Ten Kilometres Up

Glance out of the window on a long flight and the earth sits some ten kilometres beneath you, reduced to a patchwork of fields and cloud. Airlines do not choose that altitude for the view, however spectacular it happens to be. They choose it because the air up there is thin, and thin air is remarkably cheap to fly through.

Near the ground, air is dense, and pushing a plane through it is rather like a swimmer wading through water: every metre travelled costs energy. Ten kilometres up, the air has thinned considerably, so the aircraft slips through it with far less resistance, which means the engines burn noticeably less fuel to hold the same speed. Thin air offers a second advantage too: most storms, turbulence, and heavy cloud sit well below that height, which is why the ride up there tends to be so much smoother.

There is, inevitably, a limit. Climb too high, and the air becomes too thin either for the wings to generate enough lift or for the engines to draw the oxygen they need. Airlines therefore aim for a narrow sweet spot, generally between ten and twelve kilometres: high enough to spare the fuel bill, low enough to keep the aircraft flying at all. That quiet trade off is being made, almost invisibly, every single time your seatbelt sign switches off.