Notes from one Kansas City pilot's logbook. New posts as the flying happens.
Flying the Riverfront Without Making the FAA Mad
By Alan — Kansas City, Part 107
There is not a prettier place in this metro to put a drone up than along the Missouri River. The bridges, the downtown skyline behind you, the river bending around the bottoms. On a calm evening it looks like a postcard somebody left lying around for us.
It is also exactly the kind of place where you have to do your homework, because Kansas City airspace is a layer cake. We sit between two busy airports, neighborhoods pack both banks, and controlled airspace reaches right down over some of the spots everybody wants to fly. None of that means no. It just means you check first.
My routine never changes. Before I ever leave the house I pull up Aloft and look at the map for the exact spot I want to fly. If the grid says I need authorization, I request it through LAANC right in the app, and most of the time the approval comes back in seconds for the altitude the grid allows. Then I check again at the truck, because airspace has a sense of humor and temporary restrictions pop up around stadiums, events, and visiting dignitaries.
That five minutes of checking is the whole trick. Pilots get in trouble along the riverfront for the same reason boaters get in trouble on the river: they assumed it was fine because it looked fine. Do the check, fly the mission you were approved for, and the riverfront will give you the best footage in the metro. Legally. Which is the only way it counts.
The Night a Thermal Camera Found a Dog
By Alan — Kansas City, Part 107
People ask me what the thermal drone is really for, and the honest answer is the nights when somebody's dog is missing. A lost dog does not run in a straight line and it does not answer when you call, not when it is scared. It beds down in brush, in a ditch, under a deck, and it goes invisible. To your eyes, anyway.
A thermal camera sees heat, not light. On a cool night, a dog is a bright little signature against cold ground, and from 200 feet up you can search a field in minutes that would take a crew on foot all night to walk. I have watched that bright spot on my screen resolve into ears and a tail more times than I can count now, and the feeling does not get old.
The work is not glamorous. It is cold parking lots, methodical grid patterns, and coordinating with the owner on the ground so the dog does not bolt when people rush in. The drone finds; people recover. That order matters. A scared dog will run from the very people it loves, so the last hundred yards belong to patience, not technology.
I fly cameras and mapping gear in the daylight. But if you ask me which flights I think about on the drive home, it is the night ones, with a family standing in a driveway watching a screen, hoping that bright spot is theirs. Sometimes it is. Those are the good nights.