cubdriver2
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This is a great read.
From: Sent: Thursday, November 07, 2013 5:48 PM
To: undisclosed recipients:
Subject: Dedicated to Frank Crismon (1903-1990)
Dedicated to Frank Crismon (1903-1990)
by Capt. G. C. Kehmeier (United Airlines, Ret.)
I ought to make you buy a ticket to ride this airline!" The chief pilot's
words were scalding. I had just transferred from San Francisco to Denver.
Frank Crismon, my new boss, was giving me a route check between Denver and
Salt Lake City.
"Any man who flies for me will know this route," he continued. "'Fourteen
thousand feet will clear Kings Peak' is not adequate. You had better know
that Kings Peak is exactly 13,498 feet high. Bitter Creek is not 'about
7,000 feet.' It is exactly 7,185 feet, and the identifying code for the
beacon is dash dot dash.
"I'm putting you on probation for one month, and then I'll ride with you
again. If you want to work for me, you had better start studying!"
Wow! He wasn't kidding! For a month, I pored over sectional charts, auto
road maps, Jeppesen approach charts, and topographic quadrangle maps. I
learned the elevation and code for every airway beacon between the West
Coast and Chicago. I learned the frequencies, runway lengths, and approach
procedures for every airport. From city road maps, I plotted the streets
that would funnel me to the various runways at each city.
A month later he was on my trip.
"What is the length of the north-south runway at Milford?" "Fifty-one
fifty."
"How high is Antelope Island?" "Sixty-seven hundred feet."
"If your radio fails on an Ogden-Salt Lake approach, what should you do?"
"Make a right turn to 290 degrees and climb to 13,000 feet."
"What is the elevation of the Upper Red Butte beacon?" "Seventy-three
hundred."
"How high is the Laramie Field?" "Seventy-two fifty."
This lasted for the three hours from Denver to Salt Lake City.
"I'm going to turn you loose on your own. Remember what you have learned. I
don't want to ever have to scrape you off some hillside with a book on your
lap!"
Twenty years later, I was the Captain on a Boeing 720 from San Francisco to
Chicago. We were cruising in the cold, clear air at 37,000 feet.
South of Grand Junction a deep low-pressure area fed moist air upslope into
Denver, causing snow, low ceilings, and restricted visibility. The forecast
for Chicago's O'Hare Field was 200 feet and one-half mile, barely minimums.
Over the Utah-Colorado border, the backbone of the continent showed white in
the noonday sun. I switched on the intercom and gave the passengers the
word.
"We are over Grand Junction at the confluence of the Gunnison and Colorado
Rivers. On our right and a little ahead is the Switzerland of America--the
rugged San Juan Mountains. In 14 minutes we will cross the Continental
Divide west of Denver. We will arrive O'Hare at 3:30 Chicago time."
Over Glenwood Springs, the generator overheat light came on.
"Number 2 won't stay on the bus," the engineer advised.
He placed the essential power selector to number 3. The power failure light
went out for a couple of seconds and then came on again, glowing ominously.
"Smoke is coming out of the main power shield," the engineer yelled.
"Hand me the goggles."
The engineer reached behind the observer's seat, unzipped a small container,
and handed the copilot and me each a pair of ski goggles. The smoke was
getting thick.
I slipped the oxygen mask that is stored above the left side of the pilot's
seat over my nose and mouth. By pressing a button on the control wheel, I
could talk to the copilot and the engineer through the battery-powered
intercom. By flipping a switch, either of us could talk to the passengers.
"Emergency descent!" I closed the thrust levers. The engines that had been
purring quietly like a giant vacuum cleaner since San Francisco spooled down
to a quiet rumble. I established a turn to the left and pulled the speed
brake lever to extend the flight spoilers.
"Gear down. Advise passengers to fasten seat belts and no smoking."
I held the nose forward, and the mountains along the Continental Divide came
up rapidly. The smoke was thinning.
"Bring cabin altitude to 14,000 feet," I ordered.
At 14,000 feet over Fraser, we leveled and retracted the gear and speed
brakes. The engineer opened the ram air switch and the smoke disappeared. We
removed our goggles and masks.
Fuel is vital to the life of a big jet, and electricity is almost as vital.
The artificial horizon and other electronic instruments, with which I
navigated and made approaches through the clouds, were now so much tin and
brass.
All I had left was the altimeter, the airspeed, and the magnetic
compass--simple instruments that guided airplanes 35 years earlier.
"Advise passengers we are making a Denver stop."
"The last Denver weather was 300 feet with visibility one-half mile in heavy
snow. Wind was northeast at 15 knots with gusts to 20," the copilot
volunteered.
"I know. I heard it."
The clouds merged against the mountains above Golden. Boulder was in the
clear. To the northeast, the stratus clouds were thick like the wool on the
back of a Rambouillet buck before shearing.
I dropped the nose and we moved over the red sandstone buildings of the
University of Colorado. We headed southeast and picked up the Denver-Boulder
turnpike.
"We will fly the turnpike to the Broomfield turnoff, then east on Broomfield
Road to Colorado Boulevard, then south to 26th Avenue, then east to Runway
8."
The copilot, a San Francisco reserve, gave me a doubtful look. One doesn't
scud-run to the end of the runway under a 300-foot ceiling in a big jet.
Coming south on Colorado Boulevard, we were down to 100 feet above the
highway. Lose it and I would have to pull up into the clouds and fly the
gauges when I had no gauges. Hang onto it and I would get into Stapleton
Field. I picked up the golf course and started a turn to the left.
"Gear down and 30 degrees."
The copilot moved a lever with a little wheel on it. He placed the flap
lever in the 30-degree slot.
I shoved the thrust levers forward.
"Don't let me get less than 150 knots. I'm outside."
I counted the avenues as they slid underneath. . .30th, 29th, and 28th. I
remembered that there was neither a 31st nor a 27th. I picked up 26th. The
snow was slanting out of the northeast. The poplar trees and power lines
showed starkly through the storm. With electrical power gone, we had no
windshield heat. Fortunately, the snow was not sticking.
"Let me know when you see a school on your side and hack my time at
five-second intervals from the east side of the school yard."
Ten seconds.
"There it is. The yard is full of kids. Starting time now!"
Good boy. Smiley faced Holly. From the east side of the school yard, I
counted Kearney, then Krameria, Leydon, Locust. Remember the double lane for
Monaco Parkway. Then Magnolia, Niagara, Newport. Time the speed at 130
knots. Only eight blocks to the end of the runway. Oneida, Olive, Pontiac,
Poplar. From Quebec to Syracuse, the cross streets disappear; figure eight
seconds. Keep 26th Avenue under the right side of the nose.
"Full flaps."
Dead ahead, glowing dimly in the swirling snow, were the three green lights
marking the east end of Runway 8.
We crossed 20 feet above the center green light and touched down in a crab
to the left. I aligned the nose to the runway with the right rudder, dropped
the nose wheel, popped the speed brakes, and brought in reverse thrust.
It took us 10 minutes to find the terminal in the swirling whiteout. We saw
the dim, flashing red light atop the building indicating the field was
closed to all traffic.
A mechanic materialized out of the snow carrying two wands. He waved me into
the gate.
I set the parking brake.
"We have ground power," the engineer advised.
"Cut the engines."
The bagpipe skirl of sound spiraled down to silence.
"My hat is off to you, skipper. I don't know how you ever found this
airport."
"I used to fly for an ornery old chief pilot who made me learn the route," I
replied as I hung up my headset and scratched the top of my head where it
itched.
From: Sent: Thursday, November 07, 2013 5:48 PM
To: undisclosed recipients:
Subject: Dedicated to Frank Crismon (1903-1990)
Dedicated to Frank Crismon (1903-1990)
by Capt. G. C. Kehmeier (United Airlines, Ret.)
I ought to make you buy a ticket to ride this airline!" The chief pilot's
words were scalding. I had just transferred from San Francisco to Denver.
Frank Crismon, my new boss, was giving me a route check between Denver and
Salt Lake City.
"Any man who flies for me will know this route," he continued. "'Fourteen
thousand feet will clear Kings Peak' is not adequate. You had better know
that Kings Peak is exactly 13,498 feet high. Bitter Creek is not 'about
7,000 feet.' It is exactly 7,185 feet, and the identifying code for the
beacon is dash dot dash.
"I'm putting you on probation for one month, and then I'll ride with you
again. If you want to work for me, you had better start studying!"
Wow! He wasn't kidding! For a month, I pored over sectional charts, auto
road maps, Jeppesen approach charts, and topographic quadrangle maps. I
learned the elevation and code for every airway beacon between the West
Coast and Chicago. I learned the frequencies, runway lengths, and approach
procedures for every airport. From city road maps, I plotted the streets
that would funnel me to the various runways at each city.
A month later he was on my trip.
"What is the length of the north-south runway at Milford?" "Fifty-one
fifty."
"How high is Antelope Island?" "Sixty-seven hundred feet."
"If your radio fails on an Ogden-Salt Lake approach, what should you do?"
"Make a right turn to 290 degrees and climb to 13,000 feet."
"What is the elevation of the Upper Red Butte beacon?" "Seventy-three
hundred."
"How high is the Laramie Field?" "Seventy-two fifty."
This lasted for the three hours from Denver to Salt Lake City.
"I'm going to turn you loose on your own. Remember what you have learned. I
don't want to ever have to scrape you off some hillside with a book on your
lap!"
Twenty years later, I was the Captain on a Boeing 720 from San Francisco to
Chicago. We were cruising in the cold, clear air at 37,000 feet.
South of Grand Junction a deep low-pressure area fed moist air upslope into
Denver, causing snow, low ceilings, and restricted visibility. The forecast
for Chicago's O'Hare Field was 200 feet and one-half mile, barely minimums.
Over the Utah-Colorado border, the backbone of the continent showed white in
the noonday sun. I switched on the intercom and gave the passengers the
word.
"We are over Grand Junction at the confluence of the Gunnison and Colorado
Rivers. On our right and a little ahead is the Switzerland of America--the
rugged San Juan Mountains. In 14 minutes we will cross the Continental
Divide west of Denver. We will arrive O'Hare at 3:30 Chicago time."
Over Glenwood Springs, the generator overheat light came on.
"Number 2 won't stay on the bus," the engineer advised.
He placed the essential power selector to number 3. The power failure light
went out for a couple of seconds and then came on again, glowing ominously.
"Smoke is coming out of the main power shield," the engineer yelled.
"Hand me the goggles."
The engineer reached behind the observer's seat, unzipped a small container,
and handed the copilot and me each a pair of ski goggles. The smoke was
getting thick.
I slipped the oxygen mask that is stored above the left side of the pilot's
seat over my nose and mouth. By pressing a button on the control wheel, I
could talk to the copilot and the engineer through the battery-powered
intercom. By flipping a switch, either of us could talk to the passengers.
"Emergency descent!" I closed the thrust levers. The engines that had been
purring quietly like a giant vacuum cleaner since San Francisco spooled down
to a quiet rumble. I established a turn to the left and pulled the speed
brake lever to extend the flight spoilers.
"Gear down. Advise passengers to fasten seat belts and no smoking."
I held the nose forward, and the mountains along the Continental Divide came
up rapidly. The smoke was thinning.
"Bring cabin altitude to 14,000 feet," I ordered.
At 14,000 feet over Fraser, we leveled and retracted the gear and speed
brakes. The engineer opened the ram air switch and the smoke disappeared. We
removed our goggles and masks.
Fuel is vital to the life of a big jet, and electricity is almost as vital.
The artificial horizon and other electronic instruments, with which I
navigated and made approaches through the clouds, were now so much tin and
brass.
All I had left was the altimeter, the airspeed, and the magnetic
compass--simple instruments that guided airplanes 35 years earlier.
"Advise passengers we are making a Denver stop."
"The last Denver weather was 300 feet with visibility one-half mile in heavy
snow. Wind was northeast at 15 knots with gusts to 20," the copilot
volunteered.
"I know. I heard it."
The clouds merged against the mountains above Golden. Boulder was in the
clear. To the northeast, the stratus clouds were thick like the wool on the
back of a Rambouillet buck before shearing.
I dropped the nose and we moved over the red sandstone buildings of the
University of Colorado. We headed southeast and picked up the Denver-Boulder
turnpike.
"We will fly the turnpike to the Broomfield turnoff, then east on Broomfield
Road to Colorado Boulevard, then south to 26th Avenue, then east to Runway
8."
The copilot, a San Francisco reserve, gave me a doubtful look. One doesn't
scud-run to the end of the runway under a 300-foot ceiling in a big jet.
Coming south on Colorado Boulevard, we were down to 100 feet above the
highway. Lose it and I would have to pull up into the clouds and fly the
gauges when I had no gauges. Hang onto it and I would get into Stapleton
Field. I picked up the golf course and started a turn to the left.
"Gear down and 30 degrees."
The copilot moved a lever with a little wheel on it. He placed the flap
lever in the 30-degree slot.
I shoved the thrust levers forward.
"Don't let me get less than 150 knots. I'm outside."
I counted the avenues as they slid underneath. . .30th, 29th, and 28th. I
remembered that there was neither a 31st nor a 27th. I picked up 26th. The
snow was slanting out of the northeast. The poplar trees and power lines
showed starkly through the storm. With electrical power gone, we had no
windshield heat. Fortunately, the snow was not sticking.
"Let me know when you see a school on your side and hack my time at
five-second intervals from the east side of the school yard."
Ten seconds.
"There it is. The yard is full of kids. Starting time now!"
Good boy. Smiley faced Holly. From the east side of the school yard, I
counted Kearney, then Krameria, Leydon, Locust. Remember the double lane for
Monaco Parkway. Then Magnolia, Niagara, Newport. Time the speed at 130
knots. Only eight blocks to the end of the runway. Oneida, Olive, Pontiac,
Poplar. From Quebec to Syracuse, the cross streets disappear; figure eight
seconds. Keep 26th Avenue under the right side of the nose.
"Full flaps."
Dead ahead, glowing dimly in the swirling snow, were the three green lights
marking the east end of Runway 8.
We crossed 20 feet above the center green light and touched down in a crab
to the left. I aligned the nose to the runway with the right rudder, dropped
the nose wheel, popped the speed brakes, and brought in reverse thrust.
It took us 10 minutes to find the terminal in the swirling whiteout. We saw
the dim, flashing red light atop the building indicating the field was
closed to all traffic.
A mechanic materialized out of the snow carrying two wands. He waved me into
the gate.
I set the parking brake.
"We have ground power," the engineer advised.
"Cut the engines."
The bagpipe skirl of sound spiraled down to silence.
"My hat is off to you, skipper. I don't know how you ever found this
airport."
"I used to fly for an ornery old chief pilot who made me learn the route," I
replied as I hung up my headset and scratched the top of my head where it
itched.
