Outside my living room window the sun has managed to break through a ragged layer of clouds. The bright light and glare is taking some getting used to as this is the first direct sunlight I’ve seen on the ground over the last 14 days. Southwest Ohio has been gray and cloudy for at least two weeks now, and once again, like in years past, I am reminded of how much I don’t like living here. Over the summer it is easy to forget as the weather is normally pretty nice. But from October until early May it can be tough.

I’m actually very lucky to be seeing sunlight at all right now. Much of the country is currently under the grip of a nasty storm system that at one point stretched from the Great Plains States always the way to coastal New England. We had a bit of freezing rain last night but by the time I woke up this morning the freezing line had moved well north of here and now, most of the weather has rolled out to the east.

Many of my friends at both this company and others are stuck in random places around the country as their airlines frantically preemptively cancel flights in order to avoid the disasters of the past. Whole day’s worth of flying has been dropped for some, turning 10 hour overnights into 35 hour ordeals. Fortunately for me I’m at home sitting reserve, watching this little drama unfold. I could in theory get called in, but for now, I’m nothing more than a bench warmer.

Winter operations aren’t actually that bad, most of the time, but do require some patience. Since I upgraded in the Spring I haven’t really had to deal with much in the way of snow and ice from the left seat, but I feel like my experiences from the right seat should transfer over decently well. The name of the game is simple. Be conservative. I’ve already taken a step in that direction when, last week while doing a Columbus turn we picked up a trace amount of ice on the wings and tail during the descent to land. The book, for us, is very clear. The “critical” surfaces (anything that provides lift for the airframe to fly) MUST be clear of contaminants (read: ice) before you can take off. For me, that meant it was a no brainer. We had to deice. The deice crew was slightly annoyed at having to come out and spray us down when there was barely anything there, but that’s how the game is played. Sorry guys.

Now, sitting at my desk at home and looking at weather reports from around the system (and seeing lots of heavy snow and wind predicted for New England later today) I am reminded of my first foray into winter weather when I was an FO. I’d been on the line for maybe 2 months when I was assigned a trip starting with a deadhead down to Charlotte. I met up with the crew down there for the one leg up to Akron for the overnight. I don’t remember who the Flight Attendant was, but the captain was one of the old school guys who’d been here forever. A very competent guy, he was pretty rough with the airplane and had a mouth like a sailor. Needless to say, as a new hire FO I was very intimidated. Fortunately it was his leg up there so I didn’t have to worry about much other than him judging my radio skills.

About 80 miles out from the airport I was able to get the latest weather. It was reported as ¾ miles visibility, gusty winds and blowing snow. The runway conditions were reported as “fair” meaning our brakes probably wouldn’t be doing too much. 30 miles from the airport had us descending through 10,000 feet with the approach set up and briefed. Behind the cockpit door I could hear our FA stowing bins and locking down her galley in anticipation of the rough ride to come. As we headed into the clouds of snow and ice I threw a few switches and back in the tail cone of the airplane valves opened to allow hot engine air to be directed to the leading edges of the wing and engine cowls to prevent ice from forming.

We were given vectors to join the localizer at which point this captain informed me that he didn’t trust the autopilot or flight director in a situation like this and was going to fly the approach “raw data”, meaning by hand and without the guidance of the flight director. In theory it’s not that crazy but as a brand new guy my eyes got really big.

Now down at 2000 feet the captain was calling for flaps and gear and starting down the invisible path in the sky defined by the glideslope. To say the ride was rough was a bit of an understatement. The winds at 2000 feet were still blowing at around 80 miles an hour and in order to keep centered on the approach course the plane was nosed about 45 degrees to the left. At 1000 feet I started looking forward to try to find the runway and saw nothing by the hypnotic swirl of snowflakes briefly illuminated in our landing lights. At 500 feet there was still nothing but 100 feet above our minimums a hazy glow started to form off to our right. Right at 200 feet above the ground the lights turned into a runway and the captain called out that he was landing.

That may have been the hardest landing I’ve ever experiences in the jet. It was, as the Navy guys say, an arrival end engagement. I barely had time to wonder if the plane was still in once piece before we started skidding. The reversers slid back and our speed slowly started rolling back but every time the captain hit the brakes we would start to skid to the left or right despite the anti skid computer (like anti lock brakes) furiously modulating brake pressure. The 3000 feet of runway remaining sign blew by the window, a yellow glow, almost completely covered with drifted snow. I called 80 knots of airspeed as the 2000 feet remaining sign went by. With the thrust reversers still at max and our speed slowed air from the engines was being blown forward faster than we were moving and our world was further reduced as clouds of blow snow surrounded us. At 40 knots the brakes finally started to take hold and as the reversers were stowed we could just make out the end of the runway about 500 feet ahead of us.

The captain came to a complete stop before even attempting to turn off the runway and on to the taxi way. Even then, with hardly any speed we still skidded around the corner and slid down the taxiway. Fortunately it was a short taxi to the ramp, and for whatever reason the ramp was clear of ice. Two minutes later we were chocked at the gate and the engines were shut down and I finally had time to wonder exactly I’d gotten myself into.

So as I sit here at home with nothing to do but wrap some holiday gifts I’m glad to be on the sidelines today.

There’s a moment on every instrument approach, just as you are coming down to minimums where you start wondering just how accurate the equipment is and if you set everything up correctly. You normally don’t have much time to dwell on the possibilities of something not being right before you either break out and the wonderful, beckoning runway lights come into sight or you hit the bottom of the approach, don’t see anything and are frantically bringing up the power, cleaning up the airplane and pitching the nose up in an effort to get as far away from the rapidly approach ground, just as fast as you can. But in the seconds before you make the decision to land or go around, where you can’t see anything but swirling gray of clouds and mist in front of you, even in the warmest cockpits, you’ll feel a slight chill at the possibilities.

Yesterday started at 4am for me, with my alarm waking me from what felt like not enough sleep. This was day two of three and my 4th day in a row of waking up before 5am. After turning off both the hotel alarm clock (set to go off in 5 minutes in case my cell phone alarm failed) and then the still beeping cell phone, I started my early morning ritual of sneaking a quick look out the hotel window to see what the day was going to be like. In this case it involved moving the blinds back and looking out of the 11th story window, over a dark, wet and misty Kanawha river in Charleston, WV. From the reflections on the road in front of the hotel it looked like it was still raining and the flags across the street were stretched out due to the wind. Having wished I hadn’t looked outside I spent the next 35 minutes getting ready for work and absolutely not looking forward to the day.

The day actually didn’t start too badly. We managed to get right out of Charleston because of the early hour and despite a low layer of clouds and some heavy rain were descending through the mist and rain in Charlotte 30 minutes later. They vectored us around for the approach and even with the weather I had the runway in sight by about 500 feet off the ground. A quick turn (although I had enough time to run in through the raindrops and grab a bagel) and the FO was heading us east towards Wilmington. The ride out was exceedingly choppy but fortunately it smoothed out as we started our descent. He managed a nice landing on runway 17 despite the wind and we delivered our 24 passengers safely.

I took over flying duties and we taxied out with 40 people in the back. Of course, with the weather being down in Charlotte, and the later hour we were stuck waiting for 45 minutes so I shut down both engines and we admired the view from the side of the ramp. Wilmington is quite the happening place. Our penalty time served we started up again and taxied out to the runway. With the gusty wind I used full power for the take off (we can “flex” our take offs meaning we use the minimum amount we actually need to get off the runway and climb out safely as this saves wear and tear on the engines, but with the winds I wanted all the power I could get) and that combined with the light load had us rocketing up to 10,000 feet and turning south west towards Charlotte.

Because of the weather I had the radar on and it was painting a scattered mess across our route. We were able to work with Jacksonville Center and get a route that kept us out of the worst of it and mostly in the clear. We eventually were handed off to Charlotte Approach who vectored us towards runway 18C. As we entered the downwind for the instrument approach the radar started picking out large red splotches of heavy precipitation in front of us. The good news was the winds at 5000 feet were blowing at about 60 miles an hour and moving most of the weather off our route. The problem was there was a fair amount of stuff upwind that was now coming our way. A tight turn from Charlotte kept us out of the worst of it and we joined up on the ILS.

An ILS (or Instrument Landing System) is basically a radio beam projected from the runway up into the sky. It consists of two parts. A lateral “localizer” which provides horizontal guidance which allows you to stay centered on the runway from miles out even if you can see it, and a vertical “glideslope” which gives a constant rate descent right down to the runway. The ILS is ridiculously accurate and under normal conditions allows you to get to just 200 feet off the ground while only being able to see 1800 feet ahead of you and still land. Once you get 200 feet above the ground (which is listed as a set altitude on the approach plate) you either have to be able to find the runway (or the approach lights) or execute a go around. From the 200 foot point, if you continue the decent, you are normally on the ground in about 20 seconds so the decision has to come pretty quickly.

Now, heading inbound in moderate chop and heavy rain, the only thing visible in front of us was a mass of clouds, barely visible through the water running up the windshield as we barreled through the weather at 180 miles an hour. With the aircraft fully configured with the gear down and the flaps out I was able to slow to 150 miles an hour but we were still descending towards a runway we couldn’t see at 700 feet per minute. At 1000 feet above the ground the FO called out “1000”. I had the autopilot flying still as it does a better job (under normal conditions) of tracking the ILS in and was splitting my attention between making sure it was staying on target, monitoring the airspeed and power settings as well as sneaking glances out the front to see if I could see anything.

3 feet below us, embedded in the underside of the nose of the aircraft two radar altimeters were pinging away at the ground below us. Once the beam send and return time was computed at 500 feet the plane dutifully called it off for us however there was nothing visible outside to back up this assertion. I took a quick look at the approach plate and double checked (for about the 10th time) the minimum altitude for the approach and then glanced at the primary flight display to make sure it was set there as well. I then looked back at the plate to mentally rebrief what I’d be doing if we hit minimums and didn’t see anything. By the time I looked back at the displays we were just 200 feet above minimums and 400 feet off the ground, still with nothing but blurry gray mist and rain.

At 100 feet above minimums the FO called off “100 above” and I started to feel the chill that I always get, no matter how many times I do this when I am just 300 feet and less than 20 seconds from the ground and still don’t see anything. A second later the FO called the approach lights in sight and I took a quick glance forward and saw a hazy set of red and green lights with a the rabbit (a line of lead in strobe lights) running between them. Despite all the amazing things I see while flying, the runway lights emerging through a low ceiling and reduced visibility is one of the most beautiful. A quick flick of my wrist turned on the wipers and the lights got a little clearer. As the airplane called out “minimums” the runway lights appeared through the murk. I called out “runway in sight… landing” and turned off the autopilot. A quick bank to the left to account for the wind had me lined up with the center line and I kept the nose over to keep us descending towards the wet surface below.

At 100 feet above the runway I started pulling out the power. At 50 feet the airplane started calling off our altitude in increments of 10 feet and by 30 feet the power was all the way out. There is a moment where, especially when the runway is wet, the airplane can’t decide if it wants to keep flying or not. Gravity always wins in the end and we settled onto the runway just passed the 1000 foot markers. The thrust reversers unlocked as the main gear compressed and with air now being directed forward from both engines the plane started slowing. Some gently brake application further slowed us to the point I was able to stow the reversers and taxi clear of the runway.

Hours later as we headed into Charlotte for the third time that day after fighting our way through the weather all the way up to Detroit, we broke into a clear patch about 30 miles from the airport. A rainbow formed next to us as the sun started dropping to the horizon to the west.

Sometime late yesterday afternoon, while I was doing some Christmas shopping in snowy Yellow Springs, Ohio, two airplanes collided in the (reportedly) sunny skies about 8 miles west of Fort Lauderdale, Florida. According to the reports both the single engine Cessna 172 and the twin engine Piper Seminole were out doing flight training when they collided and crashed into the Everglades below. Unfortunately this happens from time to time. The nature of this business is such that airplane accidents, although statistically more rare than car crashes, tend to garner more publicity. And although this is not the first time this has happened since I’ve been part of the industry, nor will it be the last, this one hit slightly closer to home than anything so far.

The Seminole was operated by the company that I did much of my flight training with, and then instructed with for almost a year. While I didn’t know the instructor or the student killed as I left there almost 4 years ago, I did fly the plane involved in the mid air. Due to the magic of computer based logbooks I was quickly able to go back and sort my flights by aircraft tail number and matched two flights to that airplane. The first occurred in late July of 2004 and involved a flight from Fort Lauderdale up to Jacksonville. I don’t have a specific recollection of this flight, but based on my logbook as well as a fuzzy memory, I seem to think this was the second cross country flight that me and my flight partner undertook after completing our instrument ratings.

Earlier in the day we had headed out of the relative familiarity of Stuart, Florida where we’d done all of our training in the Seminole and launched into a typical cloudy Florida afternoon. I have a vague recollection of us talking to various ATC facilities as our route in the sky followed Interstate 95 southbound before being vectored inland over the Everglades due to commercial jet traffic heading into Lauderdale and Miami. Eventually we were turned due east and began our gently descent out of the sky down to the runways at FLL. After landing we swapped into another airplane, which 4 and a half years later would be plummeting out of the sky and slamming into the same swampland we had just flown over.

But that story was yet to be written. On that day, my flight partner (now, like me, a captain at a regional) both had just over 100 hours of flight time and the ink was still wet on our instrument ratings. After swapping airplanes one of us (from my logbook it looks like he was flying and I was working the radios) nervously pointed the nose of the airplane through the probably cloudy south Florida sky towards our destination 250 miles to the north. I have no recollection of the flight up the coast. Over the next few months it would be a flight that was repeated over and over again by us and despite a few interesting moments that popped up, the trips blended together.

The second time I flew that plane was 3 months later on a dark October night in Jacksonville, FL. By then I had been hired as a flight instructor and had been assigned to the main office where I was answering phones in “the pit” until a spot in the field opened up and I could head out and start teaching. To keep us current we were given .8 hours of flight time every 2 weeks. This basically allowed for us to take an airplane up in the local pattern and do 3 landings. After two weeks of answering the phones the closest I’d gotten to an airplane was the simulator (nothing like what I train on now) and I was more than ready to fly. I set up a time with one of the active instructors and met her over at the airport to fly the .8.

After having flown just about every day (and sometimes two or three times a day) for the last three months, the two weeks of not flying had been pretty rough. I was happy to just get in the airplane and fly. Additionally, this was the first time I wasn’t actually paying for flight time and in a sense, although I wasn’t actively teaching, I was getting paid to fly. The three trips around the pattern, although quick, are still burned into my memory. With no check rides looming (other than the “Rich Ride”, a story for another day) and no maneuvers or skills to learn, it was pure flying, something I hadn’t ever done much of as since as far back as my first flight in a Cessna in January of that year I’d been working towards flying commercially.

After our first loop around the pattern with a nod to my instructor back in West Virginia I turned off all panel lights and the landing light. With no moon the instruments were completely dark and I had to fly strictly by sound and feel and by looking outside at the darkened terrain passing by below us. Flying like this is good training for dealing with an electric failure but also, for me anyways, is some of the most joyful flying I’ve ever done. Just me and the plane: no instruments or numbers to get in the way. Months later I would do the same thing with some of my students and after their first moments of incredulity (“but I can’t see anything”), which always made me laugh and think of Luke Skywalker in StarWars, they quickly warmed to the idea and would request to do another circuit in the pattern with the lights off.

After two stop and goes I handed the plane over to the instructor who until now had been sitting quietly in the other seat. She took the plane around for a landing and I walked her through flying it with the lights off which ended up being some of the first instructing I did. After she managed a nice landing in the dark I took the plane back and did one more go around the pattern before taxiing in for the night and adding .8 hours to my logbook.

Almost 5 years later that .8 would show up when I quarried my logbook for an aircraft tail number which in news video footage was barely visible amidst the scattered wreckage of what used to be a fine flying machine now strewn across the Florida swamplands. Because these thing happen it is very easy to become numb to the event, especially when you personally don’t know the people involved. When you do know them (and this has already happened to me a few times in my relatively short flying career) it is much more difficult to just nod and say “these things happen” and move on. As hard as it may be, the best anybody can hope to do is learn from what happened and attempt to never let it happen to them. This industry, like others, has many lessons written in the blood of those that have gone before.

Yes, this is from a few days back, but I’ve been busy do other stuff. Life, ya know?

Early Thanksgiving Day morning had us getting in the hotel van in Montgomery, AL. Despite the somewhat early hour (it was 5:30am local and 6:30am eastern which is where my mind normally hangs out) all three of us (CA, FO and FA) were in a pretty good mood. It was Turkey Day. We “only” had 4 legs to fly. We were going to be done in time to eat dinner. And, best of all, tomorrow was the last day of the trip. We made it out to the plane with no problem and despite having to deice due to a layer of frost on the wings we were heading eastbound into the already risen sun by 6:30am.

Even with 50 people in the back the plane kept a pretty good climb rate due to the colder air temps and by the time we were over Atlanta we’d already been up at our cruise altitude of 28,000 for a good while. It was the FO’s leg, so between radio calls I pawed through the breakfast bag the hotel had given me. The blueberry muffin looked good as did the peach yogurt. However, the apple was a little squishy so I decided to pass. The first mouthfuls of Turkey Day food had absolutely nothing to do with Turkey. But such is life.

Our wonderful company was providing Turkey Dinners in all of the major hub crew rooms between the hours of 10am and 12pm. Chances are the food wouldn’t last that long, but last year somehow I ended up being about number 5 in line and was able to get a plateful of food. Alas, that wasn’t to be this year as we were scheduled to depart Charlotte for Knoxville at 9:55 and get back from the turn at 12:05. And as predicted, when we got back there was in fact no food left. To make up for this my FO and I went to Quiznos were I got a turkey sandwich. Not really the same but it had to do.

Three hours later (after having to return to the gate and swap airplanes due to the old one’s APU breaking) I was turning our new trusty steed towards runway 2 at Newport News and the end of our day. Due to the holiday reductions in the schedule, both us and the airplane were supposed to be done at 3pm but because of our maintenance problem we were pushing 4pm as we pulled up to the gate. None of our 50 passengers seemed to mind the delay as they were mostly headed off to spend the evening with family and friends, doing their part to decimate the local fowl population.

We arrived at the hotel 30 minutes later to find our company issued Turkey Day feasts in the refrigerator. The irony of course was that it had no turkey or stuffing. At least they tried.