“A Tale of Two Steves”

Steve is such a cool name.

I always thought that “being a Steve” is probably one of the coolest things to be. Just think of all the REALLY cool guys over the years named “Steve”. You have your: Steve Jobs who gave the entire world a laptop, your Steve Perry, of the band Journey, from the world of WWE, you have your Stone Cold Steve Austin,  from the realm of B movies, your super kick-ass guy Steve(n) Segal, your Steve Young, Hall of Fame quarterback for the SFO “49ers”, your Steve Irwin and his howl of “Crikey!”, and your Steve Winwood with his ballad “Higher Love”…the list is almost endless. Of course, the coolest dude to ever show “Steve” on the ol’ Certificate of Birth is the uber-badass, the one and only king of awesome, Steve McQueen. During the 1960s and 70s, the big screen (and real world of “cool”) had but one superstar action guy, and that was Mr. McQueen.

(Steve McQueen in the Oscar nominated film, “The Great Escape”.)

The two Steve’s in this yarn are also very cool. They’re very different types of human beings mind you, but cool nonetheless. One was more of an acquaintance than an actual friend, and the other became more like a brother than simply a friend. One was tall, muscular, of broad stature and could play middle linebacker on anyone’s team, the other was of average height, slightly slump shouldered, a bit soft in the middle and would’ve looked far more natural sitting on a bar stool, than engaged in a goal-line stand. One was stamped from the gregarious mold, the other a bit reserved and prone to deep pondering. However, in one arena they were both cut from the same piece of cloth; they were both exceptionally gifted pilots.

Acquaintance Steve (Steve M.) was trained in the crucible of Marine Corps Aviation, while the dear friend Steve (Steve B.) took his aviating baby steps with yours truly in the skies over Oklahoma. Steve M. and I never shared a cockpit, for he and I were domiciled at different cities at the regional airline, but we frequently crossed paths on the line, or on an overnight layover.  As with most groups of employees that are tied together by trade, some folks just seem to have their own brand of lore, and his lore mostly involved flying fast jets for Uncle Sam. He was “that guy” at most gatherings, and held court with fantastic yarns of exploits flying in the yank and bank world of military aviation. We were not at all sure if he actually did the amazing things that he SAID he did, but regardless of that fact, his stories were quite fun to listen to. Steve B. was the exact opposite. He would enter my life as a college friend (and later roommate), become an aviation buddy, and through the years grow to become a trusted confidant and best friend. We spent countless hours sharing various cockpits and found that we had lots of things in common (see Logbook titled “Laughter and Heartache” https://bubba757.com/2015/01/06/laughter-and-heartache/ ). We engaged in regular discussions regarding current and past events, often comparing our similar up-upbringings in an effort to plead our opinionated conclusions. We discovered that both of our Dads had introduced us to the wonderful game of golf early in our lives, and hence, we logged years abusing golf courses across the world. After you’ve spent that many hours in close proximity with another person, either at work or play, you will eventually see their true “self” rise to the surface. Again, he and I would become fast friends, and I would grow to know him as I do myself.

(Acquaintance Steve)

Steve M. was a force to be reckoned with. As mentioned above, his physical being was impressive…think of the wrestler/actor John Cena, only taller. With that said, his personality was the magnet that drew folks to him. Although being something of giant among men (and women), he seemed to have the inner voice of a restless third grader. He was perpetually up to something; a prank to play on someone, or a joke to spring on the next unsuspecting fool. However, from what I had heard from his pilot contemporaries in the Little Rock base, he was able to reign in the “Jokester” when it came time get serious in the flying machine (probably due to his training in the world of military aviation). One thing I will say about every single Marine I’ve shared a cockpit with over the last 4 decades; they’ve all been mountains of fun to work with, for they seemed to have an innate ability to NOT take themselves too seriously. However, when it was time to put on their game face…in other words, time to do “some of that pilot sh*t Mav”, there were few equals. For my tax dollars, I would have to say that “the Corps” turns out good…no, strike that… excellent…pilots. 

Point of fact. If you want to piss off a Marine, just do the following. Pronounce their beloved “Corps” incorrectly (as a former occupant of the White House so infamously did a few years ago). It’s “Corps” as in “Core”, not “Corps” as in “Corpse”! Take it from me, just don’t do it. (BTW, there is no such thing as an EX-Marine. Once a Marine, always a Marine. As President Ronald Reagan so famously once remarked, “Some people spend an entire lifetime wondering if they made a difference in the world.  But the Marines don’t have that problem.”) “Semper Fidelis” to my Marine friends, you guys (and ladies) are a special breed to be sure.

(Marine Corps F-4 Phantoms loaded for an air to ground mission.)

(The following tale was related to yours truly by “acquaintance” Steve M. himself.)

The year was 1982, and Steve and his Captain (Tom) were on the second leg of a 3-leg day at my old regional airline Scheduled Skyways. Their mission for the day included a dawn launch from that mecca of country and western music (Nashville), and were to wing themselves a few hundred miles southwest to the city of Little Rock, Arkansas (their home domicile…mine was Fayetteville, Arkansas). After a small break, they were to do a flight down to Dallas, turn and be back in Little Rock in time to enjoy the freeway tango known as the evening rush hour. The morning dawned clear and calm, and the first segment went off without a hitch. One down, two to go.

(Top: A Scheduled Skyways SA-226TC Metroliner at DFW. Bottom: the early route structure of my little airline.)

Side note: A short bit of history.

Way back in the stone ages (say, the 1970s) the little commuter airlines had a damn good thing going. At my line, we flew to a few large cities, but our bread and butter routes were the little backwater towns of America. Raise your hand if you’ve ever heard of El Dorado, Arkansas? Fort Leonard Wood, Missouri? How about Jackson, Tennessee? Harrison or Jonesboro, Arkansas? (I don’t see ANY hands in the air…lol.) Well, neither had I…at least until I signed on to fly for Skyways in the Fall of 1979. We had the small-town commercial passenger business locked up pretty tight, not a total monopoly mind you, but pretty close. We enplaned lots of nice, small-town folks to shuttle them off to a “real” city like Tulsa, Memphis, Little Rock or Dallas, so they could catch a “real” airplane (like the ones that said Boeing on the control yoke) to continue their journey. We didn’t ally ourselves with the major airlines, but flew in direct competition against them. Very different from what you see these days. For example, tomorrows “Delta” flight out of Eugene, Oregon to Salt Lake City, is not flown by Delta Airlines, it’s flown by a “Delta Connection” line that is contracted to fly to the smaller towns for the big brother headquartered in Atlanta. In this case, it’s probably a company by the name of SkyWest Airlines. It’s a great little airline, with superb agents, flight attendants and pilots. In fact, I’ve ridden on their cockpit jumpseat a few times, have always been impressed by their employees, and many of the new hires I flew with at “big brother” Delta the last few years of my career were hired from SkyWest.  But again, back in the dark ages post deregulation, ticket prices were low, the airlines (big and small) flew darn near everywhere, and the little aerial circus I worked for was going “mano e mano” with the big boys in some of our markets. One of those happened to be the Little Rock to Dallas/Ft. Worth market, and that’s where we pick up our hero Steve again in the yarn.

They arrived from their morning launch from Nashville on time and unscathed. Next on the hit parade was a flight down to the sun baked plains of north Texas and the Dallas-Ft. Worth Metroplex (or as we called it when I was growing up in Ft. Worth…the “Metro-mess”). The one saving grace for this next mission, was that Steve and his erstwhile captain were not bound for the huge conflagration of runways, taxiways, ramps and terminals known as DFW, nope, they were headed toward that “other” busy airline destination…Dallas’s Love Field. This little jewel of an airport sits southeast of the “Texas-tall” skyscrapers of downtown Dallas, and after the birth of DFW (and the closure of the Greater Southwest Airport), was relegated to become two equally important things. One was a very busy general aviation center for everything from small Cessnas to large business jets; and the other, was to shine as the epicenter of that famous “Love Airline”. You know the one that originally painted their planes with a mixture of red, orange and (for lack of a better description) baby-diaper-contents brown. Its name is, of course, Southwest Airlines, and it’s the father (and most successful) of all “low cost” airlines. They invented the concept back in the early 1970s, flooding the skies between three Texas cities with their little Boeing 737s. Their dirt-cheap fares, and friendly stewardesses in “hot pants” was a huge hit, and they haven’t looked back since.

(The dawn of low-cost air travel, circa 1972. A Boeing 737-200 in the red/orange/baby-poop yellow livery, two “suits” and those famous “hot pants” and white knee boots. The concept was a hit from the beginning.)

So, as Steve and Captain Tom prepared to depart from Little Rock for Dallas, they noticed something that was not at all unheard of in those days. Their entire passenger load consisted of but a single passenger. Again, this was back in the days before that incestuous thing we call “code sharing” with another airline (Delta/SkyWest, etc.), so on several routes, we would launch for a destination in our little “weed-whacker” turbo-prop machine behind a “real” airline bound for the same destination. Those United (or Delta or American or TWA) Boeing 727s, replete with standing room cabins, comfortable seats, toilets and stewardesses…we had none of that…would be our direct competition on those routes. Our little aerial-tube had seats that were designed by the Marquis de Sade, no bathroom facilities, no flight attendants (with a max of only 19 customers we were not required by the FAA to have any), and unless one was shorter than, say, Tom Cruise (5’6”), you were forced to walk down the aisle doing your best “hunchback of Notre Dame” impression. Comfort was NOT our calling card…in fact, I’m not sure why ANYONE would choose us over the big jet airlines (I’m guessing lower fares). We flew many times with a handful of passengers, every now and again with a single “dare-devil”, and occasionally, we were totally empty (more on that later).

So off they climbed, Steve and his erstwhile commander Tom, into the clear morning sky, winging their way toward Dallas with their lone occupant in the passenger cabin. We know that from my earlier description of him, Steve was “that guy”, and …well Tom was definitely NOT that guy. In fact, Tom was the opposite of “that guy”. Picture the guy at the party that, well, actually Tom would not have gone to the party (to tell the truth, I’m not sure he would’ve been invited…lol). The little exposure that I actually had with Tom, left me with the following impression; he was a “nice enough” dude, but was as dry as a mouthful of the Sahara Desert, boring as a lecture on interest rates, and his proclivities were so damned straight arrow that an exclamation of “heck” or “darn” might illicit a scouring recrimination.  I’m sure that a cold beer had never touched those lips, and equally sure that if a pretty girl smiled his way, he’d squirm like the proverbial “cat on a hot tin roof”.  The First Officers even had a nickname for him…” the Boy Scout” (my apologies to all the BSA types out there). With all that said, every now and then in a pilot’s career, the person sitting next to you is your opposite …it just happens. It’s really not too much of an issue on the flightdeck, and one can learn to be socially “creative” on the layovers, so it’s not like you’re required to become “best-ies”. Given all of that, I would guess that he and Steve did not have the most scintillating conversations on the Metroliner flight deck. Again, just a guess on my part.

(Two of Skyways Metroliners on the ramp at Little Rock.)

Speaking of the Metro flight deck, it had lots of one thing, and none of something else. It was awash in the noise from the screaming Garrett TPE 331 engines hanging barely 10 feet aft of your seat, and we all wore the ubiquitous green David Clarke “noise cancelling” headsets, which helped a little. At my Northwest Orient Airlines job interview in 1983, one of the hurdles to pass was a 2-day medical flight exam through the hallowed halls of the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota (that’s a subject for an entire Logbook yarn…it had to be experienced to be believed…lol). During my testing at the Audio Department, the white lab-coated doctor lady looked at my chart with a small grimace. She had noticed a pronounced dip at a certain decibel range, and looked at me and asked… “Garrett engines?” My answer, “Yep”. She chuckled and said that all pilots of the Metro had the very same dip at the very same frequency…lovely. So, we spent hours/days/months wearing these green headset monsters in the cockpits, and at the end of the day, we all had a big, sweaty flat spot across the top of our heads. We termed it “helmet head”, and we wore it proudly… albeit less than attractively.

(The object of my audio frequency “dip”…The howling Garrett TPE331 engine as seen from my seat.)

The one thing our Skyways “Metro” flight decks did not have was automation. We had no Flight Directors on the ADIs (attitude direction indication…some call it the “artificial horizon”).  These little magic indicators help a pilot by giving him/her a “target” as it were to use when flying the machine solely by the instruments.  It makes things like conducting an instrument approach much easier by providing you with a yellow cross (or “V bars”) on the attitude indicator telling you where you need to point the machine and you just “fly” the little airplane symbol on the instrument into the cross-hairs (or “the “V bars”) and it makes a difficult thing much easier. Keeping a steady, concentrated instrument scan going after being in the air for 10 hours (including a dozen takeoffs and landings) can be a challenge. A Flight Director can become your best friend on the midnight instrument approach into a rain-swept airport in “Po-Dunk, Arkansas”. So, no Flight Director system…check.

It also didn’t have another wonderful thing…an autopilot. We “hand flew” the airplane all day, every day. (I know, I know, you friggen pilots have it soooooo easy that you just “push a button” and the plane fly’s itself…actually, it’s not quite that easy.) Whereby the big jets ALL have sophisticated autoflight systems (try hand flying the Boeing 767 for 14 hours from Seattle to Beijing…can’t be done), many of the smaller machines “back in the day” required you to hang on to the yoke and actually fly the thing 100% of the time. I recall many a day, cruising along at 15 to 16000’, with a jumbo Cola between my legs while I wolfed down a ketchup and mustard bathed hot dog from some “choke and puke” food stand at a backwater airport. Our schedules were pretty air-tight and we routinely flew long days with no breaks for an actual meal. Usually, the most you would get is a :30 break about ½ way through your day, so you became quite adept at flying the machine and stuffing your face at the same time.

(A typical flight deck of the SA226TC Metroliner. The little brown/blue instruments on either side are the ADIs or Attitude Indicators.)

One of the by-products of hand flying the machine constantly, is that you became quite good at noticing when the plane is doing something other than what you were asking it to do. We became experts at trimming the machine to hold the altitude we wanted, and whenever one of the passengers would move around in the cabin, we could tell it simply by how the machine was responding to the weight shifting. Again, no bathrooms, no galleys, no stewardesses, so the ONLY time they moved was when someone was coming forward to talk to us (we had a curtain between the cockpit and cabin…imagine that nowadays…right?). The person flying the ship could feel the nose wanting to drop as a passenger came forward, within a few seconds they would open the curtain, the pilot not flying the plane would move an earphone off of one ear, shout “Can I help you?”, and the passenger would launch into whatever question, comment, or tirade was on their agenda at that moment.

(N501SS on the company ramp in Fayetteville, Arkansas…It was one of our oldest Metros, and I saw many an hour in the clouds is this machine.)

Back to Steve’s flight. Tom was piloting the machine, straight and level at 16000’, on a vector for the navigation station that defined the arrival corridor from the northeast into the Dallas terminal airspace. They were roughly at the midpoint of the flight when Tom started to feel the nose beginning to get heavy and he applied the appropriate amount of nose up trim. He looked at Steve and mentioned through the “hot mike” inter-phone system that the lone passenger was coming toward the cockpit. Steve shifted in his seat, moved the earphone off of his left ear and waited for the curtain to open…when it did, he was NOT prepared for what awaited him (his comment to me as he relayed the story).  Upon pulling the cockpit curtain open, there stood a young lady, completely naked (or as we Texans say it…”buck ass nekked!”), covered in baby-oil, and smoking a joint! She loudly exclaimed, “Anyone want to come in the back and share some of this (holding up the weed), and then share some of “this” (gesturing to her nakedness)?”

According to Steve, a giant smile spread across his face, and he began the process of unbuckling himself from the First Officer’s seat. Again, from the man himself, he was definitely NOT interested in the weed, but his sense of duty drove him to seriously ponder the idea of helping this young lady check yet another box on her “bucket list” of life. To quote him, “Hey, if she had some sort of wish to become a card-carrying member of the “Mile High Club”, who was I to deprive her of that?” It was not to be, for roughly the same moment that Steve began the maneuver to release his seat belt and/or harness, Captain (“Boy Scout”) Tom turned to see what was happening over his right shoulder. It seems that “shocked and surprised” doesn’t begin to describe his reaction to the proceedings. Steve relayed that at the realization that his little aerial world of law and order was about to resemble a scene from Sodom and Gomorrah, Captain Tom essentially came un-glued!

(Skyways Metro inflight. The guy in the left seat is a friend by the name of Gil M.)

Immediately ripping the headset from his now enraged brow, Tom angrily pointed a recriminating index finger at the young aerial strumpet and exclaimed at the top of his lungs, “Young lady, you put your clothes back on, put out that illegal instrument, and we WILL have the authorities waiting on you when we land!” (His choice of “illegal instrument” still gives me a giggle) When I asked Steve what her reaction to such a fire-branded scolding was, he (shaking his head) said rather forlornly, “Well, her eyes got really large, and she looked shocked, and mortified. She started to cry and ran toward the back of the airplane!” Tom pulled the curtain closed, then turned his wrath upon Steve. He ordered him to buckle himself back into the First Officer’s seat and begin the process of tilting the scales of justice toward a harsh reality in this young lady’s life. Steve meekly (still hard to picture this huge dude meekly doing anything) did as he was told, and on they flew toward Love Field.

I’m sorry to say that the story of “Mile High Steve” ends there. For whatever reason, I never heard the rest of the tale, and I don’t remember the circumstances surrounding his retelling of this yarn to yours truly, so hence, I can’t with total honesty say why I never heard how it all turned out. Within a fairly short period of time, I was to be snatched up in the big hiring wave of the early 1980’s at the major airlines, and our paths never crossed following that. I did hear that he too had left the small airline for the “big leagues”, and the last I heard of his journey, he was occupying the captain’s seat of a Boeing 747 for one of the large freight companies. Funny thing, since they don’t carry passengers, I feel pretty certain that his morning over northeast Texas with Captain (Boy Scout) Tom, was probably the last time he was confronted on the flight deck by a naked girl and her “illegal instrument”.

(Boeing makes THE most beautiful flying machines in the world.)

(Dear friend Steve)

My next tale of a Steve begins in college circa 1977. I was a full year ahead of Steve B. in the aviation program, and he was rooming with a young man that would soon become one of my flying students. He and I were casual acquaintances until we realized that our childhoods were strangely identical. He too was a military “brat”, and the offspring of an aviator. He too had spent the majority of his early years either living overseas or moving from one military base to the next. He too had grown up in and around flying machines, and felt the tug of the clouds at an early age.

Our differences were both significant and trivial; his father flew jet bombers for the Air Force, and my Dad flew helicopters for the Army. He spent several of his “formative years” in the green, steamy Philippines, and I spent those same years in the post-card world of southern Germany. We found the differences in our shared upbringings vastly overshadowed by the similarities of our lives as the child of military pilot. A major one, of course, being that our fathers seemed to be perpetually gone. They were either deployed, in the throes of some sort of training, or TDY [Temporary Duty] to some exotic place that our young minds could barely register.

In both of our lives, the true boss of the home was our Mother. She was “large and in charge”, and although she often resembled the carnival juggler (bowling ball, egg and running chainsaw…we’ve all seen the show); she somehow made it work. She ruled the household with the iron will of a monarch, and pretty much single-handedly raised the brood of children (in my case 5 of us, and his case 2). She was all things to all people; she metered out stern discipline, and gentle love, in equal amounts, and somehow kept a marriage together with a man that was almost never there. I know from conversations with Steve, that the phrase, “my Dad is gone” was quite common, but the year both of our fathers went to war was something very different. They spent over a year in the war-torn skies of Vietnam (one at 25,000’ and the other at tree-top level), and returned to their loving families in one piece (and mostly unchanged). My bond with Steve was initially formed from our shared past, and grew stronger with our shared likes (airplanes, history and sports). Within a short period of time, we became fast friends.

When I met Steve’s Mom and Dad, it was like I’d known them all my life…for in a strange way I had. Just like my father, Steve’s dad was tall, strong, and met you with the hand-shake of a bear. He was lightning quick with a laugh, and seemed to have a never-ending repertoire of flying stories. His tales were fantastic in nature, and mesmerizing in delivery, and I instantly took a liking to him. It was like being in the same room with a combination of Errol Flynn and Steve Canyon (more google homework for the younger crowd).  Steve’s mother was very much the other side of the coin. Like my own dear mother, she was soft-spoken, prone to maternal kindness and exuded a quiet strength born of loving a man that she shared with the sky. It was obvious that she loved him with all her heart, and that deep well of love spilled down toward Steve and his younger brother Dan. They were a family strongly bonded in the shared knowledge that their next destination (read Air Force base), their next town, their next school, their next set of friends, quite literally their next everything would be changing (and probably sooner rather than later). They were a tightly-knit tribe (like my family) for it was (and is) how a military family survives. With that said, they warmly welcomed me into their home with open arms.

(“Hero” Steve Canyon of 1960’s TV fame. He’s standing in front of an F-100 Super Sabre.)

After college, Steve and I went our separate ways professionally. I continued in the world of flight instruction, then off to do the “night freight” gig (see blog entry “Night Warriors…or My Life as a Freight Dog” https://bubba757.com/2019/01/06/night-warriorsor-my-life-as-a-freight-dog/ ), four years in the regional airlines, and eventually ended up with a set of wings engraved with the logo of a proud, world-renowned, airline. Steve heard the siren call of a different tune, and chose to stay in the world of smaller machines, for the bright lights of exotic destinations, and the thrill of piloting the “heavy iron” mattered not to him. He worked at the regional airline where I was employed for a few years, and that was truly a special time in my life. We flew many flights together (myself as the Captain, and he as the First Officer), hung out together on our days off, played tons of golf/tennis etc, tipped one (or a million) beers together and generally did what good friends do. He became like a brother to me, for he watched my first marriage crumble, he helped me through the death of a beloved sibling, and was one of my most important “go to” people in a decade of my life that needed that brand of friendship and support.

(Yours truly and Steve on a golf course in Winnepeg circa 1987.)

The following is but one of MANY adventures we shared in a cockpit during our time at the regional airline…

By day 3 of the trip, Steve and I were bone tired. The date was the 13th of September 1981, and although this day looked to be easy duty, the previous 2 days were anything but. In the last 48 hours, we had flown a total of 14 legs. The following is a list of the flights we had accomplished during the last couple of days. The first day had us “enjoying” a pre-dawn launch from Fayetteville (Arkansas, our home domicile) bound for the “first oil capital of the world”, Tulsa, Oklahoma. From there it got a bit dizzying; Tulsa to Ft. Smith, Ft. Smith to Little Rock, Little Rock to Memphis, Memphis to Springfield, Springfield to Kansas City, Kansas City to Springfield, and a scant 14 hours later we called it a day back in the “Blues Capital” of Memphis. The second day of this extravaganza was “easy” compared to the previous outing, for on this day we flew but a mere 6 legs. These destinations read like another travel log of the deep South: Memphis to Little Rock, Little Rock to El Dorado (AR), El Dorado to Shreveport, Shreveport to El Dorado, El Dorado to Little Rock, and (once again) we ended the day witnessing a gorgeous sunset on the banks of the “Big Muddy” itself (back in Memphis).

(Memphis’ world-famous Beale Street.)

So, as I turned off the alarm on the morning of Day 3, I noticed two things: the sunrise was just beginning to lighten the hotel room window, and Steve was already showered, dressed and ready to rock and roll. I had no idea what propelled him out of bed so quickly, but then I didn’t much care…today was the last day of trip, and the sooner we got started the sooner we’d be home. Back then, the small airliner universe was in a constant state of financial anxiety, and one of the ways we scrimped on the almighty dollar was to share hotel rooms (or motel as the case may be). This was a non-issue for most of our crews, but occasionally you had a “roomie” that snored like a lumberjack, or couldn’t sleep unless the TV was blaring, etc., and it could make for a short night…which was inevitably followed by a long day. Thank God we were (mostly) in our 20s, physically fit, and pulling a marathon day in the cockpit almost always fell into the “FUN” category. Now (four decades removed from this type of flying), the thought of a 14-leg day in the wind, rain, thunderstorms, snow and ice…or even a sunny day…makes me dizzy and needing for a nap.

The day started with a bit of twist, for on this sleepy Sunday morning, the airline changed our aerial mount. It wasn’t unusual for all airlines to massage their flying schedules on the weekends, for the passenger loads on Saturdays and Sundays were commonly far less than during the work week. They routinely would simply not operate certain flights on those days, and very often, they would substitute a smaller machine on the “thin” routes. This was to be our fate this day, for when we arrived at the boarding gate for our first flight to Nashville, instead of finding a 19-seat Metroliner in the chocks, we were greeted by an old friend.

She was one of the lines more time-worn, miles-weary, “ridden hard and put up wet”, Beechcraft Model 99s. She was smaller than the Metro, held about three-fourths the passenger load, and was essentially the “airline version” of the civilian Beechcraft King Air. Our airline owned but a few of them and they were used for “light duty” runs, like our early Sunday launch from Memphis to Nashville. The machine had a sterling reputation as both rugged and reliable, for the two powerful Pratt and Whitney PT6A-27 turboprop engines were mated to a very impressive airfoil. The Beech 99 was the scene of my very first “airline” Captains Checkout, and I considered it a true joy to fly.  Both Steve and I had logged countless hours aloft in N5SS, and we both shared an affection for her. Such feelings were borne of days spent aviating in the most unforgiving weather that Mother Nature could dish out. We both had flown this little red and white marvel in the granite harsh world of thunderstorms and lightning, howling wind takeoffs and landings, and twilight storms of snow and ice. She had taken the worst that the elements could throw at us, and she always delivered all on board safely to our loved ones.

(The beautiful machine we loved…Skyways N5SS…Beechcraft Model 99.)

Our flight to Nashville was completely unremarkable, with the exception of another heart stopping sunrise. It was both gorgeous in its presentation and blinding in its severity…lol. One other thing, we were essentially an empty vessel for the hour-long trip, for Steve and I equaled our passenger count. A mere pair of “brave daredevils” decided to tempt fate and accompany us on that early launch, but again, that was not much of a surprise on a Sunday morning. Then things changed, for when we checked in with the gate agent in Nashville, we were told that our count in the cabin for our next leg to Little Rock would be two less than on the first flight! What? We were going to be empty? “Yes Virginia, were we going to fly this beautiful little 7000 lb airplane roughly 350 miles across the heartland of America ALL BY OURSELVES. Could we do it? Of course, we could. Could we do it without doing something stupid? No, probably not.”

First a word about my dear friend Steve. He’s nuts. No, not nuts in crazy type nuts, but he’s far more comfortable flying at 50’ above terra firma than at 20,000’. In fact, he was so comfortable flying next to the ground that his nickname in college became “Buzz” …as in buzzing things in an airplane by flying over them REALLY low (and I mean very NOT high). After college one of his first jobs was to take a very niche job in the world of flying called the “pipeline patrol”. It’s so niche, that very few pilots have actually heard of it. You essentially fly a very small aircraft, literally hundreds of miles across the country at an altitude of well under 100’, simply following the various oil pipelines looking for leaks (I would guess that nowadays that job is either done with sensors or drones). It’s a job that is grossly underpaid, very dangerous, avoided by 99.9 % of the pilot population, and it was right up Steve (Buzz’s) alley…he loved it.

Early one Sunday morning at college, I was the lone airport office worker when the telephone rang. On the other end of the line was a VERY irate farmer yelling about a small blue and white airplane flying low over his pastures and “aerially herding” his cattle around! He was ranting and raving about how he was going to get his shotgun and shoot that damned little airplane, and that he knew it was from the college and I’d better do something about it! I assured him it would stop, hung up the phone and immediately looked to see which airplane had been assigned to which student for an early morning mission. Yep, you guessed it! There was but a lone Southeastern Oklahoma State University machine in the air that morning, and the aircraft commander was none other than the Buzz himself. Fortunately for him, I called him on the radio, informed him that he was busted, and that he should RTB (return to base) immediately before anyone of significance showed up. He landed, and when I met him at the gas pump, he climbed out of the little Cessna with a HUGE grin on his face! Oh, and the Cessna needed a bit of attention before we could return it to duty for the college. It seems it had lots of grass, and cornstalks hanging from the landing gear! Me; “Wait, weren’t you supposed to be practicing your airwork…you know the stuff we do at 3000’…like Chandelles and Lazy8s?” Him: “Yep.” We quickly removed the evidence, parked it back on the flight line, and laughed about it for days (and still do).

One other thing about Steve, he’s undeniably the most natural pilot I’ve ever met. I have always believed that I was born for the sky, be it my father’s influence, my upbringing in and around flying machines, or just a fluke of nature. From the moment I first touched the controls of an airplane, it somehow just felt…well…natural. As far as I know, my 3.8 hours of total flight time remains a record at Meacham Field in Ft. Worth for fewest hours from first flight to first “solo” flight.  In retrospect, it was an amazingly stupid thing for my flight instructor (John D.) to do, and I’ve penned about the meltdown my Dad experienced when learning of such. The fact remains however, that although I was a bit nervous, I was totally confident that I could do it and do it well, and most importantly, do it safely. With all that said, Steve’s ability to pilot a flying machine (“through the eye of a needle in the midst of a hurricane” comes to mind) puts yours truly in the “ham-fisted, rank-amateur” category. Again, a more natural pilot I’ve never seen…he somehow connects with an airplane like a virtuoso pianist connects with the ivories. Think of Michael Jordan on a breakaway slam dunk…same thing, only Steve is about 2 feet shorter and can’t play basketball.

Walking across the now sun baked ramp, I glanced at Steve and said, “Strap in to the left seat, I’ll do the walk-around”. Again, at this time in his pilot life, Steve was employed as a First Officer on the Metroliner and Beech 99, and regardless the fact that he held an FAA Airline Transport Pilots license (and had several thousand hours of flight time), he was not legal to fly in the Captains seat when we were conducting a revenue flight. This was not that, for we would be simply re-positioning the machine to Little Rock, and not operating as an “airline” flight. We would not be using our company call-sign with ATC, and the rules governing our flight would actually be from a different chapter of the FARs (Federal Aviation Regulations). So, in the legal realm, him flying the Beech 99 from the Captains seat was not an issue, he had lots of flight time in the First Officer’s seat (and later in his career, would fly the King Air for a Tennessee millionaire), so I had no reservations about having him switch seats and take command of the machine. He smiled, gladly accepted and bounded up the boarding stairs into the aircraft.

(Typical cockpit of the Beechcraft Model 99.)

We fired up the plane, taxied to runway 21R and launched into a clear, late morning sky over the “Volunteer State”. We had decided to not use the ATC system for our flight (other than the control towers at the beginning and end of the journey), so about 5 minutes after we lifted-off, I signed off with Nashville tower, switched to a “common” VHF frequency, and we took up a southwesterly heading. It didn’t take long (I didn’t think it would) for my dear friend Steve to do what Steve loves to do. Over the din of the engines, he innocently said over the headphones, “Why don’t we take it down a bit?” Uh, oh…was First Officer Steve morphing into “Buzz, the Lord of the (Low) Level Flys”? I looked up from the map I was using to plot a rough pilotage course toward Little Rock, and realized that he had smoothly, imperceptibly, descended us out of our initial cruise altitude of 6500’…we were passing through 1500’ and slowly headed lower.

[A note about the term “pilotage”. It refers to a form of visual navigation whereby you compare your intended course to what you’re witnessing out the windshield. If your intended course takes you just north of a small town with 3 roads through it…you locate it visually out the windshield…and simply adjust your heading to pass north of said town. If your course takes you over a lake shaped like Abraham Lincoln’s head…just aim for Abe’s face and you’re on course. It’s the simplest form of navigation, and as long as you can see out the windshield, then you’re golden.] Our problem became one of altitude and visibility. Simply put, pilotage is fairly easy from several thousand feet in the air, it’s an entirely different thing down at the heights that Buzz was inching us toward.

O.K., so now we’re at 500’ above the ground and going lower. Fine, but as the defacto navigator for this mission, I was going to have to really up my game. 400’… Me:” OK, Buzz, over the next tree line, you’ll see a water tower, pass south of that tower…your heading should be roughly 230 degrees”. 300’…things are starting to get really “interesting” …at about 250 miles per hour, houses, roads, cars, cows, etc., are passing by with the speed of a bullet. 200’…Me:” OK Buzz, see the small lake? Come right 15 degrees and just nip the north shore…watch that sailboat! Over the next tree line, keep the railroad track on our left.” 100’… (now he has my TOTAL attention!) …

Things are happening very fast now, and as I glance over at Buzz, he appears to be taking a stroll in the park. Relaxed, in control, concentration across his brow, but the smile across his lips tells of a man in his element. The smoothness of his inputs on the yoke were a thing of beauty. He was making positive corrections in heading and altitude going around obstacles, and over (or under) things like power lines, stands of trees, etc., but our ride was most certainly not sharp, jerking or abrupt. About thirty minutes into the flight, I was checking our position on the map, and I felt the nose rise slightly to gain a cushion of altitude. I looked over and noticed him fumbling in his kit bag, and what he produced can only be described as “pure Buzz”. Having no idea where it came from, he pulled out a (no kidding) white headband with a…wait for it…Japanese red ball in the middle! Did he keep in his kit bag “just in case” he got to ferry a machine, and the right time, right place came along? Knowing him…yeah, probably. Either way, as he tied it around his head, I shook mine and howled with laughter.

(Headband of the Japanese air forces in World War II.)

Roughly halfway through this “daring mission under the enemy’s radar” I knew we were quickly approaching that huge brown river that cuts through everyone’s life in this part of the world. Yep, that two thousand-mile watery snake that has given life and liberty for hundreds of years…the Mighty Mississippi. We would be over it before we knew it, and I had to navigate our low-level aerospace vehicle across it far enough north of the city of Memphis so that we would not interfere with its ground and/or airborne traffic. “Sensi Buzz” was now firmly in his happy place, and we were (again) screaming along at 100’ above Mother Earth at about four miles a minute. With this head wrapped in a weird “divine wind” banner, Steve was sporting a huge smile, flying my supplied headings (and reminders to NOT run into things) with consummate skill, and was having the time of his life!

I was having fun too, just not his kind of fun. Every pilot likes to occasionally fly low and “buzz” things, but this was a type of flying that I’d only briefly dabbled in, not yearned for like my friend Steve. Again, I was having fun, but it was more of the “I’m trapped on a roller coaster and my screams are coming out silent” type of fun. From me: “OK Buzz, over the next tree line, we’re at the Mississippi, watch for river barges.” He pulled the nose up, we passed the near shoreline bank of trees, firm push on the starboard rudder pedal, allow the right wing to lower to lose altitude, wings level again as the river zoomed by below us (I never remembered it being this wide or this muddy…but then again, I’d never seen it from 100’!)! A few G-forces as we nose up again to crest the far bank tree line… and that’s when it happened.

The long nose of N5SS was about 15 degrees up as we climbed to keep the trees from ruining our day, and we suddenly found ourselves perpendicular to a long, straight red dirt road. Glancing to his left, Buzz spied something a few miles down said dirt road, and immediately recognized the object of his reconnaissance. He maintained our nose up attitude to gain altitude and lose airspeed (not what I expected to happen after river passage), all the while intently keeping his attention outside the cockpit window. His left foot deftly pushed on the port rudder pedal, and we performed a picture perfect “Chandelle” maneuver (“Yes Virginia, this was indeed the very same maneuver he was SUPPOSED to be practicing back in college at 3000’ when he was down at 50’ heading bovines.”). The nose smoothly whipped to the left, started to drop, and our airspeed began to quickly rise. I was now firmly peering down the road attempting to decipher what the hell he was doing when I spotted the object of his attention. It was a person walking down the road. He looked to be a young boy, and he was slowly ambling along the dirt road headed away from us. He had a fishing pole in one hand and worm bucket in the other, was barefoot, adorned in jean overalls, and was sporting a thatched weave “fishing hat”. I swear he was something right out of a Norman Rockwell painting from 50 years past! I knew what was about to happen, and I knew the perfect person was about to pull it off.

(This is exactly what the kid was wearing…I swear…lol.)

Buzz pointed the nose down the road, and since we were still a mile or so from this young angler, he had not yet realized that a 3 1/2 ton, red and white, jet-prop screaming, compilation of metal and homo sapiens, was bearing down on his very location. Knowing Steve like I did, I knew there was no malice involved in this event, for he simply planned to give this young man an impromptu (albeit, very up close) airshow. That’s not exactly what happened, for when young “Timmy” heard something behind him, then turned and located the inbound “bogey”, his reaction was far more terrified than impressed. He began to run slowly at first, then his pace noticeably quickened. Shortly after that, it took on an a distinctly “Pamplona” air, and you’d swear he was the tail-end-Charlie dude in the “running of the bulls”!  At this point, he was running for all he was worth, looking over his shoulder, and had divested himself of any and all items that might slow him down! He dropped his fishing pole early in the run, and had tossed the worm bucket a little farther down the road. By now, his young eyes had widened to match the giant river barely ½ mile to his west, he was intently following our inbound strafing run, and I can only imagine the brand of “rebel yell” that was spewing from his mouth! As we passed a mere 50’ over his (now bare) head, he looked up and I cannot begin to imagine what must’ve gone through his mind as he witnessed a guy (sporting a WWII Japanese headband) give him a nod and an informal salute! We flashed by him, and an instant later Buzz pulled us up into another perfect chandelle (only this one to the right…maybe he DID spend a moment or two practicing them back in college), and off we hurled toward the southwestern horizon.

As we sped off on our course toward Little Rock, again a scant few meters above the fields of north east Arkansas, we both began to giggle. This turned to laughter and that (of course) turned to uproarious hilarity. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for our new little friend “Timmy”, for I easily imagined this poor waif running as fast as his little feet would propel him. He would speed down the gravel path toward home all the while wondering what the hell just happened! Upon bursting through the front door, I imagined a dutiful parent getting an ear-full of the fantastical event that had just transpired. Some unbelievable ship from the heavens, literally dropped out of nowhere and singled him out for its heinous attack. It had him “dead to rights”, zeroed in on its gunsights, and somehow, he had foiled their attempt to destroy this solitary human! It roared over his head, missing him by mere inches and sped off toward the sky at the speed of light! I imagined said parent, face full of chagrin, launching into a loud admonishment of how little boys should NOT make up crazy stories about space ships and aliens, and no matter the wet spot on his crotch, he would be punished for telling an obvious monumental un-truth! Poor little Timmy…lost his fishing pole, lost his worm bucket, and lost his credibility… all in a 30 second waking-nightmare! I’m guessing that the next steamy morning he finds himself ambling down a lonely, red-dirt road, he may just spend a bit more time looking over his shoulder.

(I’m guessing “Timmy” may have seen something like this bearing down on him…at least in his re-telling of the event!)

Within thirty minutes, the Pratt and Whitney’s propeller blades slowed to a stop and we stepped on to the hot, concrete tarmac at the Little Rock airport. The ramp crew seemed perplexed by our arrival, and upon inquiring as to who the heck we were, and where the heck we came from, we offered that we were the ferry flight from Nashville. They seemed confused and exclaimed that we were not expected for another half an hour, so we mumbled some lame excuses as to the absence of headwinds at 6000’, and ATC being generous with their routings, and a bunch of other stuff that didn’t actually make any sense to them (or us). They shrugged and wandered off to work an inbound flight, while Steve and I headed toward the Skyways Operations Office. After the hot, sweaty two-hour flight, the thought of air conditioning and an ice-cold drink seemed a bit like heaven. Several hours (and several legs) later, as the sun moved below the horizon, we found ourselves back at our home base of Fayetteville, logging time on a bar stool and reliving the events of the day. After a beer (or two), there was a sidelong glance, which turned to a wry smile, which turned to a giggle, which turned to laughter, which turned to…well…you know.

(Steve by his EAT [European Air Transport] “Eat-mobile” car that was provided for him during his two-year stay flying in Brussels. We would meet on my layovers in Frankfurt or Amsterdam.)

As the windshield wipers sweep the sleet from the rental car windshield, the lack of vision is compounded by my tears. The drive north 48 hours ago (from DFW) was made in 70-degree air, but later that night, a typical late January cold front raced through the small village of Stroud, Oklahoma. Within a few hours, the sky became leaden, the temperature dropped 40 degrees, and squalls of sleet painted my world and my mood.  As I pull into the rental facility to return the vehicle before my flight home to Minneapolis, I’m fighting the sleet on the car, and the tears within my soul.  The last two days have been a blur of heartfelt laughter and heart wrenching sadness.

At the church, the eulogy from my lips was a blur of my most beautiful words, and if pressed, I’m not sure I could recall any of it. It has been a very long year. The diagnosis, the horrible waves of medical procedures and surgeries, the pain of his wife Mary (and two young daughters) in the midst of this nightmare, and a few days ago, our last “of this world” conversation. He was having a good…no, a great day. He had enjoyed a full breakfast (his first meal in months), was feeling like a million bucks, and later in the day, he took my call. The morphine intervened at random times, and it would take hold of the conversation and turn it fuzzy and a bit difficult. Within a few minutes, the medicine would fade, perceptiveness would return, and we would pick up where we left off. We would laugh, talk of our days in college, our hours in the clouds, and our time playing the golf courses of the world. As we talked, we recalled our entire 30-year history, and yes, we giggled about the time we chased the kid down the dirt road…me with tears of joy and sadness flowing from my eyes. The humor was doing battle with the pain, and it was losing miserably… my heart was breaking. I ended the last talk with my dear friend with the following words…” I love you Buzz.” His last words to me…” I love you too man.” I hung up the phone, and knew our next meeting would be on a bright sunny day, on a beautiful golf course in the clouds of salvation.

Within a few hours, my friend… would be… gone …

(The Buzz-man himself in the cockpit of a millionaire’s King Air. Picture this smiling mug, wearing a red-dotted headband, under a green headset…and all of it at 100’ above the ground doing 4 miles a minute! The man was….is….a legend.)

My friend, Steven Randolph Baker, was taken from this world too soon. The good Lord gave him 48 years, and I had the privilege and joy to be his friend for three fourths of that. He has been gone for over a dozen years now, and I miss him greatly. Maybe I’m half crazy, but I still “talk” to him at various times in my life. We rap about the things we would speak of when his soul was united with his bodily person. He was (and is) one of my closest friends and one of my dearest brothers of the sky.

Oh, and he was the greatest Steve I will ever know…

“Sleep easy my friend. All of your flights are now low and fast over the fields of eternity…smile your smile…and fly with wings of health and happiness.

 We’ll meet again someday.”

…I love you man.

‘till next time,


“Mom, Dad…A Huey Followed Me Home…

…can I keep it?


A couple of days ago, I was reconnecting with a flight simulation website where I had been rather active for the last few years, but due to the cross-country move, etc, I had become a stranger to their pages. The folks that frequent this site are helicopter enthusiasts, and concentrate on “virtually” flying the famous Bell UH-1H Iroquois…more affectionately known as simply “the Huey”. Anyone with any knowledge of the war in Vietnam, knows that it was termed “the helicopter war”; and rightly so. The military had pioneered the concept of “vertical assault” just a few years before America’s involvement in S.E. Asia, and my father’s helicopter unit was one of the first to be tasked by President Kennedy to deploy to the rice paddies and jungles of Vietnam.



(In the early days of the war, the Army aviation units primarily shuttled South Vietnam troops in [and out] of combat. They used the early version of the Huey…the UH-1B pictured above, and the H-21 “Shawnee” [the machine my father flew during the conflict] pictured below.)




I originally penned this in August of 2013 after a conversation I had with a good friend while flying online. I titled it: “Mom, Dad, A Huey Followed Me Home…Can I Keep It?”



A few nights ago, while totally engrossed in an online flight with my good compadre’ and fellow flight sim enthusiast Griff, he offered a question that stopped me in my tracks…

“What do you think your Dad would’ve thought of this?”

Simple enough question, not at all a simple answer. First a bit of background.

For those of you that know me, you know I was blessed with being raised by a man that was not only my hero, but also the driving force behind my career in aviation (November 2013 marks my 30th anniversary flying for a major U.S. airline). He was fun (and funny), intelligent, handsome, caring, an incredible parent, but one of the coolest things I loved (and could “cash in on” in my little boy world), was the fact that he was a career Army Warrant Officer, and a veteran combat helicopter pilot. He truly rocked as a Dad!

WO BE Ball inflight Vietnam

(My dear father in the deadly skies over Vietnam…circa 1963.)

He joined the military at a very young age, struggled through Korea as a medic, and entered Army Aviation back in the days when flying helicopters was more of a fringe idea than a career path. He went to Vietnam early in the conflict in the cockpit of the CH-21 Shawnee, came home and transitioned to the OH-13 for a few years. Two years later, he hauled us off to Germany (for the second time) to fly the CH-34, and after two years of that, received orders to check out on a machine that was definitely on his “wish list”…the CH-47 Chinook. The only proviso was that when his training at Ft. Rucker, Alabama was finished, his next destination would be back in the hell of Vietnam. The year was 1968, he had his “20 in” toward his pension requirements, so he declined and decided to retire.

Although he never “officially” checked out on the UH-1 Huey, he did indeed log time in that wonderful machine from the amazing folks at Bell Helicopter. It was brought into the Army inventory about the time he was landing in the rice paddies of S.E. Asia in his Shawnee, so he missed a formal transition into it. Regardless of that fact, he was fortunate enough to fly it many times before he retired.



(A flight of Hueys touching down in the “PZ”…or pickup zone in Vietnam.)

After retirement from the Army, good news followed with a job as a civilian flight instructor training new Warrant Officer Candidates (or WOCs ) at the Army’s Primary Helicopter Training Center in Ft. Wolters, Texas. His love for being a “fling wing pilot”, his penchant for teaching, and his “gift of gab” served him well as an I.P. He loved the job, and it loved him. One awesome by-product of this new occupation, was that yours truly was allowed to accompany him to work on many occasions. I sat in on the lesson briefings, and was allowed to follow him to the flight line to observe the preflight inspections of the little TH-55 trainers. I would then hop in a pickup truck and bounce across the North Texas dirt roads (with one of the non-flying Instructor Pilots) enroute to one of the dozens of “Stage Fields” where the actual training took place.

They had cool names like, Sundance, Mustang, Rawhide, and Pinto, but then as Vietnam spooled up to it’s horrific crescendo, names like Da Nang, Phu Loi and Soc Trang became part of the Ft. Wolters lexicon. Being your typical 13 year old boy in the late ’60s, I was interested (but not too concerned) with the Vietnam War, the “hippie movement”, and the social unrest and protesting, but to say that it dominated my thoughts would not have been accurate. I was far more enthralled with sports, dirt bikes, and girls, but with that said, there was that one OTHER thing that most teen boys never gave two hoots about. Flying in general, and helicopters in particular.

Although my first lesson in a cockpit wouldn’t happen for another three years, I was being weened on the language of my passion. Words like rotor blades, tail rotors, hovering, pedal turns, retreating blade stalls, pinnacle landings, nap of the Earth flying, auto-rotations, vortex ring state, the cyclic, the collective and pedal controls were working their way into my speech. It was a new language, and it stoked the flames of my aviation passion.



(A scene from a “Vietnam era” mission that I built in the DCS flight simulation. This particular mission features flying the UH-1H ferrying troops into a hot LZ (landing zone)…I named the mission “Charlie Don’t Surf” from the famous line in the movie “Apocalypse Now”.)

When at the various Stage Fields, my place was to function as their de facto “mascot”. I was accepted by these brave men, and I would be tasked with getting coffee, running errands, passing messages and anything else those “six foot a million”, square jawed, broad smiled heroes might ask me to do. In return I was gifted with story after story of flying heroics (complete with the pilot habit of “flying your hand”), lots of “chin music” toward each other, and tons of tidbits about how to fly a helicopter…the right AND the wrong way. All of the I.P.s had been to Vietnam, most had been shot down at least once (my Dad was in that unenviable club), they all had medals to wear, and I’m sure they all had scars to hide. I cherish those days from many years ago, and marvel even today about how I was allowed a glimpse of their incredible world.

I lost this wonderful man (and his beloved wife and my beautiful Mother) back in 1993, and truth be told, nary a day goes by that I don’t have many thoughts of them both. In the latter stages of his life, his boyish charm and love of fun with gadgets got the best of him, and he bought his first Mattel Game-boy (of many I might add). He loved that little plastic device; his favorite game being a golfing experience . After his work day was done, he would spend hours sitting in his easy chair, thinning grey hair, glasses covering those wonderful “aviator” crows feet in the corner of his blue eyes, lost in his make-believe world of long drives and six-foot putts. Inevitably, a big smile would spread across his face and his dancing fingers would be putting it there. Unfortunately, he passed before my first computer purchase, but fortunately for me, that little Gateway system came complete with a flight simulation by the name of “Aces Over Europe”. It was my first exposure to flying in the virtual world, and I was hooked for life.

Over the years, my little Gateway joystick (suction cupped, trigger and one red button on top), has morphed into a TM Warthog HOTAS (top of the line joystick and throttle setup), with Saitek rudder pedals, all complete with a wooden stand constructed by a person without a modicum of skill with saw, hammer and nails (yours truly), but it somehow suffices. I cannot begin to account for all the expenditures in money and precious time that virtual flying has taken from me, and with the advent of online flying, the latter (time) has increased ten fold. The good news, of course, is that I’ve been blessed to meet and become fast friends with lots of folks through this 21st century medium. Most don’t hold any sort of FAA certificate, but in my eyes, that doesn’t diminish the fact that they share a passion for flying machines. They’re all pilots to me.


Hu 4

(I’m departing the airfield inbound to the PZ, then off to a remote mountain top, that will serve as our LZ for this flight. This mission can be flown by yourself in the “single player world”,  or with friends online.)

This brings me back to Griff’s original question. How WOULD my father have liked virtual flying, specifically our newest venture…a machine he fell in love with almost 50 years ago. I knew that when DCS World released the UH-1H “Huey”, I would be drawn back to those days of my youth when I watched heroes laughing, smoking, drinking coffee and making fascinating flying machines dance a most difficult ballet. The smell of sweat, leather, coffee, cigarettes and Old Spice, complete with the summer Texas heat (mixed with the roar of dozens of Lycoming engines) was where I would be transported as I fired up that beautiful piece of software for the first time.


Hu 5

(Departing during a mortar attack by “Charlie”.)

To answer the question, I’ll simply say this… I’m fairly sure our first phone conversation after he flew it would be something on the order of the following:

“Hey son…what’s up?”

“Not much Pop…have you fired up that newest module from DCS? You know, the UH-1H Huey?”

“Yeah….wow! Flying that brings back a lot of great memories! That was a great helicopter, fun to fly and this is damn close to what it was like!”

“Really, it’s that good?”

“Yep…it’s that good! Oh… and your Mother has a bone to pick with you!”

“Uh oh….”

“Yeah, she said to tell you that the new monitor, new Warthog joystick and throttles, new pedals, TWO new video cards, new computer chip, extra RAM, and those SSD hard drives I just ordered are coming out of YOUR inheritance!”

“LOL….thanks Dad. Tell her I love her, and that all this started back with your FIRST Gameboy in 1991…so it’s not really my fault! Oh, and can we expect you in TeamSpeak tonight at the regular time?”

“Damn right I’ll be there….SOMEBODY has to show you noobs how to really fly the Huey!”

Hu 8a

(An hour…an many bullet holes in the Huey later…I’m landing back at the helicopter base.)



(August 2020)

Needless to say, I’m thinking my Dad would’ve loved all this. I can hardly imagine his reaction after donning my Oculus “Rift S” Virtual Headset!

Side note: Another good friend of mine from the world of flight simulations, introduced me to “REAL” Huey pilot… his father-in-law Tom.  He was a student at the Ft. Wolters Army helicopter school at the same time my Dad was a flight instructor there (no, they didn’t meet…of course I had to ask 🙂  ). During his long, accomplished career in the Army as a pilot, Tom logged more than 5000 flight hours in this amazing machine, and (according to him)…loved every minute of it. My mate Terry and I put Tom in front of a computer , and had him “fly” the virtual Huey around for a bit. What’s was his impression you ask? He described it as being VERY accurately depicted, and thought it was awesome. In fact, Tom has been gracious enough to meet online with another virtual pilot group I’m flying with, and hold “instructional classes” in the fine art of mastering this iconic bird.


“Dad, if you’re watching, know that each time I strap myself into the (virtual) Huey cockpit, YOU’RE right there with me. I know you are watching and me giving silent advice. I swear every now and then I can feel the gentle push of an anti-torque pedal, a slight nudge of the cyclic stick and occasionally the smallest of “helping” movements of the collective control. You’re sitting in that magic machine with me, and I’m damned glad you are…this “noob” needs all the help he can get.

I love you. I miss you. And I love flying with you in the Huey every chance I get.

Your loving son Bill.”


’till next time…


Captain Al


I quit my job. I’m no longer an airline pilot. I’ll never again button on the four striped epilates of my uniform and fly a winged marvel through the heavens, and I couldn’t be more excited. Let me explain.

Nearing my 64th year on this planet, I find my brain full of many thoughts. Most of them inconsequential, like; “What pair of shorts do I wear today?”.  And strangely (or not), some even fall into the realm of the nonsensical, like; “Do I look like an idiot floating in my pool on a 6-foot yellow duck?” (Don’t answer that.) Some, however are far more serious and far reaching, like: “Should I take the early retirement package that my airline is offering?”

As we all know, the world has become pear-shaped, and the airline industry finds itself in a quandary (like it seems to do every few decades even without worldwide pandemics). A mere 6 months ago, we were setting records in passenger counts, and profit-sharing checks. Pilot hiring was going like gang-busters, and the assembly lines at Boeing and Airbus looked like beehives; but now, all that has changed. Jets are parked in the desert by the hundreds, and the ones flying are essentially empty. The human cost for pilots is that we (all airlines) now find ourselves with a glut of aviators. Where we were hiring pilots as fast as they were being born (almost), we now have thousands more than we can use. The airlines (mine included) know they have to do something, and one option is to furlough the young new-hire pilots. The downside (other than the obvious for the young pilots) is  an ugly uptick in training costs, for the amount of money required to essentially re-train the majority of your pilot force is monumental. As pilots drop off the bottom of the seniority list, the rest are forced to fly smaller machines and possibly forfeit their Captain position to become a First Officer. Again, you’re talking about adding hundreds of millions of dollars to the “bleeding red ink” airline balance sheets, and that’s not a good thing…ever.

Another, far less expensive avenue, is to offer the “grey beards” (like yours truly) an attractive enough package to voluntarily wave good-bye and head out to pasture. At my line, the top third of our pilot list is roughly my age, and (trust me) we have all been looking toward the horizon and the day when we can list “retired” as our occupation.

So, they did it, my airline offered an “early retirement” package (Deb and I were mostly concerned about the medical insurance part of the offer), and we sensed that the horizon was closer than we thought. Since the FAA will require that I hang up my spurs for good in about 13 months, we thought long and hard about actually taking their offer (and spoke with our financial team), and came to a decision. We decided that it was time. Spurs off…check. Uniform packed away…check. Licenses and Ratings relegated to their place of honor on the “airline bookcase” within the office inner-sanctum…check. Pilot brain switch to the “O-F-F” position…well…that one might take a few months.

I’m fairly sure that over 40 years spent in the cockpits of airliners, and several years prior to that in the business end of civilian machines, can be considered a “full flying career”. Right? How does it effect me emotionally? So far its all been good…no great. Will I miss being a pilot? Will I miss flying a massive, very powerful, supremely beautiful jet through the sky? Yes, and yes…but that’s not a bad thing. Some day I’ll pen more, but suffice to say that “it’s all good” in my world.

Will my retirement bring about an end to this blog? Of course not! I have literally dozens of pieces written over the years, now safely stored in the “hermetically sealed”, secret vault that houses the vast treasures of the BBall Empire…whatever that would be…lol. They can be pulled out, polished a bit, and published up in a heartbeat. That, plus I have a few unwritten yarns rattling around in this old noggin.

I’ll continue to write of my past journeys in the sky, with an occasional word-vomit geared toward current events (not too political I hope). Our plans include (virus withstanding) travel to spend long overdue time with dear friends and loved ones. We look forward to experiencing parts of this unbelievable country that we’ve yet to see (the historian in me is giddy), and hopefully, this will include a few overseas jaunts.  And of course, we plan on spending lots of quality time with our amazing children and grandchildren.

This newly found proverbial “freedom from the suitcase” might also include a bit of golf, some quality time logged at the shooting range, lots of “flying” on the ol’ computer, a few hundreds books on the “to be read” list, and of course, our required daily 3:00 “pool time” here in the sunny climes of Arizona.

There’s even the rumor of an attempt to publish my yarns into a hard-bound book of “Logbooks” as it were…we shall see.


One thing is for sure…the journey continues.


On with the piece at hand.

I originally penned this over 20 years ago, and it holds a very special place in my list of Logbooks. Several months after I put it up on the old (now defunct) flight simulation website, the wife of the subject called and told me she was running an internet search and my piece showed up. She relayed how much she loved reading it…this of course, made it even more special to this old pelican.

I titled it simply…


“Captain Al”


As a professional airline crewmember, I’m tasked with working in a very demanding and stressful environment, sitting barely four feet from another individual for days on end. This leads to all types of experiences within the realm of human psychology. However, given the fact that most pilots are basically cut out of the same mold (personality speaking), it’s most often a very enjoyable experience. Over the last many decades of piloting, I’ve flown with folks that were complete strangers, and are now close friends. They came from vastly different walks of life and all manner of life’s experiences, but they all have one thing in common (other than being a professional aviator). They are all generally happy individuals, and are truly interesting human beings. I flown with ex-: doctors, musicians, scientist, economists, cops, housewives, psychologists, teachers, military types, day laborers. I’ve flown with Jews, Gentiles, men and women, black, white and everything in between…and 99.9% of them have been wonderful. Truly, I’ve met some of the most interesting people on the planet, and spent days on end with them in a small “closet with windows” in the pointed end of the airplane…and enjoyed every minute of it. With that said, every so often, there are times when we as crewmembers simply do not “mesh” well. This personality friction can be the result of all manner of things; ideological differences, differences in experiences (former military versus civilian flying), personality quirks, or as basic as the difference between oil and water…we just simply don’t mix well. On those rare occasions, the job of piloting a several hundred-thousand-pound piece of machinery through the heavens becomes more like work than not.

Again, the vast majority of the time I’m very much at ease with my cockpit companions, but those “other times”, are well, just a “this person is a pain in the ass, let’s get through the trip, and get on with our lives” type experience. But even in those rare circumstances, due to stringent operational procedures (and years of training and check-rides in the simulators), personalities take a back seat to flying the jet, and the job gets done with an astounding level of safely…it’s just not nearly as much fun. To make up for this particular type of person (that invariably elicits a groan when you see their name on the crew sign-in page as you begin the trip), there exists a type of crewmember that is such a delight to work with, that they deserve a special category of their own. The person I’m about to mention, should head up that division of super-awesome-type pilots, for he was one in a million. Honestly, I can count a dozen or so folks that I’ve had the pleasure (and the honor) to fly with over the last 40+ years, that would automatically fall into that category, and he most certainly is one of them.


8 727 4

(Cockpit of the Boeing 727…I flew her from all three seats…and loved every minute of it. An amazing machine.)


Captain Al Thompson was really great to fly with. Wait a tic, that’s a horribly gross understatement, and I’d like to try it again. He was without a doubt, one of my favorite Captains to work with over the last two and a half decades of flying for Northwest Orient Airlines. I was fortunate enough to share a cockpit with him as a new-hire Boeing 727 Flight Engineer in the early 1980s, and several years later, as his First Officer crewing DC-10s over warm Hawaiian waters and the icy North Atlantic.



(A Northwest Orient McDonnel Douglass DC-10. I flew for 5 years in the First Officer position on this wonderful bird. The cockpit was quiet, spacious, had HUGE windows…it was a very classy machine, and a joy to fly.)


Al was always quick with a smile, fast with a joke and/or a smart-ass remark. This type of personality seems to mesh well with mine…maybe because I tend to have a rather impertinent way of looking at life. More than anything else, Al was supremely easy to fly with. As simple as that sounds, as the commander of a crew of 3 pilots (and a dozen or so cabin attendants), it can be a very difficult thing to accomplish.  Cruising at 8 miles a minute, seven miles above the Earth, with hundreds of trusting souls sitting behind the cockpit door, being “easy” to work for is (for some) low on the list of what’s important as an airline captain, but not for Al. Maybe the best way to explain his laid-back work environment would be to say that it was borne of the marriage of his personality and his confidence to command. The job of being the boss of a vehicle in low Earth orbit, definitely does not lend itself to being a popularity contest. Side note: I’ve found over the many years that I’ve been that commander in low Earth orbit, one thing is clear: a relaxed cockpit is a happy cockpit. On those rare occasions, when things get pear-shaped and turn deadly serious, it quickly becomes time to put on the pilot mask, and leave the jocularity behind. In those moments the relaxed atmosphere can become rather tense, rather quickly, but that’s really not an issue. Even though the job can go from (relatively speaking) “easy” to very difficult in an instant, we’re used to that. We climb that ladder with confidence, and we’re very good at it. It’s what we do, it’s what we love, it’s what we get paid for.

Not every airline flight deck has this brand of atmosphere, but every GOOD airline captain strives to achieve it. They’re a bit like the circus ringmaster effortlessly working several “shows” at one time, and being detachedly involved with each as they unfold. This comes from a combination of being comfortable with their knowledge of the machine, comfortable with the talent of their supporting crewmembers, and the confidence that they can master any situation that might arise. Great Captains also seem to have an uncanny ability to command the crew in such a way that the plethora of small problems that occur on every flight, are solved without him (or her) being bothered for their approval. Micro-managing all the issues of a typical airline flight is never a good idea, and I learned years ago (from Captains like Al) to trust your crewmembers to be good at their jobs, empower them to do that job, and make sure they know that you will support them if an issue arises. Again, all captains work for this type of cockpit atmosphere, but very few achieve it on the level that Captain Thompson did.

I was curious as to the first time I had the pleasure to fly with Al, so I dug up one of my logbooks to refresh the ol’ memory bank. Here’s the entry for that first day. It involved flying two legs:

Date: 10 March 1984 (*side note* I had been hired by the airline the previous November, spent two months in training before being “released” to fly the line…hence, I had been flying for Northwest Orient Airlines a grand total of just over a month!)

Flights: NW206 KMSP-KLGA NW225 KLGA-KMKE (Minneapolis to New York’s LaGuardia then on to Milwaukee)

Aircraft Type: Boeing 727-251/ Boeing 727-100

Ships: N252US/ N460US

Flight time breakdown:

4.5 hours Multi-engine Land

4.5 Turbojet

3.2 Day

1.3 Night

4.5 As Flight Engineer

4.5 Total Duration of Flight

Under the “Remarks and Endorsements” section of that entry, I wrote: “Capt. Al Thompson… super/ KLGA a real pit.” So, I guess that neatly sums it up, doesn’t it? Actually, no, not really. One word simply doesn’t do Captain Thompson true justice. To attempt that feat, allow me to tell you about a day we flew together several weeks after the above logbook entry. Oh, and while we’re on the subject, simply calling New York’s LaGuardia Airport “a real pit” doesn’t exactly do that place any justice either…lol.

Here’s the story of a that amazing day spent flying with Captain Al.

We were on the third day of a 4-day trip, and it was proceeding nicely. The day had started with the faint glow of sunrise at what was then called National Airport in Washington, D.C.. We proceeded up the east coast to Boston,  and now found ourselves headed toward THE busiest airport on the planet. This major airline hub, surrounded by an iconic city that sits on the windswept shore of Lake Michigan, can be such a proverbial “zoo” that to a neophyte pilot, the mere mention of its name can strike fear into the most stout-hearted aviator. It’s named for one of the heroes of the WWII Battle of Midway (Navy Lt.Cmdr. Edward “Butch” O’Hare), and is a dizzying mix of crisscrossing and parallel runways that can be a huge challenge for someone that’s not previously piloted an airplane into that mess. The air traffic control folks are unquestionably some of the best in the country (and probably the world), and their staccato rhythm of non-stop clearances over the radio is something that has to be heard to be believed. Intimidating barely describes it…you bring your “A game” into Chicago’s O’Hare Airport…or you just don’t go.



(“O’Hare International Airport”…arguably one of the busiest airfields on the planet.)


Starting a few hundred miles from O’Hare (airline code ORD), the ATC enroute controllers start to talk a bit faster, be a bit more reserved in their “friendliness” (or lack thereof), and the atmosphere they build exudes a no-nonsense approach to choreographing this never-ending queue of inbound airliners. All this leads to a slight feeling of anxiety in ANY cockpit inbound to O’Hare, and it all builds to a crescendo about the time you line up for your assigned runway. On a crappy weather day, it can be a nightmare, on a sunny day like this, it can actually be a bit of fun. Again, you know it’s going to be a challenge, but you just hike up your “big-boy” (or big-girl) britches, pay attention, concentrate, and do your job.

According to my logbook, I had been party to this “O’Hare pressure cooker” a grand total of 10 times before this particular day (including once on the day previous to this little adventure). But for me; all trips in and out of this monstrosity had been “flown” from the back seat of the 727 cockpit (the Flight Engineer station), for I was barely a couple of months removed from my new hire training at Northwest Orient Airlines. Needless to say, I was pretty darned happy that I was the F/E and NOT the one holding onto the yoke and thrust levers of the big Boeing “3-holer” (our name for the Boeing 727). However, I was even more relieved to not be the guy talking on the radio to the air traffic controllers. From my limited experiences into massively busy airports (LAX, DFW, ATL, etc.), this was infinitely more stressful than actually flying the jet. Dealing with the rapid-fire instructions and clearances from the O’Hare TRACON (Terminal Radar Approach Control), and O’Hare Control Tower or Ground controllers can be super intimidating, and being slow, confused or (heaven forbid) asking an ATC guy to repeat his or her last transmission can stain one with the worst type of shame…that of sounding like an amateur in front of dozens of other professional pilots.

None of this happened on that beautiful clear morning as we found ourselves maneuvering to line up for runway 14R. Wayne (the First Officer) was at the controls and Al was doing his usual excellent job of “flying the radios” as we say. All was going great, in fact, Al seemed very relaxed as he calmly responded to the vectors for the final approach from ATC, configured the flaps and gear as Wayne requested, and then acknowledged my “Approach” and “Landing” checklist inquiries with the appropriate responses. He was calm, cool and collected on the radio, and hence we were all branded as such.

His body language showed that he was alert, but at ease with our situation, and all was well in our little world… until Wayne did what everyone that’s ever flown the Boeing 727 has done. He made the perfect approach and landing flare, and then when rounding out for the touchdown…WHAM, we hit the runway like a ton of bricks! We bounced back into the air a few feet, and he, in an attempt to recover, slammed the landing gear onto the pavement like the hammer of Thor! From what I could tell, he did everything perfectly from his First Officers seat, but he got screwed on the (hoped-for) smooth touchdown. The design of the 727, with its main landing gear so far aft, was famous for turning a great approach into a very ugly landing. In most machines, when you “flare” for landing the main gear slow their downward trend, and you gently touch down. In the 727, when you bring the nose up into the flare, the main landing gear actually travel downward several feet. If done incorrectly (or as in Wayne’s case, you get unlucky), you can be left with a supremely ugly landing, and a red face. This is what had happened to poor Wayne. He had bruised the runway, and he now had to take it like a man.



(A gorgeous machine to be sure…but if you flared to much, or not at the right time, you could drive those big main gear into the pavement so hard the O2 masks would fall from their little hiding places over the passenger seats. We called it “getting the rubber jungle”, and it was not good. Did I ever get the masks to drop? That’s for another tale…lol.)


As we slowed to an appropriate taxi speed, Al and Wayne swapped duties (due to the fact that only the left seat had a “tiller wheel” to steer the jet on the ground). As Al controlled the machine on the taxiways, Wayne became the dude on the radio. He was one busy caballero talking to the Tower, retracting the flaps on Al’s command, switching the radio frequency to “Ground Control”, and responding to their taxi route clearance. I too was very busy, for after clearing the runway I was tasked with starting the Auxiliary Power Unit, calling the NWA Operations folks to announce our arrival (this is done electronically nowadays with a datalink marvel known as ACARS), making sure the cabin was depressurizing as scheduled, running several checklists and about a zillion other things that I can’t remember.

As we taxied toward the gate, Al made the following (unexpected) statement. It shocked me ALMOST as much as it shocked Wayne.

“Well that was truly a shitty landing there Wayne (big smile at Wayne). Bill, you think you can do any better than that?” I was gob-smacked and a bit confused! Being busy talking on the radio, I wasn’t 100% sure I had heard him correctly, so I asked him to repeat what he had just said. He did, and I mumbled something pretty unintelligible (all the while thinking…WTF?). “Well good then…you fly us up to Madison on the next leg, and Wayne you sit at Bill’s panel and run the systems.” HOLY SH*T! I was going to “get a leg”, and I didn’t know what to say.

“Getting a leg” in airline lingo means that I was going to fly the jet! It was a weird thing, for even though I was rated as an Airline Transport Pilot (and had thousands of hours flying many other machines), I was not specifically trained to fly in the First Officer’s seat on the Boeing 727. Each year after doing our simulator check ride at the F/E’s panel, we Second Officers were required by the FAA to spend some time flying the 727 simulator from the First Officer’s seat…in other words, just getting some stick time. We were not officially trained, checked out, certified and thus ordained as F/Os, but we all practiced flying the big Boeing to keep our piloting skills from getting too rusty. Could we fly the jet? Hell yeah we could! Was it totally legal? Hell no it wasn’t.

I was pretty excited to say the least, for save some time flying in the right seat of a Learjet model 23 a few years earlier; I had no actual flight time piloting a jet powered machine. My total experience thus far amounted to roughly 5000 hours of flight time, with time spent in everything from small, single engine trainers, to rather large twin turboprop aircraft…but essentially no time in jets. Wayne however, was less than enthused about moving back to the Flight Engineer’s seat for the short leg up to Madison. Although he had spent several years in that chair, and was comfortable with all the systems and/or checklists, I think he saw this as a supreme “no confidence vote” from his boss, and he was a bit embarrassed by it all. It was the first trip I had flown with Wayne, and I’d have to say that he was not the most personable guy on the planet. He seemed to be a rather unhappy bloke, and I think his general sour disposition didn’t go very far to endear him to Al. Did this play into Al’s offer? Not sure and didn’t care.


pilot simming 5

(Grace, beauty and power…that was the Boeing 727.)


After an hour or so at the gate doing our preflight tasks, I strapped myself into the First Officer’s seat, and made sure Al knew that I had never actually touched the controls of the 727 in the real world, but only in that make-believe world of the simulator. Al just laughed and said something to the effect of “don’t worry; I’ll talk you through it.” I was nervous, a bit apprehensive, and quite frankly, a bit scared. Again, this unwritten “policy” of giving a leg to an un-FAA certified crewmember was not only technically illegal, it was frowned upon by the higher ups in the Chief Pilots Office. A huge part of the story (and the epicenter of my anxiety) is the exposure to being fired from this coveted job. I was in my first few months at the airline, and while on my year-long “probationary period”, I had no union protection in the event I screwed something up. I could be summarily fired with no recourse. Bending a big, beautiful Northwest Orient Boeing 727 would most certainly fall into the category of “screwing” something up. Did I for a millisecond contemplate turning down Al’s offer? Not on your life.

Al said he was going to “talk me through it” …and did he ever! I distinctly remember that on the take-off, when I pulled back on the yoke, it felt like the big jet actually LEAPT into the sky (remember, we were only going a hundred or so miles …we were extremely light). It flew like a dream, and was far more responsive on the controls than I remembered the simulator being. I was pretty busy responding to Al’s instructions, but within a few minutes, I settled in and got comfortable flying this marvel.  At some point, I began to steal lots of glances out the window to see the magnificent Wisconsin countryside go whizzing by. Being a Flight Engineer is like being a glorified secretary to the folks up in the front of the cockpit, you’re more of a spectator than a participant. I was now back in the world of being an actual PILOT again, and it was wonderful!

Within minutes, my joyride began to get serious as we started our approach into Madison. With Al’s help, I got the big jet slowed down, extended the slats and flaps when he advised, asked for the gear down as we turned onto our base leg, and before I knew it, we were rolling out on final approach for runway 36. I tried very hard to concentrate and do EXACTLY as Al instructed, attempting to maintain the proper approach speed, pitch angle and glidepath. As we crossed the runway threshold, I began to flare precisely when and how he told me to, and VIOLA! I absolutely squeaked the jet onto the runway…a damn near perfect “grease job” landing! Al started laughing as the aircraft slowed below 80kts and he again took control. Needless to say, I was grinning from ear to ear, but I could feel Wayne’s evil-eye stare boring a hole into the back of my (now inflated) head.



(I took this on a cold, sleet filled day in MSP. We’re holding short of RWY 30R as another “three-holer” prepares to launch.)


As we were taxiing into the gate at Madison, the lead Flight Attendant poked her head into the cockpit to ask the Flight Engineer (me) to order more soft drinks to be catered for the flight back to Chicago. She looked a bit puzzled to see Wayne in my seat, and me in his, but she shrugged it off, got the message delivered to whoever was in the F/E seat, and closed the door.

I would love to say that the story ends here, but that would not be true. Al set the brakes at the gate in Madison, and he and I responded to the “Shutdown” and “Parking” checklist from the pissed off guy sitting behind us. He then did something that floored me (and Wayne) AGAIN! He uttered these infamous words (at least for Wayne), “well hotshot, you did such a good job of flying us up from Chicago, why don’t you fly us back!” HOLY SH*T #2!

To make a long story short, Wayne was MORE pissed off now than he was just a few short minutes before, and I was beginning to feel like the kid that always gets picked first for the football team. Al just took it all in stride and talked me through the flight back into that melee’ called O’Hare Airport. The one major difference to the previous flight, is that my landing back in Chicago was a bit harder than Wayne’s landing several hours earlier. In fact, it truly sucked. Instead of another “grease job”, I now landed the jet more like a Navy plane making a bone-jarring landing on the aircraft carrier! I didn’t let it bother me, for I (again) did just as Al instructed, but the “God’s of the good landings” just would not/could not smile on me twice in one day. Ah well…back to being a lowly Flight Engineer.

A funny side note to this story concerns the aforementioned Lead Flight Attendant. It seems that she had quite the sense of humor, and when informed by Al that I would be flying us back from Madison, she planned a little surprise of her own for me. As we taxied toward the gate in O’Hare following my “firm” landing, she stepped into the cockpit and exclaimed rather loudly…”WHO THE HELL MADE THAT LANDING!?” I turned around to see a woman who had altered her appearance “slightly” to make her point. Her hair was a huge mess, she had lipstick smeared down the side of her mouth, her blouse was rumpled and mostly un-tucked from her skirt, her panty hose were around her ankles and to top it off… she had a “demo” oxygen mask and hose wrapped around her neck!!!

I laughed until my sides began to hurt. God bless her.

Later that evening, back where we started in D.C., sitting in the lounge at a “gentelmen’s club” minus Wayne (me thinks he elected to stay in his room and study his Boeing manual), I turned to the waitress and muttered the following: “You see this distinguished gentleman I’m sitting with? (Meaning of course, Al) Well, today is his birthday (it wasn’t), and he’s feeling a bit down (he wasn’t), and pretty far from home. Is there anything you guys can do to maybe lift his spirits?” She proceeded to gather the other young ladies in this establishment, and within minutes, they produced a cupcake complete with a single burning candle. As they all gathered around Al and sweetly sang to him “Happy Birthday”, he glanced at me with a sly grin and said softly…”you know I can have your job for this…” I just said, “sure Al, sure”.


me ckpt 1

(Taken a few years ago in the left seat of the Boeing 757…my last ride in the rarefied world of airliners.)


My story ends here. Captain Al Thompson flew his last flight for Northwest Airlines several years ago, and sadly, he “flew West” a few months ago after a brave battle with cancer. I wasn’t with him during his illness, but after reading about his passing the other day in our Flight Operations office; I’ve been thinking a lot about him, and been with him spiritually. Seeing his name brought back many great memories of those days when we shared a cockpit, and I felt that this little part of his story should be told.

My logbook entry for that day up to Madison and back reads: “**First two legs in right seat of N251US! Flies like a dream! Beautiful night in DCA.”

“Thank you, Al,”, for those first legs flying that magical machine so many years ago! And thank you for allowing me to serve as your First Officer on many more flights in other magical machines to far away destinations. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was using you to form a “template” for the type of aircraft commander I would someday strive to become. I only hope I’ve done you proud. You will be missed, but not forgotten.

I wish you nothing but calm seas, starry nights, and following winds my friend…


’till next time…



BBall, Buddy Holly and the Bonanza


A few days ago, nearing the end of a ten day “escape from the virus lock-down” vacation to visit family in Montana, Deb and I were on the downhill slide of the 2-day drive when one of “those” songs came on the radio. For anyone over the age of, say 50, the ageless notes and haunting lyrics of Don McLean’s “American Pie” will conjure up memories, and inevitably force one to sing along with the tag lines of…” the day, the music died. And we were singing, bye, bye Miss American Pie, drove my Chevy to the levy and the levy was dry…”

For those not privy to the meaning of the song, it was a lament to the untimely death of Buddy Holly, a young rock and roll star that was rising like a proverbial meteor, and literally taking the musical soul of teenage America by storm (his song, “That’ll Be the Day” was #1 on the music charts). The story of the plane crash that took his life, is both fascinating and very sad.

The band of rockers had been on the road for a few weeks, in the middle of a “winter tour” through the upper Midwest during a typical bone-jarring cold stretch in early 1959. Their tour traveling machines were old, “re-conditioned”, UN-heated school buses, known for stranding the band frequently, and on the night of the crash, Holly and a few band members decided they would miss the long, cold ride (from the small town of Clear Lake, Iowa, to the next night’s gig in Fargo, North Dakota), by chartering a small plane and flying the few hundred miles. The decision would cost them and the music world dearly.



(Rock and Roll star Buddy Holly. I highly recommend the movie “The Buddy Holly Story” with THE Gary Busey in the lead role. Gary sings all the tunes himself, and it’s a truly great movie, about a truly great rock and roller. Strangely, the movie was made the same year that this yarn took place…1978.)


Holly had it all set. He made arrangements through Dwyer Flying Service, to have a young pilot by the name of Roger Peterson whisk them out of the brewing blizzard, to Fargo hours ahead of the buses. The price for the flight would be a grand total of $108.00 (roughly $400 in today’s monetary world). Bassist Waylon Jennings (who would become known as an “outlaw” country and western star) and guitarist Tommy Allsup were set to accompany Holly on the flight. At the last minute, J.P. Richardson (known as “the Big Bopper” and singer of the popular song “Chantilly Lace”) asked Jennings for his seat. Richardson was ill and feeling terrible. His flu symptoms were getting worse, and the thought of several hours on an un-heated bus, in the middle of the night was simply too much to bear. Jennings protested, but finally agreed, thus relieving J.P.  from the torturous bus ride through the dark, snowy night.

Guitarist Tommy Allsup was also slated to take the flight, but newly minted star Richie Valens (of tune “La Bamba” fame) was also suffering from days spent on the freezing busses, and was now becoming ill with the flu. For several minutes, he badgered Allsup for his seat, and they finally agreed to let a coin toss decide. Allsup flipped the 50-cent piece into the air, Valens called “heads” and it indeed landed face up. The manifest for the ill-fated flight was set.

After the crash, Jennings would spend many years racked with guilt about the events. Although he and Holly were widely known to give each other a dubious amount of “chin music”, their last conversation would haunt him without reprieve. As they were leaving for the airport, Holly quipped to Jennings, “I hope your damn bus freezes up again.” To which Jennings tragically fateful reply was, “Well, I hope your ol’ plane crashes.” Fate can be truly wicked.

They departed the Mason City Airport at roughly 1 a.m., climbed into snow flakes swirling in a strong southerly wind, and turned to the northwest. Witnesses saw the white tail light of the small plane slowly descend until it vanished from sight. The Civil Aeronautics Board (it would later become the FAA) stated that the Beechcraft V35 Bonanza, N3794N, was developing normal engine power, gear/flaps retracted, and impacted a snow-covered field at approximately 170 knots, right wing low. The machine cartwheeled and came to rest against a barb-wired fence. All four perished on impact. The three musicians were thrown from the machine, while the pilot remained tangled in the wreck. The causal findings of the CAB mentioned that the low flight time pilot was too in-experienced to handle the worsening weather. Peterson had been flying for four years and had amassed 711 total flying hours.

The world was shocked and saddened by their deaths. The press would refer to it as, “The Day the Music Died”.

One of the first times I was treated to this haunting ballad, I was a high school student in Mrs. Chadwick’s 11th grade English class. She was one of those cool teachers that wasn’t afraid to chuck the textbooks, and free-wheel stuff. We broke down previously confusing works like “Beowulf” and were now exploring this amazing song line by line. It seemed really cool to this awkward, long-haired, pimply-faced, teenager, and each and every time I hear this tune, I’m transported back to the year 1973, the hallowed halls of Southwest High School in Ft. Worth, Texas, and the vortex of puberty.

Reminiscing aside, the death of Buddy Holly (and Richie Valens, J.P. Richardson, and their pilot) indeed had “touched me deep inside” (a line from “American Pie”) for the circumstances of their demise hit a bit close to home. You see, they were flying in one of the most iconic single-engine airplanes ever constructed…the venerable Beechcraft V35 Bonanza. I too, had an “episode” in a Bonanza as a fledgling aviator, and wrote the following piece about that event.

I give you a rerun of one of my “BBall’s Logbook” entries (this one from the year 2002):



“BBall, Buddy Holly and the Bonanza”


The year was 1978, and most things were right with the world. Menachim Begin and Anwar Sadat would share the Nobel Peace prize for their work at Camp David, Prime Minister P.W. Botha was beginning work to dismantle the culture of apartheid in South Africa, the disease smallpox was eradicated from the planet, and two of my all-time favorite movies were filling the theaters …”Close Encounters of the Third Kind” and “National Lampoon’s Animal House”. That, plus the BIG news of the year; the Dallas Cowboys had won Super Bowl XII, defeating the Denver Broncos 27-10. As I remember it though, there were only two things that really, REALLY sucked about that year. Disco music was in full swing (“Stayin’ Alive” by the Bee Gees was the #1 song), and I almost died flying a Beechcraft Bonanza.

The first sucky part I won’t talk about, for if you were alive during those horrid, dark days of disco, then you know just how cruel those times actually were. Imagine being a 20-something year old male, hormones raging, adorned in your best bell-bottom jeans, and “attempting” to dance to the audio-vomit known as disco. All this simply to garner the attention of the opposite sex….it was a cruelty that I dare not describe. The second part was quite an adventure, except of course for the almost perishing in a crumpled heap of aluminum and body parts thing. I’ll explain in a minute.

I was enjoying my senior year at college, and the prospect of graduating and finding a “real” flying job was starting to look more like a reality then some far off event. I had been flying for a grand total of five years, and held most every rating and license short of the pinnacle of all professional aviators: the coveted Airline Transport Pilot’s License. I had earned my Commercial Pilot’s License, an Instrument Rating, my Certified Flight Instructor-Airplane/Instrument License, a Multi-engine rating, my Multi-engine Flight Instructor License, and had a grand total of just over 700 hours of flight time. The last year or so had seen me working as a Staff Flight Instructor for the college I was attending, flying the occasional charter flight, and riding along with my ex-roommate Rick on his nightly freight runs to build my multi-engine time. There never seemed to be a dull moment in those worn cockpits, steering long since used-up airplanes (full of cancelled checks), to small towns and insignificant destinations in the middle of the night. To be sure, it was a young man’s game, and we had more than our share of excitement, but I’ll save those yarns for another time.



(The iconic Beechcraft V35)

The Beechcraft V35 Bonanza has always been a huge favorite among general aviation pilots; in fact, my friend Rick (now a B767 Captain for American Airlines) is the proud owner of a V35 Bonanza. Aircraft maker Beechcraft first conceived this V-tail marvel back in 1945, with the birth of the first aircraft in February of 1947. It would later be morphed into the straight-tail C33 Debonair version in 1959, but it was a huge success from the moment it hit the ramp. It’s widely known for its ruggedness, it’s speed, it’s “Breechcraft pedigree” of superior quality and craftsmanship, it’s VERY distinctive V-tail, and one rather ignominiously foreboding nick-name….”the fork-ed tail doctor killer”.

That’s what the old heads called the Bonanza, and it seemed to have more than earned that moniker. In fact, most people aren’t aware of it, but famous rock and rollers Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens and J.P. Richardson (alias The Big Bopper) tragically perished in an Iowa corn field, one cold, snowy night, in February 1959…in a V35 Bonanza. It was an accident that would shake the rock and roll world to its core, and it conjures up memories of my own. I distinctly remember a field trip that my college class took to the FAA Aeromedical Academy in Oklahoma City that left an indelible mark on my pilot psyche. One of the highlights was a trip through what they called the “Gallery of Death”, which was a large room with hundreds of graphic pictures of small plane crashes (a lovely thing to show to a group of aspiring airline pilots).

They were all very grizzly in detail, and we noticed one weird coincidence. It seemed, an inordinate amount of them were Beechcraft V35 Bonanzas. The FAA folks also felt compelled to treat us to a macabre event. It was a recording of air traffic conversation between an ATC controller and a Bonanza pilot. He had gotten trapped trying to navigate through some thunderstorms, had experienced severe turbulence, and the massive up and down drafts caused the engine to break free from its mounts in the nacelle and shift forward. The center of gravity was now far outside the forward limits, and the plane was headed for earth with the aerodynamic properties of a greased man-hole cover. The ATC Center controller was talking to this doomed pilot and the shock of his terrified voice becoming more and more shrill, sent horrific chills down our spines. I could never figure out if they wanted all of us to become the safest pilots we could possibly become, or just have the crap scared out of us and quit flying altogether.



(The twisted wreckage of N3794N…the machine where “the music died”.)


With all that said, here’s my Bonanza tale.

I had taken several days off from college classes to fly a few nights with Rick on his freight run, but more importantly, to help him with a charter flight he had agreed to, but due to other commitments couldn’t take. It seems that two of his friends (of the female persuasion) needed to get from Dallas, Texas to Columbia, Missouri to attend a wedding. Rick agreed to fly them, but when he realized he couldn’t do it, he called the next best pilot he knew. Actually, that guy didn’t answer his phone so Rick called me, and I accepted the challenge…lol. Of my astounding 7oo+ hours of flight time, very little had been logged in a V35 Bonanza. Yes, I had done my Flight Instructor training in a C33 Debonair (again, basically a straight-tailed version of the Bonanza), and had flown some night freight runs with Rick in his company’s V35, but I had basically no Pilot in Command time in one of these whiz-banged “fork-ed tailed Messerschmitts”. Could I handle it? Hell yes I could! For after all, I was an instrument rated, commercially licensed 22-year-old, “steely eyed” aviator, and I was the man for the job. That, plus I really fancied the idea of flying two VERY lovely young ladies around and not having to pay for it (I’m talking about the airplane of course).

Rick and I flew a freight run to Baton Rouge the night before the big event, landed at dawn, and spent the day trying to grab some sleep. Later that evening, we headed out to Love Field for him to give yours truly some training in the Bonanza. This was a sweet little machine, and the attorney that owned it had really treated it with kid gloves. Crushed velour seats, very nice cockpit, great Nav/Comm radios, hell, it even had an auto-pilot (not quite the ilk of the B757, but it was cool nonetheless). We pre-flighted the machine, and spent just under an hour or so doing touch and go’s in the traffic pattern so I could get acquainted with this little wonder. About the time we taxied up to the FBO, my passengers were arriving, and the sun was starting to set. Rick met the girls, and advised me to head into the office to file my IFR flight plan while he loaded my suitcase, and got the ladies settled. One small note about this particular FBO at Love Field in the year 1978 has to be mentioned. Most of the line crew-MEN weren’t…men that is. They were VERY nice-looking young ladies, adorned in the shortest shorts and halters tops that any guy (without aspirations for interior design) could dream up. This was most probably the reason that Rick used this facility, and on that important matter, I deferred to his expertise.

I had us refueled, pre-flighted the Bonanza once again, and the three of us launched with the westward horizon fading from pink to black. Within a few minutes, we settled into what portended to be a very boring few hours on our Missouri-bound journey. I was alone in the front seat, while the girls sat in the back chatting, and doing what girls do on their way to a wedding; mainly, pontificate about how big a mistake the bride is about to make. Flying at night in a single engine airplane isn’t something you might catch me doing nowadays, but back then, it seemed like a no-brainer…the weather was benign, the machine was functioning well, and the “scenery” was great. What could possibly go wrong?



(All Beechcraft machines are very well made, beautiful and are known as the “Mercedes” of the small plane world.)

I began to hearken back to the days when I was first learning to fly. I’ll never forget that first night flight way back in 1973. My instructor, John, and I were aloft in the little Cessna 150, and were droning along headed back to Meacham Field to do some take-offs and landings. Suddenly, John reached over and pulled the throttle all the way back (meaning to the “OFF” position) …he announced, “we’ve just had an engine failure”. Holy crap! This we had practiced over and over again during our daylight flights, but at night? I set up the proper glide speed, and began to search for a suitable “off airport” place to put this thing down…but it was dark out there. He then hit me with some of the more prophetic words I’ve heard during the last 29 years of flying…”pick a dark spot…a field…. glide down doing your emergency checks…when you’re about to touch down, turn on the “Landing Light”…. if you don’t like what you see…TURN IT OFF…” I was mortified…he was laughing his ass off (he was to perish in a light twin crash within the year).

As the girls and I droned along at 7000’, the time had come to switch the fuel tanks, but being the consummate professional, I let the engine “cough” first gaining every last drop from that tank before switching it to the next one. From “R Main” to “L Aux” done with all the panache that any high-time (experienced) aviator would use.  The two passengers didn’t particularly like the part where the engine sputtered, but I assuaged their fears with my clear, calm, words of confidence. The weather was becoming IFR (cloudy) as we neared the Arkansas border, so I asked for a higher altitude from ATC, and this did the trick. We were now “on top” of the under-cast below, and life was back to being grand. A bit later in the now boring flight, it was time to switch fuel tanks again…yep, let it “cough”, move the lever to “R Aux” and viola!…masterfully done once more. This was a breeze, and the girls were feeling so much at home in this little “airliner” that they displayed their ultimate vote of confidence…they lit up a joint. Oh crap, not good…. but I had the fresh air vent on me blowing all the smoke back toward them, and what the hell, if they wanted to get stoned, how could it possibly affect me?

OK, just about to Missouri, and it’s time to switch fuel tanks one last time. It would be the last piece in the fuel puzzle, and that tank would be more than enough to allow us to breeze on into Columbia, and call it a night. O.K., fuel boost pump “on”, let it cough, then move the lever to “L Main”, and we’re all done with the fuel gymnastics. Unfortunately, this is the part in the movie where one “small problem” reared its ugly head.

When I switched the lever over to “L Main” (and the only tank that had any Avgas left in it) the engine abruptly protested with great authority. It continued to “cough” and the RPM dropped to just under 1000…. in other words, the engine wasn’t responding. After switching the fuel lever back to all the other tanks THAT I HAD PREVIOUSLY RUN DRY, I found myself between the proverbial rock and a hard place. I quickly put the fuel lever back to “L Main”, left the boost pump on, and watched the airspeed start to decay. I had enough forethought to trim the airplane for the best glide speed, and start into the emergency checklist. The only problem (of course) was that the fuel emergency checklist assumed you had something to burn in the other tanks…which I didn’t. I read it anyway, and it listed everything I had already tried. Time to land, but where?



(Cockpit of a Beechcraft Bonanza.)

I “fessed up” to Ft. Worth Center ATC, told them we were having a “slight engine problem” (as we descended into the under-cast), and would need vectors to the nearest airport (I flashed back to the dudes shill voice on the FAA Academy audio tape…and tried not to let mine gain any octaves). The girls were coming out of the fog and asking what was happening….”uh, well, we’re going to be landing soon to check something out…nothing to worry about.”…talk about a buzz kill. The Center controller told me that there was an airport directly below me in this area of northwest Arkansas, and to “state the nature of your problem”. I didn’t want to declare an emergency (a hugely dumb move, but common for someone with limited experience), so I told him that the engine was running “a bit rough” and that we’d be landing to have it looked at. I asked for some 360 spirals to stay within gliding distance of whatever airport we were above, and tried to keep myself together and my instrument scan going. We broke out of the clouds at about 4000’ and I spotted the airport rotating beacon almost directly below us! The engine was giving me about 800 RPM and keeping the electrics and vacuum pumps goings, so all I had to do was semi-dead stick this thing into whatever field we were circling.  Piece of cake…John…are you watching?

The runway was oriented north to south, looked to be at least 5000’ long, and had several lighted buildings on the west side, so it didn’t look to be some “po-dunk” farmer’s field type operation. I somehow managed to judge it correctly, plopped the thing on the runway, gently tapped the brakes, and slowed to a taxi speed to exit (in this instance, when I got to 500′ I turned on the landing light, liked what I saw and left it on…lol). As we turned off the runway, I noticed one of the lighted buildings was a big hangar with an airline logo above the door, and lo and behold it looked like several folks were inside working on various airplanes! Again, I was getting enough RPM to keep us moving, so we taxied over to it, shut down and I went in to see if we could get some help. I vividly remember looking around after I got out of the airplane and seeing the dark shadows of many large hills circling the airport. If I recall correctly, the gravity of the situation caught up with me right about now, and strangely enough, my knees became a bit rubbery.

As it turned out, we had landed at Drake Field in Fayetteville, Arkansas. During the day, this was a very busy airport, and the home base of a commuter (or as we call them now “Regional”) airline by the name of Scheduled Skyways, Inc. In one of my life’s stranger coincidences, this would be the commuter airline that I would fly for not two years down the road. I would be based in Fayetteville (our other pilot base being Little Rock), and I would become very familiar with the nuances of this little field tucked into the “mountains” of northwest Arkansas.

As luck would have it, one of the Skyways mechanics wasn’t busy, towed the airplane into the hangar, and checked it out for us. Within a few minutes, he informed me that one of the fuel lines was almost completely clogged (guess which one…yep, the Left Main). He was kind enough to blow the line clean, help us gas the machine back up, and sent us on our way. I don’t remember paying him anything for his effort, but I’m sure we did…maybe the girls offered him some “wacky weed”. Funny, but I also don’t remember having any reservations about climbing into that thing, firing it up, and launching back into that cold black night. Nowadays, after an adventure like that, you’d find me comfortably ensconced on a bar stool for about a year.



(I was to cut my “airline teeth” at the controls of the SA-226 Swearingen Metroliner in the skies over the southern U.S. The day they took this picture, I was busy inside doing paperwork for my upcoming day in the sky. Most all of these folks became good friends of mine…lots of stories here…lol.)


That trip turned out to be a milestone in this young aviator’s career. No, not the night dead-stick landing from IFR weather part, but the weekend in Missouri part. Remember me mentioning that the FBO in Dallas was employing lots of VERY attractive young ladies? It seems that when Rick was supposed to be loading the Bonanza with my overnight gear, he was doing the “hey, I’m a pilot, how do you like me so far?” routine with one of the line-crew girls. You guessed it, I had just the clothes on my back and nothing more! Apparently, he was preoccupied and forgot to load my suitcase in the airplane. Of course, I didn’t realize this until we were unloading the bags on the ramp in Columbia.

We were met by several friends of my passengers (all girls) late that night, and I was whisked away to spend the next three days at the home of the bridesmaid of honor…this all seemed quite innocent, until I found out that her parents WERE IN EUROPE on vacation. I vaguely remember attending a wedding that weekend dressed in the bridesmaid’s father’s suit (including his shoes), and being the object of lots of attention. I must’ve answered those girls questions about how I “saved their friends lives” a hundred times. I’ll admit that I conveniently left out the part where the almost crash was my fault, that I had run the gas in the other tanks dry , and how much of an idiot I was. One thing I will say about those Missouri girls, well, …I’m just not gonna say.

So somewhere over Arkansas, on a cold October night in 1978, I met the ghosts of Buddy Holly, Big Bopper, Ritchie Valens and their 21-year-old pilot Roger Peters (he had almost the exact total amount of flight hours as yours truly). He had taken off in a veritable blizzard, and either lost control due to buildup of ice on the wings of his Bonanza, or possibly became a victim of vertigo and spiraled into the ground from such. Either way, four young lives were cut tragically short that night.  As I thought about his doomed flight and my “incident”, I felt like he and I had shared a dark cockpit, spiraling down through the clouds with a plane load of terrified passengers. In my case, I had an engine that would run at somewhere around idle RPM, but fortunately, I had generally “good enough” weather. In his case, the engine was fine, but the weather was far worse, and thus, the ending was far different. I am completely certain however, that we both experienced one common thing; an overpowering sense of things not turning out well. I (maybe with the help of his…and my instructor John’s spirit) pulled off an (almost) dead stick landing, at night, from some pretty crappy circumstances, and in the process scared the hell out of one fledgling pilot.

It was a cruel twist of fate that took Buddy Holly. his friends, and one young pilot from us 19 years earlier; for it was far too early in their lives…it was in fact, “the day the music died”. However, the fickle purveyor of fortune let me be…gave me a proverbial “pass” as it were. I lived to continue my sufferings during those salad days of disco, but I must say, the three days spent in a house in Missouri with a half a dozen partying girls truly helped ease the pain.

Oh, and I learned to never run a fuel tank dry…ever.


“It’s destiny, Peggy Sue…everything’s destiny.” – Buddy Holly


till next time,






Stop the Roller Coaster…I Want to Get Off!


Life is like a huge Zen roller coaster; it’s designed to be that way. At times its fun and exciting, just like the ride at the amusement park, but occasionally it becomes a sledge-hammer serious affair. At the park, we get on and off at our choosing, we laugh to our hearts content, and the experience becomes a warm memory brimming with joy. Although the past few months can certainly be described as an emotional roller coaster, it has been anything but joyous. Rather than a fun-filled, heart pounding dash around a set of twisting tracks, it’s been more of a confusing whirling dervish of heartbreaking tales mixed with stories of love/compassion and yes, even heroism. It seems, the big cosmic “PAUSE BUTTON” was pushed for the entire planet, and the effects have touched every facet of human existence. Raise your hand if you’ve personally felt the effects. I’m guessing most of the 7.8 billion humans on this big rock in space are forlornly raising their hands as we speak.



(Our world truly seems to be upside down right about now…)

In the world of aviation, there has been but one event that would be remotely similar to the past few months. On a sky-blue September morning, 19 years ago, a horrid, evil-driven, slaughter of innocents took place. It was heinous to its core, but it was not a dreaded nuclear device, or an invisible invasion of microbes that did the killing. It was a culture of malevolent, evil intent, and it used four shining, graceful airliners to inflict death and destruction. While the smoke was still billowing, and humanity was recoiling in shock, an unprecedented thing happened; the airspace over North America was switched off completely, as if some gentle giant had moved a lever and the atmosphere would no longer support flying machines. We were all struck numb, and horrified emotions swept across the world, however, a big difference between then and now exists. While the 9-11 “black swan” event was centered over one locale, this vortex covers the entire planet like a huge blanket of pain and suffering. The terrorist attacks were shattering to be sure, and the effects on my world of air machines was nothing short of devastating. Thousands of employee layoffs occurred, pay-cuts came in droves, airplanes by the hundreds were moth-balled, and untold numbers of lives were turned upside down.



(Seattle to Tokyo. Being passed over the Pacific by a United Boeing 787… our cruise speed is about 50 knots less than theirs. Although it looks close, they are actually 1000′ above us.)


But then something happened. When the shock began to subside, we found to our relief, that we were left with an air travel system that was mostly intact. People were fearful, and the world of aviation had changed, but we hitched up our big boy/girl panties and fought back. We hardened our machines (ex.; installing bomb-proof cockpit doors), we hardened our procedures (with x-ray machines galore, the birth of the TSA, pilots armed on the flight deck [I’m planning an upcoming piece about my time as an FFDO…or Federal Flight Deck Officer]), and we hardened our hearts (the battle cry of “Let’s Roll” became our mantra). Airline travel slowly returned, and although the storm of evil still existed, we now had several tools to deal with it. One uniquely human by-product of the entire experience has become an integral part of the current experience of air travel. The wonderful folks that sit behind me, are now as physically and emotionally invested in the safety of the flight as the flight crews have always been. The massive ripples from that day swept throughout my industry, and it took a huge paradigm shift for us to fly airliners again (and for people to want to be on an airliner again), but we prevailed, and eventually prosperity returned.


So why mention the attacks of 9-11 in a piece about a viral pandemic? Because there is good news to be gleaned from these “nightmare-like” days we find ourselves mired within. Please hear me; we WILL prevail once again. Across the spectrum of life, the human race will adapt and overcome. We will fight for our lives, and we will fight for our families and friends. In the process, we will fight for our values, our societies, and our collective sanities. I am profoundly convinced we will come out of this “Twilight Zone tunnel” as the next version of a “Brave New World”. Let’s call it “World 2.0”.

Aviation will be no different. It’s bad, but it’s been bad before.

So the question is: how am I (personally) doing during this world-wide “flat spin”?

Conflicted actually.



(Nagoya to Honolulu. Sunrise abeam Midway Island in the mid-Pacific.)


The conglomeration of cells, synapsis and soul that differentiate me from other species is truly hurting…grieving actually. I’m torn between the pain of the unfathomable amount of suffering the world is living through, and the pain of the death of my “normal”. Our world is not like it was barely a few months ago, and it’s nothing short of shocking. We’ve seen the ugly rise of government control (both federal and local) beyond our wildest imaginations. My country’s founding tri-gospel of; “Liberty”, “In God We Trust”, and “E-pluibus unum”, is being put to the test daily. We’ve had dire mortality predictions that would frighten the stoutest of warriors. We’re now living with restricted gatherings at venues like malls, parks and restaurants, and every man will attest to the vast numbers of the female world anguishing over the lockdown of their coveted salons (with the “COVID 19 hairdo” becoming the topic of many a conversation). It’s enough to make one jump in the ‘ol time machine and set the dial for a different year…almost ANY year. On a serious note, the cost in human lives had been staggering, both in the horror of broadcasted daily body counts (decidedly NOT good for the psyche IMHO), and in the devastation of the financial world. Thousands of family (and many corporate) businesses closed, never again to see the light of day. Jobs lost, and careers ruined (in the case of some college folks, before they ever began). Things we celebrated mere weeks ago as bedrocks of our lives (sporting events, weddings, graduations, family reunions, etc.), are all part of the tsunami-like “PAUSE BUTTON” effect. It sometimes feels like we were all standing on a street corner, minding our own business, and “BAM!”, we were struck by an errant dump truck!



(The errant dump truck just flashed by.)


However (and at the cost of sounding uncaring; I promise you, I am not), when my left-brain speaks to its counterpart on the right, it says… “so what?” Not to the suffering, but to the shift in our collective “reality”. Our world has been irrevocably changed, and our “normal” is no longer that…normal. But again, so what? The historian in me says that we need to be intellectually honest with ourselves. This has happened throughout the span of time. Mostly, not with the “it affects ME, right here, right NOW” type occurrence, but its’ simply a part of what happens on this planet named Earth. The day Copernicus first looked to the stars, or Madame Currie first peered into a microscope, the world changed forever. It was permanently altered on a deserted backstreet in Sarajevo in 1914, and on a midnight Polish border twenty-five years later. The planet reset itself the day a quiet Minnesotan put the cockpit compass on “E”, flew solo through an ink-black night, and somehow found Ireland shortly after sunrise. The world was violently changed on a lonely swath of desert in 1945 known as Trinity Site, and human life was (again) redefined when two brave men planted a flag on an even lonelier stretch of dust by the name of Tranquility Base. Many times, in our collective history as people, we have forever changed the planet due to our efforts, and just as many times, the planet changed without consulting us. This happens to be one of those times.



(I was but a young lad of 13 when I witnessed my first real world changing event…the entire planet watched with me.)


Were all of these world events good news for humanity? Of course not, but they were world changing nonetheless. The Earth morphs constantly, and we as practitioners of the art of being human, change with it…we must. I weep, and am profoundly sad for the human cost of this ugly monster of disease. Side note: I’m finishing an amazing book titled “Man’s Search For Meaning” by Viktor Frankl…holocaust survivor and psychiatrist (  https://www.amazon.com/Mans-Search-Meaning-Viktor-Frankl-ebook/dp/B009U9S6FI ). One cannot read such a book and not be left with some of the following thoughts.

Sadness and grief have been a part of the human experience since the dawn of time. We risk it ALL, every day of our lives, and we do this by simply getting out of bed in the morning. Does this mean I believe this nightmare isn’t real and deadly serious? Of course not, I most certainly do. But I understand that as humans we all have an “expiration date”, it’s just part of the deal. We’re born, we live a certain number of days, and then we die. The big question that this event has forced most of us to consider (myself included) is this: what if I can last longer by living less (i.e., locking myself in isolation)? Is that a deal I’m willing to make? We all must make this decision. It is my fervent belief that government does not have the moral authority to make this call for us. Do I think that a lock-down during the initial “banzai charge” by the disease was the correct move (and an air travel ban thus grievously wounding the travel industry)? Yes, I believe it was. We were gobsmacked by disease and mis-information (not to mention LACK of critical information), and we were forced to take drastic measures. Do I agree that this sequestering remains warranted? That my friend, is a subject for another piece.

With that said, let me add that I am not depressed, I’m not down-hearted, and I am most assuredly not afraid. I know humans are ingenious (and at least as devious as a virus), and I know that we will marshal our intellect to craft medical miracles, and couple that with amazing skills within the world of entrepreneurship. This will inevitably lead to solutions yet to be dreamed of. It’s simply what we do.



(I took this on a layover in Reykjavik, Iceland. Is this a scene we will see again anytime in the future?)


Now, the pilot part.

I will not lie, a part of me is enjoying this break from the daily pressure-packed world of professional flying, while another part feels the loss of my world above the clouds. In a weird turn of events, this personal break from reality is actually due in part to two different events. The first is the virus that’s worldwide, the other is an extended sick call from the airline. It seems that a rather strange malady popped up beginning last summer (trust me, getting older is not for the faint of heart). One of the by-products of a life of international travel, is the varied (and “interesting”) dietary offerings within the overseas borders I routinely visit. A few years ago, I had been blessed with a stomach bacteria contracted in South Korea, and I assumed that the mysterious weight loss I was now experiencing was the return of this old gastrointestinal friend.

After several months of routinely tightening the notch in the belt buckle, and regardless the fact that my appetite was still quite normal, I was continuing to drop pounds as fast as Hollywood types dropping complaints about the White House at a dinner party. My ability to eat more than a few bites during any meal was non-existent, and I found myself on the losing end of a rather serious battle. I was slowly getting smaller, slowly getting weaker and by the end of February, I deemed that I was approaching the point of no longer being able to safely do my job. I called my Chief Pilot and removed myself from flying status.



(The last time I flew the big Boeing. February, Guatemala City to Los Angeles …this picture was taken by our jumpseat rider.)


I was mistaken about the bacteria, and after some medical head-scratching (and an upper G.I. endoscopy), the doctor types eventually diagnosed the issue as Achalasia. We were in the midst of formulating a plan for my return to good health, when things changed. Unfortunately, this is the part in the movie where the “errant dump truck” meets the pedestrian, and the sick pilot finds himself now part of an entire planet that had been diagnosed with a serious illness. So, I found myself in a personal tail-spin as I watched my world begin the slow nose-up attitude that all pilots know will lead to wing buffet, and the eventual loss of precious lift (my/our “normal” was about to stall). Clearly, I was not quite “ready for prime time” physically, but was I emotionally ready for all of this? As in commanding a passenger laden jet during an emergency, I had no choice, I had to be ready.

Yes, I could put on my “Captain’s face”, compartmentalize my emotions, “work the problem”, keep my spiritual and physical wings level, and see myself (and my dear loved ones) through this. The last forty something years in my profession was superb training for what I was now facing. I needed a plan to get my body better, so I could keep my brain in good shape, so I could keep my sanity humming along on all cylinders. Though they had no real idea what caused this condition (much like my thymoma tumor in 1999), they informed me it was fully treatable. There were several options, but the fix Deb and I chose would involve anesthesia, scalpels and a one-night slumber party at the local hospital.



(In EVERY life a little rain must fall…it’s just a by-product of living. My medical issue and the resultant surgery was what we in aviation term a “squall line”. I’ve seen many of them (both medical and real), and this was just one more to deal with.)


This is where the deadly virus almost derailed my entire little apple cart. My surgery was scheduled with the caveat that the medical governing body may not allow it due to the crisis that our health care industry was facing. I was informed that if they nixed my procedure, I was looking at a delay of up to 6 (and possibly 8) more weeks! Doing the math (considering the continued loss of weight), and considering my general worsening lack of stamina, it was looking like I would land short of the proverbial runway (with the resultant causality list). The bureaucrats relented (apparently our local health care facilities were NOT being overwhelmed), and we were firmly in “fight’s on” mode!

The morning of my surgery (16 April) I was, for lack of a better description, a mere shell of myself. The pre-bout weigh-in had me at 141 pounds (my normal “fighting weight” is 175-180), but I felt more than ready. The bathroom mirror had been cruelly lying to me for several months, for my reflection showed not ME, but what appeared to be an abused, starved P.O.W. from an enemy internment camp. The good news is that the procedure went swimmingly, and the better news is that I now can eat anything that’s not nailed down! I have since gained just shy of 20 pounds, and am feeling like $12 (that’s a million, adjusted for inflation and the virus effect on the market). OK, “Mysterious Weight Loss Emergency checklist complete Captain”. My plan is another month off the line to build my weight back, get my immune system back in the green band, and then spend the last 12 (sunset) months of my career flying the big jetliner hither and yon.



(Another jaw-dropping sunset “suffered” on the beach in Palau.)


Will I have an airline to go back to? Yes, I will. Will the airline be the same as when I last flew four months ago? Of course not. If you know anything about aviation in general, and airline flying in particular, you know it (like the world) changes constantly. Airframes are added, airframes are parked, cities are added only to be dis-continued a few months down the road. The only thing truly “constant” in the airline business is change. Will our procedural world be different? Yes it will, but again, that stuff changes all the time also. Before each trip I’m required to wade though the pile of (virtual) bulletins on my flight operations website…it can easily take an hour or so. From things like FAA airspace changes, or how I’ll conduct a night visual approach into a mountainous airport, to even the most mundane things like which “holiday ties” are acceptable while wearing the uniform. Will face-masks, hand sanitizer, and “social distance” verbiage now be part and parcel to the language of aviation? Probably, but again, so what? A few decades ago, I had never heard of things with the alphabet soup names like TCAS, CRM, RNAV(RNP), PBE, RVSM, and the list goes on and on. Pilots learn to change, adapt and prevail every day and on EVERY SINGLE flight. It’s part of the challenge (and excitement) of the job. This medical paradigm will be no different in terms of the result.



(Haunting to each and every pilot. Most will see the clouds again…some will not.)


There will be many questions, and untold challenges ahead for me and my world of airliners. But with adversity, we rise to the occasion. There exist certain absolutes in the world of flying, and even a world-wide pandemic cannot alter them. It will always take fast air moving over the wings to get my 250,000-pound collection of metal and humans into low Earth orbit, and no invisible virus will ever change that. It will take smart, creative, and very brave folks to run my incredible world of aviation (like it has since that long night the man stared at his fuel gauges, nibbled on cheese sandwiches and prayed to find the coast of Ireland). Oh, and a couple more things that I’m 100% convinced of…it will take this old airline pelican several more weeks (and roughly 20 more pounds) before I’m fully ready to strap on the jet again. And when I do, it will take a Herculean effort to wipe the smile off my face as I board the beautiful machine, turn left and enter my personal “Brave New World” 2.0



(Courage was a value we seemed to have intrinsically in days past… I’m not so sure now. Here we are bound for Japan from Hawaii…passing the island whose very name invokes the word”courage”… Iwo Jima).



(A not so brave man, with the bravest person I’ve ever met…my love, my rock, my Debora.)


So I say…stay on the roller coaster, you’ll be glad you did. To quote my amazing bride, “I’m not afraid to die, but I’m terrified to not live.” Please be smart and remain safe.

(“Smart and be safe”…. honestly, what the heck does that even mean these days? The goal post is being moved constantly, so “smart” and “safe” are also being re-defined every day. Don’t hang out in huge groups of people, wash your hands like you’re a germaphobe, get plenty of sleep, get your fat-ass off the couch and exercise, eat right, spend time in the sun, seek medical attention if you get sick, and for God’s sake, stop licking those toilet seats! Wait! Aren’t all these the very same things your Mother hammered you to do every day as a kid?)

But most importantly, know that suffering is a byproduct of being human. Our Maker gives us love and joy to go with the pain, it’s just part of the big roller coaster we call life.



(Sunset on a Guam to Tokyo flight. Every moment of every day sees the sun set somewhere…but realize it is also rising at that very same moment.)



(What our route looked like on the tablet we use.)

Lastly, I urge you to contemplate these simple things:

Be brave and be kind…for they are both contagious. Live each and every day as a gift (for it truly is)…and don’t forget to be human.

‘till next time.





“Hello…My name is Bill and I’m…”


Prologue: As we all know, in the first few months of this year, the world found itself in the midst of a viral nightmare. Some might think that the following piece about “playing video games” might be thoughtless, even silly given the scope of suffering that humanity is experiencing. I offer the opposite. In the darkest hours of my life, I’ve found that limiting my exposure to anxiety and worry, and attempting to replace it with joy and fun is truly powerful therapy. In the year 2000, I spent months living in a blur of surgeons, chemo and radiology doctors, and waiting rooms populated with sad faces and anxious looks. I lived through many bleak days (and nights) filled with questions regarding my health, my family, my career and pretty much everything in between.

I survived that year with the love of my family and friends, the medical heroes that brought me through that horrific tunnel, and the “therapy” of doing things that gave me joy. Loving my wife and children, staying in touch with siblings and friends, and (yes) logging time in front of my computer were the suave for my wounds. I could be in a world devoid of needles and cancer cells, twisting and turning through the clouds, and losing myself for hours at a time flying…albeit in a make-believe world, but flying nonetheless. When I exited that dark tunnel of personal nightmare, I penned an article titled “Take Two Sims and Call Me in the Morning”, and it was about just that. Using a beloved hobby to keep my mind from drifting where it had no business living. I know that now, as I spend days on end in my home, I’m staying sane using the same “therapy” I used two decades past. Love of my wife, children, siblings and friends. Lots of reading, writing, movies…and yes…my “addiction” to cyber flying.

The following is my promised entry about flight simulations.


“Hello…My Name is Bill, and I’m…”

…a flight sim addict.”



There, I said it. I’m essentially addicted to flying cyber aircraft around in a cyber world. Do I have other “addictions “and hobbies? Of course, I do. For instance, I’m dangerously drawn to a computer keyboard (obviously).  Also, in my teen years, I was consumed with two early loves (three counting flying machines). They being an attraction to motorcycles, and sports (both as a participant, and a voyeur). To this day, I find football season to be my favorite time of year, and I’m drawn to watching the four “major” golf tournaments like a fat kid to cake.  Concerning the two-wheeled wonders, I find it impossible to resist stopping to admire a gleaming, shining, motorcycle whenever the opportunity presents itself. My last addiction concerns the past. I love most everything history related, with my most compelling interest centered around modern (read 20th century) military events. Ask me the differences between Passchendaele, and Pelelui, the significance of Haiphong, and Helmund, Incheon and the Ia Drang…such is the byproduct of being a history nerd. This fascination of military history nicely dovetails into my love of flight simulations, which will be explained a bit more later. I’m compelled to say that I lay this last addiction squarely into the laps of two people. My dear father, and Adolph Hitler (seems that might also need some further explanation).

At the tender age of nine (circa 1965), our family packed up its worldly possessions, (lock, stock and barrel like many times before), and moved to a different military base. This particular move however was radically different than the others. Where we had crossed an ocean before when moving from Washington State to Hawaii, we had never actually relocated to a foreign country. We were now bound for the historic Bavarian city of Nuremburg, (West) Germany. I had no idea that it was to reveal undreamt of sights, sounds, tastes and a host of other things that my feeble young brain had never before contemplated. We began our two-year journey (to include a move to Munich the following year) by living, not on the Army base, but “on the economy” (meaning, in a neighborhood with the natives). I was gob-smacked to say the least, but the adventure was exhilarating. Lacking information to reflect on the momentous, world-shattering events that had taken place in this country a mere 20 years before, I had no idea that the scars (both physical and emotional) of World War II, were still very much a part of daily life here. My introduction to the fascinating world we call “History” was about to begin.

My parents were amazing people. First of all, because they were smart enough to have a kid like me (lol), and secondly because they never wasted an opportunity to throw us five “kinder” into the trusty old family station wagon and traipse us out into the German countryside. We traveled to castles, we visited museums, we drove to other Deutsche cities and towns, we even took a day to visit the Nazi concentration camp at Dachau. I was but a mere lad of 10, but that day is seared into my memory, and the things I saw, and the feelings that I experienced will haunt me to my grave. It was a very confusing and upsetting day. Many days, and conversations later, my young brain started to faintly absorb it all. It was all so frightening, but I was drawn to the story of what had taken place HERE, where I was living, a mere two decades before. I wanted to know more, and the more places I visited (especially those that involved famous [and infamous] World War II locales), the more I started to feel the “tug” of the past.


1 tank pic

(My brother John and I standing on an M4 Sherman tank somewhere around the Munich airfield that my father flew from, circa 1966-67. Apparently, it was used as an Me-262 jet base by the Luftwaffe at the end of the war.)


I vividly remember standing on the concrete and marble podium where Adolph Hitler addressed the masses at the rallies of the 1930s, and I was enraptured by the enormity of it all. My father schooled me of him and his evil ideals (my Dad was roughly the same age as myself during those dark days of the Second World War). I remember there were forested areas with signs reading “Verboten” alerting folks that these woods had not been cleared of dangerous ordnance left from the war, and thus, they were closed to the public. I watched films and TV shows (a favorite of my generation was Vic Morrow’s “Combat!”), and I began to understand that what we call “history” isn’t just black words on a white page. I concluded that It was a living thing…past our spot in time…but living nonetheless. Real people, with real lives (and hopes and dreams and loves) stood where I was now standing, and I could almost feel them. Be it at historical places in 1965 Germany, or almost 50 years later, seeing the caves of Saipan, flying past Iwo Jima at 35,000’, or walking the invasion beaches of Normandy, it’s as if I could easily imagine myself in that place, at that moment in time. I loved it then, and I love it to this day.


Nürnberg, Reichsparteitag, RAD-Parade

Reichsparteitag 1937. Der große Aufmarsch der 38 000 Arbeitsdienstmänner vor dem Führer. a[uf].d[em]. Zeppelinfeld

3 Iwo Jima

4 Omaha Beach

(The Nuremburg podium, the island of Iwo Jima, and the “Dog Green” landing beach at Omaha .)


So back to the “addiction”.

Flash forward to the year 1995, I was living in Dallas/Ft. Worth and traveling the highways and by-ways on my “Honda-Davidson”. My shiny red VT1100 Shadow was an awesome bike, and it fully stoked my love of motorcycles. It didn’t offer one thing however; and that was any protection from the thousands of dumbasses that I was sharing those highways and by-ways with. Having lived through some scary moments when I was a teen delivering my paper route on my little Suzuki 125, I was pretty up to speed on keeping an eye on the cars and trucks that were all bent on my destruction. But on one particular warm, sunny Texas morning, on a very busy super highway in downtown Dallas, all that changed. Suffice to say that at my speed of 80+ mph (just to stay with the traffic), had the divine hand of the good Lord (or whatever else might have been looking out for me), not stepped in when they did, I would’ve been but an ink spot (and an obituary) chalked up to “those damned donor-cycles”. A rapid lane change caused one car to hit another in front of me, and I was merely going to be collateral damage in this event, but dead is dead and blame be damned where I was concerned. The next day I found myself at the Honda dealership selling this beautiful machine (a sad day to be sure).


5 Rick and Hondas

(My 1988 Honda VT1100 on a road trip in 1994 with my ex-college roommate Rick. He has recently retired as a Boeing 777 Captain at American Airlines.)


Shortly after closing the motorcycle chapter in my life, I entered an entirely new world for me. I bought a computer and began a journey through the cyber-world. That old Gateway 2000 was a monumental mystery to me, and I was a COMPLETE moron when it came to this contraption. I was such an idiot, and was on the phone to the Gateway Help Desk so often I think I knew them all personally (“Oh, hi Bill.” “Hi Jason.” “What did you need help with today Bill?”). Slowly but surely my knowledge base began to grow, and I found that even though the beast known as the internet wasn’t a daily thing back then, one could still have fun without it (and the dail-up connection it required). I also found among the stack of software discs that came in the box (you know, the ones explaining how to use your printer, and your “AOL email”, etc), there was one stack with the intriguing name of “Aces Over Europe”. Huh? The Gateway package also came with a little thing that had suction cups on the bottom, a few red buttons on the base, and one on the top of what looked to be a small joystick. WTF was this?


6 Aces Over Europe (1)

(Literally my “Gateway drug” into my world of flight simulations.)


OK, I had to try it out. Being an intrepid aviator in R/L, I couldn’t pass this up. AND, if it truly did portray some sort of what it was like yanking and banking in a P-51 Mustang (or Bf109) over the Normandy fields and the forests of Belgium in 1944…then I simply could not let this pass. It was surprisingly fun, and (much to my liking) the missions, campaigns and pilots listed was uncannily accurate. Although by today’s standards, the graphical representations looked completely cartoonish, and downright silly, it was quite entertaining being totally new to the scene (and having no idea what the future would bring).  As I beat back the resurging Wehrmacht in the Ardennes, and battled Goring’s Luftwaffe in the European skies, I was seeing something intriguing for the first time. My love of history was playing out before my very eyes…and I was a player in this strange little CRT world.  Again, the flying aspect of it was very cool, but I was totally surprised that the folks that made this thing seemed to be history buffs also. To quote an iconic American television character…” fascinating”.

Within a short period of time, my neophyte “flight simulation” library gave birth to a new addition by the name of “Red Baron 3D”.  I was now indeed THE famous Albert Ball flinging my wood and wire Se5 through the skies over the blood-soaked trenches of the First World War. Wow! With the passing of four years, and the leaps in computer technology, the visuals concerning everything from the terrain to the machines themselves really started to improve. I wondered…do they make jet and or helicopter versions of this stuff? Next came a title by the name of “Hind” (showcasing the Russian Mi-24 helicopter in their war in Afghanistan), and I was in the heavenly world of military choppers that I had grown up in as that kid way back in 1960s Germany (see my piece titled “Going To Work With Dad”). Shortly after that, I discovered my first “fast jet” title by the name of “Hornet Korea” …and that little gem led me smack dab into the brave new world of the internet and online flying.



(Box covers of the early sims “Red Baron 3D”, “Hind” and “Hornet Korea”.)


In the next installment, I’ll tell about my first foray into the online world of flight simulations.


“My name is Bill” Part 2


Flying online with my mates.


10 Falcon 4.0

(The “granddaddy” of them all, and our MSP LAN groups first serious “study” type flight simulation…Microprose’s “Falcon 4.0”)


Fast forward a few more years, and I’m now living in the sprawling suburbs of St. Paul, Minnesota. By now, I’ve summoned enough courage to delve into the swamp known as the internet (not flying mind you, just lurking on the flying forums). I was new to all of this, and learned that this collection of pages whereby folks discuss aspects of the hobby, ask/answer questions (very helpful for us “noobs”), and sometimes just bitch about stuff (and each other) was a totally foreign universe for this new citizen of the cyberworld. I learned tons of stuff about the flight sims that I was enjoying (and that helped keep the frustration level down about a jillion notches), and when asked, I answered questions about real-world flying. So, for the most part, I generally enjoyed my time with my new “cyber” mates. On one occasion, I noticed that the forum poster was from my neck of the woods…literally. He was a scant few miles north of me, so I sent him a PM. Terry and I chatted a bit, and decided to meet for lunch (the year was 1997, and to this day we fly online often, we text, we phone, and I consider him and my other LAN mates some of my close, “go-to” friends). We did indeed meet for lunch, and he brought along his neighbor Dale (another flight sim junkie). We had tons of fun, and began to explore the idea of meeting online to do some flying. Apparently, he had done it before, convinced me how much fun it happened to be, so I consented. I was going to be the proverbial online virgin…” all I ask is that you please be gentle”.

Terry was (before recently retiring) an important management “mucky-muck “at a large, nationally known dairy conglomerate in the upper mid-west, and like pretty much everyone else in the hobby, has a fascination for aviation. We set up a time for a call, he rang up “the virgin” (me), talked me through the online hookup (dial-up no less, and off we went. Note: our inflight “COMMS” being holding the telephone in the crook of the neck with your head bent over like Quasimodo at a head bashing concert)! He walked me through finding each other online in the simulation he had chosen (“Hornet Korea”), and briefed me that our “mission” was to depart our airfield, fly to a certain point, merge and dogfight with two “bad guy” Hornets frown by two dudes in Florida (apparently he had flown online with them before). We were to “do some of that Pilot sh*t Mav!”, send them to “bad guy” hell, and return to base (RTB) as two victorious warriors, awaiting laurels and medals (and bragging rights) beyond our wildest dreams.


11 Hornet Korea in game

(This is what it looked like that fateful day when my online virginity was lost. I was flying number 2 on Terry’s wing, and about to be embarrassed…several times.)


This is most assuredly NOT how the mission played out. I found myself in the cockpit of this F/A-18C Hornet, mentally going through how I was to set up all the “Air to Air” weapons and sensors that would be needed, and how I was to program the “countermeasures” (chaff and flare dispensers and jammers). I then tried to figure out our routing, and fuel requirements before we released the brakes, but time was running out, so I just decided to follow Terry. We taxied to the duty runway, lined up on the pavement and departed as a “two ship” of battle hardened (at least one of us) jet-borne killers. I figured that all I would have to do is keep him in sight, hang on to his wing (meaning DO NOT RUN INTO HIM), stay off the COMMS, call out threats, protect him when I could, and become cannon fodder when the situation called for it. What could POSSIBLY go wrong?

We raced down the runway in afterburner, rotated, sucked the landing gear up, flaps up, all the while me being so proud of my ability to stick on Terry’s wing like glue when….WTF?….he snapped rolled to the left, dove for the deck, rolled inverted and FLEW UNDER A BRIDGE just off the airfield boundary! Holy guacamole…I was in way over my head! All the while he’s yammering in my ear about how good these two guys were that we were fighting against, and how he was picking them up on his radar (I couldn’t detect a thing), how he had them on his RWR (Radar Warning Receiver…I barely knew what it was), and we were going to be displacing the right (or did he say left?). I was back about “row 10” in my struggle to stay ahead of the jet, barely holding onto his wing, not sure which Air to Air Mode I was in, which missile I had selected, and where the bad-guys were! It was all happening too fast, and was a complete mystery to me! BTW…WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FUNNY WARNING IN MY COCKPIT? WHAM! Suddenly, I’m a roman candle, and I have no idea where it came from…that was fun! Less than five minutes flying to find out that I’m the online equivalent of Pee Wee Herman, and I’m flying around, at 400kts, hair on fire, in a very sophisticated war machine, looking like (to quote the movie “Dodgeball”) …” a retard humping a doorknob”!  We reset the flight (thank God dead is NOT dead), tried it again several times, and guess what? Same result each time. Lovely…they were not gentle at all. I think I needed about fifty puppies AND a balloon.

This was quite the eye opener. I had spent some quality time flying/fighting against the A/I (artificial intelligence) bad-guys that each flight simulation had written into its code, and I felt I could hold my own. Granted these aerial duels were in the “Single Player” world, against the A/I and since I was in a “pre-radar” Sopwith Camel, or P-51 Mustang, I could always see the antagonist…not this BVR (Beyond Visual Range) missile stuff. I had dabbled into the fast jet thing, but CLEARLY had not spent the required amount of time to be proficient in that 4-D chess world of 400kt death. The folks that have a handle on this type of stuff have spent years learning it (some are actual ex-Navy, Air Force, Marine Corps types). They know exactly how to use the different radar guided missiles from very long distances. In that world, you can’t see the victim that you’re about to turn into a flaming ball of (virtual) teeth, hair and eyeballs (read ME). They know how to get in close and use the “heat seeking” Sidewinders that were made famous over the skies of Vietnam. And when that “Maverick moment” arrives (“…too close for missiles, switching to guns!”), they know the proclivities associated with that type of knife fight in a phone booth. PLUS…they can air to air fight their way into a target, bomb or rocket said target into the next dimension, then escape unscathed back to the airbase or aircraft carrier (OH…and can hook up to the re-fueling tanker on the way home for a sip of jet fuel). I had a HUGE amount to learn about how this online world worked, and I had a HUGE amount to learn about how flying a modern warplane with its spider-web of systems and weapons worked. I also had volumes to ingest about air to air tactics and the procedures for attacking a ground target.  And lastly, I had a large amount to decipher about how a person goes from being the “bumbling uber-noob/here I am, come kill me” boat-anchor, to being able to survive in the online skies for more than the time required to film a Tony Romo fumble. It was going to be an uphill battle, but I if I could fly as the Commander in the left seat of a Boeing 757, then I could certainly figure out how to not be a COMPLETE idiot in the virtual skies. (I hoped)


Our LAN Group.

My savior(s) came in the form of a group of like-minded individuals, and the large 700-page manuals you USED to receive with these hard-core, up-scale “Study” type flight sims (nowadays you get PDF files…. oh, and tons of YouTube videos…quite helpful actually). By the way, many of these “hard-core, study type” flight simulation software programs originated in the actual military aviation world as training aids, then are purchased by the simulation folks, re-worked to remove the “sensitive” stuff, re-cleared through the aircraft makers and the govt/military types, and then released to the public. A particular A-10 flight simulation for instance, was born in the world of transitioning real world National Guard A-10A pilots into flying the “C” model of the Warthog. It’s accurate to a gnat’s ass (except for, of course, the parts that can’t be part of the public domain). After the debacle known as my first foray into the world of online flying, Terry (and his neighbor Dale) brought up the idea of a “LAN” (local area network) get together. I had no idea what they were talking about. Essentially, your homies show up at someone’s house (or other venue), hook all of your computers onto one network, and fly the piss out of them not having to fret about things like how fast the internet is working, or having to use a telephone for COMMS, etc. Plus, you get the added benefit of lots, and lots (did I say lots) of “chin music” back and forth to each other. I would be remis if I didn’t mention also, that learning a hobby in close proximity to others that are more advanced in that endeavor is a real plus. Remember Terry flying under the bridge INVERTED on my first online sortie? Yeah, these guys were damned good flying in the virtual world (but I’m not sure I’d hand them the keys to the big Boeing…lol.)


(Two pics of the 700 plus page manual for the flight simulation “Falcon 4.0”. One of the design team members was an ex-Air Force F-16 pilot.)


(Pics from our our very early LAN days. LOVE those 25 pound CRT monitors!)


14 LAN group

15 Terry LAN

(Top: most of the original LAN mates. Some really ugly mugs to be sure. Bottom: my original online partner, “TBob”… “Mr. inverted, under the bridge” himself!)


16 Frug Fleming Field (2)

(August of 2002. L to R: Son, Daughter, the one and only Mark “Frugal” Bush, yours truly, and my second LAN mate, “Olieman” at an airshow at Fleming Field, St. Paul.)


Our LANS grew more frequent, and we had more and more dudes showing up (many from out of state). Within a year, our core group consisted of myself, Terry (business exec.), Dale (painter), Chad (State I.T. expert), Roger (also State I.T. guru), Tom (engineer), Bert (world renown research physician/scientist), Chad (Police officer), and Dusty (United States Army, Ret.). Soon we were holding at least one LAN per year (sometimes more), and had welcomed lots of “cameo appearances” from those famous in the flight simulation world (Mark “Frugal” Bush), those famous in the REAL world of combat aviation (Lloyd “Bozo” Abel), and a host of others from around the country. Add to this blessing, the fact that my wonderful bride loved these get-togethers (pretty sure some wives would not), for she got to show off her world-class hospitality skills. Being an incredible hostess is a crown she has worn proudly since the dawn of our marriage, and the food, drink, and general “welcome to our home” type atmosphere made the events special to be sure. Her white chicken chili, lasagna, and bar-b-que ribs are legendary among the group…oh did I mention she’s also a world-class bartender? Trust me, that didn’t go unnoticed. Oh, and one last tid-bit concerning our LANs. Once Debie and I had relocated to the back woods of Wisconsin, we routinely carved out one of the afternoons (the LANs usually lasted 3 days), to spend at our personal shooting range. We turned old milk jugs, beer cans, stuffed toys, and whatever else needed blasting into about a zillion little pieces. The local guys brought their own shootin’-irons, and the out-of-towners were welcome to pick from my arsenal. Food, flying, shooting and “libations” …not sure if it CAN get any better than that…right?



(“Dusty” and “Griff” kicking virtual butt in the A-10C, and “Cat”, “Griff” and “Olieman” turning stuff into junk.)


Somewhere out of the blue the television and print media heard of our little computer flying “coffee-klatches” and decided to interview us. The next thing we knew, we were in the print media, and the subject of one the evening news “fluff” stories. IIRC, the day the newspaper lady showed up to interview us, she had her teenage son in tow. During the span of the interview, we (of course) sat her down behind one of the CRTs, briefly explained the use of the joystick and throttle, and turned her loose in the F-16. She didn’t last very long, and it was not a pretty sight. We (again, of course) asked her son if he’d like a turn in the barrel, and he jumped at the chance! The kid was a natural! He could fly quite nicely, and seemed to be enjoying himself (not like his mother). I’m fairly sure all those hours spent on the X-box were a bit of an “in your face Mom” type moment for him. Lol.

At one point she asked the obvious question, “Why would you want to fly around in little “make believe” airplanes when you fly REAL airplanes for a living?” Fair enough question. The answer seemed pretty obvious to me, but clearly not to her. I offered this, “Well, that’s a good question. I guess the big reason is that at work (at the airline), I don’t get to fly inverted under bridges, and lock onto the tail of the United or American or Delta jet in front of me and launch a missile up their tailpipe!” (big grin on this ugly mug, versus the “huh?” look on her face) …me thinks she neither understood nor appreciated my flippant remark…oh well.


21 old LAN

(TV news dude intently concentrating on NOT ending up “D-E-D” dead in the cyber world of “Falcon 4.0”…”Cat” is in the foreground. I’m giving him a few “priceless” tips…which I’m sure didn’t help at all…lol. Photo circa 1998-1999.)


We met regularly for many years, and though our professional paths were all quite different, we happily shared the bonds of aviation, and the fellowship of those times. Sadly, many of us have moved, some have lost the ability to attend the LANs (kid commitments, etc), and some have simply lost their passion for the hobby. I still adamantly hold at least one LAN per year, our last being about a month ago at the new digs here in the sunbaked world of Arizona. One guy drove in from the Reno area, one dude flew in from MSP, and “TBob” flew with us online from back in Minnesota. We had tons of fun, like always. Good friends, good food, good “adult beverages”, good cyber flying, and good (to great) “chin music” (seems the older we get, the better the insults get). Oh, this year we did not load up the truck with a gaggle of firearms and proceed to the local range to kill paper bad-guys, but it WILL be on the agenda for the next little “clam bake”.

The next (and final) installment will focus on a few of the simulations themselves…including the principle sim that we’re flying online at this time. Screenshots and videos included.)


“My name is Bill…” Part 3

“1’s and O’s”, (and lions, and tigers and bears) …oh my!


So, exactly WHAT is a flight simulation? It’s obviously a software program you run on your computer that allows you to fly around in a world created by that program. Cool. Can any computer run them? For the most part, your average run of the mill, home computer would not run them very well. Those of us in the hobby tend to build our own rigs, tailor them to our software needs and regularly upgrade them as the simulations themselves get more and more complex. The basic needs for a machine to run one of the current programs consists of a pretty robust computer chip, but it must (and I mean MUST) have a powerful video card, lots of memory (not only in the form of “storage” type, but also in the family of RAM…or random access memory), add in a good 4K monitor, and you get a gorgeous, very real looking environment. It is, after all, a visual medium, so the stuff that makes the program run and LOOK good is vitally important (I’ll address the advent of VR…virtual reality… in a bit).


22 Huey


23 P51 Mustang

(Above, in an online mission [with a dude from Australia no less] flying the iconic UH-1 Huey escorting some CH-47s Chinooks, and below, in a single-player [meaning flying against the A/I] mission in the P-51D Mustang escorting a formation of B-17 Flying Fortresses. Again, it’s a VISUAL medium…that chip and video card have to make literally millions of calculations very, very quickly.)


Is all that junk fairly expensive? It can be, yes. The latest and greatest video card will set you back about one large (not in 100 large, it’s big brother with one more “0”), the motherboard, the chip, the RAM, the hard drive(s), the cooling system (these babies will run very hot as you ask them to do all that fancy math), the computer case, the monitor, the “peripherals” (joystick, throttle, pedals, etc), and you can be looking at a rather spendy “hobby”. More than say, collecting sportscars, airplanes or ex-wives? Good God no, but it does help to have an understanding banker, and far more importantly, an understanding spouse. Luckily for me I have both…lol.

Back to the programs themselves. BTW, I will be addressing military flight simulations only, there are civilian versions of these thing (Microsoft X being the most famous), but they aren’t really my thing. First of all, when speaking of military flight simulations, there are two basic types…  they are either a “Survey” sim, or a “Study” Sim. A Survey sim means just that. A veritable smorgasbord of stuff to choose from (some Study sims offer a bit of that too), but THE major difference is the complexity of the program, and this is most evident when you’re sitting in the cockpit. They are both visually stunning (and I mean jaw-dropping gorgeous), but the big difference is what is called a “mouse clickable cockpit”.  In the Study simulations, the folks that code them work extremely hard to make it as close to being EXACTLY like the real deal as they can. Every switch, every knob, every dial, every lever is movable, and MUST be moved with a mouse click (or mouse wheel rotation) to operate the machine correctly. In a Survey simulation, all of the stuff is there, but the cockpit is not “mouse clickable”. You simply “map” all of the things you might need to move (flap lever, gear handle, gun/rocket/bomb arming switches, etc.) to either a keyboard press, or a button push on your joystick/throttle setup. You can do that too in the study sims, but sometimes it’s just way too much fun to flip the switches, move the levers, and push the buttons…lol.


24 non clickable cockpit

(Screenshot of a “non-clickable” cockpit. It’s the P-38J from the sim “IL-2 Sturmovik: Battle of Bodenplatte”  https://il2sturmovik.com/  )


25 clickable cockpit 2

(Screenshot of a VERY “clickable” cockpit. It’s the F/A-18C from the sim “DCS World” (or Digital Combat Simulator”  https://www.digitalcombatsimulator.com/en/ )


So, the major Survey sim is called “IL-2:Sturmovik” with its different add-on “battles” (it also offers an outstanding WWI add-on called “Flying Circus”).  “IL-2: Sturmovik” only covers the Second World War (again, except for “Flying Circus”), and it offers a plethora of different machines to fly; from Spads and Halberstadts in WWI, to Stukas, Heinkels, Mustangs, Spitfires and Messerschmitt’s (even the late war jet powered -262) in WWII.  Note: I’ve listed probably a third of the machines you can fly…they even have the good ol’ “Tante Ju” (Auntie Ju), the venerable Junkers Ju-52 tri-motor! Sound a bit weird …what the hell do you do in a Luftwaffe transport airplane on the Eastern Front? How about dropping paratroopers into battle? Plus, in all the bigger machines that have multiple crewmembers, you can switch around to any of the crew positions as you fly…tired of being the pilot, a few keyboard presses and you’re now the tail gunner! LOL! In the online world, you can jump in a machine AS the gunner with a human pilot…fun as hell. Again, it’s a “Survey” simulation, no button pushing, flip switching, etc., but a hoot to be sure. Like the other one I’ll talk about, it offers LOTS of different ways to get into the virtual skies. It has: Quick Missions, Single Missions, a “Career Mode” (you select the theater, a machine, create a pilot and follow them through with each day generating different objectives), a Mission Editor (where you get to build your own missions), and of course, the online option so you can fly not only against (and in cooperation with) the A/I, but against (and in coop with) other homo-sapiens from around the globe. They’re continually upgrading things (like a plan to add a Pacific Theater with carrier operations), and they’re quite good at “thinking outside the box”. They recently added a tank version whereby you can operate armor in the different crew positions in the battles of WWII.

And last but not least (and the principle sim I fly online), is a gem by the name of “DCS World”. It’s the premier Study Sim at the moment, and covers from World War II to the present day. Here’s a kicker…it’s actually FREE to download! It comes with two “modules” to fly…the Su-25 “Frogfoot” (basically, a Russian version of the USA’s A-10 “Warthog”), and the civilian version of the P-51 Mustang (the TF-51). From there, you’re free to purchase a dizzying number of props, jets, and helicopters. It comes with the map of the Caucasus, but you can purchase the Persian Gulf, the Nevada Test Range [basically Nellis Air Force Base and surrounding areas], and the Normandy area for your WWII flying (plans are to soon release a Mariana Islands map). It has a very robust Mission Editor, and our online flying is usually done is either missions I (or one of the LAN mates have) concocted, or something we’re downloaded from Al Gore’s internet. Since it’s a Study sim, it can be a bit intimidating (read complicated); hence the same “Study” sim. But with some honest effort to learn the machines from the PDF manuals included with each one, and liberal use of the “how to” videos on the internet (God bless the folks that take the time make these things), I find the challenge quite enjoyable. Like “IL-2” these folks are nothing short of magicians. Here’s a video of their newest marvel to be released in a few days. It’s a modern-day aircraft carrier going through “launch” operations with artificial intelligence animated crew members. Here’s the clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ztrv_ZML8w


A few screenshots from the two mentioned above:


26 P38J

(the P-38J from “IL-2:Sturmovik  Battle of Bodenplatte”)


27 Pfalz III 2

(the Pfalz III from “IL-2:Sturmovik  Flying Circus”)


28 3 on a match

(from “DCS World” at the end of an online flight…Myself, Roger “Falkan” M., and Terry “TBob” K.)


29 Huey on a train

(messing around in “DCS World” in the UH-1H module)


30 Dusty Hornet

(James “Dusty” R. in an online flight about to trap aboard the carrier U.S.S. Stennis)


So those are the two simulations that occupy my “addiction hours” (and they can be many). One I fly principally in the Single Player world (“IL-2”), and the other entirely online (“DCS World”). We’ve come to the last thing to mention in the world of flight simulations. The advent of Virtual Reality, or VR. It came out a few years ago, and has gone through a couple of upgrades in both the hardware and software. These days, most every flight simulation supports VR, and it’s truly a game changer. Does it look as gorgeous as the 2D world showing the miracle of flight? Not exactly, but don’t get me wrong… it’s beautiful to be sure, but the clarity is not quite the same. It’s getting better, and it’s still amazing, but it’s not quite the same.

But what is it like to fly something in a “virtual reality” world? First of all, it’s REALLY freaky at first, and it takes a little time to get used to it. Here’s the best way I can describe it: in the 2D world, you SEE yourself in the monitor flying around in the world, and it translates into a “pseudo feeling” of what you’re doing. Of course, you don’t get any actual feelings like g-forces, air-sickness, vertigo, etc., but in the VR world, things are different, vastly different. Once you put on the headgear, it becomes your world. You DO feel things…hard to believe, but it’s true. Obviously, no g-forces, and even though I’ve never felt air-sickness, I’ve had friends try my Oculus VR setup and after a bit of time, some of them got a bit nauseous. In the 2D world, it starts with your eyes, then it travels to your brain, and that translates to (again) pseudo- “feelings” that build your simulation reality. But in the VR world, IMHO, it starts in your brain, works into feelings, and then you confirm that by what you’re seeing with those big baby-blues. Here’s a good example, everyone, and I mean everyone that I’ve ever watched wearing the VR headset while flying a flight simulation, has (usually several times) REACHED OUT TO GRAB something in the virtual cockpit! The landing gear handle, the flap handle, and any of the various knobs and switches. It happens every single time. Your brain “buys into” the idea that you’re sitting in an actual cockpit very quickly. It’s fun to watch…and usually elicits a giggle or two from the person trying to grab something and ending up groping in thin air. I find it much easier to do “feel” things (like hovering a helicopter, or hooking up to a refueling boom, etc.) in the VR world than in the 2D world. Strange, but true.

It does come with some downsides (there’s always a downside). First is the lack of total clarity. The center of the what you’re seeing is crystal clear, but the stuff on the peripheral of the view is not quite as sharp. Not horrible, in fact still very good, just not as clear as the center. Secondly, if you need to see the keyboard for whatever reason (like to take a super cool screenshot of you doing something very heroic), you have to tilt your head back and look “under” the visor itself, or simply lift it up, push the appropriate key, then put it back on (they’ve also developed a “voice command” software so you can simply speak what key you want pressed and it does it for you). Next is that fact that I find the headset to not be the most comfortable thing in the world. It’s not awful by any means, but it could be better. So if you’re doing a longer mission (say over an hour or so…and that’s not at all uncommon), it can get rather warm under the visor. The last actual “ding” I offer against the VR type flying concerns the price of one of these whiz-bang contraptions. They’re pretty expensive, again, not yacht and ski chalet “Kardashian” expensive, but not for the “VISA faint of heart”.


So, there you have it.

I stumbled into the flight simulation world about 25 years ago, and I’ve seen some pretty amazing things in terms of advances in software, hardware and Mr. Gore’s internet. The hardware keeps getting better to keep up with the software, and it promises to just keep getting more amazing all the time. Did you watch the video of the “animated” folks on the aircraft carrier? Was that unbelievable or what? The advent of a fast internet has revolutionized the online flying part of simulations, as I routinely fly with folks from Europe and as far away as Australia with no “lag” at all! Where my connection speed in the backwoods of Wisconsin was (for the most part) fine, the fiber optic setup in my new house is …well, I tear up just thinking about it. So all in all, I would have to say that, in my opinion, it’s a great hobby no matter the time period you choose to fly (or the genre being represented…military or civilian). You are offered literally an entire world of great people to fly with, and insanely cool hardware and software to do it with. I love the flying, I love the people, I love tinkering with the hardware and software, I love the “historical feeling” of the sims I choose to fly, and I dearly (dearly) love the fact that my wife understands (and supports) my “addiction”.


Below you’ll find a video compilation of many of the “movies” I’ve made over the years (and some random clips I made just for this vid). It showcases some of the machines in the two flight simulations mentioned above. I hope you enjoy it.



(be sure and hit the little HD thing in the lower right hand corner…and TURN UP THE VOLUME! LOL!)


‘till next time.















Dear (younger) BBall

“Time flies never to be recalled…”

We are all born with a finite number of sand pebbles in that big hourglass of time. They drop relentlessly, and no matter what our thoughts or feelings, they continue their eternal trip from the top to the bottom. Our last day on this planet begins its march to meets us at the fateful moment the delivery room doctor slaps our bum, and we struggle to take that first sweet breath of air.

Wasting a single tick from the clock, wishing for days gone by, is a waste of a precious moment never to return. However, if those moments are spent recalling fond memories of people and places, then I offer that the minutes spent are certainly not in vain, but are added to our “Zen bank account of joy”…and that’s a very good thing.  But wishing to be “back in the good old days” seems pointless, for chances are very high that they were not as good as we remember them to be. The evil twin sister to this “pining away for the past” program, the insidious and sometimes worse trickster labelled “yearning for days yet to be lived”, can be just as damaging to the psyche. Plus, it’s as much of a waste of those beloved ticks of the clock as the former, for the folly is a fool’s wish to be certain. That my friends, is the subject of this Logbook entry.

Newsflash. We are all guilty of it. I recall early childhood days, wishing for the end of summer vacation knowing that the money from all those hours spent mowing the neighbors lawns, will finally end in the purchase of that glorious little blue Bonanza mini-bike. Flash forward to later in life, dreaming of that wonderful day when the company president hands you the golden watch, shakes your hand one last time, and hustles you out the door. Every human is guilty of the crime, for we all have at times in our lives “wished” for a future that pleases us, when we should be pleased with the current tick of the clock known as “the now”.

Bonanza Mini Bike

(The object of many a 7th grade dream…the Bonanza mini-bike. The beginning of my love of the two-wheeled wonders.)

last flight 2

(The traditional way an old airline Pelican is greeted after his/her final landing.)

Nowadays I find myself often sharing the cockpit with men and women who are younger than myself. And by younger, I mean somewhere in the “half my age” mode of younger. Side note; I recently had a new First Officer, during some idle chit-chat on our flight to Anchorage, query me about the year I had been hired at Northwest Orient Airlines. I offered, “1983.” He countered with “What month?”, my retort “November”. (I could tell where this was going…maybe his smirk was a tip-off…lol) And his final question, “What DAY?” Oh, no…here we go. After my reply of “the 14th…”, he thought for a moment, and dropped the bomb. “You had been in new-hire ground school for two weeks WHEN I WAS BORN.” We laughed, and I “counter-bombed” him. “Oh yeah, well I was going to buy you a beer in Alaska, but CLEARLY you’re not of legal drinking age (he was), so I’ll spring for a glass of reindeer milk for you!”

So, it seems that these young folks are benefiting from a pilot shortage that I first heard about way back during the 1970s as I began the early days of my college career. You know “THE PILOT SHORTAGE” due to the Vietnam War, and its voracious appetite for aircrew members. Those gentlemen were now too old for the airlines, and that would benefit us young bucks greatly. In those days, there were three big “career killers” when applying for an airline job. No four-year college degree you say? Come back in four years with that new sheepskin in your hand. You lack 20/20 vision you say? See ya “four eyes”! Ever thought of becoming a librarian? And the one that killed many a prospective career; OVER THE AGE OF 30! Sorry Gramps, once you stop drooling on your chin, we have nice rocking chair on the porch out back for you. Oh, and we have a cuddly warm blanket for your lap too.

If you fell into any of those categories, you need not apply…period.  But unfortunately for my generation, that shortage never happened. They are called “black swan” events; man-made or a freak of nature, they can hit the airline industry harder than Mike Tyson hitting Holyfied. We most certainly had one during the 1970s, it was called the “oil crisis”, and it hit the world like a proverbial maximum magnitude quake.

Tyson Holyfield 2

(Tyson v Holyfield)

Gas prices skyrocketed, and supply was way down. You couldn’t just drop into your trusty Shell station and top off your Ford Pinto. No, you had “even and odd days” (based on your license plate number) when you could fill your vehicles gas tank. When that magical day rolled around, you’d better not try it during your lunch hour, for the lines of cars at your gas station would literally wind around the block! Airport tarmacs were lined with parked Boeings, Lockheeds and McDonald Douglas products, and pilots were “hitting the bricks” (furloughed). My old college roomie Rick K. , within a year of leaving our campus, was hired by American Airlines to be an entry-level Flight Engineer on the Boeing 727. However, due to the jet fuel prices (and some very questionable management decisions), less than twelve months later he found himself hanging storm doors (among other things) for the next 3+ years.


(Gas lines at the Texaco. My Dad’s red Ford Pinto is in there somewhere.)

boeing 707s 2

(Beautiful Boeing 707s to be put out to pasture.)

Shortage? Hell, the only real shortage back then was in the form of a gallon of “Jet A” kerosene that wasn’t being held ransom by the powers that be in the Middle East. Need a pilot?  The dude bagging your groceries probably had an ATP and several thousand hours in the cockpit. Clearly, the forecast of a huge “pilot shortage” way back then was in error, but this time it actually seems to be accurate. I’m glad for the young pilots that are profiting from it…good on them, timing is everything in this industry.

As the crisis began to abate, and the carriers were recalling furloughs and hiring new pilots, where did that leave me back in the early years of my 20’s? It left me wishing that my training days would come to a quick ending, and I could get on with my plan of working for the major airlines. Somehow, with them over, I would be a slight bit older, far more “qualified” with a spanking new Bachelor’s degree, a laundry-list of ratings and licenses, and a few hundred more precious flight hours. The next vision in my “can’t wait for the future” fantasy, had me strolling onto a gleaming new jet airliner. Picture say, Leonardo Dicaprio. Tall, coiffed, adorned in perfectly tailored pilot garb, and worn to within an inch of its life. Yep, life would be good…no actually, life would be awesome! All my troubles would be over, I could sit back, bask in my glory, and spend the next 40 year career trying to figure out those deep, “Rubix Cube” type riddles. You know the ones… like…red Porsche or black? What a ignoramus I was…

With that said, I decided to write myself a letter. A note as it were, from “the now” person with four additional decades of aviation wisdom, to the impetuous, impatient, young man back “then”.


14 March 2020

Dear (younger, circa 1977) BBall,

You’re a moron. There, I got it out of the way early in the blather, and now we can get down to the reason for this letter (btw…[that means “by the way” in my time world]…the postage for this letter was more than the gross national income of Paraguay).

Give Mom, Dad and your sister Teriesa my love. Sadly, you will lose her less than six years hence, and both of them a scant ten years later. Fortunately, you won’t remember any of this paragraph, save the “give them my love” part. Selective amnesia is a good thing…just wait until you’re married…it’ll make more sense then.

I know your flight training is going well, for those memories may fade a bit with time, but they never leave. Your instructors are smarter than you (trust me), they’re better aviators than you (trust me), and they will teach you many things. Do your best to listen to them …actually LISTEN to them, for their yarns of personal success and failure will serve you well.

Remember the day of your first “real” emergency in a flying machine? I’m sure you do, for it was early in your college flying life. You were in the infant stages of obtaining your Commercial License, and most of the required 250 hours would be spent “solo” working alone on your Chandelles, Lazy 8s, Turns About a Point, Stalls, and the myriad other maneuvers you would be tested on at the regular “Phase Checks” with the instructor cadre.

You and your roommate, Dan F., launched into a bright-blue, clear Oklahoma morning headed toward the “practice area” located west over the confines of Lake Texoma. Unbeknownst to your instructors (back at the Eaker Field home base), you and he had hatched a plan to meet over the Texoma dam and do a little “dog-fighting” in your little Cessna 150s.  (The non-aerobatic rated version…the 150K “Aerobat” version is rated at +6 to -3 Gs…these were definitely not rated for that) What could possibly go wrong?


(Cessna 150K Aerobat.)

You flew out in a “loose” formation, extended away from each other, did the “merge and the fight’s on” thing, and off to the races you went! Twisting, turning, pulling Gs (not many mind you), and it was all such a tremendous amount of fun! You were Manfred von Richthofen and Albert Ball, over Flanders fields, vying to send the other down in flames. You were Richard Bong and Saburo Saki, battling over the warm blue waters of the Pacific, each with respectful malice in their hearts. You were doing what those gladiators of the sky did, and it was amazing. You were their brethren, and you loved every second of it.


(Albatross DV, circa 1917 during “the Great War”…seems like the ultimate oxymoron.)

Then it happened. The loud “BANG!” and your heart skipped a beat. Did you snap a wing spar? Did you lose an engine mount? Your immediate thought of “maybe we better knock this stuff off, and get these little birds back to their nest” was the smartest idea you had all day. You moved the yoke to recover to a wings-level attitude and you found the issue. The cable in the wing had popped off of the pulley system and you had no aileron control! Elevators and rudder were fine, but with no roll control, this might be a bit tricky. OK, jam on a rudder pedal to level the wings, push forward on the yoke to get the nose down and let Dan know what’s happening. A terse “roger” was all you got on the discreet radio frequency you and he had agreed to communicate on earlier.

eaker field

(Home base. Eaker Field, Oklahoma.)

Make a gentle skidding turn toward the field, start a slow descent and try not to panic (or cry, or wet thyself). Thank God the air was like glass, and after a very long final approach, you touched down on runway 35, and began the process of breathing again. After taxiing to the university maintenance hangar, and painting an “I have no idea what happened, I was just doing my maneuvers, and bang…it just happened…” picture to Denny, the mechanic, he told me to tell one of the instructors, and thanks for getting the machine home in one-piece. I don’t remember my instructor’s reaction, but I’d guess that he knew the story was B.S. (heck, I’m sure he did the same stupid crap when he was a young bird-man).

SOSU Hangar

(Maintenance hangar at Eaker Field, Durant, Oklahoma. The “straight-tailed, tuna-tanked” Cessna 310A to the left was the machine that I did my multi-engine training in.)

Dan and I went back to the apartment, ate lunch, went to a bar, drank beer and played Foosball the rest of the afternoon. We didn’t speak of it (ever), for I think we both realized that things might have gone very badly over the lake.  It looks like one of us dodged a bank of questions at an FAA inquiry, and the other probably dodged a grave marker. (Note; of the three famous pilots mentioned above, Saburo Saki is the lone person NOT destined to die in the cockpit of a warplane.)

You learned…thank God you learned. Fear is a great teacher, and it’s a good thing that you weren’t so stupid/ignorant/cocky that you felt immortal around those beautiful flying machines. You needed that day, you needed that lesson, and you needed the hundreds more that would come during the next 3 years of training in the skies over Oklahoma and North Texas. You were good back then (the awards on your office wall will someday attest to that), but you were most assuredly not “seasoned”. That would come in the ink black nights flying freight over the Sandia mountain range, and in the years spent moving turboprop “commuter airliners” across the Southern U.S. You would get that precious thing called experience (just a fancy way of saying “wisdom”) the hard way…you would earn it. I’m sorry to say this my young friend, but you will lose friends and colleagues along the way. The sky can be as cruel as it can be beautiful.


(SA-226TC Swearingin Metroliner flown by my first “airline”, Scheduled Skyways of Fayetteville, Arkansas.)


(A newly minted “baby Captain”. My first command came in 1980…maybe juuust a few years ago…lol.)

You will work very hard in the next few years, the studying, the testing, the “sweaty-palmed” flights with a University Staff Instructor critiquing your every move (you will become one of those instructors your last year of school), and then the pay off. Spending an entire afternoon with the dude sporting a badge reading “(insert name here), FAA Inspector”. They grilled you in the room, they grilled you in the cockpit, and your handling of the machine had better be AT LEAST as good as the “spot on” correct answers to their questions. You can “talk the talk” in the briefing room, but if you can’t “walk the walk” in front of all of those dials and gauges, in the high stress world of the clouds…then go home and maybe check into becoming that librarian we mentioned earlier.

As the ratings got more advanced (like the Instrument Rating, the Multi-engine Rating, the Certified Flight Instructor Certificate, the CFI-Instrument Certificate, the Multi-engine Flight Instructor Certificate), things got harder…really harder. More studying, and more stress. Thank God you lived/ate/drank and breathed this stuff. You saw classmates fade; their dream of the gleaming airlines simply wasn’t like yours. They wanted the prize; they just didn’t have “the fire in the belly” to get them through. You would see that later in your training when you moved to the right seat of the cockpit and became the Instructor Pilot. You saw those that were there because their Moms/Dads/Uncles, etc. worked for the airlines, and they were expected to also. They had loves and passions to be sure, it’s just that their dreams didn’t come with wings.

As the Instructor, you were now “the dude”. You will never (I’ll say it again, you will NEVER) learn something as well as when you have to teach it to others. You know your stuff pretty well, but this is not that. You have to truly know it, not just the answer, but the “why” of the answer. You learn the most grievous sin is to bull*hit the student. If you don’t know the answer, TELL THEM THAT, and that you’ll do some research and get back to them. No one likes a “poser”.

You will learn to become a resident “aviation expert”, a mentor, a friend, an antagonist, a psychologist, and a pseudo “life coach”…all rolled into one. You will praise, you will scold, and you too will sweat their first solo flight being anchored to the Earth (portable radio in hand) as they do their “3 circuits and a full stop landing”. You will sit by the phone after sundown anxiously waiting to hear if they’ve made it home from their first solo “cross-country” flight. Somehow when you did these things as a student, you never once thought that the Instructor might be WAY more nervous than you.

ALL of this journey you need, for you will not be the aviator you wish to be without it. Just as importantly, you must learn to APPRECIATE the walk through those days, it paints the picture of “perspective” that you will need to survive the next phase of your pilot pilgrimage.

One last thing…and this will fade from your memory (like the second paragraph) the moment you close this letter.

You will be blessed with an adventure through the skies that many in your shoes will never have. You will visit exotic places of beauty that God himself still marvels at, you will fly machines that you will love, and ones that you will most certainly not love. Your rewards will come monetarily to be sure, but the greatest gifts that your life in the sky will bestow upon you is the people you will meet. They will come in the shape of roommates, Instructors, students, First Officers, mechanics, Captains, doctors (don’t forget your journey includes the FAA medical folks…they have a BIG say in this story), passengers, and just the everyday folks you’ll spend a brief moment with on this passage of the next forty years.


(A couple of my all-time favorite machines that I’ve flown during my airline career. The McDonnel Douglas DC-10.)

Boeing 767-300ER

(And the Boeing 767-300ER. I’ll have you know that I DID NOT taxi this thing into the gate that far off the centerline! We were towed in and the Tokyo tug driver porked it up…seriously!)

They will capture your heart, and they will add fun, spice, knowledge and joy to your life. Some will become life-long “brothers” (and “sisters”), and some will occupy but a scant moment in your life. I know you’re thinking, “Hell, I’ve been on this rock 23 years! Flying for 7 of the them, so don’t speak to me like I’m a total idiot old man!” I most sincerely am not. Just know that you have an almost indescribably wonderful life awaiting you (yes, you will have pain and heartache, but that’s all part of the package). This is a path that you are now just beginning, and it will be long, winding, and arduous at times. It will give you joy and stress, and it will most certainly try your commitment to your dream. Never let the dream of the prize get in the way of the love of the walk. You’ll get there. It takes time, it’s supposed to.

Love your life. Make it worth loving. It’s a long journey, enjoy every step.


BBall (from the future)


A scant few of the thousands of amazing sights I’ve seen along my journey:

SEA to SEL 17 August 2019 (4)a

(Some of the hundreds of active volcanoes along the Aleutian chain of islands.)

Mount Fuji (2a

(Mount Fuji, Japan.)

SEA to SEL 29 August ovr S China Sea 2

(Over the South China Sea, following an Airbus 380 into SEL.)

Sunset SEL

(Sunset over Inchon, South Korea.)

Checkpoint Charlie

(Circa 1989; Checkpoint Charlie, Berlin “West Germany”. This was a few months after Reagan’s famous “tear down this wall” speech and the demise of a divided Berlin. The Second Officer and I, flew up from Frankfurt on a 50 hour layover and crossed here into the old “East Berlin”. Very surrealistic to be sure.)


(The end of a long night. Sunrise through the cloud layers nearing the end of an Anchorage to Minneapolis/St. Paul “red-eye” flight.)

And finally…

(A short video of departing Guatemala City bound for Los Angeles.)

Till next time…


“Ship 51”


(note: my last entry alluded to this next one as being a chronicle of my journey into the world of flight simulations…that one is pending…this one just couldn’t wait.)

In everyone’s journey through this thing we call life, we all develop relationships that please us. Normally, we think of another person when we use the word “relationship”, but in some cases that’s not completely accurate. Like other homo sapiens, we find ourselves getting that warm and fuzzy feeling over things that don’t necessarily involve a heartbeat, but nonetheless elicit emotion. From personal things like places, smells, and music to the more social entities of the spectrum like sports teams and politicians. If we like these things, we quite often refer to them as our “favorite”.

This is a piece about one of my favorites.

I know my youngest child will attest to (regarding her years spent in the saddle) the fact that she can easily look back and recall a favorite horse.  This seems to be the norm in the equine world, and for obvious reasons. Although not a rider myself, over the years I’ve listened to many a conversation between those that are, and there always seems to be an emotional connection between horse and rider…mostly good, sometimes not so good. Currently I’m reading a fascinating book about the origin of what became known in America as “the Pony Express”, and it alluded to that very thing. All of those young, courageous men were expert horsemen, and although they came from different backgrounds and histories, they seemed to have one common theme. To a man, they sang the praises of their favorite steeds. These magnificent, strong, steadfast creatures would carry them through countless miles fraught with incredible danger. From extreme weather, to wild, untamed country, to savage warriors all bent on their failure.



(An actual add for the Pony Express…lol)


I too, have had a favorite steed for many of my airline years, and we met up again last night. I was tasked with safely delivering over 2oo souls to a destination that lies on one of the last frontiers in America. The state of Alaska sits many miles removed from the “lower 48”, and in a lot of ways the mindset of this amazing place is as far removed as the land itself. I’ve been flying to Anchorage since the late 80’s when I was a (lowly) Flight Engineer on our massive 747s, and I’ve always been enamored with its beauty, its challenging environments, and yes, even that mindset.  On my current jet (the Boeing 757/767), in the Minneapolis/St. Paul pilot domicile, an Alaska layover is a prized trip.

I first met this favorite early in my career as a Boeing 757 pilot. Northwest Airlines was a convert to this amazing machine in the early 1980s, looking to replace our aging fleet of 727s. This new Boeing took the industry by storm for many reasons. It was big (not “wide body 747″ big, but much bigger than the 727), and it was VERY powerful with its two high-bypass turbofan  Pratt and Whitney PW2037 engines. It could haul almost 200 passengers, any and all freight that you wished to stow in its two large cargo bins, and would launch, climb unrestricted to almost 40,000’, fly non-stop to a destination five hours distant (with ample fuel reserves), land on a short runway (relatively speaking…short for a Transport Category airplane), and then stop almost on a dime. In other words, it excelled in pretty much every category that mattered. I’ve often said that Boeing did what rarely ever happens in the airliner industry…they matched the perfect airfoil to the perfect engine combination (you will see 757s with Rolls Royce engines also). Plus, they somehow managed to do this and produce a stunningly beautiful machine.



(IMHO, you can just “feel” the beauty, power and grace. Photo courtesy of Kevin Whitehead.)


Like a magnificent race horse, a superb driving machine, or a timeless work of art, the lines of the Boeing 757 please each and every pilot I’ve ever met.



(Lifting off from Anchorage…Delta “ship” number 551NW. Photo courtesy Ashley Askew.)


So, you have to ask, “what makes this particular 757 so special?” Fair question.

The carrier that I began my “major airline” career with back in 1983, Northwest Orient Airlines, was aptly named. We were one of the first airlines to serve a myriad of destinations in Asia immediately following the Second World War. Simply speaking, they became one of THE dominant carriers in the Far East, so much so that they began serving many “smaller” destinations from their Tokyo Narita airport hub. They even had a small pilot base in Guam for a few years flying Boeing 727s. In those days, we did a rather large amount of “south” flying from Tokyo Narita, to include Saipan, Guam, Palau, Taipei, Bangkok, Singapore, Hong Kong, Manila and a host of other cities. Shortly after the 757 became part of our fleet, they realized that it was the perfect aircraft to do this type of Asia “short to medium haul” flights. Their idea was to essentially put a certain number of 757s in Tokyo permanently, fly them on the “south” trips and rotate the pilots through on a monthly 12-day trip.

We would dead-head from the USA (usually Minneapolis/St. Paul) to Tokyo, spend the next week and a half flying to all those wonderful destinations with every other night in Tokyo, then dead-head home at the end of our trip. Work a mere 12 days a month you say? Spend many of your layovers on the beaches of Guam/Saipan/Palau or in the exotic worlds of Hong Kong or Bangkok you say? What’s the problem…sign me up!

Back then, Northwest had two versions of the Boeing 757. The “55 series”, and the newer “56 series”, which was the pool of jets that they pulled the “Asia birds” from. And that’s where we first flew together. The date was over 2 decades ago, an we’ve crossed paths many times. Her airline name (or FAA registration as it were) is “N5651NW” (or “ship” 551NW). (Pause to say, “Sorry to all you “social justice warriors”, but sometimes actual guys refer to boats, cars, and yes, even airplanes in the feminine vernacular…if you’re offended…email me your address, and I’ll send you a balloon…or a coloring book…your choice.”)



(When I first met N5651NW, or “ship 51”, this is how she looked…we at NWA called it the “bowling shoe” paint job. Photo courtesy of Bruce Leibowski.)


Over the last 22 years, sitting in the left seat of the 757, I’ve seen them all. From the jet that just won’t seem to stay in “trim” for best fuel efficiency (aileron, elevator and rudder…yes….we DO actually hand fly these jets, and the smart aviator makes sure it’s trimmed correctly before engaging the autopilot), to the jet that ALWAYS seems to have some sort of niggling “issue”. Things the likes of a lavatory that doesn’t work right…comm radios that always seem full of static, fuel imbalances that need constant attention, and all the way down to the ones that no matter how hard you try, you just can’t make a smooth landing. (Did Boeing make that one landing gear an inch longer than the other one? Just kidding…that would never happen.)



(“51” just touching down. How can I tell? The wing spoilers have deployed, and the engines have begun the process of “reversing”…not really the best of techniques to do that with the nose off the ground…a tail strike is a HUGE no-no in the airliner world. Photo courtesy of Joey Collura.)


Not “my” jet. She’s perfect. Really. I’ve flown this particular jet on many, many flights over the last two decades, and I’ve NEVER…not once…NEVER had an issue with her.

Side note: I’ve heard over the years to NEVER buy a car/truck, etc. that was built on a Friday or a Monday. The Friday worker can’t wait to be done with their shift anticipating the freedom of the weekend, and the Monday employee is maybe a wee bit “bruised” from said weekend of freedom. I would offer that if I took the time to research it, I would find that “51” was finished on a Wednesday. A day that the sun shone brightly high in a clear blue Everett, Washington sky. A day when the air was sweet, the robins sang, the daffodils bloomed, and all was right with the world. I’ll stop there….my “unicorns and Skittles” metaphor would’ve been a bit much.

A bit over a decade ago, Northwest merged with Delta airlines, and all of our birds now sport new paint. She may not have the famous “red rudder” of NWA, but to me she’s just as beautiful.



(These days, “51” looks gorgeous with the new paint scheme, and her new fuel efficient blended winglets. Photo courtesy of Tamas Kolos-Lakatos)


So, I flew her again last night from Minneapolis/St. Paul to Anchorage. More accurately, John R. (the First Officer) flew her, and I assumed the role of “PM” (or what we call Pilot Monitoring). Basically, that means that I do pretty much EVERYTHING other than fly the jet, and on the next leg, we switch and I do the flying. This is standard protocol at most all airlines.

On this leg though I was to do the enroute paperwork, keep track of the destination/alternate weather, also keep track of the enroute weather (finding smooth air is paramount), talk on the radios (although over the vastness of western Canada there isn’t much talking taking place…New York’s Kennedy it’s not), continually check fuel and navigation accuracy, and tons of other things that are required to get a 250,000 pound hunk of metal and fuel to 38,000 feet and 2500 miles down the road. Also, as the Captain, I’m tasked with keeping track of any maintenance issues we have with the jet. Once again, as “51” has been for the last 22 years, she was flawless.

We took off at very close to our maximum allowable take-off gross weight, on a snowy, frigid Minnesota night, and climbed immediately to FL340 (or 34,000’…best initial altitude for speed/fuel burn/and turbulence).  Over our first checkpoint of Fargo, ND, we were already 4 minutes ahead of the flight plan ETA numbers and had more fuel than anticipated. She clearly had her head, was breathing strong, and galloping like the amazing mount that I had seen many times before. She knew I was going to need her again this night, and she was ready.



(“51” at the moment of liftoff.  20,000 pounds of thrust per engine at full power. Photo courtesy of Matthew Wallman.)


The ride became a bit bumpy over Regina, so I asked her to take us higher, and she easily complied. She was still early on the time and up on the fuel over the next checkpoint, but I wasn’t surprised. She was feeling her oats, and I was once again trusting her from my cockpit “saddle”. It was as if she was saying to me, “I got this Captain, you relax…we’ve done this before. Remember that night over Siapan in the typhoon? I didn’t let you down then, and I won’t let you down now.”

Edmonton slipped by, and I could see the glow of it’s lights below the white, snowy overcast…on she purred. Later, when Fort St. Johns was behind us, we were still ahead on our flight plan time, and up on the fuel. After another hour over the black vastness of the Canadian territories, Whitehorse, Yukon appeared at our 1 o’clock position. Whitehorse is an approved “Alternate Airport” in case things go bad for us, and tonight it would’ve been a challenge with low clouds, gusty winds and blowing snow…I was ready if we had to “pull the plug” and land there (due to things like a medical emergency, etc.…those things do happen on long flights), and I knew she was as ready to tackle Whitehorse as I was.

Passing Juneau, back in United States airspace and just over an hour to go before Anchorage. We’re now over the largest of the countless mountain ranges on our route (up to 19,000’ peaks…not to be taken lightly), but if one of our engines decides it’s had enough, could she keep us above the jagged tops? The books say she can, and in my heart, I know she would…it would be a struggle, and we would have to be at our best, but John, I and “51” are confident. I’m always on “high alert” over this potentially dangerous terrain, but in a Boeing product, and in this bird particularly, I sit comfortable feeling the rhythmic rumble of her strength and listen to her run her race with practiced ears.



(Inside of an hour from Anchorage, those dots are peaks, and the numbers are the elevations…not for the faint of heart)


We glide into Anchorage through some rather ugly turbulence, but she’s taken this kind of abuse before, shakes it off, and continues her gallop inbound. The bumpy air smooths out at five thousand feet, we locate the company 737 inbound from Seattle that we are to follow on a “visual approach”, and turn a 10-mile final approach for runway 07R. The lights of Anchorage are on the nose, the full moon is bathing the surrounding mountains and the calm waters of Cook Inlet in its soft glow, and the view is almost dreamlike. I know that she now “smells the barn” and we are as good as home for the night. John does an outstanding job on the visual approach (NOT his first rodeo), and flies us to an ultra-smooth touchdown. I compliment him on his landing as we clear the runway, but I’m smiling because in the back of my mind, I’m thinking (actually KNOWING) that “she” has had a hand in it.



(On final approach looking at the end of runway 07R in Anchorage with the mountains in the background. The cloud layer is obscuring the far end of the runway…the funny cloud you see sticking up is left over from a departing flight.)


Thirty minutes later, I’ve secured “51” for the two hour nap she’ll get before she’s asked to repeat the journey in the opposite direction, and I’m patiently waiting for the cabin crew to follow our passengers off the machine. Normally, I do this for one reason; but tonight, I have two. One, I was told many years ago from my principal aviation mentor (my Dad) that I was to be the first one on the jet and the last one off…period. As he would say, I had signed for the machine, and am ultimately responsible for it (and the safety of the crew and passengers), until everyone is off the jet. But tonight, I have my number two reason. I want a moment alone with her as I step through the 2L door onto the jetway. I want a moment to pat her on the cold metal skin, feel her now still, quiet strength and give a silent “thank you old friend” to an inanimate object that has been something far more than that for many years.

“Thank you 51. The day we both go out to pasture, will be a grand day indeed. We’ve both more than earned it. I hope we cross trails again before that days comes. Good night old friend…sleep well, for your journey is not quite done.”



(Photo courtesy Josh Frizzell.)

’till next time…