November 2023

The mystery began on what should have been an illustrious autumn morning in the Alps. Peering out my window, I was greeted with sun and a magnificent scene as expected; however, the air was defiled with haze. While that can be typical in the Flachland between Geneva and Zürich, and particularly dense with northeast winds in early spring, there was no reason for its presence after a front had blown through.

Come to think of it, the mystery extended about four to five days prior, when I took a flight to the Pyrenees. I ran into a smoke layer obfuscating part of Mont Blanc, so I flew under it, noting that it dissipated between Grenoble and Valence, France. Looking at the satellite map, I assumed that it was dust from the Sahara, getting wrapped around a strong low that was tracking east from Trieste, Italy, with winds potentially wrapping from the east around the front of the Alps. “It should blow out in a day or so,” I said to myself, hoping my trip to the Pyrenees wouldn’t be ruined.

It didn’t blow out. It was still there when I flew back, though it was not in the Pyrenees at all. Again, I was sure with the passage of a front and some precipitation that some classic autumn weather was due and yet, here I was, looking at a treasure of a view with thick haze obfuscating it. My wife strolled to the window and said, “what a beautiful day!” “It is disgusting! Look at that haze!” I replied. “There is a bit of haze but look how nice it is outside.”

The nice thing about airplanes is that one can fly above such defiled air masses, which I attempted to do that afternoon. For some reason, the layer was much deeper than expected, and deeper than it should be with high pressure moving in. I surfaced the haze at 11,000 feet, which would be something more endemic to a high pressure zone in midsummer, not in autumn.

As I frolicked around the Matterhorn, it was clear to me that the layer was inconsistently placed. Usually, high pressure creates a firm inversion layer that is relatively consistent in altitude on the Italian and Swiss sides of the Alps. It showed variation, and I couldn’t dispel the nagging sense something was amiss. I snapped an iPhone shot into the sun to demonstrate the depth of haze, texted it to a pilot friend, and he replied how pretty the photo was. “It is filth,” I replied.

As sunset approached, I descended into said filth, now at about 10,500 feet near Martigny, and it smelled of smoke. “How could this be?” I thought to myself, “The only way it could be this thick is if the Vosges is on fire, but I doubt it.” Cruising into the circuit confirmed I was in some curious soup.

The next day, I had some business to attend to, using the Super Cub. It was sunny that morning as well, still defiled out the window, so by this point I was wondering why an explanation wasn’t on the news. I had a diversion to the Jungfrau before heading to the Jura. I could see the haze layer was incredibly thick over the lowlands, with a more compressed layer than before, and thicker than I had ever seen it below. There was also a secondary higher layer over Italy. I was concerned the descent to land in the Jura would place me in IFR, though it was MVFR, and smelled again of smoke.

Returning from the Jura, Chasseral was sticking out above the smoke, so it meant the layer was shallow. As I approached the Bernese Oberland, it thickened however, and showed two layers.

After landing, I couldn’t take it. Where on earth was this haze coming from? Meteo Swiss was to the rescue the next day, in German, with a long explanation showing upstream airflow analysis. Where was the smoke coming from? Canada! That is a first since I have come to Europe. I have seen Martian orange sand blow into the Alps from Africa, but not to date thick smoke from Canada.

In the Valais at 10,000 feet. Everyone else sees the Alps. I see haze that doesn’t belong.

Plateau d’Herens. While it looks fine in the foreground, Italy is quite opaque in the rear.

Ghiacciaio des Grandes Murailles with Grand Paradiso on the horizon. The layer is clear to the left horizon.

Looking west over the Italy-Switzerland border toward Mont Blanc. This places the layer at roughly 11,000 feet. I hadn’t ever seen anything like this so high up.

Grand Combin left (14,265′) with Mont Blanc right (15,771′) and the clear layer below.

Les Diablerets. I am now under a thicker layer (one can see it obfuscating the summit). It now smells of smoke. The cloud layer below is typical of the season, pressure, and temperature profile. Where there is smoke, there is fire….

Errand flight the next day. Berner Oberland at 7,000 feet. Note the smoke to the left. The plot literally thickened.

East ridge of Mönch, with the layer clearly below.

Yet above Konkordiaplatz the layer to the south appears much higher and thinner. By this point, I was beginning to think something was wrong with my reasoning skills.

Rottalgletscher. Looks fine here. “This is proof you’re a snob and making things up,” I said to myself.

Chasseral (5,269′). Definitely not making things up.

Approaching the Oberland at sunset, marinating in the haze. Its definitely real, though I would confirm its origin the next day.

It is not often that one has the opportunity to take a long flight south before encountering the Arctic Circle.

One of the disadvantages in selecting Tromsø for a base of operations was the inevitable long slog south to capture the largest glacier complex in northern continental Scandinavia. The glaciers of northern Sweden and Norway are spread in a longer distance north-south than what is found in fjord country east of Bergen. Nonetheless, the time had come that I needed to get it over with, or I wouldn’t do it.

I had intended to make a long day of it, flying south to Bodø and then back north for the night. The idea of “night” was something of a laughable joke anyway, as it barely had existed so far for this adventure. In any case, I knew I needed to reserve quite a bit of time to properly photograph the fullness of Svartisen.

The problem is, the furthest glaciers from Tromsø were another 78 miles south. By the time I fueled in Bodø and took off heading south, I realized that things were taking longer, and I had a problem.

Evening civil twilight set in at 11:15PM or so, which meant that I needed to be on the ground then, although sunset was theoretically before 10PM. I contemplated fudging it, and decided against it, as it is not a good idea to knowingly break rules. So, do I go for the farthest glacier, and race back for an 11PM landing, not sure if it will work, only to come back tomorrow?

As I passed Svartisen, the second largest glacier in Norway, and crossed the Arctic Circle, I decided returning to Tromsø for the night was absurd. Was I really going to spend 8 hours the next day round trip commuting back here? I nibbled away at the little glaciers southwest of Mo i Rana, confirmed my fuel arrangements at Hattfjelldal by text, and made my way down to Byrkijenasjonalpark before rounding the bend at 65N and turning north.

I stopped for fuel in evening light, and continued my work, photographing Okstindbreen and the complex of ice around it, whilst taking a 30-minute jog east into Sweden and back. By the time I had crossed the eastern part of Svartisen, the sun was beginning to set, which it did as I descended over the Atlantic and for final approach to Bodø. It was beautiful. And it was confirmatory that returning to Tromsø was never going to happen.

The problem was, I had absolutely nothing with me to spend the night. No clothes, no nothing. That was made worse as I usually bring ear plugs in the event of unexpected noise. By 2:30AM, I was still not asleep as the hotel was a raucously loud affair. I descended to the front desk to request another room, where I was greeted by at least 50 people having a full-blown party in the lobby. “Are they waiting for a tour bus?” I asked, “they look like they are in a group.” “There is a music festival. That is Norwegian drinking culture.” “So, they’re just drinking?” “Yes.” “How long will it last?” “Some until morning.” “What is the purpose of a hotel room?” The clerk at this point thought I was expressing ire at the noise, to which I had to restate that it made no sense to rent a hotel room when one intends to spend the entire night drunk in the lobby and not sleep in said room. I got a puzzled look in response. Even alcoholics have a modest sense of cost effectiveness, which is why they are often found imbibing cheap liquor.

I was given a different room, with a glorious 3AM view of the Norwegian Civil Aviation Authority’s office across the street, where the twilight was already strengthening before sunrise. Life couldn’t have been better.

The next morning, somewhat ghastly in appearance, I stumbled into a taxi and back to the airport. I had roughly 8 hours left on my 100-hour inspection, which was running out about 7 days before the annual was due. My Norwegian-registered aircraft is subject to 100 hour and annual inspection regimes, whereas US registered aircraft for private use only have an annual requirement. While it is generally a massive thorn in my side, it generally hadn’t made a material impact….yet.

That meant one long arse-numbing flight of 4.5 hours to Svartisen, to enjoy it in its full glory, before a fuel stop back at Bodø, and then the commute to Tromsø, where I would hope to god the mechanic would fly in from Bergen and perform the inspection (he did!).

Svartisen is a complex of two glaciers, with the westernmost glacier alone the second largest in mainland Norway, which I believe makes it the second largest in Continental Europe. It was a sight to behold, as Scandinavian glaciers are…a large plateau glacier with many tongues feeding from it, located not far from the sea, at only 1000m in altitude, yet in existence due to astronomical precipitation.

The 100hr gaffe meant I couldn’t stick another 2.5-hour flight in to get a few glaciers in the area. Little did I know that the best summer in northern Norway in decades would become viciously nasty a short time later, ultimately rendering it impossible to get those glaciers. I will have to return next summer.

Østisen, roughly at the Arctic Circle, flying north to Bodø. Lofoten Peninsula visible on the horizon.

Østisen, the next day, from the north looking south.

Østisen, with Istinden peak (1,573m) in the foreground.

Vestisen, draining in the Storglomvatnet reservoir. Atlantic Ocean on the horizon.

Engabreen, on the west side of Vestisen, looking east. This is the closest that a continental European glacier gets to the ocean. It is about 150m/450′ above the Atlantic at the tongue.