The Great Escape

When I see an adult on a bicycle, I do not despair for the future of the human race. ~H.G. Wells

Most of us have a retreat, a place where we can escape the clamor of the world around us, if only for a little while. Some may find solace at a pub table, a church pew or perhaps some have to wander no further than the couch in their living room. Even while at first glance these places may seem to have little in common, they all achieve a common effect. For a number of years, my bike has been my pub table, my church pew, my escape. On the days when the pillars of my life seem to be wavering and the days when things are going great, as well as all the average days in between, this is where I like to pass my idle time.


Today I sit staring at the trailhead before me. Beyond the low hanging willow branches lies a path that sashays through the trees leading eventually to another equally hidden trailhead at the other end. Where this trail leads of of little consequence though, as for the vast majority of my rides, the goal is not to go somewhere, but rather, to just go. Some may laugh and say that I am crazy to even think of wheeling my bike out anywhere after the first snow, but I am not out here for them, nor do I do this to be environmentally friendly or to make some statement, I do this for me. As a result, whether or not people think riding around on my bike in the dead of winter or in the rain, or anytime for that matter, is crazy, is of little importance.

As I drop behind the curtain of branches the noise of the city loses its obtrusiveness, eventually to be replaced by the quiet whur of my tires rolling across the ribbon of trail below me. As my feet spin below on their respective pedals, above, my mind spins through the recent events of my life. The past few months have been busy and have brought about some big changes, while the months ahead hold the prospect for more of the same. Inwardly I wonder about the fate of the airport I work at, and the implications for me, I wonder if where I am is where I am supposed to be, I wonder if I unplugged the kettle before I left the apartment.
I wonder the thousands of things that a world full of people all around me wonder everyday.
Even while my bike is my refuge, I have no illusions that all of my concerns will be solved by the time I pedal up to my front step. Like not biking to get somewhere, but rather to go, I do not go out to ride with the intention of fixing what I perceive as being the problems in my life at that point in time. I go out with the intention of trying.

I push down hard on the pedals one last time for tonight as I make my way up the last hill to climb out of the river valley. The noise of the city starts to flood back in with its usual intensity and the trail ahead lightens as I pedal back into the soft light of the streetlights above. The world seems a different place now from when I first ducked into the trailhead a hour or so ago.
Things that had seemed to be problems before, do not seem to be anymore, while other concerns that seemed insurmountable, now look easier to manage. The world once again makes sense. I realise that being on my bike doesn't change the world around me, anymore than sitting in a church pew or a barstool or the couch in my livingroom can. All it can do is offer a new perspective to help change how I look at it. I like that.

A year later

A flash of red catches my attention as I turn to enter the downwind leg at a small rural airport north-east of Edmonton. The red warning had caught the attention of my copilot as well, who called out the warning, "Engine fire on the right"

Before rational and common sense could kick in, I turned to look at the flight test examiner who was sitting behind us, expecting to see him playing with bared wires which could be responsible for setting off the engine fire warning system. The examiner raised his hands and shrugged in a way that suggested that the fire warning wasn't his doing. As the fact that the indication wasn't an examiners trick sunk in, the copilot and I settled into the engine fire in flight procedure. Then, as quickly as the fire indication had come, it was gone.

Now established on the downwind leg, my copilot and I ran through the possible explanations for the fire indication. The model of King Air that we were flying uses photo cells that detect light in an otherwise dark engine nacelle compartment to provide warning of a fire. If a given amount of light were to be present in the nacelle, the source could be the light generated by a fire, although that is not always the case. The sides of the engine nacelles have gill vents which allow air to flow through the nacelle for cooling. Under the right circumstances, with the aircraft's tail pointed towards the sun at the right angle, light can enter the nacelle though the cooling vents in a way which can set off the fire detectors. Even while we had just turned with the sun at our tail, the copilot searched for an indication that perhaps the fire warning system hadn't been tricked by the sun's light. With all of the engine instruments indicating normal, and no sign of a fire on the wing, we decided to continue with our landing as planned, and with the plane on the ground we would take a closer look at the engine instruments. With our examiner, who was now acting as a third crew member, in agreeance with our plan, we continued on with the approach, while keeping a sharp eye on the right hand engine's fire detector. Once on the ground, after a few minutes monitoring the engine instruments and the engine for a sign of fire, we once again concluded that while it probably was a fire that had set off the detectors, that fire was 92 million miles away, and in all likelihood, wouldn't give us any more trouble today.

Confident that the only emergencies we would have to deal with now would be those thought up by our examiner, we prepared for the departure back to the city. A thousand feet above the ground, finished with the departure procedure that kept us clear of obstacles, I initiated a left turn that would set us up for the GPS approach back at the city. Just like it had five minutes earlier, with the sun at our tail, the fire detector momentarily flashed again. Although it would have been easy to simply pass it off as the obvious, the co-pilot and I again checked for any sign of a fire. Even while the engine instruments again showed no sign of a fire, which agreed with the view out the right window, mentally I prepared myself again for the possibility that the engine fire indication hadn't been set off by the sun. Again we quickly discussed the situation with the examiner, and with us all on the same page, we set up for the approach to Runway 30. Eight minutes later, the main gear touched down onto the runway, signalling the nearing end of the flight test. Even though the test was technically not over, the most difficult parts were now behind us.
As I taxied in to the hangar, I thought about the difference that a year can make. Last year at this time I was taxiing in from my initial ride to upgrade to Captain. The past year has been trying; I have had days where finding an alternate was difficult, where I spent countless hours enveloped in cloud with the weather at all the airports below me hovering at minimums, reminding myself to relax my grip on the controls. I have also had days where the visibility and lack of cloud allowed a view of everything within a 100 miles. I have learned to be more assertive, while maintaining diplomacy, learned when to stand up, and when to let things be. Perhaps, learning, would be a little more accurate.
I have found my past year flying as a captain has had a similar effect to that of studying for the ATPL exams; for every lesson I have learned, for every question I have answered, there seems to be ten lessons I have yet to learn that pop up to take their place. The further that I get in this career, the more I am beginning to see that what I have learned to date pales in comparison to the lessons that are yet to come.

"Always walk through life as if you have something new to learn and you will." ~Vernon Howard

Leaving home

Although it has been more than 8 years since the day has passed, I can still remember it vividly; I had spent the previous night hanging out with my best friend, we walked out to the shore and reminisced as we passed landmarks that triggered memories from the past. Even while outwardly I did my best to remain positive, inwardly I knew that in a few hours my life would take a path that would diverge from all of the things around me that I known since childhood; from friends and family, from salt air, from home. During my last few months at home I had been well aware of this fact and I had come to gain a new appreciation of the community which I had grown up in. To an outsider, I am sure my home wouldn't stand out much from other small coastal communities in the area although to to me it would always hold a place in my heart.

As dawn drew closer, the stars perched above our heads slowly faded from sight

into the light of day. My friend and I sat in silence on the back step as the sun rose through the trees on the eastern horizon. Anything that was worth saying had already been said and no words could stop the inevitable from happening. We loaded my two bags worth of personal possessions into the trunk of the car, and finally the moment that I had been dreading for months was upon us.The mood of the moment hung heavily in the air as I hugged my friend. With all the composure I could muster, I said goodbye and turned towards the car. Driving to the airport I watched from the passenger seat as all that was familiar faded from view out the rear window. I had traveled this road thousands of times before, but this time was different. I rested my head on the door frame as my all nighter began to catch up with me and the roadside blurred in my tired eyes.

Now eight years later I have found myself thinking about home more as hiring at the airlines has begun again, and the prospect of finding work on the east coast has become a greater possibility. While being out west has presented me with opportunities that I would have never been granted had I chose to pursue my career closer to home, the east coast is still and will always be my home. For the past eight and a bit years I have been following my mind, allowing practicality and reason to guide my decisions. It was for my career that I chose to move to Alberta to learn how to fly, and in part it is the same reason I have remained here for as long as I have. Though reason and practicality have served me well, I think the time may have come to start listening to my heart as well as my head.

"I complain about it, I grumble about it, I can be mean about it sometimes, but I love it beyond reason, it's where I am from, it's who I am"- Craig Ferguson

For all the Right Reasons

The alarm on my phone rings through the darkness of my bedroom, pulling me out of my sleep and back into the world of the awake. I reach over to silence the alarm and roll back over to allow my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness. As I lay in bed, my mind and body wage a war over whether to stay in bed, or heed my phone's alarm and get up. While my body is offering convincing arguments as to why staying in bed is the optimal choice this morning, ultimately my mind wins out the fight, just as it has for as long as early mornings have been a part of my job. I stumble my way through the darkness out of my room, closing the door quietly behind me. From here I will follow the routine I have perfected since early mornings have become a fact of life, and in the process, coax my mind into spooling up from simply being awake to functioning. I make my way to the kitchen to pour a glass of milk and start breakfast before jumping in the shower. The clock on the oven reads 2:30. Looking out the kitchen window at the apartment buildings to the north of mine, all of the windows are black save one, from which light is spilling out onto the parking lot below. I wonder what obligation or lack thereof has my neighbours to the north up at this hour. While I don't harbour any special attachment to this particular hour of the day, I have grown fond of the quiet which envelops the world during these early morning hours. The thud of railcar's couplings being pulled together in the railyard to the north breaks the silence, prompting me to continue on with getting ready for work. Now out of the shower and dressed, I finish up breakfast, and check the weather and notams for the days flights to get an idea of what I will be up against at work. Heading out the door to the car I straighten my tie in the mirror, and double check that I have my keys before locking the door behind me. Today is a pretty normal day, if there exists such a thing in the world of charter flying. The first officer and myself will position the plane at the Esso, across the airport from our hanger, for 6:00 to make our planned departure time of 6:30. Assuming the passengers are on time and the weather cooperates we will be in our hotel room in Grande Prairie by about 8:30, where we will sit for 7 or so hours before departing back to Edmonton this evening. By the time we are finished work tonight, the first officer and myself will have been on duty for 15 hours, with about 2.5 of those 15 hours having been spent in the air. While today is not a particularly challenging day, days like these can be nonetheless tiring given the length of time we will spend at work.

Over the course of the past few months I have been afforded, sometimes subjected, to the views that the general public holds of aircraft and those who fly them. Some of those views have some basis in reality, although many are relics of a bygone era, leftovers from the golden age of air travel when it was considered a privilege to fly, when the noise from jet aircraft was deafening, and when pilots as a whole were very well paid and respected. On the day described above, our passengers would have only seen the two and a half hours that we shared together while in the air. They wouldn't have seen the work that would go into making the flight happen before departure and after our arrival. While I am sure, with time, our regular passengers begin to get a sense of what our job entails between rotation and touchdown and make opinions based on what they are seeing, the reality is that they are only seeing a fraction of what this line of work entails. Pieces, but not the entire puzzle.

Sitting down in the office of the flight school I was considering training with, my parents and I were bombarded with visions of a bright future in aviation. The owner of the school spoke of the cornucopia of opportunities that would be created due to a flood of retirees at the airline level. This outgoing flood of senior pilots was forecast to create a pilot shortage around the time that I would be finishing my training, opening doors of opportunity that would lead to the promise of high paying jobs. While I wasn't entirely sure that the airlines was where I wanted to end up, and not particularly concerned with how much I would be making when I did get a flying position, the owner's rhetoric was convincing. With time I would come to learn that the flood of retiring airline pilots would be something more akin to a trickle, and that while high paying jobs did exist, there existed more minimum wage flying jobs than the high paying variety.
Talking with people while getting signatures to help keep the airport open, I was surprised by how many made mention of the deep pocketed aircraft owners and pilots who call the city airport home. Hearing this, I would laugh quietly and explain that while the city is home to some wealthy aircraft owners and pilots, most are everyday people earning average wages. Some did take the time to listen, however many brushed me off as being another overpayed pilot.

In another conversation with a gentleman who was undecided as to whether or not he would sign the airport petition, the gentleman, piecing together that I was a pilot, asked if it was true that pilots could only work 10 days a month. Aiming to keep my answer relatively simple, I told the gentleman that while there are regulations governing how much pilots can fly, which could have them flying 24 out of 30 days or more depending on the type of operation, their schedules are typically dictated by how busy the companies they work for are. My schedule personally has been relatively slow for the past year and a half, as aviation has been feeling the effects of the recession, although I have had months where at the height of the economic boom, I came close to reaching the 30 day flight time limit. Although having a slower schedule at work can certainly be nice to catch up on things like housework, any day that I am not scheduled to fly, I am placed on reserve where I must be available to fly with a little over an hours notice. The only exception to this are my six scheduled days off a month. When I first began flying charter, I lived 30 minutes from the airport, which meant I would have to be within 20 or so minutes range of my place, or carry work clothes with me wherever I went to ensure I could make it to the airport on time if a flight came up. Being on reserve was a strange adjustment for me, as things which I took for granted as a flight instructor where I made my own schedule, like having a beer after work, or a glass of wine with dinner, would now have to be cleared through dispatch first. With time, clearing things such as wine with dinner or going for a bike ride became second nature, and now while I am on holidays it seems odd to not have to call to check in with dispatch.

Over the course of the few months that I collected signatures for the airport, I was introduced to a number of peoples perceptions of what my life as a pilot must be like. Despite the perceptions, the reality of the situation is that I will probably never make a fortune as a pilot, have 20 days off a month, or capture the imagination of the non-flying public like the Earharts, Yeagers, or Sullenbergers of the world, nor do I want to. I didn't choose flying as my career because of the money, the respect, or the time off. I became a pilot because I love flying, because I had a yearning that could not be quelled from the confines of an office building, and because there were no openings left in the train engineer class. I can think of no better reasons.

"Isn't it crazy that in a world full of people, only some want to fly?"

Counting Demons

A number of months ago, I began looking over airline interview questions I had come across in an effort to prepare myself for whatever move I would make from my current position. Even while there was, and still is, not much on the horizon in the way of flying jobs, I have learned a few times over that a little advance preparation can go a long way.

If one were to look at the typical airline pilot applicant, they would likely find that most have thousands of hours of experience in their logbooks, gained over a number of years. Over these years and hours, those pilots would have become well adept at handling both normal and unusual situations, and would have come to gain an intimate knowledge of the rules, procedures and aircraft that they used to move people or cargo from point A to point B. While pilots would undoubtedly come into an interview with varying levels of proficiency, the largest unanswered questions would concern the applicant's personality and character traits. Interviews can still be very technical in nature, testing aircraft, regulatory and procedural knowledge, though most devote a large portion of time to determining not only what kind of pilot you are, but just as importantly, what kind of person.

With this in mind, I sit staring at my computer screen with a pencil and pad of paper, jotting down memories of my flying experiences that relate to each question. Many questions aim to determine the background of the applicant; what positions they have held, where they worked and for how long, why they got into a career in aviation, and are relatively easy to answer.
Other questions aim to determine what type of person you are, and how you handle difficult situations, and can be a bit more challenging.

Question Number 17 asks what my greatest weakness as a pilot is. A friend once told me that the best answer to this question is to confess to being a perfectionist; you can't go wrong.
I am sure many others have tread down this very path and beat this response into one that now means nothing. Whoever first came up with this in an interview gets full points, the rest of us are simply looking for an easy out. While I do consider myself to be a perfectionist, I would be fooling only myself if I were to believe that it is my greatest weakness as a pilot. Thinking that others could provide a more objective view of my weaknesses than I could, I turn and ask my girlfriend who is sitting on the couch behind me, what she considers to be my greatest weakness. Without a second thought or a moments hesitation, she responds; you dislike confrontation, that is one of your greatest weaknesses as a pilot.

In the six years that I have been earning a living flying airplanes, there have inevitably been times where despite my best efforts at diplomacy, confrontation was unavoidable.
As a pilot, I place the safety of a flight as my first and foremost responsibility, followed by maintaining the legality and finally the efficiency of the flight. While this is the generally accepted hierarchy of responsibility in flying, sometimes the order can get a bit lost in the routine of day to day operations. On a warm summer afternoon sitting at the flight school where I was working at the time, a woman called to book a discovery flight for her father. Discovery flights were designed to give prospective students a taste of flying a small aircraft, although quite often, those who we would bring up flying had no intention of pursuing flight training but rather, just wanted to go for a ride. Such was the case with this particular discovery flight. Since the other instructor working at the time had already had a flight earlier that day, this discovery flight was given to me. During the walkaround, I dipped the fuel tanks and discovered that the tanks were full, due to a earlier flight that had been cancelled. While full fuel tanks would not be a problem if only two people showed up for the discovery flight, a third person would put us overweight for take-off. I decided to wait until I knew how many passengers I would be taking up before making a decision as to what to do. I watched through the window of the flight school as my passengers pulled into the parking lot, counting the people as they got out of the car, 1,...2,....3. As the passengers walked through the door, I introduced myself to them, and presented the dilemma and my solutions. We could either delay the flight and remove some of the fuel from the tanks by siphoning out ten gallons, or I could take two passengers on a quick 15 minute flight, and then take the remaining passenger on a 15 minute flight afterwards. The passengers agreed that waiting to siphon out fuel worked best for them, so I proceeded to the ramp to begin defueling.

A coworker who had overheard my conversation with the passengers, stopped me and asked what I was doing. I explained the fuel situation and that I had given the passengers what I thought were the best options, and was now going to defuel. With a look of disdain, the instructor shook his head and asked why I was defueling. Thinking that perhaps I hadn't made it clear the first time, I explained again that if I were to take-off with the fuel that was on board, I would be overweight. Immediately after explaining myself a second time, my coworker made it clear he had understood quite well what I was saying, it was my reasoning that he was having trouble understanding. He reassured me that the plane would lift off the runway just as it had always done before, and that the little bit of extra weight would be unnoticeable. While I understood that the extra 50 or so pounds that I would be overweight at take-off may not have much impact on the performance, I knew I would be operating outside of the certified limits for the plane. If anything were to happen between take-off and landing, the extra 50 pounds of weight that seemed so trivial now, could potentially have further reaching effects that I wouldn't be aware of until it was too late. I explained to my coworker that I wasn't willing to risk the safety of my passengers, especially considering the ease of either defueling, or splitting the passengers into two groups. Undeterred, my coworker pressed on in his attempt to convince me to go.

In an effort to put the issue to bed, I maintained that I would not take-off overweight, and conceded that while we both had opinions on the matter, now was not the time to discuss whether or not it was an acceptable risk. With that he relented, turned around and walked inside and I continued on with the defueling. After finishing the discovery flight I bid my passengers goodbye, and secured the plane for the night. With my work finished, I sat back and thought about the events of the day.

With my co-worker already gone home for the night, I debated whether or not to confront him the next day. Although I knew I stood little chance of convincing him that taking off overweight was an unacceptable risk, my goal wasn't to convince him to change his mind, but rather to let him know that taking off overweight wasn't something I was going to sign up for.
The following morning I decided I would wait until the others in the office emptied out and then take the opportunity to speak with this instructor. As the morning slid by, and the office failed to empty out, I began to question the benefit of confronting my coworker. The more I though about the situation the more I came to the conclusion that this was a battle not worth fighting.
As the days and weeks past, it became easier to convince myself that confronting this instructor would accomplish little, although the reality was I simply did not feel comfortable doing it.

I have been fortunate to work in an industry where confrontation is sometimes required to keep everything above board. Since that time I have grown more comfortable confronting others when there is a need to do so and the more I learn the more I am beginning to see that the real art is, just as with any other tool, knowing not only how to use it, but just as importantly, when.

Best Foot Foward

For a period of a year and a half early on in my time instructing I worked for an upstart flight school based east of Edmonton. I had been working as an instructor for 6 months at the school where I had done all of my training when the opportunity to help create and work for a new flight school presented itself. One of the more senior flight instructors, who was leaving to work for the new school, had recommended me to the fellow who was starting the school.

While there was an allure to helping build a flight school from the ground up and gaining contacts that could help me later on in my career, I was reluctant to leave the school that had given me my first job, and moreover, leave my students. I weighed the options, not knowing which path to take. As I was debating whether to stick with the old familiar, or jump to the new unknown, a period of just over 6 weeks passed where the flight instructors at the old school were not paid because our accountant was on holidays. After confronting the owner of the school, and being told that he could not pay us until the accountant returned, I made my decision to leave the old school and accept the position at the new one.

For the first few months at the new school, there was more than enough to keep the three of us busy; we worked on the syllabus, wrote the groundschool, held open houses and organised advertising. With the bulk of the groundwork completed and two shiny planes sitting on the ramp, there was little to do but wait for the flood of students to walk through the doors. And wait we did. After a period of just over 5 months the school had acquired a few students and we were averaging around 5 hours in the air a month each. To pass the idle time between our sparse bookings, the instructor who I had worked with at the old school and I would dream out loud about airplanes, airlines, and the paths our careers would take after instructing. Sitting in the office on a rainy afternoon waiting for the weather to improve, this instructor told me about contacts he had made and the possibility of him getting a job as a copilot on a King Air. We talked about what the transition to a King Air would be like, and how great it would be flying IFR in a turbo-prop. After sitting in silence for a few moments, both of us consumed with the thought of flying a turbine powered airplane, this instructor leaned back in his chair and imparted his advice as to how I could someday get to that point; "Be nice to everyone you meet in this industry, because you never know who will get you your next job"

While I had a great respect for this instructor, I didn't agree with his advice. Although aviation is a small industry, and who you meet along the way can have a huge influence on the path your career takes further down the line, I don't believe in being nice to people simply because they may be able to help you out in the future. I have met a number of people who adhere to this line of thinking and I have found that more often than not, they come off as insincere at best.

I have been thinking about my former co-worker and his advice lately as I read through airline interview guides, and lists of airline interview questions. Reading these books has offered some insight into the mind of the airline interviewer, although some of the advice they offer I find superficial. For example, if the written advice is to be strictly followed, one should wear a solid-colored tie, a dark suit, and be sure to cut your hair no more than two days prior to the interview. If at some point I am fortunate enough to find myself in an airline interview, I will dress professionally, and ensure that my hair does not look as though I just rolled from my bed, though I refuse to believe that cutting my hair inside two days from an interview and wearing a tie that isn't striped will impact whether or not I will be offered a position. If it is my week old haircut and striped tie that prevent me from getting the position, that is probably for the better.

Although those who create a facade in order to get a job or make a contact will undoubtedly have their successes, I will continue to hold on to my belief that there is no substitute for hard work, common sense and being genuine. Whether or not this will result in landing a coveted airline position is anyone's guess, and beside the point.

"To be nobody but yourself in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting." ~e.e. cummings

Quick Turnaround

"Sunshine is delicious, rain is refreshing, wind braces us up, snow is exhilarating; there is really no such thing as bad weather, only different kinds of good weather." ~John Ruskin


Early on in most pilots training, we come to learn that weather, by its very nature, can be unpredictable. Forecasts do a good job of predicting what is likely to occur over the forecast period, although from time to time, nature reminds us that there are no sure bets. The aviation industry as a whole is well aware of this fact and gets around weather's ability to defy forecasts by having a plan B ready to be put into action when plan A fails to work out.

Looking out the flight planning room door as I typed up a flight plan for a trip to Grande Prairie, the weather looked decent, although the forecast called for things to deteriorate over the course of the morning. A low pressure system and its associated fronts was advancing into the area from the south-west bringing with it a mix of rain and snow. With forecast ceilings of 400 feet and visibilities as low as 1 mile at our planned arrival time back into the Edmonton, there existed a chance that we would not make it back into the city if the forecast proved true. In the pre-flight briefing, my copilot and I discussed the weather and this possibility and where we would be able to go if we couldn't get back in, in Edmonton. With one passenger left to check in and departure time nearing, we checked the weather once again. A new forecast had been issued since the last weather check which now called for ceilings in the 800 to 1000 foot range with visibilities between 2 and 4 miles. It seemed as though the low pressure area to the south was losing steam, and as a result the weather would not be nearly as bad as forecast. With this good news in hand, and the last of our passengers now checked in, we boarded, and took off north-west to Grande Prairie just as a light snow was beginning to fall. On the climbout, the air felt bothered, with light to moderate turbulence bouncing us around, and a trace of mixed ice collecting on the wings. Leveling at FL 200, we were not above all of the weather, although we were out of cloud between layers. A few minutes after passing the Whitecourt VOR, we flew into the clear, with only a undercast layer far below us and blue sky above.

120 miles out from Grande Prairie, with the ATIS calling the ceiling at 1400 feet and 6 miles visibility with snow showers, the copilot briefed me on the ILS to runway 30. Descending through 8000 feet we began to collect light icing as the turbulence picked up once again.

Established on the ILS, the runway started to emerge through the murk at 2 miles out, and with a slight crosswind from the right, the copilot set the plane down nicely on the runway with a textbook landing. After shutting down on the main apron, the copilot escorted our passengers in to the terminal while I cleaned the cabin and prepared the plane for departure. For a second I contemplated calling flight services to get an update on the weather back at the city, but as the copilot was now walking our outbound passenger to the plane I instead called dispatch to inform them we would soon be departing. I again thought about quickly calling for weather, but reasoned that only an hour had passed since our departure out of the city, and with the latest forecast predicting improving conditions, I didn't bother.

We took off into winds gusting out of the north, and shortly after starting the right turn to head south east towards Edmonton, we were informed by Edmonton centre that several aircraft had just missed going into the city airport, and while aircraft were still getting into the international, the weather was deteriorating there as well. Inwardly, I chastised myself for not checking the weather prior to departure, but quickly put that aside; there was work to do. Once above 10'000 feet, I had the copilot inform our passenger of the state of the weather to the south-east, and ran our plans by him to in an effort to find a plan that fit, not only the changing weather and our fuel on board, but also if possible, his planned meetings for the day. Level at FL 210, the copilot and I picked up the weather for everything within an hours range of the city, which would allow us enough fuel to fly an approach, hold for 15 minutes and then proceed to an alternate airport and still have a comfortable reserve of fuel. Aside from the weather having dropped at the city, the situation had remained similar to the weather I had checked when I had first came into work. The weather south of Edmonton was low and widespread enough to prevent us from being able to use any airport in that direction as a viable alternate, although fortunately the weather to the north west remained reliably good. When within range of our company's radio, we discussed our plans with dispatch. We could still make it in to the international as the weather stood now, although I was doubtful that this would continue to be the case. Shortly afterward my hunch proved right as Edmonton Centre informed us that aircraft were no longer getting into the international either. After passing this information along to dispatch, and a brief discussion of our remaining options, we requested and were cleared direct to Whitecourt, which was 30 miles south-east of our position. Still level at FL 210, our descent would be steeper than
normal.
















With only 10 minutes before our arrival over Whitecourt, the copilot and I began the process of preparing the cockpit for the approach. In an effort not to needlessly rush things along I reminded the copilot that if at any point he felt we were not ready for the approach to let me know, and we would plan to hold until we were. As the copilot informed Whitecourt radio of our intentions, I loaded the VOR runway 29 approach into the GPS, and double checked that the radios were set up to fly the approach. Having finished talking with Whitecourt radio, the copilot briefed me on the applicable altitudes and tracks we would require for the approach and with a few minutes left until our arrival at the waypoint where we would start the approach, we both sat and caught our breath as I began to slow the plane to the speed at which we could bring out the flaps and begin our turn inbound on the approach. Now stabilised on the approach, inbound to the airport, we lower the landing gear and complete the landing checklist. The electric motor which extends the gear made its habitual whine as it pushed against the airflow to get the gear out of their wheel wells and down into their locked position. With the three green lights in the cockpit all indicating that the gear is safely down, the copilot turned his attention to the view out the windshield, waiting for the runway to come into view though the cloud. Three miles back from the field, we broke out of the cloud bases with the runway slightly to our right. The winds were similar to what they were when we left Grande Prairie, strong and gusty out of the north, giving us a bumpy ride down to the runway and a stiff crosswind. Over the runway I slowly start to reduce the power, the main gear chirping onto the runway slightly beyond the 1000' runway markings.

After shutting down, we explain the state of the weather and the situation again to our lone passenger, who is taking the day's changes in stride. With his meeting planned for later in the day, there still remained the possibility that the weather could improve in time for us to get him back into the City for his meeting. After amending our flight plan, calling dispatch and ordering a bit more fuel for the short hop to the City, we sat and waited in front of the weather kiosk in the terminal building for a sign of improving weather back in Edmonton. While the forecast called for improvement in the next few hours, it seemed Mother Nature had a different plan in mind.

After waiting for four hours, as quickly as it had dropped earlier in the day, the weather began to improve. Within the span of ten minutes the weather went from 1/4 mile visibility in heavy snow to 2 miles, and the ceiling from 400 feet to 800. Having the weather to not only start the approach, but probably make it in as well, we departed. The 20 minute flight over to the City was busy, but uneventful. After successfully landing back at the City, and parking on the Esso ramp, I thanked our passenger for his patience and apologised for not being able to get him here in time for his meeting. With a graciousness I wished more people possessed, he thanked us for the flight, and for getting him safely to Edmonton. Although there was really no need for him to have thanked us, its always nice to hear that coming from a passenger.

While the day proved to be challenging for both weather forecasters and pilots alike, looking back over the days weather and events after getting home from work in the evening, I was still shaking my head for not calling for weather before departing Grande Prairie. As it is well known and often said, you cannot change the past. Given that I could not go back and make the call I had failed to make earlier in the day, all I could do was learn from my mistake, and carry that knowledge forward to use later.

"The only real mistake is the one from which we learn nothing." ~John Powell

Dead Tired

Watching CBC a few weeks ago, I saw an ad for a three part documentary that had been done by the National on pilot fatigue. Interested, I made a mental note to sit down and watch it when it came on. Unable to watch it the first night it aired, as I had to be in bed early for a flight the next morning, I caught it online a few days later. Part one of the series begins by telling the story of Regionnare Flight 347, departing on its last leg of the day, from Port Menier, to Sept-Îles Québec. Flight 347 departed Port Menier at 11:34pm, and 23 minutes later, started the approach into Sept-Îles. The copilot, Serge Gagné, had flown five legs earlier in the day for operator Confortaire, before showing up to work for a four leg trip in the evening with Regionnaire. Including the flights done for Confortaire earlier in the day, Gagné had been on duty for 18 hours at this point, 4 hours longer than is allowed by the regulations. In addition to exceeding the 14 hour duty day limit, Gagné had also exceeded his 30 day flight time limit of 120 hours, by over 60 hours.

At the time the crew of Regionnaire Flight 347 were beginning their approach into Sept-Îles, the weather was being reported as a 200 foot overcast ceiling and 1/4 mile visibility in fog. With only Runway 13/31 available for use that day, the crew planned for an approach onto runway 31, for which there exists only an NDB approach. In the hierarchy of instrument approaches, NDB approaches fall into the bottom of the list, at least with regards to precision. Generally speaking, the greater the precision of the approach aid you are using in order to align yourself with the approach path, the lower you can descend. ILS approaches, which give precise lateral and vertical guidance, can guide most aircraft down to 200 feet above the ground. NDB approaches on the other hand, have higher minimums owing to the fact that they are not as precise. The minimums for the NDB Runway 31 approach into Sept-Îles is 506 feet above ground or 680 feet above sea level. What the crew of flight 347 should have done after they crossed the NDB beacon heading towards the airport was descend to 680 feet on their altimeters, and fly at that altitude until one of two things happened; either they would gain sight of the runway before the specified missed approach point, and with the runway in sight, continue the descent to land, or if the low ceiling and visibility prevented them from seeing the runway environment before the missed approach point, initiate a climb at the missed approach point and set up for another approach, or proceed to their alternate airport. Instead of stopping their descent at 680 feet until they had the runway in sight, intentionally or otherwise, the crew continued the descent below that altitude. Their radar altimeters, which are usually set to the MDA, or the height you are permitted to descend to without the runway in sight which in this case was 506 feet above ground, was instead set to 100 feet. This could have indicated that the decision to continue below minimums was a conscious decision, and not a fatigue induced error. At 100 feet the radar altimeter sounded, alerting the crew to their proximity to the ground, as did the ground proximity warning system (GPWS). The aircraft came to rest just under a mile from the airport, the cockpit having completely separated from the remainder of the fuselage, leaving the captain fatally injured while the copilot and two passengers sustained major and minor injuries respectively.

While the errors and violations of regulation that the crew of Flight 347 made on their series of flights that evening were many, it is not my place to make comments on the actions of the crew that evening, nor do I believe there is any benefit to be gained from writing about what the rest of us "could have done" if placed in their shoes that night. Notwithstanding the death of Captain Yvan Tremblay, I believe the real tragedy is the lack of ownership Gagné takes for his actions that evening.

When talking about his working for two companies in order to build time and experience Gagné states "obviously you make arrangements, and quickly you're logbook entries go past legal limits".

In the next bit, Gagné talks about the legal requirement for operators to remove flight crew from duty who are or will go over the legally allowed limit; "thats what should have happened, but it is not always followed very rigorously. You have to submit your flying hours once a month, so by the end of the 30 days, you may very well have exceeded those limits without even realizing it yourself" This I don't buy. As pilots we are required to track our flight and duty times to ensure that we do not exceed those limits set by the regulations. While operators are legally required to remove the flight crew from duty if there is a threat that they will exceed flight duty limitations, the onus rests on the pilot's shoulders to advise the operator that you are approaching those limitations.

In the closing minutes of the first segment, Gagné finishes off by saying "no one wants to be exhausted, no one wants to get hurt, no wants to have an accident, but it's the culture of the industry that brings us there."

I agree that no pilot worthy of a license wants to be exhausted, or get hurt or have an accident, however I do not buy into the idea that it is pilot culture that is to blame. While there are undoubtly pilots in the industry who are willing to bend or break the rules in order to complete a flight, the majority of pilots show up to work quite willing and able to make the tough, and sometimes unpopular decisions that need to be made in order to maintain the legality and more importantly, the safety of the flight. We may lay blame to culture, or pressure from management, or lack of regulatory oversight, or any of the other hosts of excuses that exist, but the reality is that it is the pilot in command who bears the responsibility for the flight. While pressure from management or passengers can be uncomfortable at best and the temptation to cut corners sometimes almost overpowering, ultimately it's the name and license number on the flight plan that will be held accountable when and if things come off the rails.
As it has been demonstrated many times in the past, even the best pilots are not immune from making mistakes, but as Henry S. Haskins once said "Mistakes fail in their mission of helping the person who blames them on the other fellow. "

CBC The National "Dead Tired"-http://www.cbc.ca/thenational/indepthanalysis/story/2010/03/24/national-deadtired.html

Regionnaire Flight 347 TSB Accident Report- http://www.tsb.gc.ca/eng/rapports-reports/aviation/1999/a99q0151/a99q0151.asp

A little bit of everything

The weather and flying conditions that each of the four seasons typically offer can be summed up with relative ease, at least in the western prairies. Summer will hold generally good weather with more time spent dodging thunderstorms than doing low approaches, Fall brings with it low ceilings and fog mixed in with whatever nice days summer has given up, Winter yields generally smooth conditions, with stronger winds aloft that can make for longer flight times when heading in a north-westerly direction, and finally Spring has the ability to give the worst and best of all the seasons combined. Some of the worst flying weather I have come across to date has largely been in the Spring months, and I have learned to be extra wary when the flat stratus cloud of winter give way to the rounded cumulus clouds of spring.

Driving into work last week for a flight destined for Rainbow Lake, a flash lit up the early morning sky. An upper cold front was forecast to pass through the Edmonton area prior to departure, so thunderstorms were a possibility, albeit a remote one given that it was mid March.

Looking at the radar after arriving at work, a north-south line of thunderstorms were clearly visible at the leading edge of the eastbound cold front. After doing the walkaround inspection on the 1900, I opened the hangar door to find light rain falling outside. With the temperature slightly below 0, I was concerned that the upon pulling the plane outside, once the aircraft's skin cooled down to the freezing mark, the rain would freeze, which could make de-icing difficult. I pulled one of the king airs that were parked in front of the 1900 outside and waited a few minutes to see if the rain would freeze on its wings. Shortly after pulling the second plane out of the hangar, the rain let up. I pulled the 1900 outside for the waiting fuel truck, hoping that that rain would continue to hold off and that the ramp would not freeze prior to us departing.

With all of our passengers checked in, we boarded with puddles of water still sitting on the ramp. As we begin our taxi out for departure, the sky has an ominous darkness to it, even in the mid morning light. Lining up on the runway, I tilt the radar to see what weather we will have to contend with immediately after departure. The radar shows nothing in front of our nose, although there are showers showing to the east of our departure path. Climbing through 1000 feet above the ground, Edmonton Centre gives us a turn to a north easterly heading to separate us from inbound traffic. I roll into a turn to the right and as I do, the weather radar begins to paint a return ten miles ahead on our assigned heading. At our current speed of 180 knots, we will reach the rain the the weather radar is showing in just over three minutes if Edmonton centre keeps us on this heading. The radar return sitting in front of us today is green, which indicates light precipitation. During the summer months we would usually not give too much thought to a green radar return, as at its worst, could mean flying through a shower or two, and light to medium turbulence on the way. It is the red and yellow radar returns that will grab our attention and usually require a deviation. However, this morning, with the temperature outside showing -5, any rain that we fly through would freeze onto the plane and even though the shower looked to be only 4 or 5 miles across on radar, we could pick up a significant amount of ice traversing the 5 miles to the clear air on the other side.
We ask for a deviation left of track for weather, and with the traffic that centre was keeping us separated from now behind us, we are cleared direct to Rainbow Lake which keeps us clear of the returns showing up on radar. Soon enough all of the convective weather is well behind us and we turn our attention to the weather in Rainbow Lake.

While it was rain and potential thunderstorms that we had to deal with on the departure out of the city, it will be snow that we will face on the arrival into Rainbow Lake. Getting an idea of the weather in Rainbow Lake can involve a bit of educated guessing, as there is no weather reporting station at the field, although there is weather reporting out of Fort Nelson about 50 miles to the west and High Level, 55 miles to the east. What makes the job of figuring out the weather in Rainbow Lake interesting is that even while you may know the weather on either side of Rainbow Lake, the weather in between does not always match the weather on either side. There have been many days where I have flown into Rainbow Lake with both Fort Nelson and High Level reporting clear, only to find an overcast layer sitting over the airport. I have learned to plan for the instrument approach every time I fly into Rainbow Lake to avoid surprises at the last minute. Abeam Peace River heading North, we pick up the new weather for Fort Nelson and High Level, and both are reporting between 1 1/2 - 2 miles visibility and a 1000 foot ceiling in snow. Although it is not the best weather, it should be more than enough to get into Rainbow on the NDB approach. 70 miles out from the airport, we contact the radio operator on the ground for the winds and altimeter setting, as well as the runway condition. The woman on the other end of the radio reports ten knot winds out of the north west and that the runway is in the process of being cleared. Shortly afterward one of the maintenance vehicles that were working on the runway reported the runway as slippery to the radio operator and is then passed on to us. The thing about a runway which is being reported as "slippery" is that it is a pretty subjective description. At better equipped airports, a vehicle calibrated to measure the friction of the runway will drive down the runway and report what is referred to as a crfi, or the canadian runway friction index. A bare and dry runway should have a friction index of 1. On the other end of the spectrum, a runway completely covered with ice will yield a friction index of anywhere from .07 to .22, depending on the conditions. I have landed on runways where the friction index was being reported at .25, which would put it somewhere slightly better than an ice covered runway. While it would seem that landing under such conditions defies logic and common sense, in reality landing on a slippery runway should be no different than landing on a bare and dry one. One of the main things to consider when landing with less then perfect runway conditions is wind, especially crosswind. For each friction index value, there is a corresponding maximum crosswind that can be safely handled. If the friction index is reported at .3, anything over a 10 knot crosswind could push you off the runway on landing.

20 miles back from the runway we break out of the cloud bases with the airport just slightly to the left of our nose. Turning final for runway 27, it is obvious that the runway has been cleared, although it looks as though there is still a layer of hard packed snow on the runway. The winds are still out of the north west, as I am having to point the nose of the plane slightly to the right of the runway in order to continue tracking to the runway. Over the runway's threshold I bring the power levers to idle with the intent touching down prior to the 1000' runway markings. Under conditions such as these, I will aim to touchdown at the desired spot on the runway and sometimes forgo a passenger pleasing smooth touchdown, in favor of a more controlled solid landing. Although most passengers like landings where they cannot feel the airplane touching down on the runway, the technique required to accomplish landings like these can often use up a few hundred feet of runway that may come in handy later on in the landing when you are trying to get the plane stopped. With the main wheels on the runway and the nosewheel close to touching down, I move the power levers into reverse. Typically once the plane has slowed through 60 knots, reverse is no longer used as it can blow debris forward, only to be sucked up into the engine intake. At 65 knots I begin to bring the engines out of reverse and test the brakes to determine how slippery the runway actually is. With the brakes depressed, the plane shows only a small decrease in speed, it would seem that the maintenance crew were right about the runway. I move the power levers back into reverse once again to slow us to a speed that will allow us to taxi off the runway. Once slowed to a taxi speed, the captain takes control and continues the taxi back to the taxiway and to the ramp. Often the most challenging part of landing on a slippery runway is not the landing itself, but rather taxiing off the runway and to the ramp. On landing, we have both aerodynamics and inertia working in our favor. Inertia will keep the plane moving in the direction that it is already going, and at speeds greater than 50 to 60 knots, the rudder is quite effective in keeping the plane pointed in the direction you want it to go. Once down to a taxi speed, especially when trying to turn onto a taxiway, inertia is now working against you, and any aerodynamic help that was there disappeared once we slowed below 50 knots. Getting the plane to do what you want it to now means using the thrust generated from the engines to help steer, and moving at a snails pace to keep things on the rails.
Once off the runway, we find that sitting on the ramp, the plane wants to creep forward even with the engines running at idle. We feather the propellers to keep the plane in place while we complete the shutdown checklist. With the engines shut down, I open the cabin door, and make a mental note to watch my step from the stairs to the ramp. I have seen a few pilots pull off flawless landings in icy conditions only to slip and fall stepping out of the plane. I step outside and manage to keep myself upright. The ramp is slick, although only in patches. I unload the the passenger bags and help our passengers brings their things to the terminal building. We will wait here for a few hours for our outbound passengers to arrive and then deal with whatever conditions the return leg has in store for us. Fortunately for the next few hours the biggest decision we will have to make is what to have for breakfast.

Change is the Plan

During my time instructing, there was an IBM commercial that I would describe to my students to convey to them what I thought to be the proper attitude with which to approach flying. In this commercial two management employees from a given company are wandering around a western European city, one, talking with an associate on the other side of the ocean. Over the course of the conversation this employee is having with his teammate on the other end of the telephone, the time and place at which they will meet up changes several times to various locations dotted across the continental US. When the employee hangs up, the partner who has been standing next to him asks what the plan is, to which the associate who has just got off the phone responds "the usual".

The principle which I was trying to convey to my students was that, despite having a plan, we must be flexible and have the ability to change our plan to match our circumstances, both of which can change at a moments notice. A good percentage of the time the weather and our aircraft cooperate and we make it to our destination without a hitch, however, from time to time the original plan goes out the window and we are left to contemplate Plan B.

I pull into the hangar parking lot about an hour and a half before our planned departure time of 6:00. Having already looked at the weather before leaving home, I figured that the destination I was texted yesterday evening by dispatch would not be where I would end up later today.
The plan was to fly 5 passengers to Mildred Lake, an oilsands strip sitting 25 or so miles to the North of Fort McMurray and sit there for the day, returning home in the early evening.

Throughout the northeast of the province, a 200 foot ceiling which had prevented a number of flights from making it into the Mcmurray area yesterday sat waiting for another days round of flights. Today I was scheduled to fly the 1900, whose GPS unit is only certified for enroute and terminal operations, not for approaches. This limitation would prevent us from descending below approximately 2000' due to Mildred only having GPS approaches. With the conditions in the Mcmurray area forecast to persist for the day, the possibility that we would successfully get into Mildred were slim bordering on none. We could possibly land at Fort Mcmurray, whose ILS approach would offer us a much better chance of getting in, although this would mean our passengers would face a 45 minute or more drive after arriving in Fort Mcmurray.

A call to dispatch confirmed what I had already suspected since I had first checked the weather this morning; we would not be going to Mildred. We would switch trips with one of the King Airs who could fly the GPS approach into Mildred, and we would take their passengers to Firebag, another oilpatch strip to the north of Mcmurray. With a new set of passengers and our flight plan loaded into the GPS, we took off northeast-bound into a black sky. Out the right window of the cockpit a thin pink line was beginning to creep over the eastern horizon. With any luck, we would arrive before the sun rose, as the light of day could make spotting the approach lights through the murk more difficult, and could decrease the possibility that we will be landing in Firebag.

Just beyond 60 miles from the field, we begin our descent out of FL250. We are informed that we are number three for landing at Firebag behind a 737 and a regional jet, and to reduce our speed to help prevent having to hold for the traffic ahead. I bring the power levers back and slow to 160 knots. Listening to the center frequency for the Mcmurray area, we hear the first regional jet, followed by the 737, land successfully at Firebag, both reporting that they had the approach lights at 100 feet above minimums. We remain guardedly optimistic as under the right conditions the arrival of flights can lower the ceiling around the airport due mainly to the addition of the water vapor from the exhaust of the engines to the surrounding air.

Turning a 10 mile final for runway 34 at 3900 feet, the cloud is still a few hundred feet below us.
Descending through 3200, about 1500' above the ground, we enter the cloud, and all at once are enveloped in grey. I concentrate on tracking the localizer, which will lead us to the runway centerline. Like flying in a funnel that will eventually spit us out about a half mile before the runway at around 250 feet, the localizer and glideslope both become progressively more sensitive the closer to the runway we get, requiring small corrections to our path in order to keep us in a good position to land once we reach decision height. At 300 feet above the ground, 50 feet above decision height, the glow of the approach lights becomes dimly visible through the mist. At decision height, the Captain, who has had the runway in sight for the last 30 or so feet, takes control and continues with the landing as I monitor the flight instruments and call out his airspeed and altitude. "ref plus 10,,.. 100 feet,..50 feet,.. 30,.. ref plus 5,... 20 feet,.. 10 feet,..." There is a slight thud as the main gear comes into contact with the runway, the captain pulls the power levers up over the detent to select reverse, pushing my weight forward into the shoulder straps. Looking outside for the first time since starting the approach, the trailers serving as the terminal building here are barely visible as we taxi off the runway and towards the ramp. I call down and clear of the runway first to Firebag traffic, then to Edmonton Centre, who has been waiting for our call to give the following aircraft their approach clearance. I keep an eye on my wingtip as we maneuver through the ramp, while at the same time, getting as many things ready for our leg home as I can. Set the pressurisation controller for our flight planned altitude on the way home, load our outbound flight plan, and set the speed bugs for the evening take-off. By the time I have all of this completed, the captain is setting the parking brake, and I complete my shut down flow; EFIS off, TCAS off, Standby attitude indicator caged and off, temperature mode controller off. I tidy up the approach plates, and climb out of the cockpit as the engines are spooling down. I welcome our passengers to Firebag, mentioning to be cautious when they deplane as the ramp is icy today. I escort the passengers inside and head back out to the plane to install the inlet plugs and prop ties.

Walking away from the airplane to the crew bus I pause for a moment to think about our return flight. If the weather continues to behave as it is forecast, there may be a chance we won't make it back into the City with the increases that have been applied to the ILS minimums. No need to worry about that for the time being though, for if what we have encountered this morning is any indication of what lies ahead, the plan and the forecast will likely change a number of times between here and departure.

Airport Farewells

This morning I found myself at the airport at an early, but not unusual hour. I thread my way through throngs of people standing in holiday season sized lines, waiting patiently for the next available ticket agent. Scanning the faces I find the three passengers that I am looking for. Today, the passengers I am looking for are not my own, in fact I am not flying this morning. This morning I have come to say goodbye. This year I was fortunate to have my family in Edmonton for Christmas and as anyone who lives a distance away from home surely knows, there is no greater gift than to have your family close for the holidays. Unfortunately just as the holidays had come and gone far too quickly, so too was their visit coming to a close.
In the eight years that I have called Edmonton home and the handful of visits that I have had with my family since moving, the goodbyes have become easier, albeit only slightly. Upon arriving at the beginning of the security line, the inevitable is upon us, and our goodbyes follow the pattern set by our previous goodbyes; First Mom will begin to cry, and as she does my Sister and I will laugh quietly to each other, partly because Mom always does this, and partly because if we didn't we would likely break down ourselves. Next I hug Mom and reassure her that I'll see her again soon enough, then I hug Sis, and finally shake Dad's hand. With our goodbye ritual complete, they enter the queue, and slowly shuffle their way towards the security gate. I stand there for sometime, periodically spotting my Dad's head above the crowd. Once through security, they wave one final time and disappear around the corner towards their gate. I cast my eyes up towards the ceiling and swallow hard, trying to suppress the lump in my throat.
As I walk out to my car I see a family welcoming what looks to be their daughter with open arms. I smile. They say that for every hello said at an airport, there is a goodbye that is being spoke to counter it. Today, I look forward to the day where the welcoming and farewells that I share with my family will not be so far between.