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
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Friday, May 7, 2010
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
Saturday, April 10, 2010
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. "
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
Monday, March 22, 2010
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.
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.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
For the Love of Flying
I cast my line out, up stream into the river. The hook and bait make a splash, barely perceptible amongst the ripples in the water. My eyes follow the line as it is carried downstream,... they say patience and persistence are the essence of fishing. I slowly reel my line back in, pick off the weeds it has collected and cast it out once again. To be perfectly honest, the fish themselves are only part of the reason I have come down to the river at 7 pm on a Saturday evening. In a world of instant messaging and instant gratification, it is nice to come to a place where impatience is very rarely rewarded.
A friend of mine, and fellow pilot who has come along today breaks the silence,
"At some point in time I guess we have to ask ourselves what we are doing this for?"
While he very easily could have been referring to the distinct lack of fish, or at least the lack of fish interested in our bait, perhaps the conversation which had preceded this comment would allow for a little more context.
This friend of mine, like myself, had been hired as a king air copilot during a period where the aviation industry could not find enough pilots to fill the front seats of their airplanes. As with anyone else who moved up or into the industry during that time would know, we were all very fortunate to be at the right place at the right time. Unfortunately, just as it has happened in the past, this period of good fortune for pilots and the aviation industry as a whole would run its course, and with time, the industry began to slow down as it had done before. For many pilots this meant a reduction in hours, downgrading, or a loss of position altogether. My friend was one of those who fell into the latter group. Left jobless with a current ppc, he went off in search of a flying position, although at that point in time, any positions that were worth applying to were long gone. Undeterred, he continued knocking on doors until his persistence was rewarded, albeit with a position that was a step backwards from the position he had held previously.
"What are we doing this for?"
The question that my friend had asked was one that I was not unfamiliar with. There had been times during my career where I had asked myself the same question. Days where, despite having just put in 14 hours at work, I felt further behind at the end of the day then I did at the beginning. Aviation can be a demanding occupation, that from time to time takes all that you can give, and offers little in return. There are plenty of pilots who, after years of service with their airlines, show up to work to find that their pensions have been cut in half, or worse yet, no longer exist, who are a testament to this.
For all of the negative aspects inherent in the aviation industry, there are a few pluses that pop up from time to time to counter the hardships. This morning as I climbed through a grey overcast layer of cloud into a sparkling sunlit world above I experienced one of those pluses.
In my time flying I have seen and experienced some incredible things that if I were to try to explain to those who do not fly, would fall on deaf ears. Tales of brilliant sunrises from 23000 feet, of Northern lights so close it seemed as though they could be touched, the magic of St Elmo's fire dancing on the windshield.
I think of my friend's question as I cast my line out into the river again. While there are certainly a number of pilots who have understandably thrown in the towel after enduring some of the worst that this industry can dish out, I still hold a great respect for those who continue to press on against the hardships towards a potentially nonexistent light at the end of the tunnel. Those like my friend, who despite the setbacks, continue to show up and give their 100% if for no other reason than for the sake of a job well done. It is these individuals who make the industry what it is, and serve as an inspiration for the rest of us.
A friend of mine, and fellow pilot who has come along today breaks the silence,
"At some point in time I guess we have to ask ourselves what we are doing this for?"
While he very easily could have been referring to the distinct lack of fish, or at least the lack of fish interested in our bait, perhaps the conversation which had preceded this comment would allow for a little more context.
This friend of mine, like myself, had been hired as a king air copilot during a period where the aviation industry could not find enough pilots to fill the front seats of their airplanes. As with anyone else who moved up or into the industry during that time would know, we were all very fortunate to be at the right place at the right time. Unfortunately, just as it has happened in the past, this period of good fortune for pilots and the aviation industry as a whole would run its course, and with time, the industry began to slow down as it had done before. For many pilots this meant a reduction in hours, downgrading, or a loss of position altogether. My friend was one of those who fell into the latter group. Left jobless with a current ppc, he went off in search of a flying position, although at that point in time, any positions that were worth applying to were long gone. Undeterred, he continued knocking on doors until his persistence was rewarded, albeit with a position that was a step backwards from the position he had held previously.
"What are we doing this for?"
The question that my friend had asked was one that I was not unfamiliar with. There had been times during my career where I had asked myself the same question. Days where, despite having just put in 14 hours at work, I felt further behind at the end of the day then I did at the beginning. Aviation can be a demanding occupation, that from time to time takes all that you can give, and offers little in return. There are plenty of pilots who, after years of service with their airlines, show up to work to find that their pensions have been cut in half, or worse yet, no longer exist, who are a testament to this.
For all of the negative aspects inherent in the aviation industry, there are a few pluses that pop up from time to time to counter the hardships. This morning as I climbed through a grey overcast layer of cloud into a sparkling sunlit world above I experienced one of those pluses.
In my time flying I have seen and experienced some incredible things that if I were to try to explain to those who do not fly, would fall on deaf ears. Tales of brilliant sunrises from 23000 feet, of Northern lights so close it seemed as though they could be touched, the magic of St Elmo's fire dancing on the windshield.
I think of my friend's question as I cast my line out into the river again. While there are certainly a number of pilots who have understandably thrown in the towel after enduring some of the worst that this industry can dish out, I still hold a great respect for those who continue to press on against the hardships towards a potentially nonexistent light at the end of the tunnel. Those like my friend, who despite the setbacks, continue to show up and give their 100% if for no other reason than for the sake of a job well done. It is these individuals who make the industry what it is, and serve as an inspiration for the rest of us.
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