A Retrospective view of a Satcom Career

Me and a longtime friend of mine got into a deep conversation recently about our earlier decisions to embark on a career in satellite communications. Collectively, we have over 75-years in the trade, so we had a lot to talk about.

In both of our cases, we came into the industry near the bottom of the org chart, back when the industry we know today was in its infancy. With both of us being a bit industrious (or perhaps just gluttons for punishment), we inched our way to senior positions with a number of well-known satcom companies, over several decades.

Speaking for myself, I've dedicated the last 45 years of my life to the business (as evidenced by my stooped posture and the lines on my face), and though I've spent the last few years denying that I would be working past the ripe old age of 70 - here I am.

I've held a vision of me departing the industry in a healthy, graceful manor - leaving behind a brotherhood of teary-eyed friends and colleagues sorry to see me go. But now it looks more likely that my lifeless body will be discovered back behind a trade show booth, or slumped over a laptop in some third-world motel room.

So I ask myself, how much longer will I keep my feeble arm outstretched - reaching for that proverbial brass ring? How long will it be before I convince myself that not doing this would be better than doing it? I have no idea, but so far, it hasn't happened. To be frank, I don't know what I would do with myself.

Looking back, this path has produced its fair share of challenges. Let's face it - satcom is a tough business, regardless of where you sit. The industry models are changing so fast that it's hard to find a comfort zone.

So, in retrospect, has it gotten better or worse, and the ultimate question - has it all been worth it?

Better or worse? As challenges go, I don't think it's better. Albeit, my memory is tainted with images of me traveling the world building and commissioning satellite earth stations - and I don't mean the little toy ones that you put together with a screw driver and 3/8" ratchet. No, I'm talking about the ones that come in a bunch of big wooden crates - a system that takes weeks to build using cranes, rigging, a 600 ft lb torque wrench and tons of test equipment.

One that has you hanging off of a 20-ft high, galvanized steel mount sitting on top of a frosty mountain somewhere in the Alaskan bush - with enough clothes and hair to function in far less than ideal weather conditions. Yea baby!

While it's true that these activities still go on to this day, it's certainly no longer the norm. Newer generation satellites have become more powerful and fly a lot closer to the ground. Sure, it's makes communicating with satellites easier for a user-base addicted to the omnipresence of satellite access. But it's us battle-hardened, field warriors like myself that get left behind - leaving us with no choice but to shed our winter coats, get a haircut and enter the ranks of (dare I say it) office dwellers.

Has it all been worth it? Despite the ups and downs, the answer to that question is a resounding "yes". Operating from an office yields the potential for achievements, but rarely are they tangible. Meeting bookings and revenue goals, and winning a nice project is great, but it's nothing like completing an earth station build - being able to stand back and relish the glory of having put a relatively complex system into service - something you can actually look at and admire. A task that requires a broad range of skill sets that few people possess. All leading to a culmination of true techno-beauty!

You can see it (or hear it) any time a group of satcom veterans congregates, spewing stories about experiences accrued over years of world travel - often in places you couldn't even find on a map. I'm not talking about showing up at trade conventions or a customer's office to deliver a sales presentation. I'm talking about fighting wild monkeys in Borneo that you caught stealing your beer.

Or hoping that your pocket knife will be enough to defend yourself from little 500 lb brown bear that happened to mosey on to the job site looking for meat.

Actually, I shot this photo at Brook's Camp on the banks of Lake Iliamna, in Alaska's Katmai Wilderness Preserve - a place that very people (that aren't rich) get to visit, (and I didn't even have a pocket knife). I happened to be retrofitting a 10-meter earth station in King Salmon, a short flight via float plane from the camp. Another one of the many benefits of serving a trade that takes you to obscure locations across the planet.

I know it's not uncommon for old folks like me to reminisce over the days of old, but those were the formative years, fighting the elements, making do with very little, improvising. No cellphones, email - or even Internet for that matter. All of the gadgetry that we're now addicted to didn't exist. Sink or swim - you were on your own. It was truly a great time.