Unsettled

By Mark W. Danielson

I suppose I could call this the move from Hell, but I won’t.  Instead, I’ll just say it’s been complicated.  The first issue was with the house closure.  All was fine until the last second when the lender pulled out.  Hmm, here we are with a house full of packed boxes, the mover’s on the way, already shipped two cars – not what you’d call an ideal situation.  Believing all would work out, I let the buyers rent the house until it could close.  All indications were it would happen quickly.  (It closed six days later.) 

I knew from the start there would be more problems when the movers showed up with a twenty-something foot truck.  I immediately called the person I’d been working with, but guess what?  She was no longer taking my calls.  I got the dispatcher and he and the movers both basically said the same thing – “Let’s see how it goes.” Great.  Another warm and fuzzy about as comfortable as urine streaming down my leg.  (From a dog, not mine!)  Sixteen hours later and still with a garage full of “stuff”, the movers said they were out of there and left with no backup plan.

Now past midnight, all I could do was leave a message on their 24/7 line.  Bear in mind that all of our furniture was gone, but thankfully I had left a sleeper sofa behind for the new owners.  We got to sleep somewhere around one AM and at 6, the dispatcher called saying the drivers were instructed to take a bunch of our stuff to storage, they would then pick up the rest of our stuff, move it to Texas, turn around and made the second trip with the rest of our stuff.  I say “stuff” because after a while our belongings don’t seem to have as much value.

So, why didn’t the movers show up with a real moving van?  Because the carrier I chose a carrier did their inventories over the phone.  She estimated my weight to be ten thousand pounds.  She was only off by twelve thousand six hundred pounds!  Our heaviest items were books and magazines – lots of them.  No, make that tons of them – literally.  Add some tool boxes and tools and it adds up to a big bucks move.  At least I now know the true value of books.

I drove our pickup while Lyne followed in the Caddie – both of which were packed with our most valuable stuff.  Running on full fuel tanks, but nothing in the sleep bank, we headed south from Denver under beautiful driving conditions with our doggie Maxx in my lap.  All was fine until we got to Amarillo where we were surrounded by ominous skies.  Not a problem, though.  We had driven as far as we dared and desperately needed rest.

From Amarillo, the drive became quite monotonous driving through small town after small town.  Many were devastated, but not quite ghost towns.  We stopped at two of them for a quick bite, and all was still well, but just outside Wichita Falls, the highway was shut down.  Behind the long line of cars and trucks, I could see emergency vehicles off the side of the road, then a life flight helicopter landed.  Later, we realized there was one already on the ground.  We got out and walked around a bit, which was more than the cattle in the truck up ahead could do.  Instead, they protested loudly, baking in the 90 degree heat – as if they had someplace to go.  We weren’t delayed too long before the helicopters departed and one lane opened up.  It turned out to be a rollover accident with four Mexican nationals.  Yes, folks, those were your tax and insurance dollars at work flying them out.

I had been staying in touch with our movers as we headed toward Granbury and they arrived shortly after we did.  Our rental house is fine, but is half the size of our former house.  Even though we had left a lot of stuff behind, we still have too much stuff.  Sadly, we still have another move once our new house is built at the ranch.  But here at the house, we have minimal cell phone service – as in one sweet spot, outside, in front of the garage.  I suspect I look like Buddha with a cell phone in his ear.  Hopefully that problem will be resolved soon.

Granbury is a very nice historic town with lots of good folks and good restaurants.  We love The Dock where we can pull our boat up and grab a bite.  The drought is over, the lake is full, it even rained all last night.  Our ranch property is very pretty, and we’ve had great conversations with our local cattle on the other side of the fence.  It will be great to move in a year or so down the road.

At times like this, you realize how dependent you’ve become on technology.  When the simple ability to answer a phone call is denied, you feel stressed.  Having to go to Starbucks to get the Internet was frustrating, but we now have it at the house.  At times like this, you realize we live too fast.  Life used to be simpler back in the days of typewriters and party lines.  We can’t turn back the clocks, but we can appreciate the need to slow down a bit.  Granbury, Texas, seems well suited for that.         

Commuter Pilot

By Mark W. Danielson

To many, a commuter pilot is an airline pilot who flies the smaller regional jets or prop jobs. But the other definition is an airline pilot who lives in one location and commutes to his base in another. I’ve fit the second definition for my entire airline career.

Commuting can be a tasking evolution that sometimes requires more patience and sense of humor than operating a trip. Once I get to work, the stress is gone, and while getting home is desirable, my pay isn’t docked if I’m late.

I’ve spent most of July away from home. It’s an unusual month because it added four days of semi-annual training to my line. Since I didn’t finish my simulator check ride until after our own airplanes had departed for Denver, I was forced to attempt a two-leg commute home, begging for rides. The night before, there were plenty of seats available on both flights, but canceled flights had changed everything by the time I showed up.

I was fortunate to get a passenger seat on the flight to Minneapolis, and since I was near the front, was able to race to the opposite side of the terminal to beg for a seat on the leg to Denver. Heart pounding, I arrived in time to be listed for the cockpit jump-seat, which is a small fold-down seat designed to allow FAA check airmen to oversee flight crew operations, but qualified airline pilots can also use them when all the passenger seats are full. Such was the case on this particular flight.

With no clouds along our route and smooth air, the captain and first officer opted to converse with me after level-off. Belonging to the same union, we compared the goings-on with our respective companies, discussed various safety issues, and yes, there were also a few comments about women, just like in the above poster. However, all conversation ceased whenever there was a radio call or a ding from the back.

Prior to our descent, our captain was informed that an elderly lady passenger was ill. He promptly notified the company and was informed that an ambulance would be waiting. Though sorry for her, this passenger’s illness actually helped me because the captain raced his airplane to the gate, and since my bags were in the crew’s storage bin, told me to make a run for it once the EMTs were on board. Even better, the captain had requested his passengers to remain in their seats to assist the EMTs, so imagine their reaction when they saw a captain [me] dash from the plane. I’m sure they were relieved when their real captain thanked them when they finally exited.

The airport bus to the cargo lot only runs twice and hour and I had twelve minutes to get there from the gate. Racing down the corridor, I leaped onto the escalator, and since a train had just arrived, grabbed my bags and skipped steps to make it. Counting down the seconds, my anxiety increased as the train stopped two more times before arriving at the terminal. Once the doors opened, I flew up the escalator, ran through the terminal, out the door, arriving at the bus stop. Thirty seconds later, the bus arrived. Incredible. Nearly eight hours had passed since I had checked in for me first jump seat, and I was relieved to finally be on my way home. Had it not been for the elderly lady’s misfortune, I would have had to wait for the next bus. Thirty minutes may not seem like much, but when you’ve been away as much as I have, that time is precious.

So why do I put up with commuting? Simple. I prefer living in another state, which means I accept the annoyances of commuting a thousand miles to work. Is it worth it? Sure, because I use that time to write, and it also invites new adventures. Granted, it’s a gypsy lifestyle, but one I wouldn’t trade for the world.

Close Doesn't Cut It

By Mark W. Danielson

Airline travel can be interesting. At times, I have to ride in the back to start a trip away from my home base. Recently, I met an interesting man I’ll call Ray on such a flight out of Denver. His story reiterates that everyone has at least one story to tell, and this one’s a doozy. It begins with him flying aboard United Express from Denver to Durango. Unfortunately, his plane never arrived.
Before I delve into his story, I should present two sides of the much debated issue on pilot qualifications. Ray’s incident occurred over thirty years ago, but little has changed within the industry since then. The fact remains that the most experienced pilots fly for the major airlines while the lesser experienced pilots fly commuters, hoping to one day fly for the majors. Co-pilot/first officers with minimal experience must still pass the same check rides as those with the major airlines. Having said that, not all pilots are created equal.

Now, back to the story. At the time, United Express was flying a twin-engine propeller airplane called the Convair 580, which was a solid design and carried approximately sixty people. There were approximately forty people aboard Ray’s flight. En route, the plane developed a fuel problem that affected one of the engines. For whatever reason, the co-pilot never looked up the procedure. Instead, she and the captain winged it, but guessed wrong, which resulted in an engine fire. During the process of mishandling their emergency, the crew shut down the good engine. Soon after, the plane crash-landed in a corn field. Remarkably, no one was killed. Even more remarkable was the flight crew deserted their passengers and escaped through the cockpit windows.

Ray and a fellow co-worker were seated in the very back of the plane, so when the plane came to rest, they opened the rear doors to escape. However, since the nose wheel broke off, the tail was too high to evacuate through these exits. When Ray turned around, he was astonished to see all of the passengers still strapped in their seats as though in a trance. Seeing fuel leaking from the aircraft and fearing the plane would soon burst in flames, Ray and his co-worker took it upon themselves to evacuate everyone from the aircraft. Neither Ray nor his co-worker received any recognition for their efforts. Instead, Ray endured years of pain before he received word that he had broken his back in the crash. It took five years for the airline to reimburse Ray’s company for his injuries. Ironically, the airline’s most damning evidence that won Ray’s law suit was the partial refund he received for his flight. You see, it was pro-rated from Denver to the point short of the original destination, AKA, the cornfield.

Compare this to US Airways Captain “Sully” Sullenberger and his crew who did everything right when they ditched their Airbus in then Hudson River. I’d like to think that every crew would handle an emergency as well. The bottom line is the captain is always responsible for the safety of his/her passengers and crew, regardless of the circumstances. That responsibility comes with wearing four stripes.

Some might want to compare Ray’s experience to the recent commuter crash in Buffalo. In this case, the first officer was relatively new and the captain made some poor decisions. While it is easy to draw parallels between these crashes, every emergency is unique. Following the Buffalo crash, the FAA has been considering numerous rule changes that would reduce pilot fatigue. While I would like to think Ray’s United Express crew did some jail time, the reality is they probably just lost their jobs. It’s also important to realize that millions of people fly every year without incident, thus mishaps such as those I’ve described are extremely rare. These days, pilot jobs are so competitive that weak performance is not tolerated. I wouldn’t hesitate to fly on any commercial airliner, regardless of its size. Having said that, getting people close to their destination doesn’t count as an on-time arrival. Fly safe.

Don't Blame the Government

By Mark W. Danielson

No, I’m not suddenly into government themes. It’s just that sometimes things happen that are worth sharing, and although this story pertains to the Colorado Department of Motor Vehicles, the situation is not limited to this state or governmental agency. The scenario is we purchased a new car, traded in a Honda, and needed to give the dealer the title for our trade-in. The problem is we put the Honda’s title in such a safe place that we couldn’t find it. The solution seemed easy; get a duplicate title from DMV and all would be right with the world. Unfortunately, doing this proved harder than it should have been.

We approached the DMV officer armed with Lyne’s driver’s license and passport because her last names differ on both. Long before her name became an issue, we were advised that even though the Honda’s lien was paid off years ago, DMV keeps no record of such things and their records still showed Wells Fargo’s original lien. We were referred to Wells Fargo to get a statement showing their lien was paid off. After this, DMV would issue a duplicate title, which we would then have to take back to Wells Fargo, they would sign off the lien, and we could drop the title off at the dealer. With a Wells Fargo bank handily nearby, we decided to walk, even though thunderstorms lurked in the distance. All was fine until the bank’s receptionist said they couldn’t help us and referred us to the Wells Fargo Financial office. Eyes rolling, we left, thankful that Wells Fargo Financial was only a few miles away. Still, the changing weather was making time an issue.

Under gray skies, we quickly walked back to the car, constantly surveying the ominous sky. Having had several continuous days of tornado warnings, heavy rain, lightning, and hail, it didn’t seem prudent to continue our trek with the new car. How about putting it in the garage and taking the old one that stays out front? But before we do that, why not re-check our files for that title? Sadly, our search proved futile, but at least our new car was safely tucked away.

Not surprisingly, it was raining by the time we arrived at Wells Fargo Financial. It took the receptionist a while to locate Lyne’s account, but she was able to print out the required letter, notarize it, and make a copy for us. Fifteen minutes later, we were back at DMV. As promised, the agent who had helped us before took us out of sequence, glanced over the Wells Fargo letter, and rejected it because the letterhead differed from what was on their lien. Biting our tongues, we politely left, drove back to Wells Fargo Financial, and explained the situation to the receptionist. Befuddled, the receptionist drafted a second notarized letter stating that Wells Fargo Financial of Colorado no longer existed and that Wells Fargo Financial and Wells Fargo Financial of Colorado were one of the same. On the slide, she mentioned that she had sent out numerous letters like ours and had never once experienced a problem. While waiting, we made small talk about the weather because this office was surrounded by windows. One of the other employees remarked they watched a small funnel cloud drop and then disappear just two days prior. Today’s weather looked like a repeat.

With our second letter in hand, we returned to DMV under even more ominous skies. So far there was no hail or tornados, but anything could happen. (This photo was taken two blocks from our house the day before.) This time our DMV lady was busy assisting a rather difficult client so she referred us to her neighbor, Bill. I couldn’t help thinking how “Bill” seemed an appropriate name for someone who collects money from clients. Thankfully, Bill was exceptionally friendly and equally brilliant. After gladly accepting our Wells Fargo letters, he noticed that Lyne’s first name was spelled differently on the title than on her driver’s license. How could that be, we wondered? Well, mistakes happen. After all, I’m still trying to correct Social Security’s error of missing my birthday by one day. (I may share that story on a later blog.) In any event, Bill quickly handled the discrepancy by printing out a form that showed both of Lyne’s names, had Lyne sign it saying that she was known by both names and spellings, and that was the end of it. After presenting Bill with a nominal check, we were finally out the door with the duplicate Honda title.

So, how much time did it take to accomplish this? Five hours and six trips, to be exact. But don’t blame DMV. After all, we were the ones who misplaced the Honda title, and as hard as it is to admit this, the DMV lady was just doing her job. The Washington DC DMV sign pictured below provides a clue as to the problems these DMV people deal with on a daily basis. Besides, who has ever accused a government agency of being efficient? By necessity, bureaucracy has always been about dotting I’s and crossing T’s. So, the moral of this story is simple: find a safe place to keep your important things and then remember where that place is. Like maybe a safe deposit box. After all, it might save you some gray hairs. As for the crazy weather Denver has had? God only knows.