Archives for November 2021

The day commenced with a glorious quantity of exuberance. I looked out the window as the sun rose upon Denmark, greeted with…. blue sky! Calculating time in route, coupled with the presumption that the weather would be good, and the result meant the I just might be able to make it to Switzerland by nightfall. Finally, after approaching two weeks of wandering aimlessly around Northern Europe to acquire this airplane, the chapter might finally be coming to a close.

The flight to Germany was the longest stretch over water, at 12 miles. The coast was just a few miles from the airport, so by the time I got to 2000 feet, I was at the shoreline. Clouds prevented climbing higher, unless I was willing to circle to get over a second layer, so I decided to make a go of it, with the reality that, if the fan quit, I’d be getting wet.

Ten minutes later, I crossed into the Fatherland.

While I would like to say that it has been five years since I flew there, that would not be technically correct. I photographed Germany’s remaining five glaciers over the summer, crossing from Austria to snap a few photographs, before getting the hell out. I think I spent a combined total of 25 minutes in German airspace, not having spoken to any controllers or otherwise interacted with the German system. I did, however, feel a slight sense of terror at the time.

After the saga to get to the Fatherland, I was not afraid of crossing the entire Bundesrepublik from north to south. If things went as planned, then I would only make one landing in the Fatherland anyway.

At this juncture, I would like to specify what I said to my wife, before I boarded a flight to Oslo to check out the prospective aircraft: “The problem is going to be terrible weather in Norway, fog near the coasts, short days, clouds over the hills north of Frankfurt, and fog down the Rhine. I will probably have to head to the Ruhr, then fly southeast up the Rhine valley to pull it off.” My wife, ever the cheery optimist that she is (why she married me is a case study in the attraction of opposites, even if fatally so), said: “I don’t think that will happen. It will probably be fine.”

As I flew over flat farmland in northern Deutschland, a lower cloud layer kept getting thicker. It then turned to overcast below, with clouds above, that were thickening. There were IFR reports in the hills north of Frankfurt, but VFR down in the European banking capital, so my goal was to do the VFR on top thing for 100 miles (you only live once, even if for a shorter lifespan by doing stupid things) and get it over with.

Mile after mile of ominous clouds passed below, which had rising tops. Eventually, as I approached Hannover, the gig was up. Both cloud layers were merging in front of me into an impenetrable wall of solid IMC. I notified flight service, just before the handoff to Hannover controllers, that I needed to divert. “Where is your intended destination?” “Somewhere with VFR weather.” “How much fuel do you have?” “Two and a half hours.” “We will call around and find a VFR airport.” Ten minutes later, Bremen was the only one (save for going back toward Denmark). For the next hour, I flew into strong headwinds, northwest, partially tracing backwards. No Switzerland tonight!

Bremen was a fun escapade in using my rusty German, to negotiate to find some oil, as well as watching weather forecasts. By the time that was all done 90 minutes later, observations came back VFR in the Ruhr, on the north side of the hills. At the very least, I could get closer and call it a night, being within a one-day range of the Swiss Confederation. This is how these things tend to pan out, in particular when one is crossing half of a continent in a poor time of year.

The flight to Dortmund was initially fine, then became a case of scud running in Class G, followed by marginal MVFR visibility, with rain showers. I pressed on, careful to avoid industrial stacks sticking up into the low clouds. Eventually, northeast of Köln, I came across another wall of IFR, so I wedged straight to the west where, once I crossed the Rhine, things became normal again. Then I pointed the nose to the southeast to fly down the Rhine to the rolling vineyards of the Rhineland-Palatinate.

It worked out, as the strong low pressure that had formed on the other side of the Iron Curtain in the German Democratic Republic was working its way to the Polish People’s Republic, taking the precipitation with it. It was IFR on the left of the Rhine, but VFR to the right, where I made my transit.

After departing the hills, I aimed for Mannheim, a well serviced airfield near the city center, which meant a place to eat, abundant hotels, and no question about German language certifications or operating hours. The people in Mannheim seemed oddly almost “relaxed,” which is a paradoxical assumption, given what I thought of the area five years ago.

For newcomers to the blog, I first moved to the Fatherland directly from the US in 2016, with the PA-11. It was stationed not far to the north, so the area was an immersion into something that was ironically “familiar.” If one has a functioning memory, then he or she would be well aware of my venomous snarling years ago as I ran into a series of seemingly impenetrable aviation rules. It was, needless to say, entirely odd to land at Mannheim, after having crossed most of the country in one day in bad weather and consider anything about it “normal” or “relaxed.” More to come on this subject.

The coast of Denmark before the crossing. The world’s longest immersed tunnel is under construction here.

Trying not to think about the fact that I am flying a single engine aircraft.

The Fatherland! Über Deutschland, which is über alles.

Either God is blessing my flight….or it is a curious interplay between German industrial pollutants and morning sun.

The beginnings of VFR on top. It only got worse.

Aller River, after having ungefickt the situation. I do not take photographs when I am doing dumb things. Extrapolate both cloud layers into something more “comprehensive” and you’ll get the idea.

German countryside, as I am flying north, away from my intended destination.

Upstate New York. South of Bremen, heading to bomb the Ruhr.

Crossing the Rhine to the west, out of the soup in the hills (again). Der Ausländer ist augenscheinlich blöd. 

Germany: a land of nature lovers and a global leader in environmentally friendly initiatives. I think I will sell this print as limited edition fine art.

Pennsylvania. South of the Ruhr. It quickly transitions from a post-apocalyptic industrial hellscape to rolling hills.

A rain shower to waschen mein Flugzeug.

Autumnal vineyards along the Rhine.

After overflying the Ruhr, I was brought to the brink of orgasm by this scene.

Leaving the Rhine hills to the open farmlands near Frankfurt. This is familiar territory from my enigmatic decision in 2016 to move here.

This area was a highlight to fly around five years ago. It seems unlike something one would expect in the Fatherland.

Crossing the Rhine again, just before entering the Mannheim CTR. The view on the other side of the aircraft is similar to the Ruhr. 

According to the weather forecasts all week, it was not supposed to be decent until Thursday, the day I found myself due to depart from Sandefjord, after the customs skafaffle from the prior day. Rising well before the sun came up, I was pleased to see blue sky develop with some wisps of ground that “surely will burn off soon.” As I took the taxi to the airport, the air got even clearer, to the point that it was resplendent…. except there was some fog hanging out across the runway. I figured it would burn off and the flight would be uneventful.

My weather forecast largely called for good weather down the coast of Sweden, with a TAF indicating fog at Rygge to the northeast, although I would not be flying there. I thought, like much of my experience in Norway, that it would be localized coastal fog. Gothenburg, Sweden was clear, as were areas near Halmstad, my first intended fueling point. Oslo was also in the green. I filed my flight plan, more than one hour in advance, including a series of required points along the coast, given the international nature of the flight.

Things were well and good until I got to the airplane on the tarmac. It was a block of ice. All that coastal fog overnight was freezing fog, which left half a centimeter of ice all over the airplane. For those unfamiliar with the rules, one cannot even takeoff with frost on the wings. It has something to do with “interfering with the flow of air over the wings” which may or may not have deleterious effects on the ability of the aircraft to fly. I turned the airplane perpendicular to the sun to maximize melting, until I realized that the fabric is painted white, which, of all things, reflects heat away. Sigh. I then started up the airplane to see how much heat off the engine coupled with propeller airflow would remove ice from the fuselage and tail. The answer? Not much.

After 30 minutes of pacing, monkeying with pre-flight, loading my stuff, and otherwise getting impatient, I started pushing the ice off with my bare hands. It had begun to melt, which meant I didn’t explicitly need to scrape it, I just needed to wipe it to come off. Having covered the bulk of the wings and control surfaces, I noted that the fog that was “certain to burn off” was now growing and oozing toward the tarmac.

Noting that other aircraft were taking off, a delightful mix of airliners and small aircraft, I realized that the tower would permit a midfield takeoff with fog behind me. Nervous that I was about to takeoff in a possibly marginal situation, to fly down a rocky coast in two countries I have no real flying experience in, in an aircraft I just bought, one that I only have 35 hours of flying time in the model anyway, I did what I did when I put a damaged J-3 back together, and after reassembling my PA-11 in Germany after shipping: waited a moment, and then gave it full power.

After clearing some fog ahead, which maxed out at 200 feet, I veered to the right to avoid another clump while climbing. Upon clearing the top of it, I was greeted, not with small patches of morning mist “certain to burn off,” but solid overcast below me, as far as the eye could see to the north, northeast, east, southeast, south, southwest, and west. In the northwest, some terrain was above the fog. While I knew that I could a) make a somewhat involved return to Sandefjord or b) divert to other VFR airports in Norway, I had a wave just shy of panic. It was a revulsion against everything I thought was sensible.

My first thoughts were: “this is not an emergency. You’ve got time to decide.” The second was: “If you don’t get the hell out of Norway, you’re not leaving until March.” ATC was happy to tell me to fly east, have a great day, and carry on to Sweden, like this was normal. I followed his commands while staring at the map, before calling Oslo Approach. I asked for confirmation what areas of Sweden were still VFR. I also asked for 5,000 feet. The higher, the better, in case anything goes south (even though I was trying to go literally south).

Cleared to 5,000 feet, I could see that the fog stopped some 20-30 miles out over the ocean. The controller came back with a still CAVOK reading at Gothenburg, so I decided that “At worst, it will be VFR on top for 90 minutes. It is highly unlikely that the engine will quit on this flight.” My next concern was Oslofjord, a nice batch of water which I was crossing (that I could not see). With a life jacket on board, I happily got to the other side, realizing that, should the engine quit, I could now smack a rock in the fog instead of cold salt water.

Once I got to the other side, after about 20 minutes I could see that the cloud deck eventually would come to an end on the horizon. I then calmed down, happy to finally be pointing south, each bit of time and distance closer to longer days and farther from foul weather.

Before Gothenburg, I encountered a small front, which meant diving down to 700 feet below the clouds. On the other side, headwinds became hazy tailwinds, with sun that gave way to high overcast. It helped to have a pilot friend in Ireland watching webcams and live reporting what was ahead. I fueled at Halmstad without incident.

At that point, I had to decide where to spend the night. I had enough time to get to Germany, but there were sufficient IFR observations that I would only get over the water to the northern border areas. The more I looked at it, coupled with forecasts for the next morning, the more I wondered why I was trying to punish myself with an extra night of German rules. I noted Lolland Fester in Denmark, just before the water crossing. Since operating hours looked tight, I phoned ahead, and the airport manager was unbelievably welcoming. I told him: “Coming to your airport for the night sounds much easier than Germany.” “Oh, it is much easier than Germany here!” “Ok, I’ll be there at 15:00.”

Halmstad to Denmark featured lowering ceilings, mildly reducing haze, and stronger tailwinds. I crossed the Øresund Strait into Denmark, flew south along the west side of Copenhagen, out over the water due to special VFR at Roskilde CTR, then southwest through the countryside to Lolland Fester. The faster I went due to increasing tailwinds, the happier I was until…. I deduced that the runway “might” be oriented as crosswind. Let’s at this point acknowledge that the Irish friend had warned of this possibility while in Sweden, which I ignored. “You’ve handled your fair share of crosswinds before,” I thought to myself. “But this is a new plane.” Since I had plenty of fuel, there were options.

Approaching the field, the airport manager stressed more than once on the radio that crosswinds were 13 knots. Overflying the field at rip roaring speeds, I began to get uncomfortable. “Well, maybe 13 knots is gusty and I can find a gap.” Nope. The place is flat as a pancake with few trees. The windsock was straight out…no gusts…just relentless wind. Final featured a heavy crab into the wind. I notched half flaps and veered for a glider grass strip on short final, as grass is more forgiving in such wind. Touching down on one wheel, the Super Cub’s added weight was evident, and it settled down nicely in such wind. I then taxied to the ramp, fueled, and was kindly offered a hangar for the night, considering the strong winds and coming rain.

The Danish Police wanted to do an immigration “spot check,” to which the airport manager drove me to the station, then after a friendly scan of the passport and residency papers, off to the hotel for the night.

Frost on the inside, ice on the outside, with a tad of harmless fog across the runway.

Cross Oslofjord, Norway.

Border of Norway and Sweden.

Some improvement with the VFR on top business.

Cruise descent to a reasonable altitude.

The Coast of Sweden.

Smögen, Sweden. 

Ticky tacky houses all the same.

Klädesholmen.

Åstol. Ticky tacky houses all the same….on an island.

Great emergency landing locations.

Varbergs Airport (on the right).

Øresund Strait…Sweden left, Denmark right.

Kronborg, Denmark.

Curious housing projects in Denmark.

West of Copenhagen.

Storstrøm Bridge.

When I made the decision to launch the Global Glacier Initiative, it was a de facto decision to purchase a second airplane. The current aircraft is too slow, cold, and range limited to contemplate some of the far-flung places one must go. There is also the reality that it is limited to 16,000 feet in altitude which, while that worked for the Rockies and Alps, it won’t cut it for some other mountain ranges in the world.

There is also the reality that the PA-11 is not the aircraft that I would have naturally bought if it were entirely up to me. My grandfather had a 150hp Super Cub while I was growing up, restored the PA-11 during my childhood, and then abruptly said, when I turned 16: “You’re taking lessons in the 11.” “But why can’t I in your Super Cub?” “It’s my pride and joy and you’re not touching it.”

I ended up soloing in the PA-11, flying to 25 states, 11 countries, five time zones, two continents, the glaciers if the US Rockies, the highest peaks of Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, Montana, Tennessee, North Carolina, the Pyrenees, and the Alps. I laid eyes on Africa for the first time from the PA-11. It has seen both sides of the Atlantic, the Great Lakes, Great Salt Lake, Mediterranean, North Sea, and the Mississippi, Missouri, Colorado, Rhine, and Rhône Rivers.  Let us not forget that the PA-11 took me to every single glacier of the Alps in the summer of 2021. It has served me well, has been owned by three generations of the family (even if we all do not necessarily love each other), and will not be sold. I will need something to fly when the new toy is down for maintenance….

Naturally, a Super Cub was going to be the airplane I would purchase. Are there better aerial photography platforms for what I am doing? Probably…and I don’t care. I didn’t even look. I just wanted a very nice Super Cub, which I started shopping for in May of 2021.

After entertaining three serious candidates and traveling to Portugal and Italy, I was about to travel to the Netherlands to look at one when an aircraft popped up in Norway. It was an exquisite machine, restored by someone who has a similar taste to me. The right decisions were made when it came to options. I was on a flight to Oslo three days later.

Two hours after my 10-minute test flight in crap weather, the deal was signed, and the bank transfer initiated. Five days after that, after sitting in the dark in various hotel rooms, watching unseasonably sunny weather in Norway come to an end, the insurance company finally issued coverage, along with clearance of the bank transfer. It was time to fly my new purchase from 59 north latitude, which is 483 miles below the Arctic Circle, from one of the rainiest places in Europe, to a point 1000 miles to the south….in early November, when the sun sets just after 4PM. Who cares if I have 30 something hours of time in the Super Cub, or that I do not have an instrument rating?

I planned on getting to Halmstad, Sweden on the first day. The weather was foggy at Skien, Norway until almost 1PM, which meant I’d have just enough time to get to my destination for the night. I wanted to get away from the ocean as fast as possible, as the days were shortening at a ridiculously fast pace, soon to be only 6 hours long. Autumn is the rainiest and worst time in Scandinavia for weather.

I filed my flight plan as the fog lifted on one side of the airport. As I was getting ready to go, I got a call from flight service in Oslo. “You just filed a flight plan for departure to Sweden in 20 minutes?” “Yes.” “You can’t do that. Flight plans must be filed at least one hour before departure.” “Well, that is dumb. I need to get out of here before nightfall. It will be an hour in flight before Sweden. Does that work?” “No. It must be one hour before takeoff.” “Can you make an exception?” “Let me see. Why didn’t you file an hour before? Who files just before takeoff?” “I do it all the time in other countries. I am just trying to get out of Norway.” “Read the AIP.” “For a one-hour flight? I talked to an instructor, and nobody mentioned it.” “Let me see what I can do.”

He called back a few minutes later, advising that Sweden prefers landing at an international airport close to the border. In the event of going some distance into the country, as I was, they want waypoints on the flight plan every 30 minutes. I refiled based on the elaborate flight path in my navigation software. He called back again, as they were in reverse, so it was back to zero. “What about customs?” “What do you mean customs?” “You have to get clearance to leave.” WHAT?!?!? I am leaving, not bringing anything in.” “Read the AIP.”

I called customs at the nearest international airport. They said that, since I was leaving from a domestic airport, I need to submit the request 4 hours before I leave. “Four hours? What on earth is this?” I exclaimed, to which the officer was nonplussed and gave me the email to make my request. At this point, flight service called back and said there was a problem with the next flight plan as customs had not given the ok. “Would it be easier if I flew to Torp first?” “Yes, that would be much easier.” “Do I need a flight plan?” “Yes.” Eye roll. “Please file it and then I will let customs know you’re coming.”

I filed another flight plan for Sweden, two hours later, filed the original to Torp, and hopped in my new purchase. Taking off, I veered to avoid fog, clearing the trees to see what awaited me on a cloudy, partially foggy day in Norway. As I got used to the speed of the aircraft and the lay of the land, only a few minutes went by before I was on with ATC at Torp 18 miles away, and then my first landing in a Super Cub with flaps, where nobody else was in the plane. It was very gentle.

At the airport, I walked around aimlessly for customs, until they drove up and found me. We went back to the plane, where they asked for identification and pilots license, followed by: “We understand you have something to declare.” “What do you mean I have something to declare? I was told I have to stop here by flight service to go to Sweden.” “Are you taking anything out of Norway?” “Gjetost.” “What?” “Gjetost. You know, the brown cheese.” Chuckling a bit…” anything else?” “I bought the plane.” “You bought the plane? Are you taking it out of Norway for good?” “It will come back next summer.” “Do you have the contract?” Handing them the papers, they made a few phone calls. “You need to export the airplane.” “No, I don’t. It is staying on Norwegian nationality.” “But you still need to export it.” “How? The CAA won’t issue a Certificate of Export unless I de-register it, which I am not.” “You need to use a freight forwarder.” “Oh God! For what?” “To make an export declaration. Were you the guy that called earlier?” “Bitching about the 4 hour wait? Yes, that was me.” “Hold on.”

More phone calls were made, to which the customs agent advised that “it is the responsibility of the sellers to export the aircraft.” I showed their phone number and he called them, where they sent a signed power of attorney within 20 minutes. 90 minutes later, the freight forwarder had the export declaration done, which consisted of a piece of paper with the buyer, seller, price, and description of the airplane and a small invoice. By this point, it was 3PM, which was too close to dark to make it to Sweden.

I cancelled the flight plan, walked 20 minutes with my suitcase to a taxi, and went back to the same hotel I spent the prior three nights. My Somali dual citizen taxi driver offered some educational insight on the ride to the hotel: “When the Norwegians decide something, it is the end of the discussion.”

Eight hours, 18 miles, 1.8% done. Day one complete.

Just after takeoff in Skien, Norway…getting used to a new plane and wondering what I just got myself into weather-wise.

Numedalslågen River

Parked at Torp, Norway for the night. I have been trying to come up with a nickname for the airplane and nothing has stuck. I tried “Ragnarök” and my 1/4 Norwegian wife said no.