Page 4 - Nov 2015 Volume 9, Number 11

2 • TWIN & TURBIINEEJANUARY 2016editor’sbriefingFor now, the night is clear and I can see the path of ground lights stretchingout to the horizon. My attention is drawn to clustered galaxies that mark small cities and towns below. Each probably has an airport, and the closest ones welcome me with a winking green/white beacon,a sign that says “we’re here, if you need us.”The sight of a lighted runway is rare, especially from this altitude, but if I want to know more about the facility I can just scroll over it on the moving map here in my cockpit and read what’s in the database. When I started flying, the nights were much less friendly; a lot of small-town airports were just daytime- only grass fields, and sighting a beacon was about the only sign that one’s journey was going to have a successful conclusion. Having information available at your fingertips meant referring to a worn copy of the Airport/Facility Directory.Knowing the airport’s location at that town below confirms my knowledge of the route; that must be Springfield, as expected, because the beacon lies northwest of the city lights, in a black area denoting the airport. I start scanning ahead for the next beacon, eager for the trip to end. This must have been how it was for the mail pilots of bygone days, alone in their cockpit with nothing but sharp vision and a rudimentary map to aid them. The airway beacons meant life, a sign that the weather had yet to close in and their groundspeed was holding up. What would they have given for an MFD with instant weather report just a touch away?The lights at ten o’clock wink out of sight, then reappear. I expected this; a lower layer of cloud is beginning to form, playing peek-a-boo with us. Again I check destination weather; a little precip but decent ceiling. We’ll keep the approach loaded, even though everybody is making it in on a visual. Altitude is our friend, for now; a dark ridge, revealed by the obscuring of ground lights ahead, must be crossed before we can surrender the precious safety of the heights.Maintaining orientation is easy, because of the tools I have here in my snug cabin. Distance to go, a courseline to lead us, and the steady blinking of a reply light to confirm that I’m being watched by a radar controller. Better this than a drafty cockpit with a fluttering chart strapped to my knee. Soon we’re sliding down on the arrival, dropping through the mid-layer clouds to see the panorama of the city and a beacon ahead. There’s the approach-light rabbit, bounding along for us to follow to the runway. Still, we mind the altitude; too many pilots, eager to get home, have forgotten about the nearby obstructions, hiding in the dark among the friendly lights.Rolling down the path of runway lights, now turning amber as we search for the blue of our turnoff and the green centerline lights, I can reflect that this is what piloting is all about. As those who flew before us had done, we’ve used our resources to defeat the scourges of darkness and weather, bringing our flight safely to its planned destination. The path of lights, once airway beacons and bonfires, have given way to more modern paths. Vigilance, however, is still what keeps us safe.LeRoy Cook, EditorPath of Light