The saying "Getting there is half the fun" became obsolete with the advent of commercial airlines.
Henry J. Tillman
My arrive was unusual as the old Beechcraft turbo prop banked hard and prepared to land on a small runway craved out of a dark green pine forest. The stark interior of beige had the look of a military cargo plane which rattled and creaked as the landing gear shuttered into place. Years of carrying passengers left a thick patina of scratches and abrasions on everything. The seat is little more than an aluminum lawn chair bolted to the floor covered with a thin fake leather pad. The abraded and worn windows are almost opaque turning the landscape into a smoky imitation of an impressionist painting.
There was no neatly dressed flight attendant. The copilot assumed the duties of the flight attendant issuing mandatory instructions with a mechanical wooden voice, as he carefully removed his hat and placed it in a wire holder attached to side of the cockpit door. The word door is a stretch; it was more of a battered blue cloth shower curtain which hung carelessly from the cabin ceiling. A hard jolt awoke me from my daydream as the turbojet slams on to the tarmac expelling a large puff of blue smoke from the engines. Unlike most other jet I’ve become accustom, there was no abrupt engine reversal in order to prevent the jet from coasting off the engine of the runway, instead the whirl and wine of the props slowed as the plane seemed to roll to a stop. For only the third time in my flying career, the plane makes a u-turn in the middle of the active runway and taxis back up the flight line to a small nondescript building with a rusty sign waving in the wind which said “Welcome to Iron Mountain”. As we pull up next to a maintenance truck parked next to the terminal a wiry thin young man in a worn flannel shirt opens the door and darts past the whirling props in an attempt to stop the plane from rolling past.
Emerging from the plane, I maneuver down the steep steps and cross a short fifteen feet to enter the terminal. The terminal is a dated 1950’s structure which would be comfortable in a foreign third world country airport. The dark brick floor echoed in distress against the natural knotty pine laminated beams as my bag rolled across it. The worn beleagued appearance of the terminal matched the patina of the turbojet interior. Winding my way past the watchful eyes of the locals waiting to take the flight out, I head toward the only car rental company on the property which was set up like a child’s lemonade stand hastily constructed of whatever plywood was available, haphazardly squeezed into a corner near the main entrance.
After waiting at the desk for a few minutes I notice the stained beige 1960 southwestern bell push button phone, a relic of the period when ma bell still had a monopoly on phone service and you had to buy one of their phones. Above the phone was a hand written tattered sign taped to the wall which read “For Service Dial 411”. As instructed I pick up the phone and call, only to be routed to a residence. A man answers with the drone of dogs, kids and a blaring television in the background as he states in a casual voice “Yeah I’m only a short distance away, I’ll be right over.” I smile at the novelty of the concept, working from home and all that.
A few minutes later a rough hewn middle aged blond man in unbuckled floppy black rubber boots and a red flannel shirt with a couple of torn holes in the elbow come striding in and step behind the counter. With an unassuming smile wrapped across a leathery tanned face he says “How can I help you?” Looking out at the rental car lot through the terminal windows it is evident that there is only one car available as I reply “I’ve come for that little gem right there.” As he is completing the paper work with is head bowed down, I notice the callused hard hands of a laborer. Looking up his blue eyes are piecing and focused as he hands me the keys he says “Its all yours, be sure to fill it up before you return it cause there aren’t many stations nearby.”
The car is an older mint green Ford Taurus which has seems better days. As I sit down, I arrange my array of electronic equipment on the soiled seats preparing for a three hour drive. I look around at the piles of snow from the wet spring snow storm the night before. The morning air is already warm and the snow is retreating quickly into small puddles of grey liquid. Turning the ignition, the odometer reveals the true age of my rental car as the number 51,475 partially glow green through the burned out pixels on the electronic dash. As the car begins to warm the distinct smell of burning oil envelops the front of the car. Having spent many years less affluent than I am today, I immediately flashback to those many years of driving my old wrecks surrounded by a blue gas. This history allows me to discern the severity of the oil leak by the aroma of the acrid smoke. I determine that the mechanical seepage is not sufficient to alarm me. I think to myself “So this is the place where rental cars go to die.”
I decide to start my long drive to geography unknown by backing out of the parking space. As I turn the wheel hard to the left there is a terrible loud scrapping sound in the wheel well like the frontend of the vehicle has been damaged and the radial is rubbing on the inner wheel well. I decide that sound is ominous enough to warrant an inspection. I bend over and insert my head into the driver’s side wheel well to find the cause of the obnoxious grinding noise. Unable to see anything particularly offensive I crawl back into the troubled green Taurus and drive into the pine forest wilderness with the Australian accent of my GPS unit telling to turn in 300 feet.
After a determined day of research and a subsequent interview for a small environmental liberal arts college my mission to Siberia is complete as I prepare to return to the little forlorn airport in the great north woods. Nothing I received when leaving the airport contained the street address of the airport, not the car rental agreement, not the airline schedule, not the hand drawn local road map, so entering the return location in my GPS unit was a little creative. I typed in the state and the city, and then took a guess by typing in 1 Airport Drive. To my surprise the address appeared on the screen so I pressed okay assuming I would arrive at the same location from which I departed. My heart rate continued to climb for hours the closer I got to the airport because nothing appeared to be familiar. Was my Australian girlfriend taking my to a subdivision named after Arthur Airport miles away from my desired location, or was it a park named after the historic location where the first biplane landed? Oh ye of little faith my panic subsides as the always calm soothing female voice tells me my final destination is coming up on the right and a retire 50’s military jet on a stick frozen in an imaginary dogfight twelve feet off the ground reminds me I have traveled this way before.
I find the parking lot unusually empty as the entire TSA security crew sits at the terminal entrance smoking in small cliques. I’m a little more than 90 minutes early since I was unsure if my faithful electronic companion would know the exact way back to such a remote location. I walk past the TSA crew and head over to the car rental counter which has a slot in the top of it. I drop my rental agreement and the car keys in the opening then decide out of a curtsey to call my buddy on the ancient southwestern bell telephone. As he picks up with the same background noise of dogs, kids and television I inform him “Hey I wanted you to know I dropped the keys and the agreement in the slot.” Before I was able to recite another word he responds “Great, I’ll be down there in a couple of minutes to write you out a receipt.” Hanging up the phone I think, now that’s pretty accommodating, he must be going nuts in the house with all the commotion and needs an excuse to get out of the house for a few minutes.
I turn to walk to the ticket counter stuck by the fact that I’m the only person in the entire terminal. There is a pilot talking shop with the gate agent about jumping this flight. During the conversation the gate agent mentions that the flight is delayed about 40 minutes. Concluding the discussion the gate agent turns to me and asks “Mr. Blue do you want your boarding pass?”
Stunned that he would know my name, I respond with the only explanation I could think of “So am I the only person taking this flight today?”
In a congenial tone he says “Yeah you’re it Mr. Blue. Since the news hit everyone else baled and was rebooked on other airlines.”
Surprise sweeps over my face as I mutter “What news?”
“Oh it was announced last week that this Midwest Connect Airlines was terminating service and tomorrow is our last day. It’s a real shame that all these people will be unemployed after today.”
I try to find a positive thing to say attempting to gain my footing. “Well there is always another regional carrier coming into this airport that everyone could apply with?”
With a look of distain and surrender he replies “No than won’t happen for three months, when Northwest will pick up the route. Until then the entire airport will remain closed.”
Slowly I walk past the rows of empty seats with the sound of my rolling bag echoing in the vacant terminal. The gate agent words begin to echo in my mind “the entire airport will close.” Finding a seat in front of a large television spewing sound to nobody I sit facing the closed security checkpoint. I find the sensation of being the only passenger a little disturbing. Before long a group of TSA agents begins milling toward the locked gate. Their movement is lethargic appearing almost in slow motion as they fumble for the key to open the lock, when the crackle of the public announcement speakers begins. “Mr. Blue the TSA security agents are ready for you.” Smiling I turn around to see the gate agents giggling. I have to admit this was my first personal airport announcement.
The security agents conduct their inspections on my luggage without comment as I thank them for doing all this just for me. Waiting for the flight to arrive I strike up a conversation with a female TSA agent in charge of the crew. “So are you getting laid off also with the airport closing?” I ask assuming that it being a governmental position a layoff was improbable.
“No all of us a being relocated to an airport which is a three hour drive away, until this airport reopens in three months.” She responds.
“That’s going to be tough.” I sympathize, “Does the government pay for mileage making you drive six hours a day?”
“No, they are providing us a governmental car to travel back and forth each day. We will need to dress in our uniforms in order to use the car. We’ll find a location to car pool from and all four of us will travel together.” She explains. “It’s probably good we are traveling together since most of the drive is though a national forest wilderness.”
As we continue to talk about the airline employee she turns her head in sadness says “Most of these people have families with small children. It’s a crime what they are doing to these employees. They have been great over the years”
Leaning over in a whisper she reveals “Did you hear ATA Airline also closed their door today?” I must have been stuck in this American Siberia longer than I thought. What is happening to our economy I wonder, recalling the announcement on my drive in that unemployment claims increased 80,000 last month to a five year high?
“No I didn’t hear that. I know Aloha Airlines ceased operations on Monday after 65 years of operation.” I reply. I’m stunned to realize that three airlines have ceased operation in four days.
“The real shame is that quite a few of the pilots left and was hired by ATA when they heard Midwest Connect was closing. It’s the double whammy, fired twice in less than week.” She says with a tear in her eye.
Everyone’s attention turns to the runway as a plane begins to circle for landing. The dozen people left in the terminal are perceivably excited as I hear one of them announce “Wow, look they sent a jet, it’s a real jet!! It will even have a flight attendant” One of the gate agents runs out on the tarmac with a camera to take a photo of this apparently rare occurrence of a jet landing at this airport.
The security agent places her hand on my shoulder and says “You should feel honored. They sent a jet up here just for you. Notice that no passengers will get off the flight.”
As the plane rolls up to the door a small group of employees walk out to greet the plane. The door opens and the pilots emerge, there is a round of hugs and handshakes reminding me of a family reunion. The group pose in front of the plane as a gate agent holds a small camera. My new found friend explains the scene unfolding before us. “This is the last time most of these pilots will see each other. You see that group of three pilots, they are deadheads.” She explains.
A deadhead is an airline employee which is commuting to work in another airport. It is sort of airline equivalent grabbing a bus ride in to the office. I realize another first in a day of many; this will be the first time that pilots out number passengers five to one on my flight. I guess you could also call me a deadhead, the last passenger leaving for the last time.
I hear the security agent tell me “I think they are ready for you.” I turn and shake the hand of the agent saying “I wish you the best of luck.” She smiles and opens the door to the tarmac as I am greeted by the entire grounds crew which was also the gate agents that checked me in.
“Mr. Blue your plane waits.” as he bows and extents his arm as if I was royalty. The young flight attendant greets me with a smile as she says “Any seat you like Mr. Blue.” As soon as I’m settled the flight attendant begins her standard preflight announcement, smiling at me knowing that the three pilots have heard it many times before. As she concludes she begins packing her instruction manual and other equipment carefully placing it into a blue zipper bag. Its obvious that this is also her last flight.
About fifteen minutes into the flight she offers me some refreshment “I’ve got a couple types of beverages left if you want one, but we don’t have any ice. “ I take the opportunity to ask a question, “So what are you going to do? You have job lined up with another airline?”
“Not me I’m done with the airline industry. I’m going back to school next semester.” She admits with a touch of frustration.
The deadhead pilot in front of me spends the entire flight in silence reviewing flash cards with alpha numeric codes on the front and a scribbled answer on the back. He must be preparing for a job interview with another airline attempting to memorize some arcane aviation language.
I look down at the flight emergency instructions in the seat back pocket. It’s the last time anyone will see “Midwest Connect Airlines” on any printed literature. The thought of taking the instructions as a memento of the last flight of a dying airlines, a relic of a past era, but I dismiss it. “What the hell will I do with another piece of junk like this?”
Beginning to descend the flight gets choppy as snowy flakes scream by the window. I wonder if the pilots are fed up with the entire situation and have decided to just to cut through the weather instead of taking additional time to fly around the weather. The flight attendant begins her final landing instructions once again smiling at me as she proceeds. Near the end of her announcement she injects an editorial comment, her only departure from the standard spiel as she concludes “We at Skyline Airlines hope you return to fly us for the next six hours.”
The plane lands and taxis to the gate in Milwaukee about 200 feet from the terminal door. As I depart the plane I wish the flight attendant the best of luck and walk out into a driving cold rain. Standing on the tarmac I adjust my coat and roller bag the rain pours down wetting my clothes. For some reason I am not compelled to hurry as the gate agent stands at the door waving at me to hurry. How appropriate that the sky would be crying as this flight concludes. Halfway across the tarmac I glance back at the last time this particular plane will fly with Midwest Connect on its tail. I reach for my camera and snap off a few photos.
In the terminal I check my next flight on another carrier on the large screen hanging from the wall. I begin to count the Midwest Connect flights still on the board noting 32 flights flashing boarding or listed as on time. With a touch of sadness I watch one of the flights push off the gate and disappear from the board. In less than six hours each of those 32 flights will push off the gate forever disappearing from the board. How strange day it has been on this end of an era. What started out as another typical travel day ended on a rather somber note on a cold rainy day in Milwaukee. I brush some raindrops still clinging to my coat, turning away from the screen and mutter under my breathe “Just another Iron Mountain Deadhead.”
“Life is pleasant. Death is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome.”Isaac Asimov (1920-1992)
