Night Currency

In the theater, staring over seas of buttered popcorn and diet soda, the audience sighs. "That's very pretty," they think. "I'd love to see that someday."

If there's a pilot in the theater, though, the sigh never comes. Instead, there's a grin. "Almost," the pilot thinks. "That's almost the best thing ever."

Imagine a Cessna 172 in a takeoff roll, runway Nine at Fargo, North Dakota's Hector Field, an hour after sunset on a clear winter's night. Blue lights, white lights, the centerline all roll by. The displays on the G1000 are turned dim. The nosewheel comes up, and even before the airplane is in the air, there's that sigh. Just ahead, the universe sparkles. Ursa Major. Ursa Minor. Draco. Lyra. Hercules. Way too many stars to put into order.

Night flying is a different kind of beautiful. Daytime mountains, rivers, farmland can be dramatic and huge. Daytime flying can make the sense of size as intimate as taste. Night flying unfolds on a different scale. And every pilot has a night-flight memory.

My friend Erika writes, "We had been experiencing St. Elmo's Fire on a night flight in northern Minnesota in a Citation II. The windshield was dancing with the light, to the point we were thinking we should put on our sunglasses. We were setting up for an approach when the captain set his Jeppesen charts on the instrument panel. All the energy the aircraft was holding zapped into his charts, temporarily interfering with our glass displays. It went really bright, then really dark. We got it all reset quickly, but it had our hearts pumping."

Mike remembers a winter's new student. "About 25 years ago, a fellow came out for a night airplane ride over the city. He was looking at the different-colored lights shining on the fresh snow. He commented, ’I didn't know they decorated the airport like this for Christmas.' I thought about explaining the white runway lights, blue taxiway lights, green threshold lights and red runway end lights. But, he was here for an airplane ride, and why change the holiday atmosphere? As I pushed the throttle in for takeoff, I smiled and simply responded, "Sure is pretty, isn't it?"

Just past the Fargo Jet Center, past the Red River of the North, street lamps give way to farmstead lights. Unlit country roads reveal single-car headlamps moving over pavement or gravel. Highways are amber-colored lines leading off to the horizon. At or below 2,500 feet, we settle into a mood I treasure.

The lights on the ground, every one of them, mark a story, a home, a road to travel. I'll admit I've keyed the mic just to light up some rural airport. And I've watched summer thunderstorms at midnight, lightning so fast and hard, I knew only pilots would understand the thrill. Mostly, though, I find myself wondering. Second star on the right. Push the throttle forward. I wonder how long it will take me to get there.

Three landings at least an hour after sunset. That's all it takes for the rules. But think about the phrase: night currency. To be current with---what? The change in depth perception during a flare when the sun is down? Yes, certainly that. But also something larger and more important. Saint-Exupéry writes: "In the profound darkness of certain nights I have seen the sky streaked with so many trailing sparks that it seemed to me a great gale must be blowing through the outer heavens."

Flying has always been an act of imagination and hope. Flying at night is a different kind of beautiful. W. Scott Olsen is a professor of English at Concordia College in Moorhead, Minnesota. He holds the world and national records for the fastest flight across North Dakota in a Cessna 152. Scott's books include "Hard Air," "Never Land" and "Prairie Sky."