Cockpit Chronicles: Six surreal sights seen by pilots

by Kent Wien on

I’ve said it before; the office view from the pointy-end of an airliner is something that can only be matched by an astronaut’s view.

But that’s not to say we don’t get to see a few celestial sights of our own. No, I’m not going to touch on the rumored UFO sightings by pilots, although I promise I’ll keep my camera ready, just in case. I’m talking about the stunning sights, both man-made and natural that we can witness if we take the time to look for them.

Here are examples of six ‘out of this world’ sights as seen from the cockpit:

1) Rocket plumes and Shuttle launches:

On March 5th, while coming back to Boston from Santo Domingo, we saw the rocket plume of the secretive X-37B project. Even though it launched from Orlando, which was at least 600 miles away, we knew right away what it was. The spiraling exhaust left circles in the sky.

We knew to look for this as a possibility as our flight was dispatched with extra fuel, in case we needed to be re-routed well away from the launch area which was noted at the bottom of our flight plan.

The first sign of the rocket appeared as a trail of exhaust that began to swing off into a contorted lasso. The new moon, less than 24 hours old, presented itself in just the right spot amongst the rocket blast. Of course I had to pull out the camera.

%Gallery-118861%Occasionally, a Shuttle launch can be spotted as well. Back in the 727 days, before carrying a camera everywhere I flew, I saw a Space Shuttle launch while flying from San Juan to Tampa.

Passengers can get lucky as well, as seen in this video that caught the ascent of the Space Shuttle Discovery:


2) Noctilucent Clouds

Another rare natural event, which some speculate is actually enhanced by rocket and shuttle exhaust plumes, are noctilucent clouds.

The conditions have to be just right in order to witness these clouds that live at 300,000 feet, (80 to 85 kilometers) an altitude which seems impossible, considering the lack of atmosphere, for a cloud to exist.

They’re most commonly seen during a two month period that straddles the summer solstice. Furthermore, most sightings occur between 50 and 70 degrees latitude; perfect if you live north of New York, Madrid or Beijing and south of Barrow, Alaska.

Finally, as if to make it as difficult as possible for anyone to catch sight of these clouds, they’re only visible for an hour or two before sunrise or for a while after sunset. The reflecting sun illuminates the clouds from below, lighting them up in the dark sky.

I flew across the Atlantic at night, during the perfect time to witness these clouds, for eight years before finally sighting them. Two weeks before snapping these pictures, I had seen a wisp of a cloud that I probably wouldn’t have given any thought to.

But a British Airways pilot explained the clouds to a few curious pilots over our air-to-air frequency that’s often used to share ride information or to collect an email address of a passing flight if an especially good photo is taken.

He spelled the cloud to a pilot, who asked again for the name. N-O-C-T-I-L-U-C-E-N-T.

I vowed to look that up when we landed.

Less than two weeks later, the captain and I dimmed the lights (a time-consuming task involving 30 knobs that will be the subject of a future Cockpit Chronicles video) so we could get a better look at what appeared to be the Northern Lights.

They were spectacular. But there was one thing that didn’t seem quite right. They weren’t moving at all. Typically the Aurora Borealis glow and change shapes every five seconds or so.

After a few minutes I mentioned noctilucent clouds to Mark, the captain. The clouds lit up the arctic sky, although it was two to three a.m. over this part of the Atlantic. The sun wouldn’t be up for a few hours.

Initially I was disappointed that I only had a wide angle lens with me, but it turned out to be just the right look. I think it ranks as my favorite shot ever.

3) Satellites

I have to confess. I never knew it was possible to see satellites with the naked eye when I was a new pilot flying in Alaska. “Look at that traffic.” I said to the captain.

But soon, it became obvious that this ‘traffic’ was missing the rotating beacon or nav-lights typical of an airplane. And it was traveling too fast for its size.

Space shuttle floating away from the International Space Station last week.Jerry Lodriguss at Astropix

After that, I made it a practice to look for satellites when the conversation in the cockpit died off. Again, after dimming the cockpit lights, it was possible to see north-south satellites while flying over the interior of Alaska. I’ve since seen them going in other directions while flying in the jet. Typically, however they’re best seen between one and three hours after sunset, or before sunrise. Just like the noctilucent clouds, the reflecting sun lights them up well.

It’s possible to track the largest of these kind of objects, the International Space Station, and it’s really worth marking down the times it will pass overhead your area for a look. Set your alarm and check it out yourself. Maybe you’ll catch smaller satellite as well while looking. There’s even a good iPhone or Android app that I’ve been using while away from the computer and you want to know when the next satellite, space station or shuttle will pass overhead.

4) Northern Lights

While not exclusively spotted from aircraft, there’s no better time to see the the Northern Lights than while you’re flying at night, away from the bright lights of a city with a clear view to the north. I’ve caught them as far north as Fairbanks, Alaska and as far south as Spokane, Washington (which were the brightest, surprisingly).

If you’re on a night flight across the Atlantic and you just happen to be sitting on the left side of the airplane while traveling east, be sure to open your window shade once or twice to see if you can see anything glowing off in the distance. Very rarely will a pilot announce anything about the Aurora Borealis on these flights, since we presume that most passengers would rather not be disturbed. (See poll below).

5) Meteors and comets

Meteors are probably just as easy to see from the ground, but when you’re in an airplane for hours at a time, with no buildings or lights to obscure your view, it’s far more likely that you’ll see more meteors than those stuck on the ground (a.k.a. groundlings). Usually just one pilot will see the meteor, saying something along the lines of, “Aww, you just missed a bright one there” to the other pilot. If the light show continues, someone might mention it on the air-to-air frequency. The airwaves were lit up years ago when the Hale-Bopp comet first appeared. And just as in the noctilucent example, someone on the air knew all about the comet and proceeded to tell us exactly what we were looking at.

6) Static discharges or St. Elmo’s Fire

Finally, I thought I’d round out our collection of surreal sights with a video taken on one of my flights of a static buildup, sometimes referred to as St. Elmo’s fire, that we occasionally see when flying in the vicinity of thunderstorms.

Wikipedia has a full explanation of what causes this.

With the advent of the new dimming window shades on the 787, passengers are apt to see more of this type of show in the future. All it takes is a slight glow coming through a dimmed window and passengers will hopefully want to investigate by brightening up their shade. Perhaps they’ll get to see what we so often take for granted.

%Poll-61520%

Photos by Kent Wien, Jerry Lodriguss and Aresauburn.

Cockpit Chronicles takes you along on some of Kent’s trips as an international co-pilot on the Boeing 757 and 767 based in Boston. Have any questions for Kent? Check out the Cockpit Chronicles Facebook page or follow Kent on Twitter @veryjr.

Cockpit Chronicles: Nearly a near midair collision

by Kent Wien on

“Traffic, Traffic!” Announced the computer voice from the speaker on the ceiling just above me.

This is something we hear frequently enough, perhaps once every three or four flights when an airplane in close proximity is climbing rapidly with a clearance to level off 1,000 feet below us. The TCAS (Traffic Collision and Avoidance System) is just giving us a warning that, should the airplane not level off, we may have to take action.

We were at FL390 (39,000 feet), an altitude where the traffic warning was far less likely. The captain and I looked down at the TCAS screen to get a quick idea where we should be looking for the other airplane. It was 800 feet lower than us and at our 2 o’clock position. It was easy to spot, with huge puffy contrails billowing out and slightly below it. A 737 for sure. We were both satisfied that it would pass behind us, since it was moving from left to right across the windscreen. A stationary position in the sky would mean it was coming right at us.

But before we could discuss this passing airplane, the computer voice came on once again.

“Climb, Climb now!”
Our procedures dictate that we should honor thy TCAS request, known as a Resolution Advisory or RA, by disconnecting the autopilot and following the rate of climb commands computed by the TCAS system.

Since it was my leg, I immediately disconnected the autopilot, while glancing down at the vertical speed indicator to find out just how many feet per minute of a climb would be needed. It wasn’t much, in fact. Just 200 feet per minute, hardly even noticeable to the passengers. It commanded a level off when we were at 39,100 feet and shortly after allowed us to settle back down to our original altitude.

All this was done in a matter of seconds, with no input or guidance from Air Traffic Control. In fifteen years using TCAS, this was only my second resolution advisory-the other one having occurred while on approach just east of Port-Au-Prince Haiti years ago.

“Center, confirm we were cleared from 380 to 400?” The other aircraft asked.

The controller said yes, which made us think this could have been an error on the part of the controller.

“Can you explain then what just happened?” The 737 pilot queried.

There was no answer from the controller.

We let the controller know that we had also just responded to a resolution advisory. The other pilot asked for a phone number of the Air Traffic Control center that he could call. We copied this number down as well.

There was some discussion between the captain and I whether we needed to report this as a near midair collision (NMAC). I pulled my manuals out, now conveniently located on an EFB equipped iPad (Electronic Flight Bag) and searched for the NTSB criteria for a near midair collision. Nothing came up.

But I did find an interesting recent change to our procedures. The NTSB (National Transportation Safety Board) requires that any flight responding to a TCAS resolution advisory above 18,000 feet must pull the voice recorder circuit breaker after completing the parking checklist. This would allow the NTSB to analyze the tapes from ATC and the aircraft involved in the loss of separation incident.

Just knowing that the NTSB would be listening to our conversation for the next two hours tends to make you aware of every word you’re saying. In fact, I debated with myself about getting into a discussion during our approach briefing about wind and gust additives that we would be applying for the approach.

I recognize that there’s value in allowing the NTSB access to the conversations that led up to an incident. They’ll hopefully study the procedures and policies that could prevent this kind of situation. There’s still a big brother feel to it.

I couldn’t help but feel bad for the controller on duty. While the captain and I were waiting for the employee bus, he phoned the air traffic control center. The controller explained that a clearance was given to the Trans-Siberiana 1701, but that Trans-Siberiana 1790, who had also asked for a climb, had accepted the clearance instead. All airline names have been changed to protect the innocent.

I looked up the FAA definition of a Near Midair Collision:

A near midair collision is defined as an incident associated with the operation of an aircraft in which a possibility of collision occurs as a result of proximity of less than 500 feet to another aircraft, or a report is received from a pilot or a flight crew member stating that a collision hazard existed between two or more aircraft.

It turned out we were just a 100 to 200 feet away from the NMAC definition. So I guess it was “nearly a near midair collision.”

We both filed a report detailing the events. I recently received the response. We did everything by the book and it obviously wasn’t our fault, which meant that the case was closed as far as our involvement.

Someday I hope we’ll have a third layer of safety in addition to the protection offered by ATC and TCAS in the form of a two-lane airway using a half mile offset to the right. Ever since GPS was invented, we have reduced the normally 8-mile wide airways down to just a few feet thanks to the precise nature of the technology. But with that came greater reliance on TCAS to keep us out of trouble. I wrote about an inexpensive offset airway proposal previously and I’d love for the FAA to take another look at it. Adding layers to our safety net is what has made air travel so much more safe than in the early years of flying.

Cockpit Chronicles takes you along on some of Kent’s trips as an international co-pilot on the Boeing 757 and 767 based in Boston. Have any questions for Kent? Check out Plane Answers or follow him on Twitter @veryjr.

Cockpit Chronicles: Avoiding bird strikes

by Kent Wien on

On the season finale of the TV show 30 Rock, Alex Baldwin says to a pilot, played by Matt Damon:

“You’re a pilot, huh. I should pick your brain. I’m developing a daytime talk show with Sully Sullenberger.”

“Yeah, I met that guy. He’s not that great.” Matt Damon, the pilot, says.

“You know what a great pilot would have done? Not hit the birds. That’s what I do every day, not hit the birds. Where’s my ticket to the Grammy’s?”

For U.S. readers, Hulu has a free clip of the exchange.

After I wiped the tears from my eyes from laughing so hard, I realized Captain Damon had a point. In fact, avoiding birds has been a big part of my job for the past two months.

While so much attention is focused on the migratory birds in New York and even Boston, the pterodactyl sized birds of Caracas, Venezuela and Panama City, Panama were appearing far too often. I began to notice a trend. On nearly every arrival and on most departures I flew during the two months of flying down there from Boston and through Miami, we had seen these large turkey vultures and, in Panama City we even had pelicans cross our flight path.

Not Hitting the Birds

Every pilot has had, or at least will see, a few bird strikes in their career. Typically they involve small birds that merely splatter on the windshield or radome without leaving much of a mark. I do feel sympathy for the little creatures with which we share the sky. They were certainly here first, and I’m sure an airliner approaching at five times their own speed has to come as a surprise and significant annoyance to them. There’s just no avoiding these smaller birds.


Small Bird Strike in Barbados

But when it comes to the larger birds, what I jokingly refer to as pterodactyls, we can occasionally see them as much as ten seconds prior to impact. When they’re no longer moving left or right, or up or down across our screen, and instead start out as a little dot on the windshield that rapidly grows in size, you know you’re on track for a possible impact.

We were determined to have a smooth, event-free arrival into Panama City on this trip after the controller confusion fiasco I talked about last week. And it should have been; the weather was looking good, the more senior weekday controllers were sharp and there wasn’t a bump in the air. Surely this would be an uneventful flight.
As is common, to change things up a bit, it was my turn to fly the leg from Miami to Panama City, Panama. Once again, the weather was advertised as 2000 feet scattered and 10 kilometers, exactly the same weather we had on the last trip. During the next five trips to PTY, the reported weather never changed, but the actual weather certainly did.

This time, ATC vectored us out a bit further, and perhaps because they were more senior controllers working the weekday shift, their English seemed much better.

While at a flap setting of 25 and just as I was ready to call for the final flap setting of 30 degrees, Dave said, “There’s a bird.”

I had been looking down at my speed and altitude, to ensure I was fully configured by the 1,000 foot requirement. (See the previous Cockpit Chronicles about FOQA.)

I looked up to see another pterodactyl directly in our flight path. It was flying at first, and then it must have noticed the massive jet bearing down on it, since it began to almost freeze in the air and flail its wings in a very cartoon-like fashion.

I instinctively pulled back on the yoke, not abruptly but with some urgency and managed to clear the spasmodic turkey vulture by just a few feet. We got the last of the flaps out at 1,100 feet and landed without incident.

I wondered if the flight attendants and passengers felt the adjustment to our flight path.

“Did you notice anything on final?” I asked one of our South American based flight attendants.

“Yes!” She said. “What was that?”

So much for no one noticing. Apparently she had been collecting last minute cups and glasses and was actually standing in the aisle at 1,000 feet, a fact that scared me a bit, since it’s usually safe to assume the flight attendants have completed their duties by that point.

Once again at the debrief dinner with Dave, we discussed the approach. He thought it may have been better to continue on the path and hope the bird could maneuver out of the way.

“Worst cast scenario, you hit him. But the impact at 150 knots is much less than at 250.” He speculated.

Dave had a point. We’ve all seen pictures of some nasty bird strikes in the past, but most of the significant ones were while the airplane was climbing and had already accelerated to 250 knots, our speed limit below 10,000 feet.

We had some close calls on takeoff the following week, and so we decided to take Dave’s theory on speed and put it to use.

The “European Climb”

When climbing out of any European airport, we’re required to maintain a slower speed, approximately 20 knots faster than the speed at which we lifted off the ground until 3,000 feet above the airport elevation. We’re still using the same power setting-exchanging the extra speed for a quicker climb.

Since most birds fly below 3,000 feet, why not limit our speed while operating around these areas prone to large numbers of pterodactyls? We could reduce the impact forces since high school physics taught me (or was it drivers education?) that twice the speed results in four times the damage.

The next day, we had a plan. We would fly the European-style climb, which would get us up and away from the ground quicker, and also limit our speed to just 160 knots. A quick crunching of numbers told us that this would be 58% of the energy that we’d have at 250 knots.

On came the weather radar as well, since there has been speculation that birds can actually hear or sense the radar on an airplane and that it may help prevent bird strikes. It couldn’t hurt, I figured.

Sure enough, while climbing through 2,200 feet, we encountered two of the turkey vultures we had seen the day before. This time they passed 20 feet above us and to the right.

I continued to use the European climb technique when flying from Caracas, Venezuela and San Pedro Sula, Honduras over the next few months. It’s a technique that seems to make sense and I hope it’s adopted at airports with significant bird populations.

Much attention has been given to the rounding up of geese in the New York area to limit the exposure to birds. I suspect this is a rather futile measure, but I understand the need to do something to reduce the exposure. The steeper angled, slower speed climb that Dave came up with just might be one way to accomplish that goal.

Addendum:

Just as I was finishing this post, I saw the story reported two days earlier that a garbage dump had been approved for construction just 2,206 feet from the approach end of runway 31 in LaGuardia. And where there’s garbage, there are birds, generally. But Harry Szarpanski, deputy commissioner at New York City’s Sanitation Department, explains in the report that the new design will prevent any smells and trash from escaping the facility. We’ll see.

Even at the slower speeds that airplanes operate close to the airport, birds can still cause problems, as seen in this riveting video by Simon Lowe of a bird strike and subsequent engine fire on a Boeing 757 taking off at the Manchester airport in England.

Cockpit Chronicles takes you along on some of Kent’s trips as an international co-pilot on the Boeing 757 and 767 based in Boston. Have any questions for Kent? Check out Plane Answers or follow him on Twitter @veryjr.

Cockpit Chronicles: Come along and enjoy the view

by Kent Wien on

“Descend to 1-3-0.”

“Descend to 1-2-0.”

I found myself listening to London Control while admiring one of the all-time greatest views I’ve ever seen.

“Slow to 220 knots. Fly heading 1-7-0.”

As we banked to the right, I looked over my right shoulder at the London eye, a blue ferris wheel that stands out among the amber lights struggling for relevance against the sunrise.

No one should be up this early. Most of London is still asleep, and even if they were awake, they wouldn’t be seeing the view we were witnessing. The lights of the city, the bridges crossing the Thames river and the sunrise that blankets the buildings with more light after every turn of our holding pattern makes me pause for a moment to realize just why this job is the most visually rewarding of any occupation.

As we turned to the right one more time, I began to ponder whether an astronaut would actually prefer the variety of these spectacular sights that a mere ‘low-level’ pilot can see.

A 777 ahead of us was still dark enough to cover the city lights. Even Mike, the captain with close to 40 years in the air, was taken by the scene. “That’s just incredible” he said as the airliner banked to the right and peeled away from us a thousand feet below.

I had to resist the temptation to pull out my camera. I had taken some photos earlier, at 12,000 feet, above the 10,000 foot floor where we can’t allow a camera to distract us during the more critical ‘sterile period’ of our arrival into Heathrow.

So often I wish I could save the five most interesting things my eye sees on a flight. I have to try to capture whatever I can and post them here or on Flickr.

It was a couple of well timed views like this that inspired me to post a picture from every flight with a small caption on a blog years ago. Then I’d write more. And then more. Finally leading to the Cockpit Chronicles.

It’d be so much easier if I could just bring you along in the cockpit jumpseat.

That morning I filmed a few clips while above 10,000 feet that are almost like being there. Here’s what spinning around Guildford, England looked like.

Coming home from London, three and a half hours into the flight, we came upon a view I hadn’t seen yet in the eight years I’ve been flying across the Atlantic.

Our route of flight was far more northerly–nearly 200 miles north of any track I’d been on, in fact. We would be crossing directly over the southern tip of Greenland. This time I’d be ready. Should the clouds allow, I was sure to get some pictures or a video clip of the landscape below. In the past, I’ve seen Greenland from 59 and 60 degrees north latitude, which put the ice covered island just off in the distance. Unfortunately, clouds usually cover most of the island.

This time we were at 62 degrees north, passing over jagged mountain tops that weren’t obscured by clouds, but surrounded by silky glaciers that resembled low level cirrus clouds. In fact, it was hard to tell if the snow below was actually cloud cover.

The captain made a PA and I called back to our flight attendants. They needed to see this. A view of Greenland they’d likely never forget.

Of course, you’re welcome to take a look as well:

A piloting career may not be what it used to be. Speeds have changed. The technology has changed. Security procedures and threats have changed. But one thing that has always remained remarkable in this job, even in my grandpa’s era, has been the view.

Those lower altitudes may be filled with more detail, but the higher flight levels can give a wonderful sense of perspective. And sometimes a little perspective is just what we need. I certainly got my fill on this trip.

Cockpit Chronicles takes you along on some of Kent’s trips as an international co-pilot on the Boeing 757 and 767 based in Boston. Follow him on Twitter @veryjr

Photo of the day (5.5.09)

by Grant Martin on

What the heck is going on in this picture? Actually, I can tell you. That’s our very own Kent Wien from Cockpit Chronicles and Plane Answers shooting a photo of himself in the airplane lav. Why, you might ask? He’s actually taking part in a social experiment hosted by our resident flight attendant, Heather Poole. In one of her recent posts, Ms. Poole called on the loyal Gadling readers to take (appropriate!) shots of themselves at 30,000 feet.

The resulting gallery, which you can see on Heather’s recent post is a funny/creepy/interesting look into the lives of a small faction of Gadling readers. We love you guys!

Got any cool photos that you’d like to share with the world? Add them to the Gadling Pool on Flickr and it might be chosen as our Photo of the Day. Make sure you save them under Creative Commons though, otherwise we can’t use them!