Reflections: Scouted

About half way to Denver from Chicago we heard a ding, a flight attendant calling. I was expecting a drink offer. As I reached for the handset, my first officer, Tom, said, “I’ll take water.”

But the lead flight attendant―whom at this airline we call the “purser”―immediately said, “I’ve got to see you, NOW!”

I unlocked the door and she came into the cockpit with tears rolling down her cheeks. She was fairly young and I instantly concluded that some jerk had intimidated her.

She said four men got up from their seats in the coach section and came to her work station at the forward galley―next to the cockpit. They were Arabs, or at least looked and sounded like middle-easterners.

They asked her if they could visit the cockpit. She told them it was not allowed. One of them asked her if the door was locked. She said yes and asked them to go back to their seats. But they lingered.

They peppered her with more questions, angering and upsetting her. They asked about the door, the rules, the procedures and even the consequences of entering the cockpit. Finally she told them to sit down or she would inform the captain and have the authorities meet the plane, which by then she had decided to do anyway. They went back to their seats.

She sat telling us this, sobbing and wiping her eyes. I assured her we would report the incident and ask for law enforcement at Denver. She thanked us, peered through the peephole to assure no one was standing near the door and went back.

“What do you make of it?” I asked Tom.

He shrugged. “Sounds like they may have been messin’ with her. She said they were young guys. But we ought to report it.”

We sent an ACARS message ahead describing what happened. When we blocked in at Denver, instead of law officers an unarmed female customer service supervisor met us and asked more questions about the incident. She wrote down the men's seat numbers and said she would look up their names. By the time she finished taking her notes all the passengers were gone.

Tom and I looked at each other and shrugged. That weak response was about what we expected. Little or nothing would probably be done.

Then came September 11, 2001.

A couple of months later I saw Tom in operations. He rushed up to me. "Remember the flight when the four Arabs came up and scared the flight attendant?" I nodded. I had not thought about it until then. "They were scouting us!" Tom said, his bottom lip curling with indignation. "They were gathering information. That's what the sorry bastards were doing!"

I think he was right.

Stay tuned for the next post which will describe an even more bizarre thing that happened to me the week prior to that awful day.

 

A Jolly Petrolly

What's a "Jolly Petrolly" you say? That's British slang for a happy little flying excursion, usually performed on a Saturday afternoon and including a stopover at another airport for lunch. Actually a South African friend told me that.
The big news in aviation this past week was the NTSB hearings on the Buffalo NY crash last winter of Colgan Air flight 3407. You’re all familiar with that.

The news media is demanding why Colgan didn’t pay the pilots more, train them better and monitor their rest patterns. There’s also some talk about the captain being inept with a history of checkride failures, somehow having slipped through Colgan’s hiring screen. If history indeed repeats, this is all plausible.

Every few years (on the average, I’d say 10 years, or so) we get a similar crash of a small air carrier plane. The captain has a history of failure, the first officer is too young and inexperienced to be of any value, and they are both fatigued due to a heavy work schedule. Oh yeah, and they are both paid peanuts. And every time it happens the news commentators go up in arms.

Then we all forget and nothing gets done. Sound familiar? Remember the national resolve after 9/11? It dissolved.

Let me say this, though. I commute every week to Washington on a 50 seat regional jet and, for the most part, I’m satisfied that the guys in front are competent. You can be too. But they need to be paid better for their level of responsibility. Jeez, so do I.
The last trip was a jolly good petrolly to London. It was my first visit there since my C-141 days in the early 90s. I thoroughly enjoyed it, partially because I was with two fine lads who kept me out of trouble. We went to a below street level pub called Cads where the food was excellent and the ale was tasty and reasonably priced. (Every thing in London is pricey.) Cads was a hangout for construction workers but they liked us, apparently being used to U.S. pilots coming in nightly. Next day I had a jolly good stroll through Hyde Park.

I got a video of the Airbus A-380, the world’s biggest

passenger jet, landing while we were waiting to takeoff
at Heathrow. 

 

This is a beautiful pic taken over the north Atlantic
at about 50N30W. What is it?


Here’s the view of the London
skyline from my hotel room.



Approaching Newfoundland, westbound.

 

"Negative, Ghostrider. The pattern is full."

Whoever authorized Air Force One to fly over the Big Apple for a photo-shoot is in Big Trouble. You already know about the ruckus it caused. The news media reported that New Yorkers fled in panic, fearing with tears and screams that another hijacking was in progress; that the nearby jet fighters were preparing to shoot it down into their streets. All the news agencies—even the conservative FOX News—opined that the flight was not only ill-advised in that it unnecessarily scared people, but it was financially wasteful.

Already several people have asked me what I think of it. I'm used to these kinds of questions. When something newsworthy happens in the aviation world, people ask their local airline pilot what he thinks. I don't mind; it comes with the territory. So, I'll tell you what I think about USAF Uno's buzz job, but get ready for the truth. It hurts.

Notwithstanding the fact that the flight was launched for a number of combined missions, the photo shoot being only one objective (thereby rendering the 'waste' argument irrelevant), the lesson is that Attorney General Eric Holder may indeed be correct when he charged that America has become a “nation of cowards” (although his context was starkly different). We see a big plane flying low over New York. Do we look closely at it to try and identify it? (Even in the videos the Air Force One paint job is clearly evident.) Do we wonder why those fighters aren't firing? Do we pause and think? Do we evaluate? Do we compose ourselves?

No. We don't. We panic. We run. We hide, quiver and cry. We grab our cell phones and call our lawyers. Somebody frightened us. Sue!

It turns my stomach.

We're supposed to be Americans. Running and hiding is not our heritage. We face the threat and we don't blink, and when we see the threat is not a threat at all, but rather a proud symbol of American freedom and independence from tyranny, we stand tall and salute.

That's what I think. What do you think? Post your comment.

And while we're on the subject of buzz jobs, I confess I perpetrated one myself this very morning at our nation's premier national airport—Washington-Dulles. I didn't mean for it to be a buzz job, but it may have looked that way.

We were ferrying a 767 to Chicago. A ferry flight is a flight with no passengers and often, as today, without flight attendants. The big bird had only the two of us. Accordingly, it weighed in at a very light 220,000 pounds. As Tom, my fearless ex-Marine Phantom driver co-pilot, worked up the takeoff performance data, he remarked, “You're flying a rocket today, Boss.” I knew what he meant. He meant the jet was going to climb like a scalded ape up a skinny palm tree.

Dulles tower cleared us for takeoff on runway 19L with a turn to heading 260 degrees. When they do that they expect the turn to be made as soon as possible after liftoff. With a normally loaded plane that turn would be made down toward the end of the runway or even south of the airport boundary. But not today.

I eased back gingerly on the yoke to avoid striking the tail (a common precaution in a long-bodied jet) and immediately rolled into a 30 degree right bank. Since there were no passengers I might have rolled a little more briskly than normal and to a steeper bank. I glance down to the right and saw the main terminal racing underneath us. We might have rattled the windows. I looked at the vertical velocity indicator: pegged at 6000 feet per minute.

Then the tower called us. “[Company and flight number], I WISH I HAD MY CAMERA. YOU GUYS BUZZED THE TOWER. WOW!” Tom and I looked at each other with raised eyebrows, the mutually unasked question: “Are we in trouble?” Then the tower handed us off to Potomac Departure Control with a cheery “So long.”

So did we get in trouble? No. Haven't heard a thing yet. We may have caused them to spill their coffee in the tower, but I can't think of any rule we broke, although I wish that excited controller had used words other than “buzzed the tower.” I do wonder what some FAA guy sitting in an airport office with a scanner may have thought when he heard the tower's shout.

So, there you have it. A few weeks ago I was accused of air piracy. (See the Feb 4 2009 post.) Now I guess they'll call me a 767 barnstormer. I buzzed the tower at Dulles and I'm still licensed and employed. But stay tuned; the case may not be closed.

About this blog's title: What movie is it from? What did Ghostrider do? 

Some famous buzz jobs:

Cathay Pacific at Seattle (the captain got fired)
Blue Angel Six
Airbus A-320 in Portugal
Varig 727

And finally, the most famous of them all, Yak-52s at Moontown
(Vicious rumors allege that I am one of these rogues, but
I vehemently deny it.)

привет друг

After hours cruising across the Scandinavian arctic frontier, and then the endless miles of Russian rural lands, you come upon this...this infestation called Moscow. (I'm sorry to say that, but it was the first word that came to my mind when I saw that awesome sight.) Tall white buildings by the tens of thousands. Scattered giant clusters of human habitation. A gigantic monolith-studded cemetery also comes to mind.

But Moscow is far from dead. It thrives with people and vehicles (white Anglo-Saxon the former; Hyundais and Kias the later) all trying to get into the same space at once; the faces looking serious and determined and the cars looking filthy. I want to start a car wash business in Moscow.

Muscovites are healthy looking and rarely over weight. The women are beautiful. But most of them, men and women, are cold as ice. They don't nod and they don't wave. They don't say good morning (dobraye utra). They don't even make eye contact, yet you get the feeling they are very aware of you.
I was stunned that, there in one of the world's largest cities, I never saw a black person. There were few Orientals also, despite the fact that the Ural Mountains are only an hour's flight east, and those mountains, as you know, are the separator between Europe and Asia. You did know that, didn't you?  
Moscow was not the gun-slinging wild west a friend warned me about. I didn't see a hint of lawlessness, nor did I ever feel unsafe. Muscovites are an unsmiling, dispassionate people, but they respect authority. They don't j-walk and they don't do graffiti. They dress well—no jeans and sneakers. The younger women like mini-skirts and high boots, the men dark slacks and brown leather shoes. The middle class seems to be thriving here. On the two hour drive from the airport we passed clusters of new subdivisions packed with beautiful brick homes. They could have been suburbs of Atlanta or Denver.

But it wasn't Atlanta or Denver inside the city. Kansas neither. Uniformed men in enormous wheel hats stood everywhere, solemn and composed, some unarmed and others wielding hideous weapons. They stand watch on every corner and between every corner, and sometimes between betweens. Do you hear a whistle? Look for the guard. He's blowing it to tell you not to walk there. You must walk here he gestures. Does he know I once trained and stood ready to fight him in a desperate battle to the finish? The finish of the world.
I strolled through Red Square where Stalin, Khrushchev and their thugs watched their Soviet armadas parade past. I remembered the images. High stepping battalions, menacing missiles and skies blackened with war planes. Here was the spot—the center of the Soviet empire, Red Square. No, I wasn't asked for my papers.

At the south end of the square stood St. Basil's Cathedral, possibly the most beautiful man-made structure I have ever seen, its gold plated onion-shaped towers jutting against the gray overcast. I thought about US warheads coming out of the sky to turn it into dirt. No wonder the Soviets never attacked us; losing St Basil's would never have been worth destroying the planet. (If that statement sounds senseless, you didn't live through the Cold War.)
The hotel was nice. The TV had a Russian news program that broadcasted in English. I noticed they focused on the things that are wrong with America. They played interviews with disgruntled Americans. They showed a group of US soldiers at a base in Kazakhstan. One held up the finger of contempt at the cameraman. Does the idiot know he flipped off millions of Russians? That's how they will remember us. On a higher scale, do our own leaders know that when they say things like “America is a nation of cowards” it will be taken out of context and broadcast to the world?

Back on a proletarian note (excuse the pun), you probably wonder how the food was. How many Russian restaurants do you see in your town? I trust no further culinary discussion is necessary.

The highlight of the trip may have been the Atlantic crossing. Since Moscow is so far north, the route took us up over Greenland and Iceland, far north of the busy North Atlantic Track System (NATS). The sun dipped slightly below the North Pole, which was off my left shoulder. A glow followed it toward its eventual reemergence at our ten 'clock.

But before big Helios came back, we were treated to a dazzling display of Northern Lights. My eyes have seen much Aurora in my time, but seldom have they ever feasted on the Heavenly display that night. It descended around us in cascading emerald curtains tinged with a hint of rose, bathing the darkened cockpit in a pale fluorescence, and then it galloped away like a frightened animal. It fell on us again, morphed into a shimmering celestial snake and slithered away.
When you watch that you feel you've been selected. You're the only one in that high silent, ethereal theater, and the performance is being masterminded for you and you alone. It leaves you flying in a deep peace toward the rising sun and beyond; toward Russia.
до свидания

Norwegian sunrise

Norwegian fjords

Red Square reviewing stand
where the bigwigs stand for the
great parades

Changing of the guard at the tomb of the unknown

St. Basil's Cathedral

Big cannon at the Kremlin

Thousands of these apartment buildings is where most Muscovites live

A cathedral at the Kremlin

A classy facade on a building under construction

Who can identify this strange airliner? (Be careful. It's not what you think.)

Aurua Borealis. My camera hardly does it justice.

Answers to the last post:

The thousands of tiny dots are natural gas wells.
The wind at the time of eruption was from the west.
Joe is on the mark: The "walls" are igneous dikes.

Into the Stupid Zone

I thought you might be interested in a flight attendant story, although this one may not be the one flight attendants hoped I would tell.

People have been focusing on Captain “Sully” Sullenberger a lot these days (see my blog entry of March 2, 2009) but it's unfortunate that Sully's flight attendants are not getting a fair piece of the credit for their outstanding job of evacuating that aircraft. Yet any of them will tell you they're accustomed to playing second fiddle to the pilots and they accept it. They're hard working people. But I remember when a couple of them got into deep suzuki on a layover in Jacksonville and I had to make a tough decision.

A piercing tone jolted my eyes open that morning. I saw the ceiling pulsating with amber flashes from the phone. Oh-five-hundred already? This life is cruel. I looked aside at the clock. 1:10. It was no wake-up call, and it boded no good.
It was the front desk. Some police officers wanted me to come down to the lobby. Why, the desk clerk didn’t know. Not good. I pulled on a t-shirt and jeans and went down.
I got off the elevator and saw two officers standing beside two of my three flight attendants, both males. One, about 30, was slumped and bruised. His face was patched with band aids. The other one, younger, appeared unscathed, but looked shaky and scared. An officer looked at me. “Are you the captain of these two?” I told him I was.

“Well, they got in a fight at a club.”
“With each other,” I asked.
“No. They fought some other people. Got their asses beat, from the looks of it. They said you were their captain.” The officer looked aside at the sorry sight of the two and shook his head. “Boy, if these are pilots, I sure as hell don’t want to fly anywhere with them.”

“They’re not pilots!” I instantly assured him. “They’re flight attendants.”
“Okay, Captain. I’ll leave this up to you. You want ‘em in jail. I’ll take ‘em. But I’d rather you just take ‘em off my hands, and I don’t want to see ‘em outside this hotel tonight.”

I stood wondering if this were a dream. It was too much like military flying. I had dealt with wayward loadmasters and flight engineers before. Then, though, I had a command obligation to those guys, as well as a moral one. You take care of people you go to war with.
But this was different. I had no command authority over the two flight attendants outside the aircraft, and I felt absolutely no obligation to save them. The officers waited for my answer.

The two obviously had been drinking within 12 hours of our scheduled takeoff―a non-no. I should let the cops book them. It would teach them a lesson. Of course, our flight would be canceled and obviously these two would never work here again. Not that I cared.
“What do you want to do?” the officer asked.
I studied the younger one, the one who looked scared. He looked like a decent, clean-cut kid. I knew he was still on probation, having just recently been hired. I remembered from the previous day’s flight that he had been very conscientious of his duties and respectful toward me. I imagined him being off a farm or from a small town, reared up right, seeing the world for the first time, then getting caught up with the older guy and getting dragged into trouble. What would his parents think of him if he got fired so soon, and for so sleazy a reason? That boy needed a second chance.

The older flight attendant moaned and rubbed his eyes. I thought he might throw up. I saw the two policemen get impatient.
But there was a lot more at stake here than a second chance for the kid. Federal regulations say that any pilot who knowingly allows a crew member who is in violation of the drinking rules to fly is also guilty. That “knowing pilot” would be me.

I had a son about that kid’s age. If Rusty got into this kind of trouble, would I want someone to intervene and give him a second chance, even if that intervention meant that that “someone” had to put his own neck on the line to do it? Yeah. I would. I would want that for my son.
I knew I was about to make a decision that was dripping with bad judgment. “Okay, officers. I apologize for their bad behavior. Thanks for your help.”
I turned toward the older flight attendant. “You! Where’s your room?” He fumbled in his pocket for his key card. I took it, told them to follow me, and started for the elevator. On the way up the older one started to thank me and apologize with a slurring tongue. I cut him off. “I DON’T WANT TO HEAR ANYTHING OUT OF YOU UNLESS I ASK YOU A QUESTION. UNDERSTAND?” He looked back at me, astounded. The kid started shaking again.He started toward his bed when we got in his room and I stopped him. “STAND UP. I’M NOT FINISHED WITH YOU!” I looked at the kid. “YOU TOO!” I knew the guy didn’t have to obey my order to get up and face me, but I still had the option to cancel tomorrow’s flight and report him to the company. He knew it. He got up.
He started to explain the fight and again I cut him off. “I said I don’t want to hear any of that! Now both of you listen up.” I looked at my watch and swallowed. I was about to cross a line most airline pilots are familiar with, the one marked Stupid Zone―Stay Back!
“We’re supposed to meet down in the lobby in four hours.” I looked at the older, wavering guy, and at the trembling younger one. “YOU’D BOTH BETTER BE DOWN THERE AT EXACTLY FIVE-THIRTY, NOT A SECOND LATER. AND YOU BOTH BETTER BE DRESSED IN YOUR UNIFORMS, EVERY HAIR COMBED, NO WRINKLES, NO SHAKING, NO SLOBBERING, NO HIC-CUPPING, NO HOLDING ACHING HEADS. YOU’D BETTER BE READY TO GO TO WORK, OR I’LL HAVE YOU FIRED ON THE SPOT, UNDERSTAND?”
That was the bluff. Of course I didn’t have to power to fire them. The older one dipped his head. The kid nodded vigorously. I told the kid to get to his room, and he scurried out.
I turned back to the older one. “You’re a lucky SOB.” He nodded. “I like that kid, and to save him I have to save your sorry ass.” He nodded again. He opened his mouth and I let him speak.
“I’ll be ready to go, boss.” He wavered, about to lose balance, and glanced at the bed. “Promise you, boss.”
I went back to the room knowing I had crossed into the stupid zone, and for what? For the company? For that kid? Or was it something else? I don't know. You tell me.
Common sense should have prevailed but it didn't.
Sleep didn’t prevail either, and I got off the elevator at 0525 feeling like I was the one with the hangover. I looked around and saw the crew waiting near the coffee urn. My first officer stood chatting with the female flight attendant. The two wayward ones stood aside eying me. I wondered if the others knew what happened last night. I approached the two and looked them over―not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in sight, all whiskers whacked. The kid still looked a bit bug-eyed, but the other one smiled broadly, chin held high. “Here we are, Captain! Ready, willing and able!”
I looked at the kid. “You too?”
He nodded.
The older guy chatted constantly on the van ride to the airport, laughing and bantering much more vigorously than we expected or desired in the pre-dawn gloom. I knew it was a demonstration of sobriety aimed at me, but I marveled at what a recovery that guy had made.
Still wary though, I watched them both as they inspected the aircraft’s cabin safety equipment and prepared to receive the passengers. I looked back at them frequently during boarding and listened to their PA announcements. Each time I peered back toward the cabin, the older guy looked back at me with his broad grin and winked, then resumed enthusiastically greeting passengers.
In flight I called back to the female attendant and asked her how the guys were doing and she bragged on them. “Great,” she said. “No problems whatsoever!” I had not told her about the events of the wee hours but suspected she knew.
When we landed I went to the cabin after the people had gotten off and looked at the two. “I laid my ass on the line for you guys. You’ll probably never get another break like that again.” The kid smiled and nodded. The other one grabbed my hand and shook it, smiling somewhat artfully.
I walked away to the next flight, yawning, not able to shake off the thought that the older flight attendant regarded me as a dupe, chuckling at his good fortune to have a sucker like me pull him out of the crap hole he dug for himself.
But, of the kid, I’ve no doubt he needed a break. I did it for him. I did it for his dad. I hope he remembers it.
Here are a some picks from the last few weeks. Click on
them to enlarge.


This one is for Joe. It's a northwest view of the Sangre de Cristo Mts. in south central Colorado. Joe, can you pick out the one we climbed?



This is Ship Rock in New Mexico. It's a volcanic neck. Think of it as a volcano that never made it to the surface. It cooled and the soft rocks around it eroded away. Can anybody say what the wall-like structures are that radiate out from it?



This is in northwestern New Mexico. What are all those little dots?





Here, in western New Mexico, is a volcano that did make it to daylight. The view is south. Which way was the wind blowing at the time of eruption?



Angling opposing traffic, 12 o'clock high

Waltzing With the Deadly Saber

The route going east out of Los Angeles usually gives us a clear view of Rogers dry lake northeast of Palmdale. It's easy to see the big runway there. Part asphalt, part dry lake bed, it extends miles into the lake bed's interior. North of the runway you can make out the ramp, hangars and buildings of Edwards AFB, the famous USAF Flight Test Center where Chuck Yeager and others pioneered the jet and rocket ages.

Whenever I see Edwards I always think of someone else, not Chuck and his test pilot peers. I think of a virtually unknown and ill-fated young Texan named Lieutenant Barty Brooks. Brooks made a valuable contribution to aviation. He undoubtedly save many lives, yet his own life ended in what has become one of military aviation's most storied crashes, the video images of which became a part of several movies. But Lt. Brooks didn't die the way most people assume he did.

The year was 1956. The F-100 Super Saber, the USAF's first supersonic fighter, was brand new and it had some dangerous handling characteristics that could get you into deep trouble.

Brooks and the other three members of the four-ship flight that took off that morning from Palmdale, where the Super Saber was built, were all new to the jet. They were members of the 1708th Ferrying Wing at Kelly AFB, Texas, which was their destination. Right after liftoff Brook's leader looked at him and saw his nosewheel cocked 90 degrees. He radioed Brooks and told him to keep his gear down. Brooks and his leader decided to put the Saber down on Edward's long runway. They declared an emergency and requested the runway be foamed in case the nose gear collapsed.

A flight test was scheduled that morning at Edwards and camera crews were setting up their equipment at two different locations near the runway. The cameramen heard the sirens and saw the two Super Sabers coming. They turned their cameras to the oncoming aircraft. If you have ever seen the movies Jet Pilot, The Hunters, X-15, or the McConnell Story you know what they captured on film.

The inexperienced Brooks got too low on his approach and the runway supervisory officer advised him to pull up. Brooks did this, adding power as he raised his nose ever higher, but his airspeed continued to decrease. Realizing he was in deep trouble he lit his afterburner, but the sudden burst of power forced his nose almost to the vertical position while his forward momentum carried him wobbling, weaving and teetering down the runway only only a few feet above it. The Saber was literally standing on the blast of its afterburner. Ejection was not an option because zero-zero ejections systems (zero airspeed and/or zero altitude) had not yet been invented.

After about 20 seconds, which must have seemed an eternity to Brooks, the jet decided to die, not fly. It rolled off on a wing and smashed into the ground in a horrific fireball. Poor Brooks did indeed enter eternity, but not how you think if you watch the film. Watch it now on these links before reading on: Saber Dance. Also in color (from one of the movies): Saber Dance.

If you thought there was no way anyone could survive that crash and fire, you thought wrong. What the film didn't show was the jet's nose and cockpit separating intact and rolling away from the fireball. When the rescuers reached it they found Brooks still strapped in the cockpit and apparently unharmed. Yet he was dead. When they unhooked his oxygen mask vomit poured out. The man had drowned in his own puke.

So how did Brook's crash benefit fighter aviation? No doubt he would not have chosen to demonstrate the deadly Saber Dance—as it has come to be known—but in doing so on film, tens of thousands of military pilots, including yours truly, watched him in training classes. We got queasy and winced. Various imprecations, exclamations and the names of a few deities fell from our lips. We understood then what they had told us about getting swept wing jet aircraft into a low altitude, high angle-of-attack regime. And we wouldn't forget it.

The Saber Dance has gone down in aviation folklore as well as history. It has been told again and again in hangars, classrooms and bars. Poems and songs have been written about Brooks' nightmarish ride, but few know his name and fewer still know the real reason for his inglorious demise. What a story he could tell if only he had kept his breakfast down.


From an old fighter pilot bar song:

Oh, don't give me a one-double-oh,
to fight against friendly or foe.
That old Saber Dance made me crap in my pants.
Oh, don't give me a one-double-oh.

We owe Barty Brooks an honorable place in aviation history. He left us all safer because of his fatal waltz with the Saber.

New information added 10/05/2009: Lt. Brooks did not die from inhaling vomit. The accident report shows he died instantly of impact injuries. (The vomit story has been circulating for over 50 years.)

I researched this story more thoroughly. It will appear in the September 2011 issue of Aviation History Magazine.

Answers

I didn't fly this past week, so I'll take this post to respond to some of the keen comments the last post attracted.

For "Anonymous" who suggested the parallel contrails were the Thuinderbirds going to an airshow: El wrongo. But I suspect that was a jab from a Blue Angels fan. The contrails are miles apart. He/she is absolutely correct about the fire.

gpb0216 isn't too savvy about fires but he's right on the nose with the contrail analysis.

Sequ likes the header and loves the blog. Brad and I thank you.

Scott wants to gather at the river and sing. The Crazy Woman had a fine voice. Jeremiah too.

Dancer asked, "So do you think the scene with the Indian meant they finally reached a truce?" By the way, that indian's name was "Paints His Shirt Red," a fact I know you knew. I think you would enjoy reading Mountain Man, by Vardis Fisher. His tale was the basis of the movie. It will answer your question better than I can. Also, check out Crow Killer by Raymond Thorp. It's the definitive account of John Johnson's life and times, but get ready to be grossed out by Johnson's menu selections. Then there's that classic of mountain man fiction, A.B. Guthrie's Big Sky. A must read.

Dan in Alb got both riddles right. He likes those kind of photographic interpretation challenges. More of them to come.

Squatch got the fire right but botched the contrail riddle, although he put forth a reasonable theory. I'll see what Brad thinks about bringing the Yak back into the header. Can't have bad karma.


Northwest Captain Mike Moe sent me this. He really says that at home.

(From the New Yorker)

His Name was Jeremiah Johnson

How does the new header look? It's great to have a graphic designer extraordinaire like Brad Cockrell in the family.

Last Sunday I flew the "PS" route from LAX to JFK. I don't do that very often―our New York crews usually do it. PS stands for Premium Service and if you want to ride it you will pay a handsome premium. We have a few 757s dedicated to this service and they are extravagantly configured for discriminating passengers who want it and can afford it. We only run PS service between New Yorks's JFK airport and Los Angeles or San Francisco. 

Consequently you can usually expect at least one celebrity on the PS run, and that day we had four. Truth be known, the flight attendants had to tell me who three of them were. Those were Clay Aiken, Josh Hartnett, and Judith Light. They didn't have to tell me who the fourth one was.

Before we pushed I went back and greeted the First Class passengers, as I always do, not just because the celebs were there. I didn't know the other three from Adam, but I knew Robert Redford when I spotted him on the back row of first class. He was traveling alone and seated beside a somewhat geeky looking fellow who was plainly quite astonished about his seat mate. The guy was clearly nervous and was ordering a drink when I greeted him and Redford.

I shook Redford's hand and told him he'd always be “Jeremiah” to me. He must have approved; he grinned broadly and said, "Thanks."

I'm not an autograph chaser so I left the man alone and continued my stroll to the rear. When I came back through, both Redford and his seat mate were up in the aisle. The guy was apologizing profusely while Redford dabbed at his trousers with a napkin. A glass lay on the floor and the seat was wet. We called for a new seat cushion. I went back to the cockpit snickering.

Honestly, Redford is not one of my favorite people but he starred in the best film of all time, Jeremiah Johnson (1972). That was the story of a fur trapper―more commonly called a Mountain Man―trying to survive in the Rockies in the 1840s. If you haven't seen it you've missed a classic. The film has developed a cult following over the years, and I'm hopelessly captured into it.

While sailing high across the snowy Rockies, pushed by a smashing good tailwind, I thought of Jeremiah Johnson toiling down there, trying to trap a few beaver, always watching his backside for some local gentleman hankering for a scalp with which to adorn his lodgepole.
Pondering Jeremiah and the passenger in seat 3B who portrayed him I realized that we were not far south of a navigation station named Crazy Woman VOR, with the chart identifier CZY. It's located in the area where the real Jeremiah encountered a distraught woman who had lost her family to a Black Foot Indian raid. (Check this site out for a look at the real Jeremiah: Damn Interesting.) 

He wanted to take her to civilization but she stayed in a shack by the graves and spent the rest of her days grieving. Mountain Men regularly dropped in on her bringing food. The story is half legend, half truth if you look it up. But the legend survived and even made it into the annals of aviation navigation names. It's only a matter of time before some crazy feminist activist finds out about CZY and tries to get the name changed.
CZY is a constant reminder for me that people didn't always sail over this vast and rugged land in a few hours, drinking cocktails, watching movies and complaining about the service. They froze, they starved, they lost their hair, they died. A few made it through to the west coast and eventually built factories that made 757s, and the like, so that the crossing could be a little easier. After that, they forgot about the travails of people like Jeremiah and the crazy woman and took cross-continent air travel for granted.

A few pics (click to enlarge):

The left winglet, viewed from the captain's left rear window.
These things save 4% fuel burn and look magnificent.
(Sorry about the dirty window.)
The Control tower at Washington-Reagan.
Here's a riddle: Are those contrails from
planes flying parallel to each other? Or
is there another explanation. Post your answer.
The brown smudge is the scar of
a fire in eastern Colorado.
Next riddle: Where did the fire start and
from which direction was the wind at the time?
(Top of the photo is north.)

About Sully

So, what do I think about Sully?

That question has been fired at me from all quarters lately. (Sully is US Airways Captain Chesley Sullenberger, the “Hudson Hero.”) Here's what I think.

Sully isn't a hero. He’s a highly trained, experienced professional who sits up in the executive office of his jetliner and does his job. His paramount goal is not to crash because he knows he will be the first to the crash scene. He knows the first and last things that will go through his mind at the point of impact will be his instrument panel. He has a keen awareness that there are two kinds of pilots: those who know they are going up for their last flight and those who don't. The trusting souls sitting behind him are not his main safety concern; he knows if he takes care of himself his passengers will be the happy beneficiaries of his prioritization efforts.

What do I like about what he did? Two things. First, he quickly assessed his options and methodically sorted them. 

When one option fell through he had another one waiting. The river was the last resort. This is the result of decades of thinking miles ahead of fast moving jets; of double and triple checking every switch position, every setting, every plan and bit of information; of recognizing when something isn't right by the way that little bristle of hair on the back of his neck feels.

None of this is taught in classrooms or textbooks and not all of it is intuitive. It's picked up in the cockpits of Phantoms, Hornets, C-130s, B-52s and the like. It's also painfully earned in the lonely cockpits of small single-pilot cargo planes carrying packages at night in storms and icing with absolutely no one but yourself to rely on. Most of us earn our tickets to this profession. That day on the Hudson all those years paid off. He knew what to do.

The other thing I like about him is his demeanor. He shrugs off the hero hype—my kind of guy. In age, background and experience we're practically equals. We both have pretty wives so used to living alone they can't understand what the big deal is when their friends ask them how they cope. And we're both old ugly geysers. The younger pilots wish we would step aside and let their seniority improve. Despite our likenesses I don’t pretend that I could have done as good a job as he did.

In the wake of Sully's experience I'm getting more attention from people. As I strolled through the plane, as I often do before push-back, one of my passengers recently said, “You look like Sully!” He was smiling approvingly. I think that perception gave him confidence.

A couple of days later another one teasingly asked me if Sully trained me. My immediate teasing answer was, “No. I trained Sully.” That brought on a round of laughs from several rows away. Everybody knew who Sully was.

Still another man politely beckoned me to his first class seat and said, “People are looking at you captains in a whole new way now.” His smile indicated the “new way” was something positive. I wondered why anyone would think of us in any other way. But then there was the “Summer of 2000.” Oh. 

Forgot about that. That's another story.

I hope you've got a Sully type up front next time you fly. The statistics say your chances of having one improves with the size of the plane you're on. That's just a fact of life we have to live with. Smaller planes pay less (way less) and draw entry-level job seekers.

I do one thing now, as a result of Sully's unscheduled swim, although it may at first seem minor. We get a final weight and balance report that comes out of our printer just before take off. We enter any last minute changes in that information into the performance pages of our computer. This tweaks our expectations of what the plane can and can't do when we put the spurs to her. A little note on the bottom of that page tells us the exact number of people on board including crew. It's called the SOB count. It means Souls on Board (I'm certain some of those souls are a subset of SOBs). That's information I might need if I find myself standing or laying beside a bent bird talking to rescuers, so I put the little sheet in my shirt pocket.

I remember once explaining to my mother what SOB meant in the people count. She looked astonished and said, 

“Souls!?” Then she uttered a painful grunt.

So, I lift my glass to Sully. He's an SOB but not an SOB. He's one of the good guys. So is his first officer, his flight attendants and every other airline professional out there plying the skies. They're not lucky, they're good.

Here are a few cool (no pun) pics from the last few trips.

The Hush House at O'Hare. They test engines here.


Gate C9 in Denver with reflection in the window. The de-icing
boom is on the right. The colored lights are the auto park system.
Under the lights you can see a poster in the terminal of
Katie Couric framing me.


Descending into Denver, you can see where the plane
ahead cut a hot slice into the cloud deck as he went down
through it.



Heading east across eastern Montana you can see
a contrail on the right side of a flight ahead and
below us. On the left is the shadow of his contrail
on the snowy ground.



Again in eastern Montana, the shadows of contrails.
The vertical one is crossing traffic. The horizontal one
is ours.


One of this blog's followers asked for a shot of the
terminator (read the MAR 11 2008 post for more
info on the terminator).


Are we there yet?



One recent day in Denver the airport was assaulted
by zillions of tumbleweeds. It was bizarre. Watch this video
taken at the gate after we blocked-in.

New Look

So, how does the new header look? Sorry I had to sanitize it. This age of retribution and litigation is such a curse. None-the-less, my purpose is not to disparage my company.

Am I frustrated with it? Yes. But with the top brass, not my co-workers who, for the most part, work hard and earnestly trying to do a good job. Am I a union man? I belong (got no choice), and I think it has done a great deal of good along with some measure of bad. I wish we didn't need it. But enough of that.

Those of you who commented on I, the Pirate and asked to be forwarded a copy, I would be happy to do it if you will give me your e-mail address.

For this post, only a funny observation: Surely you have gotten one of those e-mail Forwards that lists amusing military and airline maintenance records. (The gripe is the pilot's write-up, the action is the mechanic's action to fix the gripe.) You remember, for example the one that reads, Gripe: Lost right engine. Action: Couldn't find right engine. Well, here's a real life funky gripe/action for you. It appeared in the maintenance records of a 757 I flew last week. Click to enlarge it.