by Dave Phipps
photo by Peter DiAntoni
I awoke in the Seattle Airport Marriott hotel with a sense of dread. I had been flying for 38 years – it’s who I am, it’s what I do – but when my plane landed in Milwaukee that night, my career would be over.
My thoughts were jumbled and complex: anger at the new corporate owners dismantling Midwest Airlines; sorrow in losing a very special career; aware that I needed to close this chapter of my life and move on. Although I’d been grieving ever since the demise of Midwest had become clear, I was unprepared for the powerful emotions that hit me that morning.
Just after breakfast, one of the flight attendants called my room. “How are you doing?” she asked. “You OK?” I assured her I was fine to fly, but the butterflies in my stomach felt like I was dressing for a funeral.
A few weeks earlier, I’d realized that after nearly 18,000 hours in the air, I didn’t have any pictures from the cockpit. Often, the view is like having a front-row seat at an IMAX theater. Words barely convey the breathtaking beauty of jagged mountains, indigo blue lakes and emerald oceans, painted deserts and brilliant star-studded skies. Flying along the northern border during the winter, the aurora borealis dances in brilliant blues and greens, like an undulating theater curtain. The view from the cockpit is seldom the same; each time the route is slightly different, the sunlight accentuating different features as its arc changes through the year.
I began carrying a digital camera on the last few trips. That morning, after dressing, I took a few self-portraits. My face looked old and ill, the stress and lack of sleep showing. I deleted the images. I had enough bad memories already.
Going downstairs, I caught the van to the airport. Once in the cockpit, things settled down into a well-worn routine. I was at home here. All my anxieties faded as I buckled up. My co-pilot flew the first leg to Kansas City. This allowed me time to soak in the scenery – the extraordinary beauty of Puget Sound, the huge hulk of Mount Rainier – for the last time. As we glided east-southeast across Idaho and Montana, I composed a public address in my mind to mark the occasion. It started blandly enough.
“Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We’ve reached our cruising altitude of 37,000 feet, and we’ve turned the seat belt sign off at this time.” I reviewed the weather and ticked off the cities we’d be flying over.
Then I veered off course.
“We’d like to take a moment to thank you for the opportunity to have served you for nearly 26 years at Midwest Airlines. As you may be aware, Republic Airways Holdings has purchased the ‘Midwest’ brand name, and as of tomorrow morning will have replaced all 38 of our aircraft, along with some 390 pilots and over 400 flight attendants. When this aircraft lands in Milwaukee tonight, a remarkable airline that earned a reputation for delivering the ‘Best Care in the Air’ will largely fly on in name only. So on behalf of all original Midwest employees, please accept our sincere thanks for your patronage throughout the years, and for providing us with warm memories of a wonderful and amazing career.”
I replaced the handset to its cradle, thinking, “Hope I don’t get fired for that.” Republic is trying to convince the public nothing has changed, even though they’ve changed everything: the meals, snacks, beverages, wide leather seats and, especially, the people.
In their place are smaller regional jets with cramped seats and employees with no sense of Midwest’s history or unique style. In effect, Republic bought the Midwest reputation for $6 million and trashed the very things that earned that reputation. While the planes will still be painted blue with Midwest on the side, and the passengers may see the occasional chocolate chip cookie, the amenities, comfort and hospitality that earned Midwest the respect of so many travelers will be eliminated.
In its heyday, Midwest was the contemporary reincarnation of a more gracious era, when air travel was a premium product rather than mass transportation. Passengers were met with complimentary coffee and newspapers at the gate. And who can forget meals like lobster Thermidor or beef Wellington and desserts like New York cheesecake with fresh blueberry topping, served on real china and linens? All now part of a bygone era.
Our success was often viewed as an anomaly, as impractical, by the conventional business wisdom of the industry. But our passengers readily embraced the Midwest style. Their support made the airline possible, and we never forgot that. At one time, complimentary letters outnumbered complaint letters by as much as 14-to-1. Our loyal customers made going to work enjoyable. It was like we were all part of an extended family.
Those thoughts faded as I took the controls for the second half of our trip. I was determined to enjoy every moment of the 59-minute trip. I savored the feel of the flight controls as the airplane responded to my touch, the adrenaline rush that comes from sheer speed, the keen satisfaction of nailing the technical aspects of the job.
We climbed through a few cloud layers, emerging into bright moonlight under a full moon. The aircraft jiggled with light ripples of unsettled night air, but we eased into a smooth ride on reaching our cruise altitude. We floated over Midwestern cities, their lights spread like jewels on black velvet. The visibility was terrific: The lights of Chicago began to show some 200 miles out, and moving closer, we could see the entire western shore of Lake Michigan all the way from Gary, Ind., up to Oshkosh, Wis. My last IMAX image.
After we landed in Milwaukee, many passengers stopped at the cockpit to offer thanks for our years of service and sympathy at the loss of our jobs. I collected my bag and flight kit from the cockpit and walked up the jetway for the last time.
Ours was actually Midwest’s penultimate flight. The final one would arrive in an hour. As my crew and I waited, many pilots, flight attendants, mechanics, dispatchers and former employees arrived at the gate in anticipation. The press was there along with TV cameras. As the last plane approached the gate, it was given the traditional water cannon salute – two fire trucks sprayed water in giant arcs across the airplane as it taxied in. The tribute is generally reserved for a captain’s last flight, but this was a farewell for all of us.
Gradually, the crowd moved to a hotel reception across the street. The alcohol flowed as freely as the emotions; old comrades said their goodbyes while others refused to do so, a valiant effort to believe we would somehow see each other again. What struck me most was how we’d taken these friendships for granted. On overnights, crews became real friends, exploring new cities and sharing meals together. We trained together, made mistakes together and learned to trust each other. When emergencies occurred, when lives were at stake, those bonds we’d forged were critical.
The next day, we had a second reception for flight operations personnel. There were more hugs and goodbyes. There’s a line I often used when teaching ground school that some of the pilots liked to imitate. “Gentlemen,” I would say, “we’ve got a lot to cover and not much time to do it.” Of course, they couldn’t resist imitating me one last time. Now, though, we had all the time in the world but nothing more to talk about.
As I left the party, a great sadness came over me. I had been truly lucky; I’d had a remarkable and privileged career. At 21 years old, I flew all over the world with Ports of Call. At 24, I flew as a DC-9 co-pilot for Ozark. At 30, I became a DC-9 captain with Midwest, one of the youngest ever to achieve captain status.
I suffered an engine failure over the Rocky Mountains and made an emergency landing in Pueblo, Colo. I’ve landed on treacherous runways covered in ice and snow. I’ve had passengers spit on me, call me a liar and want to fight me in the jetway. I’ve had flight attendants complain they’ve been cursed out and vomited on. Stress does that to people. But the vast majority of customers were wonderful. They were what kept us going.
I’ve flown congressmen, senators and presidential candidates. I’ve flown music legends, movie stars and sports teams. I’ve flown newlyweds to their honeymoons and the terminally ill home to die. Before 9/11, when anyone was allowed down the concourse, it was common to see relatives waving goodbye at the window as you pushed back from the gate. As tears streaked down their faces, you were reminded of how precious your cargo was.
More recently, I’ve seen my pay and benefits cut. I’ve seen safety affected in the industry by cost-cutting. I’ve witnessed the authority of captains degraded. I’ve watched as traffic levels have outgrown the ability of the air traffic control system to handle them. I’ve watched as new, young pilots were mass-produced and placed in sophisticated airplanes with a minimum of training, the margins of safety degraded to increase margins of profit.
As I left our final, sad little party, I couldn’t help thinking that something momentous had happened. The end of an era. Midwest was celebrating its silver anniversary when Republic purchased it. In late February, nearly four months after my final flight, Republic announced a “unified brand plan” that analysts predicted would probably retire the Midwest name. It crystallized what was already painfully obvious: Midwest Airlines was dead. n
Capt. Dave Phipps, a 26-year resident of Milwaukee, will be moving from Wisconsin to Hawaii, where his wife (who also worked with Midwest) got a job with Hawaiian Airlines. Write to him at letters@milwaukeemagazine.com.
