access to the runway. I grabbed the radio call before the FO could and told them that we could turn around and then asked him how long the hold on west departures would be, which of course, he didn’t know. Once turned around I asked him if we could just stop where we were for a minute and figure out our plan. He said he had nobody else coming along so that would be fine.

The rain is beating against the glass now that we are facing directly into the wind, and I idly flip the wipers on, even though we are stopped with the brake set. The glass momentarily clears and then fills again with the splatter of water droplets. We have two realistic options, and neither one is too appealing and both require returning to the gate for more fuel. We can go back load up a small amount of fuel and then sit out the hold on the departures, which could be 15 minutes or could be several hours. Or we could also go back, add a bunch of fuel and try to get what’s called a tower enroute clearance which would keep us down low at 8000 feet, out of the busy Center Controlled airspace, and hopefully out of the bumps. I tell the FO to stay on the radios incase the ground controller calls us, and pull off my headset to make a PA to the cabin.

I quickly lay out the facts (departures stopped, not enough gas to just sit and wait, even if we shut down both engines) and the options (go to the gate, load gas and sit it out or attempt getting a lower altitude), apologize for the inconvenience and remind them that the Flight Attendant doesn’t know anything about their connections and to not bother her by asking over and over again. The PA complete I pull out my phone to call dispatch and inquire about fuel loads for a lower altitude and what weather we may end up facing down low.

I’m still trying to explain the situation to the dispatcher when my FO starts talking on the radio and gives me a thumbs up sign while mouthing the words “good to go”. I tell our dispatcher never mind, hang up and put my headset back on in time to hear the controller ask how quickly we can get to the runway. We still have both engines running and the FO tells her that we can be there just as soon as she can get us there. That unleashes a torrent of taxi instructions which we quickly follow.

I make one more PA to the cabin informing them that the hold has been lifted and we’ll be in the air in a few minutes. After click off the PA I comment to the FO that moments ago I told the passengers that we couldn’t go because it was too bumpy and we didn’t have enough fuel. Now I’m telling them that it’s not bumpy, we have enough fuel and we are going. I’m sure I’ve just instilled a boatload of confidence into all of them. I quickly put it out of my mind, listen while the FO briefs his departure and with a takeoff clearance in hand, center the plane up on the runway.

The climb out it turbulent to say the least. We are in and out of the clouds and through heavy rain and moderate icing most of the way up. All of the New York Area departures are complaining and ATC is ignoring it, not that there is much they can do anyway. Finally at 24,000 feet we break out of the backside of the weather. The ride smoothes out and in the clear air above the overcast we can see the fading light of the sunset on the western horizon. To the east a mass of dark gray and black clouds are illuminated by intermittent flickers of lightning. To the south the route looks clear. I ease by seat back and rub my temples. It’s been a hell of a day so far.

It’s my first day back in the plane in almost a month, and things aren’t going well. After two weeks of Union work and two weeks of vacation, I’m working my first early morning in several months and as if that isn’t enough, I’m dealing with a broken airplane and nasty line of weather. Somewhere below us the rugged ridgelines of the Smokey Mountains are lurking in the cloud bases. Both the FO and I have our radars turned on trying to avoid the worst of the weather, which means we’ve lost our real time visual depiction of where the peaks are. ATC is keeping us clear of them, but I hate relying on them to do that and would much rather be able to verify their vectors.

About 20 miles away Knoxville is reporting low overcast skies, rain and gusty winds. Between our present position and the runway is a mass of orange and yellow radar returns and, if the current conditions continue, a whole lot of turbulence. On top of that it is below freezing up here and we are picking up light ice on the airframe. It’s nothing that the anti ice system can’t keep up with, but it is rapidly turning what was a quick 35 minute flight in a much more involved ordeal.

Our real issues, and the ones we left the gate in Charlotte with, are that the charger for one of our two onboard batteries is acting up and the valve that directs air from the auxiliary power unit to the aircraft’s pneumatic system is jammed closed. Maintenance “fixed” the charger problem while we were on the gate, although apparently the part they replaced is either broken as well, or not the culprit to begin with. Every large bump we hit knocks it off line for a few seconds, flashing a caution message onto our displays.

Although this is annoying, and probably has long term ramifications, I am less concerned about this issue than the lack of APU bleed air. Because the engines can’t supply all of the pneumatic systems’ needs (engine thrust, cabin pressure and wing and cowl anti ice) something has to get dropped during high demand periods like takeoff and landing. Obviously we can’t do without engine thrust, and because of the icing conditions, we can’t turn the anti ice system off. That means the only thing we can turn off is our pressurization which leads to some mild ear discomfort. We don’t have to turn off the system until we are about to put the flaps out, so as we bump along through the clouds I carefully visualize our descent path and associated speeds so I can have some sense as to when we will have to slow and put out flaps, necessitating turning of the air conditioning packs, and causing the cabin altitude (currently at a comfortable 1000 feet) to start to raise to our actual altitude.

ATC turns us towards the finals, now 10 miles away and on the other side of a nasty looking radar return. I have the FO request 10 degrees to the right from Knoxville Approach so we can slip around the weather, which they quickly grant us. The ride is still pretty rough and heavy rain lashes the three layers of glass making up the windshield. It’s warm enough now that the ice has stopped forming and is melting off in the deluge we are flying through, but the anti ice system still has to be on because the temperature and moisture outside could produce airframe ice. Realizing we are going to have to slow down sooner rather than later I give the go ahead for the FO to shut off the pressurization system.

As the engine bleed air valves close I can feel the cabin pressure rising in my ears and in my nose. I try to yawn to equalize the pressure but only one ear clears. By now the cabin has climbed from 1000 feet to about 2000 feet. Clear of the patch of weather, although still flying through heavy rain, we turn back towards the finals and are cleared down to 2700 feet. We get there about the same time the cabin pressure does. From here on in the cabin pressure will change at about the same rate our altitude does, which means I need to be very gradual in any climbs or descents.

ATC turns us toward the field and clears us for the approach. I remind myself I haven’t actually landed the plane in about a month and with the gusty winds and low visibility on the surface, I need to just settle for getting it down and worry about nice landings another time. We join up on the ILS and start down into the murk below. The rain lightens in intensity, just about the time my other ear clears. They are reporting 500 foot ceilings and as advertised, the ground comes into view just at the plane calls off 500 feet.

The plane buffets in the wind and I flip the windshield wipers on to clear the rain streaking up the glass. The runway is clearly in sight now, stretching out over the grey, rain filled landscape ahead of us. I take one more glance across the overhead panel, noting the multiple push button switches normal dark, now illuminated because of the odd configuration we’ve put the plane in due to the maintenance issues. The left wing drops slightly and the autopilot violently corrects in the other direction. I tighten my left hand on the yoke and my right hand on the thrust levers and then disconnect the autopilot. I may not be as precise as the autopilot, but I can be much smoother in this sort of weather. The plane slews slightly until I adjust the pressure on the yoke so that it flies straight towards the rapidly approaching runway.

I take a quick breath; remind myself how to land, and then grin. This one might be kind of sporting…

We should already be at the hotel by now. Despite struggling through five flights already, falling behind on the turns and then catching up enroute, we’ve been sidelined in Philly for the last 3 hours, waiting for the plane we were scheduled to take to Akron and the end of our day, to arrive. Meanwhile, the plane we brought in sat empty at the gate where we left it, patiently waiting (if a plane can do such a thing) for a crew; a crew that was miles away, strapped into the plane we spent three hours waiting for. Such is life at the airlines sometimes.

All of that is behind us now as we arc above the frigid Pennsylvanian country side. I set my multi function display, dimmed down almost as far as it will go, to display airports along with the normal navigation fixes. I match the virtual view I now see on the screen to the real world landscape visible below, lit in the oranges and yellows of urban sodium vapor lighting. The city of Harrisburg slides by the left wing, perched on a curve in the Susquehanna River, visible as a black gash across the brightly lit terrain below. Way out in the distance, visible in the cold clear air, Baltimore and the glow of Washington, sit on the horizon line.

To our north, visible through rips in the undercast starting to form ahead of us, the lights of Philipsburg, PA slide in and out of view. The clouds below thicken and blot out of the city lights beneath us. Now each hamlet and burg is defined by an orange hazy glow seeping through the cloud layer, identified only by its airport’s identifier scrolling across my map display in front of me.

High overhead, now visible due to the lack of ground light pollution, thousands of starts speckle the dark sky, like glitter on a black page. Our nose is buried in a 100 knot headwind slowing our passage westward to a crawl. Off to our left, along the major flight corridor into New York, New England and the North Atlantic tracks to Europe beyond, a steady stream of blinking strobe and beacon lights glide eastward, driven by the same wind that is slowing us.

To the northwest a shooting star streaks from high overhead. Unhindered by normal methods of propulsion and the headwind we are fighting, the bright white speck of light rapidly slides through the sky, leaving a barely visible trail of glittering light before fading and disappearing into the darkness. I stare into the void that’s left behind and contemplate faster than light travel and its long term effects on my chosen career. Heady thoughts to say the least, but my FO quickly brings me back to reality when I mention it to him by pointing out that we’ve got a long way to go before we get there. I smile to myself and go back to staring out the window at the skies overhead and think, maybe, but with all that visible out there, it’s hard to not dream.

A mechanic I know from previous broken airplane experiences looks up from the paperwork he is studying and seeing my look of terror laughs and tells me it’s not that bad. The flaps are just stuck at 8 degrees and we’ll be ferrying it back up to Dayton like that. Not that bad… sure.

A quick technical tangent: The CRJ’s flaps have stops at 8, 20, 30 and 45 degrees. Takeoffs are normally made at either 8 or 20 degrees, depending on the length of the runway and weight of the plane. Landings are always made with 45 degrees of flaps. There are two electric motors that sit in the belly of the plane that spin flexible plastic shafts that spin gearing on the flap panels that slides them up and down off the back of the wing. The system is overly complex, under designed and exceedingly prone to breaking.

Apparently, that’s exactly what had happened to this airplane. A crew earlier in the day had departed with the flaps set at 8 degrees and after takeoff when they went to retract the flaps, nothing happened. In an emergency, the plane can land with no flaps (or any amount up to the normal 45 degrees) but both the approach speed and runway required are both drastically increased. In this case the crew told Air Traffic Control that they needed to return to the field and that they were declaring an emergency. They apparently made a normal landing although during the rollout they overheated one of the brakes in an attempt to get the plane stopped. After deeming it safe, they taxied to the gate and handed the plane over to the mechanics, and by proxy, me and my FO.

Interestingly enough, this was the fourth time this issue had arisen on this specific airplane in the last week and as of yet, maintenance had been unable to figure out why it was happening. The mechanics working on the plane had their theories but a decision had been made to get the plane up to the Dayton Hangar where they could take the back of the wing apart to figure out what was going on. As I had just brought an airplane down to Charlotte and was only going to the hotel to start another trip in the morning, I drew the short straw and got the assignment.

There is a fair amount of specialized paperwork that is required for a flight like this, both explaining procedures and limitations as well as explaining why and how those procedures and limitations are authorized. Some of it makes sense but a lot of it, in my opinion anyway, is pure hogwash, but such is life at the airlines sometimes. With the mechanics still clustered in the galley I make eye contact with the FO and nod out the doorway. He walks down the steps and I follow him outside where we have a quick discussion about the legality and our comfort level with the upcoming flight.

The flight is deemed legal by both the FAA and the manufacturer due to the service letter and ferry permit the mechanics are currently poring over just up the steps from where we stand. In theory the takeoff should be completely normal and cruise will be fine minus the fact that the flaps will still be at 8 degrees, limiting us to 220 knots and less than 15,000 feet of altitude. There are several other notes about avoiding turbulence and icing conditions which are all pretty much common sense things anyway. The landing phase though is where stuff starts to get murky.

Normally, with a light airplane and the flaps at 45 degrees our landing speed is around 135 miles per hour and the nose sits right about at the horizon line during the approach. With only 8 degrees of flaps our landing speed goes up considerably, approaching our maximum tire speed at higher weights and the plane is pitched upwards of 5 to 9 degrees above the horizon during the approach. With a nice long runway and good weather conditions (both of which we should have tonight when we get to Dayton) this is a non event and one we train for. However, despite this, it is something we would probably declare an emergency for, as the crew who had the initial problem did earlier in the evening.

I explain all this to the FO who is relatively new and ask him what he thinks. He mentions that he is comfortable going along but would rather I actually do the landing. I tell him that is what I planned anyway and after a few more what ifs, we head back up the stairs and start setting up for the flight while behind us the mechanics finish up their paperwork and pack up their stuff. Ten minutes later we are closing the door, pushing back on the darkened ramp and starting our adventure.

I like these quick flights, although doing several of them in a row tires me out. After several days of long legs, and a morning of maintenance and security issues, followed by a trip down the Atlantic Coast to Savannah and back, I am glad to be doing the short Washington to Philly shuttle. Although DCA is a major hub for my parent company they are limited in the number of long haul flights they can provide there due to the length of runways and legal rules meant to push more traffic out to the “new” Dulles Airport. As such there is a steady stream of flights running between Washington and Philly, just 90 miles to the north.

A major early season snow storm passed through two days ago, turning into a Nor’ Easter as it moved up the coast, dumping multiple feet of snow on towns throughout New England. Most of my home town is without power and the backup of canceled flights is only now beginning to be sorted out. The good news though is that the low pressure associated with storm has sucked all the moisture and dust out of the air and today is visibility is restricted only by the curve of the Earth.

Potomac Approach clears us direct to the Dupont VOR which sits on the west bank of the Delaware River, about 20 miles to the southwest of Philadelphia. The FO cues up the fix in the nav computer and I nod ok. The plane thinks about it for a few seconds and then drops the right wing and turns eastward. As we level out I press my face to the side window and watch the Aberdeen Proving Grounds pass by. A friend from college is assigned there, putting various Army vehicles through their paces at the test facility. I’m guessing the driving he does at his job, although limited to just two dimensions, is a bit more exciting than what I do here.

The Chesapeake Bay narrows and then ends. We go feet dry over the town of Chesapeake City and follow the aptly named Chesapeake & Delaware canal to the east to where it empties into the muddy waters of the Delaware River. Now, directed by Philly Approach, we descend to 6000 feet and turn to the North. Close in, off the nose, the River winds northward, passing under two bridges and by a number of water’s edge refineries, before sliding by the Airport and then the city. Past the city the waterway rapidly decreases in size and disappears into the landscape. Rising from the horizon beyond, the New York City skyline stands clearly against the blue sky.

The Big City dips out of sight as we are cleared down to 3000 feet and turned direct the airport. 6 miles from the end of the runway, we are cleared for the approach and advised that we will pass behind a Southwest Jet on the intersecting runway. They are clearly visible, their Canyon Blue paint gliding against the backdrop of downtown Philly. The spacing looks good to me so I focus on getting our plane slowed and configured for landing.

The final flaps drop into place just before we cross back over the Delaware River at 1000 feet. Southwest passes through the intersection in front of us with a mile to spare. There is a slight wind out of the west so I point the nose a few degrees to the left and we track straight towards the runway numbers which are rapidly growing bigger in the windshield. We settled on to the runway and then bounce across the rough pavement of the runway intersection. As we slow to exit the FO graciously points out that I was robbed of a nice landing. I take the complement with a grunt and start looking for where our gate is. I’ll have plenty of chances to make up for it in the future.

The wind out of the east is much stronger than I anticipated. We are being blown towards the airport at an alarming rate of speed and despite me telling the FO to tell the Tower Controller that we have the field in sight (which we do) I still have no idea where the runway is and as I gauge my descent and turn solely on the on screen display in front of me, I realize I had better pick the runway out of the mess of ground lighting below very soon or we are going to be going around and trying again.

Baton Rouge Airport sits in the middle of a jumble of highways and refineries, all of which are brightly lit at night. Farther to the west, the city itself sits on the bank of the Mississippi, a compact bundle of medium sized skyscrapers, low rise buildings and more refineries. After the decent over the darkened Alabama and Louisiana countryside, with the soft coastal lighting glow of Mobile, Gulfport and then New Orleans sliding by the left wing, the bright, harsh sodium vapor lights that blanket Baton Rouge make me squint and blink rapidly as I try to find the oddly dimly lit runway somewhere off to our right and rapidly approaching.

Other than my pride I actually have a reason to not want to have to go around this evening. 45 minutes ago I was staring out at the darkness of Lake Pontchartrain passing by, reflecting the lights of the Big Easy on its southern shore, my face warmed by the heated glass of the side window. My contemplation was broken by the interphone dinging. It was our Flight Attendant calling to report that a passenger somehow managed to cut his head while in the lav and that there was “a lot of blood” but the situation was under control. I gave the FA a moment of grief for calling up 10 minutes ago and complaining that he was bored and then start getting details. It immediately became apparent that although serious we are not going to have to divert. As I formulated the next move, I watched the causeway across the Lake, a straight line of gold cutting through the darkness towards the lights to the south, pass by.

Baton Rouge is now 40 minutes away and the FA reports that the situation is stable in the cabin. I tell him that I’m going to have medics meet the plane as a precaution. After disconnecting the interphone call I run through our options. The easiest way to get the medics to meet us is to advise ATC of the situation, declare an emergency and let the wheels spin into place. This isn’t a bad choice and despite some captain’s reluctance to declare an emergency (“too much paperwork”) I’ve personally never hesitated to when I felt a situation warranted it. However with the thin lighted band Gulf Coast stretching off into the darkness and the undulating curves of the lit banks of the Mississippi River already visible in the distance, nothing ATC could do would expedite our arrival so I decide against declaring an emergency.

The most basic way of ensuring we will have medics on arrival is to request them from Baton Rouge Operations when we call in range over the radio. This will ensure they know what’s going on and cut down on miscommunication. The downside of this is that often times it can be hit or miss reaching them, especially late at night. Also, even if we can reach Ops, we will only be 15 minutes away from landing and while Airport Rescue and Fire Fighting can normally get anywhere on an airfield in 3 or 4 minutes, I don’t want to drop a problem into there lap with less warning than I have to.

I decide to use calling ops as a backup and write a quick ACARS text message to dispatch asking them to call Ops on a land line to give them more of a heads up than waiting for us to get into radio range. We get an almost instantaneous response from our dispatcher advising us she’ll try to reach them via phone. By now we are 80 miles out and descending out of 20,000 feet and we set up for the approach. The FO is new to the seat but was an FA prior to being hired to fly so while he has been here before, it was only while working in the back. I try to explain how hard it can be to find the airport but am cut short by Houston Center handing us over to Baton Rouge Approach.

On check in the controller informs us the the medics have been notified and will meet us at the gate. Apparently our dispatcher, unable to reach Ops over the phone, called ATC and got the ball rolling from that end, which is a good thing as we have been unsuccessful in reaching ops over the radio as well. Approach clears us down 3000 feet and turns us slightly to the left towards the finals. At 4000 feet I start slowing and trying to find the runway. The airport is easy to find but the runway is hidden somewhere in the middle of the darkened patch of land, an island in the middle of a sea of lights.

We are cleared for the approach and I start descending and turning 90 degrees to the right towards where the runway should be. At 2000 feet we are fully configured with the gear out and the flaps at 45 degrees and I’m still rolling to the right trying to acquired the runway. At 1500 feet the runway lights start to appear from the darkness and I focus on them while trying to block out the mass of light surrounding us. The wind is still strongly from the east and is blowing us westward across the final approach course for the runway. I’ve got the nose of the plane pointed well to the right to hold the path towards the runway light ahead and there is a strange sensation of sliding sideways as we drop towards the pavement below. The winds die off as we pass through 500 feet and the landing is thankfully soft. As we touch down I see a huge number of airplanes crowding the FBO ramp I somewhere in the back of my mind I remember that there is a big football game tomorrow.

I quickly suppress the thought and concentrate on keep the plane tracking the center of the runway as we roll out. We slow quickly and exit downfield. As we turn towards the gate I can see an ambulance, its red flashing lights reflecting off the terminal windows, parked with several people standing in front of it’s open back doors. On the other side is a equally as lit up police car. A ramper is already in position to marshal us in and I follow the wands to a stop. As the engines spool down I hear the main cabin door open behind us and the jetway alarm bell sounding as it starts to move towards the now still plane. To my left, in the approach jetway cab two medics stand behind the gate agent, adjusting their blue rubber gloves in the harsh florescent light. With the shutdown checklist complete, I reach behind me to unlock the cockpit door and start thinking about all the paperwork I’m going to have to do before I see my hotel room’s bed.

My evening started 5 hours ago with a planned deadhead down to Charlotte. Several hours prior to that the captain who was scheduled to fly that flight called and asked if I would mind flying it as he wad supposed to deadhead up just to fly it back. That was fine with me so at 6pm, instead of taking my seat in the back I strapped in up front and we launched for Charlotte. An hour later we were taxiing in to the gate and the start of my planned 3 hour sit before going to Savannah for the night.

Walking through the terminal to the crewroom and eventually dinner I ran into the FO who I was supposed to be going to Savannah with in several hours. He, the Flight Attendant and the captain I would be covering for later had to do a turn to Tri Cities, TN (a quick 25 minute flight) before going to Savannah. The FO told me they had loaded up the plane to go and pushed back at 6:30 as scheduled but had to return to the gate and unload the passengers after they had problems starting one of the engines. They were now on their way to another plane. I immediately started wondering just how late I’d be leaving for Savannah. 

An hour later I was walking back from dinner and ran into the FO again. I commented that they had made a very quick trip to Tri Cities if they were already back but he just laughed and told me they still hadn’t left yet. Apparently plane number 2 also had engine problems which required them to return to the gate and unload the passengers for a second time. Maintenance was working the issue but didn’t have an update time for them. The captain had a sim ride in the morning (which is why I had gotten the trip in the first place) and was anxious to get the hotel. I offered to take the Tri Cities turn as I’d be sitting around waiting for them to get back anyway. And just like that it all became my problem.

Dispatch called and told me the plane would be good to go at 10pm. By 10:30 we had our passengers back on board and after a 20 minute wait for the fuel truck we were taxiing out into a giant traffic jam. After 11pm Charlotte closes their three north-south runways and utilize their single east-west runway to prevent aircraft from flying over noise sensitive areas. It cuts down on the complaints from nearby neighborhoods but it puts a large crimp in the operation. 

Sitting at number 10 in line to go, now 5 hours later than scheduled I had a thought, which is never a good thing for me. Tri Cities is a small airport and we get our fuel from the local Fixed Base Operator and since we were so late it was entirely possible that the guy driving the fuel truck there may had already gone home for the night. I assumed that this is something that dispatch would have checked up on but I decided to make sure. Charlotte has a radio frequency we can use to call dispatch and a minute later a dispatcher was assuring me that there would be fuel when we got there. Satisfied with the answer I went back to the monotony of releasing the parking brake, creeping forward one plane’s length and then setting the brake again.

30 seconds later we got a text message saying that there was in fact no fuel truck driver and that the flight was cancelled and to go back to the gate. I told the FO that we owe it to these passengers to get them to Tri Cities, that I was going to call dispatch on the second radio and to tell the ground controller that we would need a few minutes to work on an issue.

Somewhere behind us I hear a plane spool up, the sound a harsh whine that fades into the night. 5 minutes of negotiations with dispatch have gotten us approval to go back to the gate and load an additional 1000 pounds of gas on board so we can go and come back without refueling. I flip over to the local ops frequency and tell them we need a gate and a fuel truck and make it fast. They give us a gate (the one we left from 25 minutes ago) and promise a fuel truck. I let the Flight Attendant know what is going on and apparently some of the frustration I am feeling creeps into my voice because she reminds me to be nice when I tell the passengers. That taken care of we taxi back to the ramp where there is in fact a fuel truck waiting for us.

Ten minutes later we are pushing back again (my second time, the passenger’s fourth) and heading towards the runway. It’s midnight now and there are no other planes in sight. The ramp controller jokingly asks if we are really going to go this time. The FO looks at me a shrugs. That’s about how I feel. We make it to the runway without any issues and then after waiting a minute for a truck to finish an inspection downfield, blast off into the night. Lightning is still flickering in the clouds to the west as we turn north towards our destination. We will get our passengers there 5 hours later than scheduled and a full hour later than the last flight of the night got in, but we will get them there. And then we will turn back to Charlotte and then Savannah beyond. It’s going to be a long night.