Morning rainbow
My preflight started in darkness. Between the flood lights on the ramp and the glow of my FAA-required 2D-cell flashlight I was able to determine there were 11 quarts of oil in each engine, both the main and auxiliary fuel tanks were brimming with gas, all the external lights worked and the airplane's paperwork was in order.
A good airplane to fly then. And a luxury, being one of a few we operate that has an autopilot. To keep us from getting too soft the GPS is infernally frustrating to use on this particular ship so I dig out my handheld GPS and place it on the glareshield as a backup.
With full fuel, cargo and myself the entire collection weighs 5,600 pounds, just 80 pounds shy of the maximum takeoff weight. I do a quick takeoff briefing out loud to myself and run the engines nearly to full throttle before releasing the brakes. At this weight should I lose an engine it's unlikely the airplane will climb unless I do everything correctly and right away. Even then it will be ugly.
Both engines keep running and the sun is just poking over the horizon as the gear comes up and I relax a bit.
A company airplane departed a few minutes earlier and another airplane from another company will leave behind me. The departure frequency is almost all cargo flights leaving on their morning runs.
Autopilot on then, 6,000 feet and 154 knot groundspeed headed for Aberdeen, Mandan and eventually Minot. The headwinds are frustrating, roughly 25 knots lost, but I console myself that if they hold up during the day it will make for a quick trip home that evening.
As I near the South Dakota border I spot a nearly circular rainbow. In the early morning light it's lovely so I rummage around in my flight bag for a camera and try to capture the moment.
It's a privileged moment shared only by me, but one I don't allow myself to enjoy for long.
Accompanying the rainbow are streaks of virga and, of greater concern, hauntingly beautiful cumulus mammatus clouds several thousand feet above my humble altitude.
I ponder this briefly then pull the throttles back a few inches in anticipation that my smooth ride will end shortly.
The airplane is still slowing as we plow into the first jolts and then it is smooth again. For a moment I think my caution was misplaced. About the same time the turbulence begins in force and I watch my portable GPS tumble over and slide across the glareshield.
I pull the throttles back even more, aiming for 140 knots or less to keep the airplane well below it's published maneuvering speed. Overly careful, perhaps, but it is an old airplane with somewhere in the neighborhood of 17,000 hours under it's wings and a few extra minutes added to the trip seems an acceptable trade-off between efficiency and good sense.
I marvel at how much the yoke is moving in response to the autopilot's attempts at maintaining our course and altitude. Normally I'd shut the thing off, or at least disconnect the altitude hold and reduce the loads on the airplane by letting the altitude vary a bit with the bumpiness, but curiosity gets the best of me and I decide to leave it alone and see how it does.
The ride is plenty uncomfortable and things are moving around the cabin a bit, but the airplane remains in control at all times so it is just “moderate” turbulence then.
Interestingly, “moderate turbulence” just doesn't sound as bad as it can actually be and “severe turbulence” doesn't quite convey how bad it actually is. I've been through severe turbulence once in a light airplane and was fairly certain we were all going to die.
Ten minutes and 25 miles later it's all over and I push the throttles back to normal cruise power.
There is no more rainbow, just the Dakotas ahead and freight to deliver.
A good airplane to fly then. And a luxury, being one of a few we operate that has an autopilot. To keep us from getting too soft the GPS is infernally frustrating to use on this particular ship so I dig out my handheld GPS and place it on the glareshield as a backup.
With full fuel, cargo and myself the entire collection weighs 5,600 pounds, just 80 pounds shy of the maximum takeoff weight. I do a quick takeoff briefing out loud to myself and run the engines nearly to full throttle before releasing the brakes. At this weight should I lose an engine it's unlikely the airplane will climb unless I do everything correctly and right away. Even then it will be ugly.
Both engines keep running and the sun is just poking over the horizon as the gear comes up and I relax a bit.
A company airplane departed a few minutes earlier and another airplane from another company will leave behind me. The departure frequency is almost all cargo flights leaving on their morning runs.
Autopilot on then, 6,000 feet and 154 knot groundspeed headed for Aberdeen, Mandan and eventually Minot. The headwinds are frustrating, roughly 25 knots lost, but I console myself that if they hold up during the day it will make for a quick trip home that evening.
As I near the South Dakota border I spot a nearly circular rainbow. In the early morning light it's lovely so I rummage around in my flight bag for a camera and try to capture the moment.
It's a privileged moment shared only by me, but one I don't allow myself to enjoy for long.
Accompanying the rainbow are streaks of virga and, of greater concern, hauntingly beautiful cumulus mammatus clouds several thousand feet above my humble altitude.
I ponder this briefly then pull the throttles back a few inches in anticipation that my smooth ride will end shortly.
The airplane is still slowing as we plow into the first jolts and then it is smooth again. For a moment I think my caution was misplaced. About the same time the turbulence begins in force and I watch my portable GPS tumble over and slide across the glareshield.
I pull the throttles back even more, aiming for 140 knots or less to keep the airplane well below it's published maneuvering speed. Overly careful, perhaps, but it is an old airplane with somewhere in the neighborhood of 17,000 hours under it's wings and a few extra minutes added to the trip seems an acceptable trade-off between efficiency and good sense.
I marvel at how much the yoke is moving in response to the autopilot's attempts at maintaining our course and altitude. Normally I'd shut the thing off, or at least disconnect the altitude hold and reduce the loads on the airplane by letting the altitude vary a bit with the bumpiness, but curiosity gets the best of me and I decide to leave it alone and see how it does.
The ride is plenty uncomfortable and things are moving around the cabin a bit, but the airplane remains in control at all times so it is just “moderate” turbulence then.
Interestingly, “moderate turbulence” just doesn't sound as bad as it can actually be and “severe turbulence” doesn't quite convey how bad it actually is. I've been through severe turbulence once in a light airplane and was fairly certain we were all going to die.
Ten minutes and 25 miles later it's all over and I push the throttles back to normal cruise power.
There is no more rainbow, just the Dakotas ahead and freight to deliver.
posted by Will at 12:52 PM
2 Comments:
excellent reading as always and i envy your new job. so far, i have yet to see a rainbow in my cubicle but i'm hopeful. someday i'm hoping that the local cargo/package job option will be available for me. i flew a little today (was supposed to be more) and, as usual, what ended up happening was a learning experience that i'll probably post about later this evening. please keep up your posts when you have the time. they are always good reading.
Thank you for sharing these... I loved the rainbow, and must say that these mamatus are rather scary... Good reaction, and good redaction.
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