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

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

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

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

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

The turbulence starts as we descend between cloud layers. At first it’s a constant light chop but within minutes we are taking pretty good hits every few seconds and my FO’s cup of Sprite Zero is in serious danger of spilling all over the place. With that and passenger comfort in mind I pull the power back and set the speed bug to 280 knots which is our best turbulence speed. 25 miles ahead and rapidly approaching is an arbitrary point in space which the powers that be have given the name SHINE. We have instructions from ATC to cross that point at 11,000 feet and then slow to 250 knots which is now looking like it may not happen due to me having to decrease the rate of descent to maintain a slower airspeed. Through the basic concept of kinetic and potential energy speed is altitude and altitude is speed and some days they both seem to work against you.

I give up on making SHINE at 11,000 feet using the current configuration deploy the flight spoilers. There is a slight rumbling noise and although I can’t see them, I know that 30 feet behind me, the 4 spoiler panels have extended from the top of the wing and are sticking up into the cloudy slipstream which is blasting by the airplane at several hundred miles per hour. The airspeed quickly bleeds off and I trade more potential energy for kinetic and use the autopilot control panel to lower our nose and increase our rate of descent. The vertical speed indicator now matches our required descent rate and I between bumps I let a small celebratory sigh.

We pass over SHINE at 11,000 feet still in moderate turbulence. The latest weather report for Charlotte pops up on our FMS and after looking at it I start setting up for a landing to the south. The weather report, just 5 minutes old is calling for calm winds and a broken layer of clouds at 5000 feet which is good enough for an easy visual approach. I have the FO load in the ILS just in case but I don’t brief it. Instead, between bumps and while trying to keep the airspeed somewhat constant, I brief the visual approach. By the time I finish ATC has descended us out of 11,000 feet and turned us towards the final approach course, still about 15 miles away. As we get away from the ridgelines to the west of Charlotte the turbulence diminishes and my FO is able to drink the rest of his soda without the risk of wearing it.

5 minutes later we are turning to join the radio beam that will eventually get us to the approach end of the runway. As we pass through 4000 feet I start realizing there is something wrong. We should be underneath the clouds now and be able to see the ground. Instead, although the ride has smoothed out we are still blasting through clouds and in the moments of clear air we get, I can see a solid layer well below us. Obviously the weather has changed from the report we got, and changed quickly. As the autopilot grabs the glideslope and drops the nose to follow it down I quickly rebrief the approach for a full on instrument procedure. Fortunately everything is set up already and all I have to do is set the minimum altitude of 950 feet above the ground and go over the missed approach procedure in the event we don’t find the runway by the time we get there.

At 3000 feet we are in the overcast layer and heavy rain is streaming up the windshield. The mileage is spinning down at an alarming rate due to 30 knots of wind on our tail pushing us towards the airport. By 2000 feet I call for the last of the flaps and slow to our approach speed of 135 knots. Despite slowing, the GPS still is showing our groundspeed at well over 150 knots. Legally, we can take no more than a 10 knot tailwind, and unless the winds decrease somewhere in the next 2000 feet of air we are going to be going around.
At 1000 feet above the ground the clouds part. Rain is still running up the windshield but with the wipers on their highest setting I can see the runway ahead. I dump the autopilot and note that our groundspeed now matches our airspeed of 135 knots. The wind has died off. 500 feet to go and I take one last quick look at the display screens. We are showing the flaps at 45 degrees and three green boxes for the landing gear. The “cleared to land” light (really just our taxi light switch) is on meaning that somewhere back in the gray darkness behind us the tower controller had issued our landing clearance. Everything is looking good.

200 feet above the pavement and I flex my hand on the thrust levers in anticipation of brining that back. The rain has let up some and I can see all the way down the runway, through the clouds of water vapor left by the airplane that has blasted off in front of us. As the radio altimeter calls out 20 feet I start pulling out the power and as the plane slows I increase back pressure on the control yoke to keep the nose up. There’s always a moment in landing the 70 seater when you wonder where exactly the air ends and the ground starts and just how sudden that transition is going to be. Today I get lucky the left main gear settles onto the rain slicked pavement with barely a whisper, followed by the right main and several seconds later the nose gear.

A combination of thrust reversers and breaks get us slowed and at 40 knots I move my hand from the yoke to the tiller and exit the runway. As soon as we clear a Mainline Airbus 321 starts rolling from the end of the runway, their engines kicking up a spray of water as the plane starts to accelerate. Beyond them, the lights of the next arrival emerge from the clouds and rain.

Several miles below the New England country side is rolling by. In my dream the hills of my childhood are covered in the reds, yellows and browns of Fall. The fields between the rolling hills are brownish-green with the last of the summer crops and the scattered lakes and rivers reflect the midday sunlight, still strong and somewhat warm. Winter is coming soon, but for now, the landscape basks in the calm of the afternoon.

Where we are going is unimportant. This is more about the journey than the destination. We could have launched out of Philly, DC or maybe even Charlotte. Regardless of where we came from, we are now skimming above the few puffy white clouds that dot the azure blue sky. The terrain rolls below in a series of gentle ups and downs, very different than the tectonically lifted hills of the Allegheny and Blueridge farther south.

I grew up in this place, crisscrossing the familiar back roads of Western Massachusetts. As I grew older my trips took me north to ski the snow covered hills and paddle the cool rivers of Vermont and New Hampshire as well as south to the beaches and sand dunes of Rhode Island and Connecticut. During that time my vantage point was always firmly grounded. The broadest horizon I could see was from the tops of mountains accessed either by foot or ski lift.

Now my vantage point is miles higher and moving fast. Maybe today we are headed up to Burlington, VT. Nestled on the eastern shore of Lake Champlain the city has grown in the past few years thanks to the University of Vermont’s building projects as well as a new Health Center. Even with the new buildings the arrival will be the same: Fly over the New York shoreline and across the lake. In my mind the Fall weather creates a steady wind that throws light chop across the surface of the water, giving lift to the sails of several small boats out enjoying one of the last good sailing days of the year. The Vermont side comes into view as a cluster of islands and then the mainland, rising from the shores of the lake up towards the Green Mountains appearing out of the afternoon haze in the distance. Feet dry we head towards the runway tracking up Winooski River as it winds its way out of the hills, spilling over a damn and through a channel of rapids before heading towards the Lake below.

Maybe today we are approaching Bradley International Airport in Hartford, CT. The airport actually sits several miles to the north in Windsor Locks, set between the Connecticut River to the east and a small ridgeline to the west. This is the airport of my childhood. Just 23 miles from my door to the terminal, this was a route I was driven on (and later drove) many times. In early (very early) morning blizzards and late evening rainstorms I’ve been over this path many times before, heading to or from visits with friends and family, ski trips, college and now my temporary home in the Midwest. The old terminal that sneaks into view as the road curves under an overpass is no longer in use, but the giant painted flag still flies although the flashing time and temperature readout has long since been turned off due to disrepair. Even with its faded appearance that flag and blank time and temperature display gives rise to hundreds of memories from my past.

Today, our journey may end in Boston, set hard against the cold Atlantic Ocean, protected only by the curving arm of Cape Cod. The arrival comes in low over Boston Harbor, flecked with small whitecaps brought on by the Fall winds before passing over the Harbor Islands, mostly uninhabited, rocky spits of land that thrust up out of the cold waters. Closer in the city comes into view, with the skyscrapers towering over the Inner Harbor and the classic New England houses perched on the edge of the sea, looking eastward, watching and waiting for their fishermen to come home. The runway begins abruptly where the water ends, a rapid transition from water to sand to rock to grass to pavement. Beyond that the complex tangle of taxiways and runways and ramp space begins; too much airport crammed into too little space.

Below, the Fall colors begin to take shape as individual trees and the fencerows that run along the edges of freshly plowed under fields gain focus as we begin our descent. Our destination emerges out of the Autumn haze and uncertainly of my dream. Portland clings to the rocky Maine coast, built on the hills that surround a natural harbor that dumps into Casco Bay. The airport is at the western edge of the harbor, allowing for a stunning visual approach to be flow, around the islands in the Bay and then up the harbor.

Portland is still a fishing town and as we descend over the forested islands in the Bay the docks appear on the northern edge of the harbor, full of a mixture of deep water fishing vessels and various bay craft. The harbor snakes inland as the Casco Bay Bridge spans across it at a narrow point. We have the gear and flaps out now and I can see the runway ahead, beyond another bridge, just before the harbor turns to the north and narrows, eventually ending where Capisic Brook merges with the salt water.

I can almost smell the salty, crisp, Fall air that is passing by outside the window as we slow to our final speed and somewhere, I can almost hear music playing. The music gets louder and suddenly like a light going out, the bright fall days fades to blackness. The music is distinct now. It is Fleetwood Mac’s Sweet Little Lies. This is my Crew Scheduling ringtone and in a moment of confusion I wonder if I left my phone on during the flight. Now, out of the darkness a single light glows and as the last of my New England dream fades into the air I realize I am sitting in my car, parked in the Employee lot in Dayton and the light is my phone’s display screen. I reach for it and as my eyes focus I see it is 5:28 in the morning. The dream is gone completely now, nothing more than a memory, floating around my head. Reality takes hold and I remember I am sitting hot reserve. I got to the airport at 5am and for the last 20 minutes I haven’t been flying through a New England Fall afternoon, but rather sleeping in my car, waiting on the sun to rise or Scheduling to call with an assignment. It appears that the sun has lost that race.