by John O'Brien
My mind tracks along this theme wondering if this has happened before. Has mankind flourished in the past only to be brought down again to re-establish itself from scratch? Did we miss something in the growing up process that brought this about? Do we continually miss something? The civilizations before leaving only small markers of their existence, whether by physical markers or by legend or myth. It seems we grew up with intelligence only, leaving the wisdom of our actions behind. Blinding ourselves or ignoring the ramifications. Certainly the indications were there, but in our selfish ways and thinking only of our own time, we ignore them and continue on as before, hoping others would rectify our mistakes. Yes, our time has reached its pinnacle during this evolution. We will crawl and scratch our way back, hopefully doing it right this next time. Respecting and being a part of nature rather than over-controlling it. Living in harmony with it rather than trying to bring it to heel, for, nature seems to take care of itself when pushed over a boundary. We need to live in synchronicity and have a synergy with the world rather than a destructive and over-controlling one.
The drone of the engines pushing us through the sky slowly seeps back into my consciousness as the tall peaks and mountain chain of the great continental divide appears on the horizon. The dry, barren, rocky hills of what was once northern Idaho crosses under our nose and wings, sliding behind us as we push our way eastward.
“Otter 39 on UHF guard for anyone receiving,” I call, switching the UHF radio to guard and listening in between calls. I switch over to the VHF radio, “Otter 39 on VHF guard.” Although silence is the only greeting to our calls, I continue to make radio calls on both frequencies every thirty minutes.
The only exceptions to the blue sky around us are a few lonely high clouds to the south. The air is completely smooth as we drone ever more eastward. I spend some of our time showing everyone the various aircraft systems and letting them take turns flying from the right seat. Approaching the Rockies, we pick up a little turbulence from the westerly winds sweeping up and over them. Not much, but enough to bounce us around a little. Just as the last of the Rocky Mountains pass under our wing and we begin crossing over the high plains of Colorado, I make my usual thirty minute radio call on UHF. This time however, a static-filled response crackles in our headset, “Ot…..Che…..res…..on thr……co…….”
“Calling on UHF, say again. You are weak and garbled.” I transmit.
“…ine….enne….col…ngs….rep…..” The static interferes with the message to the extent that I can’t come close to making out what they are saying. It’s like playing audio ‘Wheel of Fortune’. Being on UHF, it is most likely military in origin and I am itching to hear and talk with them. I call for the next twenty minutes, even turning south in order to close the distance but am met by silence. The turn to the south assumed that the radio call was American in nature and, with us cutting the US/Canadian border - or what used to be the US and Canada, the caller would almost assuredly have to be to the south. I look at the coordinates on the nav system and mark the map with a small circle and put ‘UHF contact’ with the time and altitude and turn back eastward to intersect our route.
Much of the flight is spent stretching our legs, switching tanks, developing systems knowledge, and taking turns flying. Although some conversation is spent on speculation of the past events and the future, most of the time is spent wrapped up and absorbed in our own thoughts. The only change is the land below as it transitions from mountainous areas to the flatter plains and hills of Montana and then North Dakota. The occasional smudge of smoke billows skyward from fires to the south of us. Some are small with light brown smoke but several others are large and the smoke is dark and oily; the nature and size of the plume indicates the possibility that some large refinery or city is burning.
As we drone on across the northern part of the country, I spot the tops of a line of cumulus clouds on the horizon directly on our route ahead, stretching far to the left and right. This, I think, is the problem of flying distances without any weather forecasting. I was really hoping to avoid weather of any kind but it is hard to navigate the distances we are without encountering some.
“Are those going to be a problem?” Robert asks as the dark clouds loom larger in our windscreen.
“I’m hoping not,” I reply back with some trepidation.
With the autopilot engaged, I unbuckle and walk over to the nav station where Michelle and Nicole are sitting. Reaching across Nicole, I turn on the radar to warm it up. The radar has both weather radar and forward looking infra-red capabilities. With the radar warmed up and on, I step over to Robert, “This is a repeater scope,” I say pointing at the round dial by his right knee. “The grand master plan is to maneuver around anything red on that scope so you give me the number of degrees to turn left or right. The red will be the thunderstorm cells. As we turn, you’ll see the objects on the radar move in relation to our line of flight. The idea is to maneuver around those cells having the red objects either left or right of center. We’ll thread our way through as best as we can. Keep us going generally eastward though.”
Sitting back in my seat, I look ahead to get a visual indication of where the major thunderheads are and mark them in my head to maintain situational awareness. This is a pretty big squall line and, looking both north and south, it is apparent we would have to travel several hundred miles off our route in order to divert around it; if we could at all. I hate thunderstorms and have an immense appreciation and respect for them. In jets, we could just pop above them for the most part and maneuver around the highest buildups. My memory flashes to one anxious moment when I was caught in one over Texas in a T-38….
A large squall line had marched across most of northeastern Texas cutting off our route home. Traffic control was overwhelmed due to the large number of weather diverts going on and we were being vectored all over the place in order to sequence us into the divert base. Well, I was given a vector to the northwest which would take me directly into the squall line. I requested an easterly heading letting the controllers know the heading they gave me was into the weather and that my preference was to avoid being immersed in a paint shaker. They came back that they didn’t show any weather along my vectored flight path. I told them I was staring right at some and that heading would merge me with it. I think their care factor was pretty low at that point as they repeated that they didn’t show any in that area and repeated the heading. Huh, I must be imaging things then, I thought and turned northwest figuring that continued requests might be met with an even worse heading. I was at 10,000 feet and was enveloped in clouds immediately. The turbulence wasn’t too bad initially but being small and relatively light, I was bounced around a bit. Then, the sky turned dark; I mean black dark. At the same time, it felt like a giant hand had punched the jet. It wasn’t just rough turbulence; it was like being repeatedly slammed into the ground by my ankles. I was all over the sky. The altimeter went anywhere from 16,000 to 6,000. Approach control came on at one point, “Otter 57, we show you several thousand feet off your altitude, maintain one zero thousand.”
Want to know what my thought bubble said at the time - Fuck you!!! You are the ones who sent me into this god-awful mess! What actually came out was, “Otter 57, unable.” They then came back and said, “Otter 57, you are cleared maneuvering airspace from six to one six thousand.” Yeah, right, Maneuver! Are you kidding me! If I only could. My ability to ‘maneuver’ had ceased long ago and the aircraft had lost any functional aspect of the term ‘flying’ and became more like a high speed puppet; pulled this way and pushed that. Oh yeah, did I mention it was raining. I mean, raining inside the cockpit. It was raining so hard, it was coming into the cockpit through the canopy seal, dripping, no, pouring onto my lap and side consoles. Yay me!
After a three hour battle - okay, more like five or ten minutes - and aging twenty years, I was finally given an easterly vector and eventually flew out of the cell. After landing, I crawled out of the cockpit furious. Seems that happene
d a time or two. One of my buds that had just parked next to me came over and asked me what happened. I was absolutely soaked. “Never mind,” I told him.
“I mean with that,” he said pointing at my jet. I looked back and my heart froze. Every bit of paint from all of the leading edges of the aircraft was gone leaving only the gleaming metal showing. The rain had been so intense that it had stripped the paint off. Yes, I respect thunderstorms!
Other stories flash around in my head, such as the one where my wingman was struck by lightning, but the line of thunderstorms is looming large ahead so I focus on the coming penetration. In the 130, we will maneuver through them as best as we could. I know the aircraft can take just about anything but I hate them nonetheless. After all, the weather chasers would fly 130’s through hurricanes into the eye to get telemetry data so I knew the aircraft could take it. I wouldn’t want to be one of those pilots though and there was one thing I could never understand about them; how they could fit their balls inside the cockpit.
As the sun sinks below the horizon behind us, the Great Lakes appear ahead on our route and slightly south of it; the line of thunderstorms is rising to incredible heights above them. Large cumulus clouds rise above our altitude with even larger, imbedded cells within. Lightning strikes downward against the earth’s surface in a continuous light show. Flashes of light show within and between the clouds; their strobes, in almost continuous intervals, highlight the rising mass.
“Everyone buckle in tight,” I say slowing the aircraft down to 180 knots. “Robert, give me a heading around that monster,” I say pointing directly ahead.
We have turned on the instrument and outside lights and I dimmed my instrument lighting enough to read them clearly. I look over at the NDB - non-directional beacon - and see the needle swing left and right. Another lesson learned from thunderstorms, the beacon needle will point to lightning. One night, I threaded my way under a squall line at low level and at night using the NDB and my mark-one eyeball to show the imbedded cells. That was another time I had to have the seat cushion removed via a surgical procedure.
“Come left thirty degrees,” he replies as I bank the aircraft and we enter the outlying clouds; the sudden turbulence within the billowing clouds bounces us and welcomes us to their domain.
Rolling out, I notice the NDB needle is now swinging to the right with occasional trips to other parts of the compass row. The outside of the aircraft is dark with the exception of flashes of light off to our right. With each flash of light, the outside environment is shown to us like a Polaroid; the propellers caught in mid revolution and the rain frozen in time, each drop stark still yet giving the indication of movement. I turn on the wing lights and check for icing. None. Good.
We are being bounced around inside, feeling an updraft for a moment only to be dropped downward, the downward motion stopping with an abrupt slam before we are propelled upward once again. My hands are in constant motion making adjustments to the control wheel countering the constant changes in the aircraft’s attitude. It’s very much like riding a high speed roller coaster except the corners, hills, and valleys are squared instead of rounded. I look at the NDB again and see the needle fluctuating between our immediate right and dead ahead. I glance over at Robert and see him silhouetted by the instrument lights, his widened eyes staring outside.
“Robert, the radar!”
He shakes his head and looks down to the scope. “Um, turn right here shortly. There’s a red cell to our right and one ahead. I see some more on the edges of the screen around us,” he says refocusing on his task.
“Okay, let me know when we have enough clearance to cut between the one on the right and the one ahead.”
“Okay.”
A minute or two passes before he says, “Turn right 60 degrees.”
“60 degrees! Are you sure about that?” I ask thinking that will take us too close to the one on the right.
“Yeah, the two are pretty close to each another but there’s yellow in between.”
Oh great, here we go, I think banking to the new heading. The bank is hard to control as the 130 is being tossed about. I try to anticipate the forces and apply corrections. That is one thing having a few hours of flying time will give you and knowing your aircraft, the ability to tell, almost in advance, what the aircraft is going to do and applying a correction before or just as it happens, negating the opposing force.
I roll out on our new heading and the aircraft is suddenly caught in the grips of the storms. Our initial turbulence nothing compared to the beating we take now. I am barely able to hold our altitude to within a few thousand feet. I pull the throttles back and attempt a descent to a lower altitude keeping the airspeed as close to 180 knots as possible thinking I should have done this prior.
“What are you doing?” Robert asks shakily.
“Descending so a large updraft won’t launch us above our service ceiling. That would be bad.”
I hear a scream, actually a couple of small screams, through the headset as the bottom drops out from under the 130; the kind of drop that tickles the stomach for a seemingly endless period of time. The monstrous drop is followed by a bone-jarring crunch as our descent slams to a stop.
“Well, that’s one way to do it,” I say applying power and leveling off as best I can.
We have just lost 5,000 feet in a single moment. A mile drop. This plane certainly was built well, I think, thanking the engineers who designed it and amazed the wings are still attached. I am pretty sure, for one split second, that my hips and shoulders became as one; compressing my torso into the size of a dime.
“Come left 45 degrees,” Robert says, threading us around another one. “There’s a little more distance between this one and the one we’re passing.”
Rolling out, I see the NDB needle twitches are mostly off our left wing now with a few to the upper right quadrant. The turbulence, although mighty, has decreased a bit from the roller coaster ride from hell to more like being in a paint shaker. We momentarily fly into open airspace; clouds built up all around and two, very impressive monolithic towers, one to the left of us and one to our right front. These monstrosities are lit by flashes within. We gaze up at them in complete awe before we are immersed in the clouds once again.
Threading our way around three additional large, red cells and feeling like we have been bashed against the side of a cliff repeatedly, we are suddenly launched into clear weather. One moment we were enclosed in the clouds, shaking to bits, and the next, thrown out of the system, emerging on the other side. The turbulence slows and then stops altogether, the drone of the engines filling the sudden silence, the 130 shakes it off and continues its harmony with the skies as if nothing happened.
“Fuck me,” I say breathlessly, pushing the throttles up to accelerate back to cruise airspeed. We had only been in the thunderstorms for about thirty minutes but it seemed like an eternity. I am coated in sweat and am pretty sure I will need to visit a proctologist to remove the seat cushion. “Good job everyone.”
I glance out the windows to the wing on my side looking for damage. Looking back over the wing, the storm continues to flash mightily as if angered we got away. The moon is out and reflects on the cloud tops with the thunderstorm anvils reaching out towards us.
“Check the wings on your side for any damage Robert,” I say after verifying that everything looks fine on mine.
As he glances out and behind him, I look up to the pressurization gauge. It still reads 10,000 feet and steady. Good. No leaks so the fuselage looks to be intact.
“All good over here,” Robert says and I turn off the wing lights.
Once we intersect our course, I set the autopilot. “I’m going in back for a look around,” I say unbuckling from the seat.
“Dad, I have to go to the bathroom,” Bri says.
“Me too,” says Nicole.
“Okay, you two come with me.”
They unbuckle and we head into the back. I turn on the interior cargo light and inspect
the inside after showing them the toilet. All appears normal with the exception that some of our supplies have been tossed loose. While Bri is in the screen-enclosed toilet, Nic and I gather the stuff we can see and put them back as best as we can.
“Dad.”
“Yeah, hon,” I say stooping over to pick up a water bottle that has rolled loose and looking up to her.
“Thanks.”
“For what, hon?” I ask standing up with said water bottle in hand.
“I was terrified and thought we were…. Well, just thanks. I am really glad you’re my dad.”
You know, I live to just hear that line. That makes my whole life justifiable to hear that and my eyes well up with tears. “Hon, I’m the lucky and fortunate one to have been able to be your dad.”
She steps over and wraps her arms around me, burying her head in my shoulder. I fold my arms around her and feel her shake as she releases the emotion of the storm passage and the events of the past few days. That is my Nic, in all of my life with her, it is a rarity to see her cry and that is usually only a silent sob and the shedding of a couple of tears. I hear the curtain swing back, “What’re you guys doing?” Bri lightly asks stepping out.
Nicole steps back and I release my arms from around her. “Nothing, babe. Just picking some of this stuff up,” I say as Nicole starts for the bathroom.