When I travel, whether by car, Cub, or Super Cub, I get it done. Wake up. Eat. Travel. Eat. Sleep. There is no other way to cross entire countries or continents using slow travel than to attack it with a vengeance. For some reason, however, when I share my travel exploits by small aircraft, I usually get a slew of suggestions about museums, castles, high end restaurants, and so forth. If I was retired, it is conceivable that I could visit attractions along the way, though even then, the reality that weather is usually only good for a few days at a time would kick in, and I’d be back at it, performing religious penance flying from sunrise to sunset. If my grandfather is any indication, he continued to engage in penitential road tripping to and from Florida until his death a few years shy of 90.

I therefore merely expected to place my posterior into a French taxi in Biarritz, drag myself into the hotel room, eat French food while working on my laptop (one gets curious looks doing this in France), and go to sleep, only to wake up, eat, and get back in the airplane.

My wife serves as a travel agent, waiting for the “all clear” to book a hotel room, when I know I will make a certain airport for the night. She found a great room at a cozy pseudo-British hotel one block from the beach at the old section of the city. When I got out of the taxi, the air was electrifying, with the sound of powerful Atlantic swells smashing against the rocks, and a California-style salt in the cool air. I spent some time watching the waves, which were illuminated by streetlamps given that it was already night.

The next day, the temptation to fall into sin materialized. I had contemplated a) just barreling into central Spain and “sorting out the bad weather once I get there” thus forgetting my coastal ambitions or b) parking my rear in France for a few days. It was just too pretty, and I was feeling too lazy. It is so much work to walk to a taxi, ride to the airport, drag suitcases to the plane, preflight, and get in it (much less actually pilot it all day). I thought it over many times, looked at the weather, and realized that the original plan was holding true perfectly. It was only sunny in Spain along the north coast. What was more, there was a strong tailwind….the entire way to Portugal, curving around Galicia and changing direction with my intended flight path. I had to remind myself that a) I always wanted to see this section of the coast and b) I will probably never have a chance like this again, with the heavens bestowing its glorious light and wind, whilst no other option works.

Like a slow walk to the gallows, I dragged my tired self and pile of belongings out to the tarmac, almost snarling how I’d rather not be exerting so much effort. 20 minutes later, when I turned downwind to depart to the west, I saw the turquoise waters of the Atlantic, and my gallows drudgery changed to immense satisfaction.

Part of the problem was that I wasn’t sure where I would end up for the night. I was plunging into Spain and Portugal, in sections largely manned by AENA, the hideous (as far as GA is concerned) state airport operator. More than likely, the day was going to end up with some kind of nonsensical and expensive cluster, followed by crappy weather the next day.

After flying for about an hour, I overcame my hesitance of flying over water with such steep coastal terrain….I think I stopped caring as it was too pretty. Then with consistent blazing tailwinds, followed by updated calculations where I would only have to fuel once before landing in Portgual for the night, I realized that my plan was going to work. The wildcard had been removed. My mood switched to transcendence.

The coast was positively stunning, especially when the snow-capped Picos de Europa came into view, which are a sub range within the Cantabrian Mountains. The whole experience was illustrious.

I cut the corner over Galicia, with angry tailwinds over what looked like Spanish Pennsylvania. Then I arrived at the Spanish west coast, where the Föhn wind coming off the Galician highlands made it so warm that I flew with the window open and coat off, for the first time in the Super Cub. After a disproportionate amount of time over water far from land, I reconnected with a coastline devoid of rias, which looked like Big Sur.

Upon arrival in Portugal, the tailwind switched to a headwind, and the sun went away. I landed for the night near Porto, happy as a clam.

The next day, the weather was a solid headwind, cloudy, with showers and Saharan dust. I got the snot beaten out of me as winds roared off the Portuguese hills towards the coast. Instead of flying along the beach, I pointed straight to a fuel stop in Évora, then direct to Trebujena in southern Spain. At one point, I almost had to turn back due to visibility and then things suddenly cleared as I approached the Atlantic. Thunderstorms over Seville meant a slightly longer route along the Atlantic before, of all things, flying straight into a dust storm on long final.

When it was all said and done, 16 hours were put on the tach in three days. I had landings on the Mediterranean and north and south coasts of Atlantic Spain. The trip covered five countries, four languages, the highest peak of the Alps, highest peak of the Pyrenees, and a trip along the Cantabrian Mountains as well as my longest coastal run to date.

Saint-Jean-de-Luz, France. Spain is the hill on the right horizon.

Basque Country.

Approaching Bilbao.

Cabo Mayor, near Santander.

I am not in the mood to exert the effort to identify exactly where this is. Its pretty though, and I was enjoying it immensely. Never mind…found it by chance. “Isla de los Conejos” on the right. Rabbits Island. 

The cove on the center right foreground is “Playa de los Locos.” “Crazies’ Beach.” Picos de Europa behind. I must say [somewhat narcissistically] that I know a thing or two about composition….

Somewhere else along the coast.

Galician Highlands. I find it intriguing that Francisco Franco (fascist dictator of Spain) and Fidel Castro’s father were from Galicia. Chance? Or is there something in the water?

When I texted a friend the above photo, he asked “are you going to eat pulpo a la gallega?” I had no clue what it is (octopus…) and did not respond. My next photo was the below, taken at the mouth of the Ria de Arousa. His reply was “that is where they catch them.” It was redeeming that, should the engine have quit, I could have climbed onto one of those and hung out, instead of getting blown out to sea in the ferocious east wind.

Southbound along the west coast of Spain. Looks a bit like Sweden.

West of Vigo, where the coast starts to look like Big Sur.

Limia River. Spain left, Portugal right.

Next day…flying over eucalyptus forest while getting the snot beaten out of me by wind. Light rain was fouling the windshield with orange Saharan dust.

Atlantic Ocean…Doñana National Park, Spain. I would fly into a dust storm 25 miles from here….

And the haboob on long final. The airport lady made a point to clarify that Spaniards call it a “calima” and not a haboob, though the Arabic term is a bit more amusing. It was much less menacing once I was flying inside it.

One of the illusions in purchasing a second aircraft was to enable some longer distance flying, which is “reasonable” for general aviation. Apparently crossing the United States three times, flying from the North Sea to the Portuguese Coast, more mountains than I can remember, and over 4000 glaciers in the PA-11 wasn’t adequate by some aeronautical definition, but I digress. Anyhow, the Super Cub was supposed to make all that easier, as it flies 30% faster, goes double the distance without refueling, costs inordinately more, and has 10% less posterior damage over long distances.

The problem is that this kind of religious penance flying is still…. penance. The Super Cub is not a business jet; it merely allows more distance in the same dosage of pain, which I delusionally glossed over at the time of its purchase. With winter at high latitudes and COVID-19 restrictions, my bubble closed in, and it was time to get used to covering some distance again.

The situation called for spending some time in Southern Spain, where a good friend has been beckoning me to come. Now is the time of year to do it, except abnormal weather patterns in the Iberian Peninsula were opaquing the prospect. I had rarely seen such foul weather in the whole of Spain; yet, with upcoming personal commitments and other factors called life, if I didn’t get going, I wouldn’t go at all. It wasn’t so much “getthereitis” as “getoffyourassoryouwontgetthereitis.” “Getthereitis” is a pilot term for insisting upon a flight that shouldn’t happen, usually due to bad weather. It has claimed many lives.

A weather window opened up per the models 5 days in advance. It featured easterly and sunny flow north of the Pyrenees, extending all the way to Galician Spain, where things might be murky in Portugal. From that initial prognostication until execution, the forecast delivered exactly as it said it would, almost down to time of day. I could get to Spain, except it would involve 50% more distance yet, seductively, it would involve a flight along the northern coast of Spain, which I had longed to do for some time.

For day one, I could have just aimed for Biarritz by crossing central France direct. The thought was repulsive. Late March features dull, hazy landscapes bereft of clear air, green, and snow. I wanted badly to go down the Mediterranean, along the Pyrenees, and then to stop at the Atlantic. I think the bee in my bonnet was predominately a visit to the Pyrenees, as I had not been there in some time. Memories have a way of warping perspective over time. Were the Pyrenees that majestic, beautiful, rugged, and dangerous? Aren’t they kind of short? Is there any real snow? Were you a naïve drama queen? After a silly amount of time making love to the Alps, one could understand where the Pyrenees might have been a beginner league.

At any rate, there was a small corner that I never did fly to, in the northwest. Due to French park restricted areas and limited range of the PA-11, it would have meant two fuel stops and a full, long day just to see a small area. This time, with the new toy, I wanted to see it, so I think that is what drove the exertion of effort to prolong an already prolonged itinerary.

The result was breathtaking, and instructive that my initial perspective of the Pyrenees years ago remains correct. Everything from when a Ryanair 737 nearly blew my airplane to smithereens in Beziers to the Pyrenees, to a majestic sunset over the Atlantic in French Basque Country was quite pretty.

Gstaad Airport, Switzerland

Sanetschpass

Rhône Valley

Over the pass at the French border.

Les Alpes somewhere east of Grenoble.

Les Pre-Alpes southwest of Grenoble. It would be the last of the snow until the Pyrenees.

Beginning of the climatological transition to the Mediterranean. One can feel the crazy.

Sête, France with the Mediterranean. That body of water makes people act imbalanced. Show me a country that borders the Mediterranean that isn’t at least partially crazy….

Back in the air after a free facial exfoliation and jet a-1 oiling, courtesy of Ryanair.

Approaching the eastern Pyrenees. I flew into the valley in the center of the image when I first moved from Germany in 2016, with the PA-11. It was singlehandedly the most difficult flight I had ever taken, as I conquered massive unknowns and obstacles. Now I am here again, in another airplane, in an act ostensibly derived of pleasure and novelty. My how times change. I expected none of these adventures before they began…

North side of the Pyrenees, with Andorra just out of view.

Andorra left, France foreground, Spain right.

Spanish Pyrenees, taken from France. Vall d’Aran to the right. The Pyrenees really are quite pretty. It is a different kind of beauty and ruggedness than the Alps.

Approaching the western Pyrenees, above the clouds, at 11,000 feet. I would have been too afraid to do something like this so late in the evening so far from home in the PA-11 years ago. Equipment matters similarly as experience.

Sunset over the French Atlantic, with Spain on the left horizon. I have been told that French people are “either Atlantic or Mediterranean,” meaning that is where they choose to go on holiday; they usually stick to one or the other. I must say I am definitely an Atlantic person if I had to choose. The majesty of large swells, salt air, and cold sea is wonderful. 

While it was in early February 2021 that the idea of the Global Glacier Initiative was formed, it was roughly one year ago that I printed out the 119-page Wyoming Non Profit Corporation Act and made it my bedtime reading. Later in March 2021, the corporation was formed, though that was the easy part.

In order to have the corporation not owe income tax, and most importantly, for American and Canadian donors to potentially receive an income tax deduction for donations, approval from the Internal Revenue Service for 501(c)(3) exemption must be obtained. While one would like to believe it is easy…Form 1023 is 40 pages long, filled with questions, calculations, and essays answering many questions. A Board of Directors had to be formed, bylaws written, and a variety of policies adopted, as auxiliary matters to the process. By early June 2021, the form was submitted, along with the IRS’ $600 user fee.

At this point, I must specify that a client of mine at roughly the same time chose to form a foundation and go through the same tax exemption process. A national law firm was used, with legal fees that approached $50,000 for a similar task….

Hours of entertainment reading legal briefs and tax law coupled with my inherent self-willed frugality won out, and the IRS approved the application in late January 2022, with no questions from an examiner! This means that the Global Glacier Initiative can begin accepting donations.

When it comes to glacier flying, it has to date been 100% self-funded. Everything to do with licensure, maintenance, ownership of aircraft, skill acquisition, and the recent purchase of the Super Cub has been without any outside support. The efforts in shopping for that airplane are specifically for the coming glaciers of Norway, Sweden, and eventually Iceland. Much has been going on this winter to prepare for significant equipment and training upgrades for the coming crossing of part of the North Atlantic in 2023.

If one wishes to make a donation of any kind, a link to PayPal’s donation page is here. Any amount is appreciated. If anyone wishes to inquire about detailed budgets, use of funds, or discussions around larger donations, feel free to contact me directly. Funds are of course dedicated to the charity’s stated purpose, which is for costs related to photographing the glaciers.

As I have said to many all along… I am doing the glacier flights no matter what happens. The question is how long it will take.

My late paternal grandfather receives much recognition in my writings as a profound influence. While he was living next door, restoring airplanes, and taking me for rides in them, there is another figure that lurks much further in history, who leaves behind an influence that is hard to describe. Although my maternal grandmother died when I was six, I keep finding hints show up in the most unexpected of places.

The story runs in a full circle over a span of 80 years, so I will connect the dots later on to how it relates to a recent flight.

In late September of 2013, autumn had just begun in Colorado. I had spent the summer looking at the forests of Summit County, which were mostly lodgepole pine and Engelmann spruce. I had it on my list to potentially drive over to Aspen when the season changed, assuming that no deciduous trees existed at that altitude. That was until one evening drive over Boreas Pass. There I found that the leaves did exist in that neck of the woods and had begun to change. That set off an unexpected flurry chasing them with a camera on a daily basis for weeks.

On one of those afternoons, just to the south of Frisco, I was in a stand of aspens in peak color. The sky was an indescribably overwhelming Rocky Mountain blue. I had decided to put headphones in and listen to some music, which was a first as the forests are inhabited by some carnivorous beasts. Wisdom implies having one’s hearing abilities intact for survival reasons. In any case, I have no idea how Beethoven’s Piano Concerto No. 5 made it on my iPhone, though it did.

The experience was absolutely transcendental, to be immersed in the aspens while listening to such a profound symphony. At the same time, I could not stop thinking about my grandmother who, at this point, had died 26 years before. After getting home, I emailed my aunt, asking if she had any idea why this symphony was triggering long lost memories, and she replied that my grandmother had Beethoven playing quite frequently in the house.

Five years later, I was in New York for other matters after my grandfather had died, and my aunt gave me my grandmother’s scrap books and notes from her time in the US Navy in World War II. While I knew she had served, I had little details, so the mind filled in the blanks and assumed that she worked in a factory as a “Rosie the Riveter.” Her notes disabused that notion.

She had joined the Women’s Reserve and later was sent for training in Norman, Oklahoma where she, of all things, was trained as an airplane mechanic. As I read through her classroom notes, it was utterly amazing how, while so much in this world has changed, it seems like nothing in aviation has changed at all. The wisdom in her notes was as applicable then as it is now for my Piper Cub. Even some of the systems involved in “complex” aircraft that I had to study for my commercial license in 2014 were generally similar in nature as in 1943. I suppose the fact that I operate an aircraft built in 1949, a mere 6 years after Navy school, should say something.

I flipped through her notes before writing this post and had to ask myself “Did you really have two grandparents that recovered fabric airplanes?”

I know very little otherwise of my late grandmother given my age when she passed away. There are many specific memories I have, though nothing of an adult perspective, other than the time she, to the dismay of the extremely religious wing of the family, allowed me to taste some relatively repugnant Genesee beer. At any rate, I have been told various things, which gives me the picture that she loved an ambitious if not crazy idea. Apparently, she was planning a trip to China before she died…which was at a time when people did not go to China.

If one combines my grandfather’s sage advice that one can do whatever he or she sets their mind to with another grandparent’s inclination to engage in the ambitious and unusual, well, then there you have a possible explanation for why the Cub ends up in places that one would not expect.

In the intervening period since the discovery of the Beethoven symphony—which I hold in her honor—and the present, I have found that I will listen to the entire 37-minute performance in situations where I am in nothing short of the finest of moods. While it has been played many times, I can think of some memorable instances where I turned it on. One was during a sunset in the Alps, as the peaks were bathed in purple. It was played while walking down the mountain. Another was a flight two weeks ago, where I saw the Jungfrau bathed in mountain wave clouds from the PA-11 in foul weather. I turned it on for the elongated flight back to base, fighting some wind under the cloud deck while enjoying a splendid view of the Alps. While the photographs of the Jungfrau itself do not do the flight justice, just imagine Beethoven playing in the background and you’ll get the idea.

While Beethoven plays and I am in a splendid mood, on a mountain trail or in the cockpit, I still think of my grandmother, as though there is a question I wish to answer or something I wish to say. Even though it remains something of a mystery, it is reserved for the finest of moments.

Aspens at 9,000 feet. Frisco, Colorado. Beethoven first played here…

Wait a minute. Looking at my photo album, I now understand that I went flying that morning and took this photo. It was the first time I had ever seen anything like this. It later became the cover of my first photography book “Extreme Autumn: Fall in Colorado.” It is of the Gore Range with colorful aspens below.

Cottonwoods in peak color on the drive from the airport to Frisco, where I discovered Beethoven’s 5th Piano Concerto. I suppose in retrospect that a full day of illustrious beauty laid the groundwork for such a moment. To me, all of this color is nothing short of heaven.

Fast forward to 2020. The same symphony is played here while making the long climb down. Walliser Wispile in the Bernese Alps.

A different kind of heaven.

Before we get to the 2022 Jungfrau photos, the album reveals yet another secret. I had gone flying earlier in the day in the Super Cub, heading deep into the Valais in dubious weather. Then, after landing, I said to myself “you only live once” and hopped into the PA-11. Near Sion below in the Super Cub.

Now in the PA-11. Jungfrau amongst the mountain waves in strong winds. There aren’t words to describe what it felt like to be in the airplane, though maybe Beethoven can better express it.

The 5th Piano Concerto gets turned on right about here.

And it comes full circle. Right above where I took the “Walliser Wispile” photos in spring of 2020. While it has no color, it is yet another form of heaven. 

The primary purpose for my fancy new toy is to be able to cover greater distances in a shorter period of time. The Super Cub is obviously superior than the PA-11 with 36 gallons of fuel instead of 18 and 150hp instead of 100hp. Cruise speeds are 100-110mph, instead of 70-75mph.

When it comes to glaciers of Europe, Turkey, and the Caucasus, speed and range are primary elements, as no mountain peak except one is higher than Mt. Blanc, which I have already conquered with my supposedly anemic little airplane. While there is not a need to climb higher and to do so faster in my present locale, glacier ambitions in Alaska, the Yukon, the Andes, and the Himalayas all require vastly higher altitude than my little desk fan powered Cub can achieve. The book says the PA-11 can climb to 16,000 feet, whereas the Super Cub supposedly can get somewhere between 19,000 and 21,000 feet stock.

It was time to put the new toy to the test, which was done with a flight to the Matterhorn (14,692’) and Dufourspitze (15,203’), the latter of which is the highest peak in Switzerland. Keep in mind that I have already surmounted these peaks in August of 2018 with the desk fan, so the exercise would be merely comparative to record time, rate of climb, and oil temperatures.

The process is simple: record what time it is and the oil temperature at each thousand-foot interval. I can then back into FPM (feet per minute) climb rates and plot them on a chart. My purpose in doing so was to allay nerves, as I often find myself neurotic in challenging terrain, wondering over and over if oil pressure was this low, temperatures this high, airspeeds this low, etc. the last time I was here. Is there an oil leak? Is the engine running too hot? Is the fuel reading lower than it should? Did I just smell some fuel? Is there a leak? Where is the nearest airport? Oh wait, its fine now. Was it like that the last time? Oh look, a pretty picture! [Forgets about the engine]

It is more expedient to have recorded data than to waste bandwidth on neurosis, which is why I decided to record the first climb to a minimally reasonable altitude of 15,000 feet.

My new toy is somewhat impotent. It does not climb very well at 15,000 feet. In fact, in the cockpit, I dare say it climbs about the same as the PA-11. The following chart, which overlays a similar climb test on a hot day in June shows that the Super Cub, on this flight, was a bit slower, which is positively dismal, given that airplanes fly significantly better in the cold.

Declining lines are the climb rate as the airplane gets higher. The ascending lines are oil temperature as the airplane climbs. PA-11 vs PA-18 is noted in the legend.

After landing, I began corresponding with an individual that operates a Super Cub at ridiculous altitudes in the Andes. The first takeaway was that it might serve me well to read the manual, which I then did, finding that I am not leaning enough and that I was excessively neurotic about redline oil temperature. I have an electric oil temperature gauge, which merely turns red at redline (without indicating exactly what that is) and stays green until then. Analog gauges show the temperature limit on the instrument. For the Lycoming O-320, it is 245F, whereas for the Continental O-200, it is 225F. At 218F maximum oil temperatures in climb, I thought I was on the edge of redline, when Lycoming ever so kindly notes that 180F-220F is a normal range for cruise, much less climb.

That implies that I have more potential to lean the engine. As a carbureted engine with fixed timing and manual leaning (all of which is computerized with cars), leaning is an exercise to save fuel plus gain power at high altitudes. The cost is heat. If the heat is excessive, it can fry valves and lead to a shortened engine life span. In the process of even proper leaning, oil will run hotter, which was the byproduct I was aiming to keep in line (with my flawed assumptions). The PA-11 only has an oil gauge, so I lean using its noticeable RPM peak as well as eventual oil temperature.

Clearly, I need another test run, this time leaning it as much as I can, while also running a steeper climb, with less airspeed. That will cut some time off, though it also adds to heat. In any case, all of it is part of a very, very long troubleshooting and engineering process so I can configure a Super Cub to fly to 23,000 feet someday, or just to 18,510’ at Mt. Elbrus, if the Russians will let me in.

The Valais, on the way to the Matterhorn.

Turtmanngletscher with Bishorn.

Weisshorn (14,783′). 

Northern ridge of Schalihorn, with Dufourspitze on the rear left.

Southern slope of Zinalrothorn (13,848′). At this point, I am dismayed that I am not higher.

Matterhorn. Not above it.

Matterhorn. Above it.

Monte Rosa Massif. Tax haven left, mafia right.

Dufourspitze (15,203′) with Italy in the background.

I guess these are foothills. It sure looks it from 15,000 feet, although there are a few glaciers down there so its higher than it looks.

The forecast for the morning, as of the night before, indicated morning fog that would burn off at worst before noon. It did not help that I was up at 5:30AM, which is a peculiar scorn when I go on long flying binges. My normal schedule, aligned somewhat with California time, becomes more appropriate for the Moscow time zone, owing to something close to clear exhaustion at the end of each long day of flying.

Hour after hour ticked by, where the view of Mannheim’s industrial skyline was obscured from my 6^th floor hotel window by pea soup fog. It lifted 100 feet by 10AM, then 200 feet by 11:30AM then…back down to 100 feet. Meanwhile forecasts continued to indicate clear skies by this point.

Finally, by 1PM, there was a hint that the fog was shrinking around the edges, according to the satellite animation. It was solid up the entire Rhine valley from Switzerland to Frankfurt, though rather low level. The Black Forest in Germany and Vosges in France both basked in sunshine, whereas the valley might as well have been Seattle.

I checked out, rode the tram to the airport, and sat with a thimble of coffee while working on my flight plan. There would be a two-stop arrangement: one to clear customs in Switzerland, and another to arrive in Saanen.

As 2PM rolled around, the fog was not gone. That is where my emotional composition unraveled. There was a 2.5-hour flight preventing me from finishing an odyssey from south of the Arctic Circle to the Alps, and some ridiculous fog on an otherwise beautiful day was causing a problem! If the fog did not lift, there was no certainty that it would the next morning, which stoked concerns of my Norway flame out on the first day.

What is interesting is that I shall point what I said to my wife, before I got on a commercial flight to Norway to view the airplane two weeks before. I mentioned that “the problem will be terrible weather in Norway, foggy coastal weather through Sweden and Denmark, and IFR over the hills north of Frankfurt. I suspect I will have to come up the Rhine from Cologne, where fog will be a concern getting down to Switzerland.” That is exactly what happened!

I was aware of the fog based on advice given to me 6 years ago by a German pilot. He pointed out that the Rhine and Frankfurt is often bathed in fog while nearby Mainz, 500 feet higher, sits on a plateau, above the fog. I considered landing at Mainz though, for some reason (might have something to do with forecasts), chose Mannheim out of convenience for hotel purposes.

Finally, by 2:40, the fog evaporated in an instant. I hopped in the plane and scurried off, knowing full well that I would have to do the VFR on top routine again for another 50 miles. As I surfaced the skank layer, I ran into a headwind that I did not expect, which meant that I would not make it to Saanen for the night. In the middle of flying, I found an alternate at Ecuvillens, filled out elaborate customs forms in French on my phone, cancelled customs at the other location (also on the phone), and reconfigured the flight plan with French ATC.

The rest of the flight was straightforward, down the French side of the Rhine to Basel, Switzerland, over the clouds covering the Jura, then down the middle of the Mitteland in Switzerland, with the Alps in view, bathed in sunset light. It seems odd that a chunk of VFR on top could be described as normal, though so be it. I hope to not make a routine out of the practice.

The next morning, I came for the airplane at Ecuvillens and took a little joyride to Interlaken on the way over the hill to Saanen. It was pleasant to notice that the snows had finally come in my absence. After landing, I pulled the PA-11 out of the hangar, preflighted, and took a ride around the foothills of the Alps for posterity. There is only one first time when the two planes are together; memorializing it with a second flight seemed appropriate.

More paperwork, maintenance, and adventures to come…

VFR on top in the Fatherland. Note the industrial stacks sticking up above the clouds.

Le Rhine. 

Rhine again, from France. Thick haze was morning fog earlier and will become so again overnight.

South of Basel, in the country known for chocolate, cheese, and tax evasion.

Over the Jura Mountains, with the Alps on the horizon.

Alps, before sunset. Amen.

Day 5. Over the hill.

Thunersee and Interlaken, for posterity.

I hiked the foreground ridge in the fog a month before. Had I lost my footing….

 

Gummfluh, from the PA-11. Why have one airplane, when one can have two?

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.