Beacon at Picacho

"Dependable as death and taxes," they used to say. Or, "Steady as a beacon." There is nothing steadier. Come sunset, and all over these United States the airways beacons wink on, mapping aerial highways for dark flights. Come dawn, they snap off. Through changing seasons the CAA beacons steadfastly point the way, clock the miles, mark the obstructions, for airborne traffic.

Safety in the air is partly accounted for by wellmarked beacon routes which through the years have been improved, standardized by the Civil Aeronautics Administration. Though motorists zip past with a vague, "Wonder how they got up there to fix that thing?" air beacons are a source of vigilant attention for the Maintenance Division of C. A. A.'s Airways Communications.

In composite, the men who light the way for pilots make up a guy about thirty who has been accepted for a CAA Civil Service rating after tests so exhaustive he can tear down and repair anything which gives light, power or advice. He is then assigned to an area within one of the United States' seven Air Communications regions where, supplied with a light panel truck, the necessary gear and, if possible, the talent of a mountain goat, he bounces over hill and dale on a continuous inspection of his electrical units. Each must be checked once a month, and some require more frequent service in order to maintain maximum efficiency.

Assignments may include inspection of airport lighting, emergency landing fields, lights atop radio towers and other man made contrivances which jut up in the air, sub stations either maintained by or contracting power to the Maintenance Division. For a change of pace there are incidents of pot shot vandalism, even problems of the feathered friend. Some city-minded birds like to nest in a beacon tower close enough either to distort its light or damage wiring. One man had to climb an eighty foot tower, wedge himself into a railing around the beacon and blitz a crow's nest while batting at the outraged birds.

First prize for observation could well go to the person answering the question, “How many types of beacons are there and how do they differ?” Since beacons are given about as much attention as a doorknob, most people find the query tantalizing. “Why I should know. I’ve certainly seen enough of them. Wouldn’t one be the kind that goes around?” It would. Those are Course Lights, the revolving beams which look like a gigantic egg with one end dipped in red or green dye. Placed about twenty miles apart, they mark the airway route, cast a broad beam from a 500 watt bulb.

Second is the code light, a flasher type beacon, which indicates to a pilot the number of miles from the last point of departure.

Obstruction blinkers are the third type, those red or white lights winking briskly atop radio towers, water tanks, sharp peaks around landing areas. They have the specific purpose of warning planes flying at a low altitude. Thick as flies in urban areas, the obstruction lights also mark invisible dangers in the country, particularly on the approaches to emergency landing fields.

While maintenance men are on 24-hour call, night emergencies are considered rare. However in the case of a plane crash outside the take-off area, the response is instantaneous: CAA regulations demand that the man in charge of the section shall check immediately on all beacons within a twenty-mile radius. His report on their function is a routine inclusion in all CAA investigations. To the best knowledge of Airways Communications, no air-borne plane crash has been due to beacon failure, a record maintenance men view with some pride. This does not mean that light performance is perfect. Occasionally a beacon will black out in which case all pilots receive teletype warning to that effect. Simultaneously some maintenance man is going out on repair call.

How many units are included within an area depends entirely on the terrain, with level, easily accessible land containing as many as 25 per maintenance man. Rough, mountainous country averages eleven, taxes the goat-climbing ingenuity of the person responsible for it. Good example of a goat handicap is Picacho Peak, jutting 1,800 feet up from the desert floor in central Arizona.

Lying between Phoenix and Tucson, Picacho is a sort of focal point for night drivers who first spot its code blink-er 40 miles away. Pilots, watching it, know they are 60 miles out of Phoenix thrumming east from Los Angeles to Tucson, Dallas, Nashville, New York. Maintenance man A. H. Lee, whose area includes Picacho, knows that after he leaves his truck at the base of the peak more than six hours will elapse before he returns. Shouldering his Picacho Peak is a noted desert landmark. One of the state's major highways skirts its base. The peak itself rises 1,800 feet out of the flat desert, supports an air beacon. Maintenance of this beacon is an arduous job of CAA expert.

Utility pack, he starts the stiff trudge up rocky, cactuspricked Picacho, the desert receding beneath him as his boots grate against stone-hewn path. Several years ago, CCC boys swarmed over this dwarf mountain stringing the guide lines, breaking the trail which Lee now follows. At the summit, he throws off his pack and, selecting the equipment he will need, goes amiably about his work. Picacho's beacon is known to the trade as a Code Type 'E', consists of a forty foot tower topped by a stationary fixture holding a 500 watt bulb which winks on and off. Encased in a flasher box, bolted low on the tower, is a Torque-type clock, the mechanism responsible for regulating the light. Made in Switzerland, the Torque clock controls the performance of the beacon by a series of rotating cams which alternately establish and break electrical contact. Intricate and highly accurate is the clock itself which at sunset trips a battery that spins a small starter motor which carries the load until electricity from the power lines takes over. A 24-hour model, the Torque clock is also adjusted to seasonal variance so that it works infallibly, be sunset early of a winter afternoon, or late of a summer evening. One of Lee's monthly duties is to check the solstice dial against the imperceptible changes of night as the seasons give way one to another. If necessary he could dismantle and reassemble the clock, synchronize gears, trace faulty wiring. But Lee's usual duties consist of adjusting and oiling the clock and gear box, swiping out the light globe, checking the bulb. Old ones ordinarily are replaced every ninety days, although they will burn much longer than that. This is a typical precaution despite the fact that many beacons are equipped with an emergency bulb which is affixed at a right angle to the one in use. In case of light failure, a plunger drops down to establish contact with a small battery which in turn generates a motor. In a matter of seconds the dead bulb has swung down to the side as the emergency light snaps into position. Consoling factor about Picacho Peak is that it derives its electricity from utilities power lines instead of operat-ing from a gasoline-driven generator motor. When a Maintenance Division man prays he prays to be assigned an area in which these portable electricity-makers are (1) absent, (2) scarce. Efficient though they are, they still require more attention, are often secured in some rugged and remote spot where it is inadvisable to string power lines. Gasoline supplies for the engine must never fall below a minimum safety line, and packing cans of gas up a mountainside isn't a sought-after job. Fifteen years' experience have taught Lee that Picacho Peak is not the worst of them, but as he humps down the spiney trail to where his truck simmers in the desert heat, he knows it's a fair day's work for any man.