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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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