Into Thin Air

By Mark W. Danielson

I am writing this from Toluca, Mexico, at an elevation of 8500 feet.  The nearby volcano towering over the city is well over 15.000 feet.  This industrial town employs thousands, thanks to several US companies relocating here.  I am here because FedEx flies much of these products for them. 

The thin air affects the airplane as much as it does my body.  It takes a more runway to take off and land, and for non-acclimated pilots like myself, makes it more difficult to breathe    I have sported a low-grade headache ever since I arrived, and sleep is difficult.  But as with everything, the up side is character building.

Every author has heard, “Write what you know” and it is obvious when people fake it with stereotypes.  When I wrote I was in Mexico, images surfaced, and depending on one’s frame of reference, it could be luscious beaches, endless deserts, or beautiful chapels overlooking the city.  Like many countries, Mexico has a full range of topography.  Therefore, to write about it, one must visit it.      

To say Toluca represents Mexico is as foolish to think that Los Angeles or Las Vegas characterizes the United States.  The people here are polite, their city is clean, and the food and housing quality are good.  Unlike Mexico’s border cities, I have walked many parts of this city without concern.   

My point is to encourage people to write about their travel experiences so they can get a better appreciation for what they did.  Sharing them on your web site may also help people plan their vacation.  All it takes is a few minutes, and those moments will be forever locked in your mind.

Too Tuckered

By Captain Mark W. Danielson

FedEx flies all kinds of cargo. Animals are among the most interesting. I have flown sea turtles, horses, a variety of birds, and ferrets, and can now add a hippopotamus to that list. This is Tucker’s story. If he could write, he would have painted a sign that read, “Eight Year Old Male Hippo In Need Of New Home”. FedEx came to his rescue, donating their services as a hippotarian gesture to move him from the Topeka Zoo to the San Francisco Zoo. Delivered under perfect flying conditions, Tucker is now busily exploring his new surroundings.

Tucker’s story is as interesting as his journey. Born in captivity at Disney’s Animal Kingdom, he was destined to be relocated to the San Francisco Zoo over a year ago, but the timing wasn’t right. Instead, he was transported to the Topeka Zoo where he met a lovely mate with bountiful proportions. They instantly fell in love and had a baby together on August 21, 2010. But this miracle of birth proved to be Tucker’s downfall, for the Topeka Zoo isn't large enough to accommodate three hippos. One of his handlers told me that while Tucker is very docile, the handlers were concerned that Tucker would inadvertently kill his baby by playing with him. Since the baby needed its momma, papa Tucker was being banished like Adam, except he would leave his Eden with a stock of apples.

Tucker was supposed to have been transported on November 30th, 2010, but this transportation fell through. With winter now in full swing, an appeal was made for FedEx to fly him to San Francisco. On January 6th, 2011, Tucker flew from Kansas City to Memphis, then patiently waited for me and my first officer to fly him to Oakland.

His oversize crate was approximately 1 ½ times the size of a normal MD-11 pallet. Loaded with hay and food, he was monitored by two handlers and a veterinarian. Before we took off, they assured me he was comfortable as any hippo could be. I nodded while detecting clear evidence that his internal organs were functioning perfectly. Thankfully, our airplane's rigid cargo barrier confined his distinct aroma to the upper cargo compartment rather than invade the cockpit. Otherwise, it would have been a very long flight.

Thanks to good weather, Tucker probably never knew he moved. He was a perfect passenger throughout our entire flight. Had he been upset, we definitely would have known since annoyed jumbo animals tend to bounce airplanes. But Tucker did none of that. Instead, our four thousand pound puppy seemed quite content.

On our initial descent into Oakland, the Oakland Center controller assigned a step-down altitude. To make it easier on Tucker’s ears, we requested a constant descent because of our special cargo. The controller then asked if we had horses on board. Upon hearing it was a hippo, he replied, “Cool.” From then on, we received special handling that never required us to level-off. Tucker’s information was passed from controller to controller to ensure our smooth arrival.

I elected to use the full runway length so our deceleration was gradual. The taxi in went as smoothly as our taxi out. From Oakland, Tucker's crate was transported to San Francisco via flatbed truck. The SF Zoo was very appreciative of FedEx’s service, and I was happy to be among those playing a part in his relocation. Far more people were involved in this operation than I will ever know, but Tucker's transfer was successful because it was a team effort. Now single again, Tucker is free to find a new mate while enjoying California’s moderate climate. San Francisco may not be Disney World, but it’s far better than winter in Topeka. As for FedEx – we again proved that we deliver the world on time.

'Twas the Week Before Christmas

By Captain Mark W. Danielson (FedEx)

’Twas the week before Christmas and all through the hub,
the sorters were sorting, not one single flub.
They stuffed boxes in demis, all loaded with care,
in hopes that their pilots would soon fly them there.
The presents were nestled all snug in their cases,
while loaders slid them to all the right places.
Then my first officer walked with me to his side,
climbed the stairs to prepare for a long winter flight.
When out on the ramp I heard such a clatter,
I sprang from my seat to see what’s the matter.
Away to the door I flew like a flash,
looked out just in time to see the near crash.
The moon on the breast of new-fallen snow,
gave the luster of mid-day to the objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
a pilot from management not wearing flight gear.
With little old eyes, so nervous and quick,
I knew in a moment someone must have been sick.
More rapid than eagles, more pilots came.
But not enough pilots, he called us by name.
Now Dusty, now Scooter, now Gator and Oddie!
On Blazer, on Bear, on Trapper, and Hoggie!
To the top of your stairs, to the flight decks you all,
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
Regardless of obstacles, we took to the sky.
From snow-covered runways, those cargo planes flew,
with cabins full of toys, and St Nicholas, too.
And then with a twinkling, my wheels soon touched down.
A few more minutes and we’ll be on the ground.
Soon a flurry of loaders converged on the plane.
And fuelers and mechanics all doing the same.
While bundles of toys rode their way down,
several safety observers all stood around.
Workers’ cheeks were like roses,
their noses like cherries.
Many in Santa hats, nearly all seemed quite merry.
Some beards were all white and covered in snow,
but no one complained, only hours to go.
One had a broad face and a little round belly,
that shook when she laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
She was chubby and plump, a right jolly old gal,
I smiled when I saw her, in spite of myself.
A wink of her eye and a twist of her hand,
her bus door opened, I had nothing to dread.
She spoke not a word, but took us straight to the door.
As soon as we’re off, she went back to get more.
In three hours we were back in our seats,
the process done over, we’re not done with our feat.
Hundreds of planes soon took to the air,
all sure to deliver their boxes with care.
Through our smart phones, the chief pilot said,
another sort down, now go find your beds.

Merry Christmas from all who deliver your presents.

The Bone Yard

By Mark W. Danielson

Why are all these airliners in the desert? In a word, they’re being preserved. Aircraft bone yards are a testament to the WWII B-24 bomber, Lady Be Good. You see, on April 4, 1943, the Lady Be Good and 24 other airplanes took off from Soluch Airstrip in Libya to bomb the port at Naples, Italy, but things didn’t go as planned. Strong winds and poor visibility forced the bombers to take off in small groups, and Lady was one of the last to depart. Fatefully, engine problems forced the other two bombers to turn back leaving Lady alone and well behind. Lady attempted to join the bomber group prior to the target, but poor communication and crew inexperience made this impossible. Arriving too late, Lady dumped her bombs into the ocean and attempted to return to base, but somehow during this journey, managed to vanish without a trace.

Fifteen years later, a British oil exploration team spotted aircraft wreckage in the desert and decided to investigate. The markings on the nose revealed it was Lady Be Good. Other than her fuselage breaking apart just behind the wings, the B-24 was in remarkable condition. Her guns fired, her engine oil was good; even her tires had pressure. This revelation prompted the US government to “mothball” its aging aircraft at Davis Monthan Air Force base near Tucson. Since then, aircraft stored at the so-called “Bone Yard” have been used for spare parts, put back into service as drones, and sometimes put back into service as line aircraft.

Many years later, a surplus of commercial airliners led to civilian Bone Yards at Marana Airpark near Phoenix, Mojave, and the former George Air Force Base near Victorville, which is shown in the above photo. Sharp eyes will spot aircraft from a variety of airlines, including FedEx. FedEx has since returned several of these airplanes to service while storing others that are awaiting modification.

Mothballed aircraft have served other purposes as well, such as law enforcement hijacking/hostage training, movie sets, and music video backdrops. If these planes could speak, they would all have tremendous stories. Sadly, most of the bone yard aircraft await their fate of becoming recycled scrap metal.

For mystery writers, what better setting is there to hide a hostage or dump a body than a yard full of ghost planes? A setting like this offers endless opportunities. A visit to your local aviation museum may be enough to inspire a future story.

Mine's the Black One

By Mark W. Danielson

It had been a superb trip to Sacramento. The weather was perfect for my flights out and back. By airline standards, my twenty-four hour layover there was quite long. My first officer was excellent, and we even arrived back in Memphis a little early – one AM on Thanksgiving morning. The only down side was I was stuck there until my next trip started 35 hours later. Actually, things soon got worse.

When I got on the crew bus that takes us to the parking lot, I ran into an old friend who had been one of my back seaters in the F-4 Phantom. He later became a pilot and has been with FedEx a few years less than I. My suitcase was in the repair shop so I took the one my step son had last used. Since the ride to the parking lot takes a few minutes, my buddy and I used the time to catch up on things.

I hadn’t driven my truck in a couple of months, so I wasn’t exactly sure where it was among the hundreds of vehicles, but knowing that I parked in the first two rows narrowed it down. My plan was to get off at the second bus stop and start walking, but apparently the bus driver had other plans. In spite of my repeated requests to stop, he kept going, and when he finally did stop, I grabbed what looked like my borrowed bag and started searching for my truck. Thankfully it was fairly close, so I tossed the bag in and took off.





My crash pad is thirty minutes away, and when I arrived, I immediately discovered I had grabbed the wrong bag. To make matters worse, my cell phone was dead and my charger was in my bag. To top that, there was no name on the bag I had, and my step son’s name was on mine. Clearly, it was going to be a long night.

Thankfully, I found a rental car receipt in the bag I had with a name that matched one of our crewmembers. Using the company’s web site, I found his e-mail address and phone number, but since my landlady doesn’t have a house phone, I sent him an e-mail explaining the situation, and planned to find a pay phone soon after. To my amazement, I received a prompt e-mail response saying his keys were in his bag so he was stuck in the flight operations building, and “if I was so inclined,” would I mind brining it there. I felt horrible about my stupidity, but at least we had found a way to swap bags. I sent another message saying I was on my way. Two minutes later, my wheels were spinning.

The gods were watching over me, giving me green lights most of the way. I immediately went to the desk and had his name paged, but no one showed up. After searching for him, I borrowed a cell phone and we finally linked up. He was a true gentleman, and I owe him a dinner. He got home a little later than planned, but at least he was there for the holiday. For me, time was irrelevant and I got to bed about 4:30 AM, which is actually pretty good in this job.

In all my years of traveling, I’ve never before made this mistake. The odds of my phone dying and his being stranded because his keys were in his bag made this event rather extraordinary, and the fact that we were even able to communicate made it that much more amazing. But all’s well that ends well, right? And now that my real bag has been repaired, I shouldn’t make this mistake again because after all, mine’s the black one.

The Beach Beckons

By Mark W. Danielson

It was a typical Saturday morning in LA; overcast sky, temperature in the high fifties, people out walking and jogging. I had been flying night round trips to Oakland all week and now all that remained was to get a few hours of sleep before flying home on Frontier Airlines. Of course, when you keep a schedule like mine, sleep doesn’t happen easily, and while I got to bed by 4:30 AM, I was awake by 8. Fortunately for me, my hotel was celebrating “FedEx month”, so I was given a coupon for a free breakfast. One omelet and a few fruit slices later, I was out for a walk, heading to the beach.

There is a wonderful mulched trail that runs from the hotel to Manhattan Beach; its lush landscaping concealing it from the paved roads on either side. The neighborhoods are quiet, and traffic signals are nearly nonexistent. I was thoroughly enjoying my walk when a woman in her late thirties or early forties jogged ten feet in front of me and then slowed to a crawl. My 3.5 mph pace had me move to her left, and while passing her, I said with a smile, “You’re not allowed to pass and then slow down.” But rather than smile back, the woman cast a glare and said, “If that’s the worst that can happen, then you’ve got a problem.” After angrily fumbling with her Ipod earphones, she added, “You should be worried about the economy!” Wow! Where did that come from? Instinctively, I replied, “I was kidding,” but she quickly fired back, “I don’t think so.” Then, resuming her slow jog, she mouthed over her shoulder, “You probably voted for Obama!” Unreal! It was bad enough that I got her fired up, but what did our president have to do with her morning jog/trot/walk?

Needless to say, my head spun for the rest of my walk, and continued for some time afterwards. I kept wondering what had I done that was so wrong? I then thought about her circumstances. Did she lose her job? Was she jogging because she couldn’t afford gas anymore? (That seemed unlikely since she wore an expensive jogging suit, but I’m giving her the benefit of doubt.) Whatever the reason, one thing was clear; you never know what kind of reaction you may get from a stranger.

When I told my wife and daughter what happened, they both said it was a mistake for me to talk to a strange woman. Well, while I admit this woman was strange, the fact is I still believe that most people are good, and that this woman’s attitude was an isolated case. I base this on my experience of walking that trail where there were as many strangers saying hi to me as I was saying hi to them. In other words, most people are receptive to a smile and a greeting. Imagine what this world be like if we all clammed up, never smiled, and avoided all eye contact. For sure, it would be a pretty sour place. So pardon me, lady, for I didn’t mean to offend you when you parked yourself in front of me. Next time I’ll be sure and dodge you without saying a word, but that won’t keep me from smiling at everyone else who is heading my way. No fooling.

The Night Before Christmas

Mark W. Danielson

Twas the night before Christmas and all through the sky,
Lots of planes were flying, but none too close by.
When all of a sudden, a strange sight appeared,
A jolly old fellow, with a long white beard

Pulled by eight flying reindeer, his sleigh came alongside.
He waved his gloved hand as he wished us good night.
With the snap of his reins, he zoomed ahead,
to deliver his presents while the children were in bed.

My co-pilot and I were startled at first,
On the night before Christmas, a mid-air would be worse.
But magic appears wherever there’s love,
And this always comes from our Lord above

So while I’m spending this Christmas in Dubai,
I hope that peace and love will always survive.
No matter where in the world our loved ones are,
Our thoughts are with them as we gaze at the stars.

Merry Christmas everyone.

(Photo courtesy of FedEx)

A Day In The Life

By Mark W. Danielson

People often ask me what it’s like being an international airline pilot. In a nut shell, it’s like being a celebrity. Kids ask for my autograph, women clamor over me, strangers flock to have their picture taken with me . . . Well, maybe that was true for a Pan Am captain during the Golden Age of Aviation, but it doesn’t happen now. Fifty years ago, First Class was exactly that. Passengers dressed up, and no kids were allowed. Attractive stewardesses greeted you, waiting on you as though in a fine restaurant, and pilots flew their airplanes from the cockpit. So much has changed since then.

Nowadays, the cockpit is the flight deck, stewardesses are known as flight attendants and pursers, and pilots are captains and first officers. Sadly, First Class turned into Romper Room, and respect seems to be a thing of the past. So, no—kids don’t ask for my autograph, women don’t fight over me, and I’m the one offering to take pictures so that couples can be photographed together.

I wrote this from Frankfurt after four hours of sleep. I was gone a week and never slept longer than five hours at a time during my entire trip around the world. When I landed in Memphis just before midnight, I had traveled twenty-four time zones in eight days, and then spent the rest of the night jump-seating home to Denver.

Our MD-11s are equipped with the finest navigation systems available. Our “electronic flight bags” display instrument approaches and route maps for any airport in our global data base. FedEx is also installing infra-red heads-up displays so that I can see through the dark and weather, and lower our already near-zero visibility landing requirements to better deliver “The World On Time.” We are well catered in flight, and when we land, our transportation is ready to whisk us off to our world class hotel. To the layman, we seem spoiled.

Flights over eight hours require an extra pilot. Add one more when it exceeds twelve. This allows us to rotate sleep periods because for some reason, the FAA determined it was wise if we are awake for the landing and taxi in. (I’m pretty sure that happens most of the time, but sometimes I’m too dazed to remember.) To accommodate our sleep, we have the finest rest facilities available—a floor mat. (See photo.) Okay, a few airplanes do have a retractable bunk bed that resembles a giant Tylenol capsule when extended, but those are normally reserved for the double-crewed airplanes.

Since we sleep on the floor, we change into grubby clothes once we are leveled off. This is acceptable because our wrinkled, drooled on uniforms wouldn’t enhance our image at the hotel. Of course, sleeping on the floor does offer its perks. The leaks around the door provide plenty of fresh air; so much so that it wouldn’t matter if someone shot a hole in our airplane. So, after plugging the leak with an airline blanket, which more closely resembles an oversized bib, I build my nest with as many blankets as I can find, don my sleep mask, and start counting backwards from one hundred hoping to fall asleep. But getting a turbulence massage is only half the fun. When my time is up, I switch places with another pilot and spend the next twenty minutes waking up, trying to determine where I am and what I’m doing. By that time, I’m sleepy again.

Sometimes washing my face helps, except our airplane’s water level has been minimized to save weight (AKA fuel), so I get splattered when I press the faucet lever. But the fun really starts when I’m flying an animal charter. You see, FedEx flies anything and everything, and animal charters generate big bucks. Unfortunately for the crew, these horses and cattle also generate big smells. In fact, it is so bad that we have to wrap our suitcases in plastic bags before the flight or their stench will permeate its contents. Afterwards, we get a fantastic greeting at the hotel. So much so that other customers step aside just to give us priority service. Heck, we even get our own private elevators! Ah yes—home on the range never smelled so good.

On rare occasions, things don’t always go smoothly. Recently, I stayed at an international hotel where a notice was slid under my door stating that I had overstayed my visit, and they need me out of my room in two hours. Their note said they would be “happy to assist me with storing my belongings.” Never mind that my airplane wouldn’t arrive for another forty hours. Hmmm, do I call the company, or should I stay at the embassy suites—as in U.S. Embassy? Oh, the decisions to be made when I’m bleary eyed. The language issues only complicate matters.

Controlling my hotel room’s temperature is only part of my sleep problem. Actually, temperature control implies that I have the means of doing so, but that isn’t always the case. Opening my door provides cooler air, but then the noise keeps me awake, even with earplugs and my head buried in pillows. Closing the door dampens the noise, but then it’s too hot, so instead of sleeping, I end up reliving Goldilocks episodes, struggling to find an acceptable balance. When my layover is up, I will spend three or more hours getting to the airport, through security, reviewing the weather, loading my flight plan, and finally getting airborne so that I can fly for seven hours.

I know; it’s a hard life. Blah, blah, whine, whine—would I like some cheese with that? But seriously, I love my job. There is no better profession, especially for a writer. What other job gives me so much undistracted free time? And on those rare occasions when I have an extended layover in a great location like Paris, Frankfurt, Sydney, or Honolulu, it almost becomes a paid vacation. Did I say I loved my job? I can't imagine doing anything else. Oh, and those kids who want my autograph? Well, that still only happens in my dreams.