Landing at night has often meant for me the end of a long day of flying. In the summer, the sun sets late, and a landing in total darkness means that the hour is often well after 9 p.m. In the winter, the day might start when it is dark, cycle through the course of the day, and end well after sunset. Time often feels longer than it really is.
But flying at night has its rewards. The air is often calmer and smoother, and makes for a good ride. Passengers — the real payroll department — can sleep. In the distance, a thunderstorm can provide a fascinating show of lightning that lights up the clouds. You can't hear the thunder, but you can sense its violence when the silver light outlines the jagged edges of the storm. If the storm is in full strength, and a flash of lightning lasts more than a few seconds, you can see the clouds moving and churning, the pulsating strength and fury of the storm clear to the naked eye in a way you can't see during the day. It's impossible to look away.
Shooting stars often fill the sky at night, carrying with them the wishes of young lovers and long-lost friends. Sometimes a shower of meteors is so intense it almost looks like rain. No matter how fast you fly, you can never catch up. I've tried.
On certain holidays, such as the Fourth of July and New Year's Eve, you can see the fireworks celebrations that mark the towns and cities below. Passengers who ache to be with friends and family often appreciate having the spectacles pointed out to them.
Aircraft you would never see in the day are visible, their flashing strobes giving away their positions and directions of travel miles in the distance.
But landing at night has always meant something different to me, especially when it's late. The airplane lands the same. In a Cessna Skyhawk or a jet, the airplane has no idea and no care about the time of day. But it seems to take a little more concentration on the pilot's part to land at night. On the final approach, the runway lights are bright, two rows of white for the edges, the centerline lights controlling an invisible fishing line that reels you in.
My thoughts always wander a bit when I'm on final at night. Behind me, my passengers are fidgeting, watching our descent out their windows, impatiently awaiting some kind of clue about where we are relative to the airport. Watch them sometime. It's hard to tell how high you are at night, so your sense of distance is skewed. They study their watches. I find myself wondering. Who is going home? How long have they been gone? Who's going to visit friends, or going to take a vacation? Somebody on board undoubtedly has a long drive in front of them. Has their day been as long as mine? Do they, like me, have two girls and a spouse at home, sleeping beauties, waiting for a late-night kiss and hug?
There are days when this last flight finds me so tired and ready for sleep that only sheer willpower keeps me awake. But no matter how long my day or weary my body, there is something unique about coming home at night. A pilot hates to be a passenger, especially on landings. I have a common desire with my passengers to just get where I am going. But when we turn final and turn off the autopilot I always get a second wind. I love landing at night. There is a sense of homecoming, even at an airport away from home. When the gear goes down, the passengers have the cue they've been waiting for. They can probably make out some individual buildings and neon signs and car shapes on the streets, and they see the flight attendant hurrying to get ready to land.
In front of us, the runway grows, the lights and the airport beacon guiding us to port. We're cleared to land. My right hand rests on the throttles, my left steers, almost automatically countering any bumps or shifts in the wind. My feet rest softly against the rudder pedals with my heels on the floor. Once the before-landing checklist is done, the cockpit usually gets quiet except for the slipstream. It's not an eerie quiet, but a comfortable one, like an old married couple spending hours in a living room together but not saying a word.
As the airplane crosses the threshold of the runway, the landing lights reflect off the ground, and a shadow is created in front of us. It moves as we move. It seems like it happens out of nowhere. The reflection of the airplane, especially the nose and the landing gear, becomes visible, blurry at first, then more clear as we approach the ground. The airframe follows. When the winglets come into view in silhouette on the ground, the airplane looks like a bird of prey, an eagle, reaching out with powerful talons for the nest that holds her hatchlings, her own place of comfort. The eagle is returning home, to a place of solitude and safety.
For me, night landings are a special event. The airport gets closer and the runway patiently waits. The approach lights and the end of the runway rush past under the airplane, giving a sense of tremendous speed. The engines go to idle and, like the eagle, we extend our claws, ready to grab hold. In the lights I can see the landing gear reaching for the runway, patiently waiting. The shadow of the airplane looks like that great bird of prey. Normally an aggressive creature, it isn't now. It just wants to rest. So do I. Thirty feet, 20 feet, 10. As we get closer, the shadow gives way to the bright-white bath of the landing lights. In front of us, the touchdown zone is bright, the lights a blur, and the runway appears to reach up to receive us. Below us, the talons reach down and take hold.
Chip Wright of Hebron, Kentucky, is a Canadair Regional Jet captain for Comair.
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