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. 

My fixation with visibility started with a youth in one of the cloudiest sections of the United States. Downstream of the Great Lakes, an already marginally foul area was made even more inhospitable, with infrequent sunshine for 8 months out of the year. It was in this windswept, muddy, cloudy, acid rain filled environment that I took my first flights in the PA-11.

A few years later, I visited some friends in South Carolina at the base of the Appalachians in late November. A cold front had just blown through, which usually results in lake induced clouds and mist up north. In South Carolina, it was the bluest blue sky that I had ever seen. I asked wistfully, “Is it always this way?” “Uhhh…yes,” was the reply, as though I was neurologically deficient in some way.

Eight years after that point, I found myself not too far away, living in the Piedmont of North Carolina with the PA-11. While I had enjoyed many days from the ground with illustriously clear air in the winter, with regular day trips to the Blue Ridge Mountains, now I had an airplane to savor this forbidden fruit. Flying became a game of trying to find days with good visibility, while scowling anytime some humidity blew in from the Gulf of Mexico and ruined it.

By 2013, it was off to the highest airport in North America, where I was able to do things, such as enjoy 60-70 mile visibility for the first time. In a dry area, physically higher than most of the global population, one can find a form of pure air that just begins to satisfy my unquenchable thirst for clarity.

After moving to Wyoming in 2015, I wrote the local National Weather Service office, inquiring why I saw the faintest dint of distant haze after a cold front, even sending a photograph where they noted how wonderful the air was. Wasn’t this Wyoming, where everything was perfect? Did not Yellowstone have a correlation to clear air? What is this? Only 50-mile visibility? Ugh.

Fast forward from spring of 2015 to autumn of 2015, where I had waged holy war flying 300+ hours, snarling anytime the air was less than perfect, choosing mostly to fly midday, to avoid the opacity brought on by evening air. As the move to Germany (where everything undoubtedly would be perfect) was approaching, I made a point to fly to the Great Salt Lake, while I still could. I confess that I was growing wistful as I realized that America would be a thing of the past for a while, so I wanted to get some sightseeing in. It was early November, illustriously clear, and, as I approached northern Salt Lake City, I grew disgusted at the slightest additional haze, associated with smog (in retrospect, it was nothing).

On the way back, I took the high road from peak to peak, where I was at 10,000 feet just east of Logan, Utah. From there, I could see Grand Teton, an astonishing 122 miles away. That was the first time something of the sort happened, and things finally felt right. This was how air was supposed to be.

Three weeks later, the airplane went into a shipping container, bound for Germany. A few months after that, I took my first flight in the Fatherland, coming to understand what haze truly was. What had I done to myself now?

As we all know, later in the year, I fled to Spain, where the rampage about the inversion below began. Why that mattered, I struggle to understand, as I was living on a throne above the haze, in the Pyrenees. That autumn, I could see 60-70 miles again, down the chain of the Pyrenees, though I still couldn’t help but notice remaining tinges of impurity. Surely, things should be as good as Colorado, even if there is no sound basis in physics for such an expectation.

Forays in the Alps brought struggles with summer haze, though that was mitigated by the fact that I could merely elevate myself above it, by finding the layer and swirling around peaks above. While the haze could be somewhat foul, at least I had little to complain about since I could escape it.

Winter in the Alps came and went, with nearly unlimited visibility, which I merely seemed to accept as a baseline standard.  Recently, I was glacier chasing in South Tyrol, Italy, where the idea of the Logan, Utah to Grand Teton axis materialized again. It started with what was a “Carolina Blue” or “Colorado Bluebird” day, with a sky so blue one could pour the color into a glass and drink it. On the horizon, I could see the Ötzaler Alps in Austria, then another clump of glaciers to the east, and finally….is that really the Höhe Tauern in Austria? Clicking on my iPad, I confirmed the heading lined up. Distance: 87 nm / 100 sm / 162 km. Surely, this must be something of a European record.

Roughly 20 minutes later, after some aerial work around a ridge with small glaciers, I could see some distant glaciers now in the other direction. “That’s the Dufourspitze,” (Switzerland’s highest peak) I said to myself. Clicking the iPad, 117nm / 135 sm / 218km. Heilige Scheisse! Better than Grand Teton! Squinting a little more, I could see some glaciers on the horizon, just to the left of the Dufourspitze. “Is that Gran Paradiso, south of Aosta?” Sure enough, it was. To make matters more insulting, I flew there no less than four times this summer trying to get a few glaciers on the south side of the peak, and each time it was clouded in. Now I could see that silly glacier 148 nm / 170 sm / 273 km away, an astonishing visibility record, a full two-hour flight away.

It occurred to me that these memorable days happen in autumn. It is something interesting, as winter in the Pyrenees and Alps usually features incredible visibility, seemingly unlimited. Why do I not ever exclaim about distant markers on the horizon? The answer is fairly basic: dark blue skies are set against glaciers, with no seasonal snowfall in autumn. That makes the highest glaciers specifically stand out, instead of being outshined by brilliant snow for 100 miles in between in winter, which makes it hard to clarify a single peak on the horizon.

Nonetheless, the flight marked a point where my standard for visibility has been met. Perhaps I should spend some time in the Andesian Atacama desert, where visibility is usually better, though it is a bit oxygen starved up there.

Morning in St. Moritz, Switzerland…just shy of heaven.

Val da Vain (Romansch)….”Vain Valley”?

Livigno Pass, with Italy on the other side. Looks like a nice day visibility wise.

South Tyrol, Italy, with Höhe Tauern, Austria on the horizon.

Brenta Dolomites, with the Höhe Tauern lurking on the distant horizon.

Looking toward Milan, where haze wishes to creep up.

The coup de grace. 170 mile visibility.

Beneath the Brenta Dolomites.

What goes up must come down for fuel. Descending toward Bolzano. Haze infiltrating on the left. 


Fully fueled and slowly crawling my way into the Dolomites.

Pointy rock known as Langkofel in German and Sassolungo in Italian. This section of the world was Austria until 1918 where it was ceded to Italy as part of the Treaty of Versailles bit. 45% of the population speaks German, resulting in a delightful mix of chaos and draconian enforcement of rules. It could either be heaven or hell, depending on one’s perspective.

South of Dobbiaco. I thought about living there once, but the local aerodrome is mixed use with the military and has dumb hours.


Cimon del Troppa. Slovenia is hiding under the clouds on the left part of the horizon.

Punta Sorapiss. One has to love the name. Cortina d’Ampezzo behind me to the right. That is another place I would live, if the locals didn’t hate their airport and close it.

Marmolada Glacier with a swarm of paragliders. They were like gnats.

Descending for fuel. Haze is either seeping in, or evening light is accentuating it. Even on the best of days, it is a demon to fight with.

About to turn final to Trento for fuel, down below the skank layer. This image is rather post processed and, well, haze is haze. The airport was a very esoteric place, with a business helicopter doing aerobatics very close to the ground.

On the way back, above the haze layer, fighting the glare. This image is post processed to death.

One way to solve haze is to reduce the distance between me and the subject. It is coincident to the underlying style differentials between America and Europe. The US is very spatially grand, where as Europe is tighter in many respects.

On the way back…. I flew into a dust storm that blew in from the Sahara. Talk about haze. Mild slap in the face.

I am apparently prone to fits of explosive quantities of flying, which are a product of some half-baked idea that has run amuck. Some years ago, I was speaking to my late grandfather by phone, explaining a maniacal amount of flying that I was in the middle of, and he barked into the phone with a snarl: “TOO MUCH FLYING!” He didn’t even bother to complete the sentence fragment; apparently it is such an act of moral turpitude to fly an airplane so much that it didn’t warrant any form of explanation.

He may have had some inclination to concern himself with such things as limited financial resources. As one can tell, I gave up wise financial management a long time ago. The words “airplane,” “Europe,” and “Switzerland” cannot be combined without adding unrecoverable zeros to the end of the sums in question. That ship sailed a long time ago.

Anyhow, I am still in the middle of this crazed scheme, which will end [thankfully] when snowflakes start flying, as they will cover up the glaciers. I will elaborate more on a future post, as I cannot be bothered to catalog, sort, or explain the overwhelming amount of photographs I set out to get.

In the meantime, I will need to get a good proctologist and urologist on retainer if I am going to keep this up, as the seat on that airplane is a medieval torture device when used to this level of excess.

I am including photographs mainly of the airports visited and the Cub on the ground. It has been an intense six weeks.

Aosta, Italy. Here I had my bags x-rayed, body temperature checked, passport and residence permit copied (despite customs being goods only), COVID-19 papers checked, and an inquiry by the border police, but nobody actually looked at the airplane to see if I had crack or $10,000,000 in unmarked bills.

Barcelonette, France

Berchtesgaden, Germany. Back in the Fatherland after 5 years! I didn’t bother to photograph Hitler’s Berghof below.

Engadin Airport, Switzerland on final.

Gap-Tallard, France. Airport is in distant center right.

Grenoble Le Versoud, France.

Innsbruck, Austria from the air.

Innsbruck on final.

Innsbruck on the ground. I didn’t have any strudel, of all things.

Locarno, Switzerland….smashed up by a storm this spring.

Mont Dauphin-Saint Crepin, France.

Saanen, Switzerland with a PC-24 on the ground and PC-12 in the air.

Saanen, Switzerland on final.

St. Gallen, Switzerland for the night. The jet and airport were run by “People’s Airport.” This part of Switzerland is much closer to the Soviet Union, so perhaps they got some Marxist winds blowing in.

Wangen-Lachen, Switzerland with ducks on the parking ramp. They napped right next to the runway as airplanes took off.

Wangen-Lachen, Switzerland from the air. It took 20 minutes to get out due to an aeronautical traffic jam. Route of flight was to the bright light on the left horizon, above the clouds, then VFR on top. Since I am writing this as opposed to dead, it worked.

Zell am See, Austria. Each of my three landings here were embarrassing.

When it comes to images that represent large, round numbers, I seem to have developed a pattern, where I have in mind that the next threshold is coming and, well, I get too carried away with the camera and only figure it out afterward. That leaves much to chance, like my 500,000^th image, which was of a domineering, sexually perverted cow that had dubious intentions.

Normally, if I had planned well enough to choose an image that would be eminently demonstrative of my style, I would end up with a resplendent mountain image that is like drinking from a firehose: mountains as high as can be, as far as the eye can see, chock full of glorious alpine goodness. In this case, it didn’t quite turn out as I would have chosen, so, without further ado, I present the 600,000^th image that I have taken:

The image was taken just above Trümmelbachfälle, near Lauterbrunnen, Switzerland. It is beneath the Schwarzmönch peak, which is on the flank of the Jungfrau. Had it been sunny, one could crane his or her neck (or tip the airplane over), noting the Jungfrau staring down from a mile and half above. Alas, it was a foul weather day, so that was not to be.

One might ask what I was doing wedged into a steep valley deep in the Alps on a day where the weather was quite evidently marginal. It all started with a business meeting that I needed to have. An associate was in Zürich from the United States, and we intended to meet in the most convenient way which, as further investigation revealed, was anything but convenient. We settled on the fastest compromise: he would ride a rather fast train to Bern airport, and I would fly there.

After discussing business, we had to go flying. Standing at the airport, it was partly sunny to the north over the Swiss Plateau and darkly menacing to the south in the Alps. I pointed to both options and said: “You can have sunny Swiss farms to fly over, or the Alps with scary looking clouds.” “The Alps.” That resulted in this elaborate pre-flight briefing: “if we crash and I am dead, but you’re not, do the following. If we flip over, then take the ELT out. If….” “Has it ever happened before?” “No.” “Let’s go.” Oh, to be 30 again.

The flight itself was pretty basic. Bern to Interlaken, up the Lauterbrunnen valley, then Grindelwald, then into “the Cathedral,” a personal favorite, and back. I hadn’t ever done such a thing in these weather conditions, as it would involve flying west, north out of the Alps, east, south, into the Alps, then reversing it, owing to the fact that such foul clouds over the Oberland block a straight west to east flight to this area. Given the risk and fuel concern, it would be fallacious to undertake such an idea on a marginal weather day. Enter in the stop in Bern, where I could re-assess what I was doing, as well as refuel before heading back, and it worked out.

I tried to go straight back into the Oberland for the return flight and, well, 90 minutes after having flown in that section of the hills, it had turned into IFR and heavy rain, so I followed my steps over farmland, over the Röstigraben to the French speaking side, and then up the Sarine River valley back to the airport. I can chalk it up as one of the handful of times that a meeting or errand has been more efficient in the Cub than other means.

Thunersee and Interlaken.

Interlaken. It is much more fun to say it with a Berner Oberland accent.

Heading into the valley of death (to the right). Brienzersee to the left.

Lauterbrunnen. Image number 600,000 was taken in the ravine to the left. Resplendent weather.

Murren to the left (on the ridge) with Lauterbrunnen village on the center right. Piz Gloria, the filming location for “On Her Majesty’s Secret Service” is located well above in the clouds on the left.

Grindelwald below, with the entrance to “the Cathedral” in the upper middle right.

We went into the Cathedral. Obers Ischmeer.

Waterfall coming off of Ischmeer.

Ischmeer.

On the way out of the Valley of Death.

Interlaken again.

Thunersee and the Oberland to the west.

Spiez. Within an hour, it would be heavy rain and IFR here.

As glacier season approaches, I find myself with a pent-up fury, ready to attack and….it is not quite time. My goal is to get every last glacier in the Alps this summer, which is a 50/50 proposition. The largest are done, though quite a few are strewn over a very large surface area, although they are not as long or high as the ones already photographed. A wrinkle in my plans is not always knowing exactly where remaining glaciers are, which requires some excess of wandering around in cirques, bowls, and deep valleys in an old plane to find out what is there.

An ideal glacier photograph is an ideological perversion. The best-looking photograph of a glacier is when it is melting and receding, as seasonal snowfalls are excoriated from the glacier, showing its history in plain view. If it is showing its history, that means the history is melting.

2018 and 2019, my first summers frolicking amongst alpine glaciers, were relative infernos, with prodigious amounts of glacial melt, setting the standard very high for what I expected. As an example, the below 2018 image of the Aletschgletscher is a great point of reference for what I have grown to expect:

Aletschgletscher, 2018 – How I have come to expect glaciers to look.

2020 featured an August snowfall that ruined the party just as it was getting started. I was able to incrementally stab at some glaciers, though a combination of a recent extended maintenance downtime, lackluster glacial views, a pandemic, and the fact that I hadn’t yet declared war on all remaining glaciers on earth meant that the bull in heat aerial attack was more like a peacetime underfunded training maneuver.

Add the birth of the Global Glacier Initiative last winter, and, well, things are getting tense as I wait for my limited annual window to go on the attack. A recent flight to Zermatt furnished a false indicator that the season had begun. A July snowfall put an end to that idea, though it is looking like the glaciers of the southern Alps, in Italy and France, might be calling.

Matterhorn with Matterhorngletscher below. While snow covered, it is showing itself well.

Zmuttgletscher in the foreground, devoid of snow. Most of the glacier is covered by rock detritus, though it is in plain view. 

Tiefmattengletscher, beneath the Matterhorn, partially uncovered.

Gabelhorngletscher, mostly covered except the faces.

Bisgletscher, showing enough.

Riedgletscher, with the tongue fully uncovered and the rest of the glacier still seasonally obscured.

Glaciers beneath Mönch and Jungfrau. At first glance they appear exposed, as the only seasonal snow at the lower reaches is on the glaciers. That is due to the fact that the glacier is rather cold and snow takes longer to melt. Still a 50/50 proposition for photography.

I exuberantly decided it was time to head into the Valais and Italy to get a few glaciers on the eastern side of a range that I had missed, owing to flying in the afternoons when it was shadowed. Unfortunately, recent rains were snows at high altitude, so the images were not ideal. Glacier de l’En Darrey.

Glacier de Tsena Réfien. Even the rocky tongue has snow on it. Phooey.

Glacier du Giétro. One can understand why annual snowfalls render the inherent sophistication of this glacier moot. It was such flat light I couldn’t get a perspective of how high above it I was. Grand Combin lurking behind.

Tongue of Glacier du Brenay, also partially obscured. 

Glacier d’Otemma usually does not disappoint.

A pile of snow hiding the Glacier d’Epicoune.

Glacier du Mont Braoulé, Italy. I only knew it was a glacier because I saw it on the horizon in September 2020 while on a mission to get other glaciers. I made a note to “get it next year” and, well, it doesn’t want to be gotten yet.

Évidemment, a glacier presents well in spite of snow cover if it is quite textured, crevassed, and steep. Glacier des Grandes Murailles, Italy.

Haut Glacier d’Arolla, Switzerland, with the tongue still covered.

Not so bad. Glacier de Tsijore Nouve. There is still ice beneath the rocky surface at the base.

Glacier du Croissant. Oddly, I did not find any croissants there.

Glacier du Valsorey. Another one that fell victim to flying too late in the day.

Les Diablerets, with a small glacier in the clouds. There is a refuge in the center right, just at the edge of the snow field, that was literally covered over its roof in snow in January.

Decided to do the whole Mont Blanc thing. It was squalidly hazy, so the goal was to get above the clouds to get above the haze. On the way, the Glacier du Trient. Most of the plateau will stay snow covered all summer, so presentation is getting reasonably as good as it will for this kind of glacier.

Glacier d’Argentière, France, with Mont Blanc sneaking behind the clouds and the Aiguille Verte hiding inside them.

Mont Blanc. What else is new? It looks like this year round, owing to elevation. What is useful is the view into the Maritime Alps and Italian Alps on the horizon, where I get a clue that in a week or so, I ought to head that way. 

Clouds. They ruin everything for glacier photography.

Liechtenstein has always been a fixation. It is likely due to its mystical Disneyland allure, where everything is perfect, minstrels frolic while baking strudel, and life is as ignorant Americans imagine it should be in perfect little feudal European kingdoms. Perhaps it was when the people protested a few decades ago, about how perfect things weren’t. Or, in the intervening period, how there was a “constitutional crisis,” where the king wanted to edit the constitution to make it more friendly to monarchies, for which he threatened to “sell all the royal properties and move to Austria” if the people didn’t agree. They agreed.

One can’t help but to love the fact that, if Switzerland is a haven for ill-gotten funds, Liechtenstein is the place where the Swiss hide their money. Is Brexit or Trump’s America not xenophobic enough for you? Liechtenstein admits no more than 56 immigrants per year. 56. Then there is the fact that any neighboring country could have, at any time, in the past 500 years, simply told Liechtenstein that they shall no longer exist on their own. For some odd reason, a country the size of a large town still exists, when there is no good sense for it. But it does.

When we first came to Europe, it took 2 months to drive to Liechtenstein. I had to experience it and taste its illustrious, smug, self-righteous glory. I decided I wanted to live there, despite the 56-person limit (I thought I was cool enough). Then I realized there is no airport, so that put an end to that. 61 months later, and I had a chance to fly there.

So, there you have it. Country number 11 for “the 11” (as my grandfather called the PA-11).

Above Adelboden.

Interlaken.

Stucklistock north and east slope.

North of Andermatt, looking south.

Reuss River valley, emptying into the Vierwaldstättersee. One can thank this region for the existence of Switzerland. Some hillbillies in the late 1200s gave the middle finger to the Hapsburgs and it worked.

Clariden (10,718′). There is a sizable glacier under all this snow. The ridge in the foreground comprises the border between cantons Glarus and Uri.

Eastern ridge of Bifertenstock (11,217′). Some glaciers on both sides. The razor sharp ridge is the border between Glarus and Grisons.

Glarus. They don’t like foreigners here, even though lots of them moved to New Glarus, Wisconsin in the 1840s. I would take this valley, even if they all hated me, over Wisconsin.

Piz Dolf (9,934′), border of cantons St. Gallen and Grisons. It was time to begin descending.

Gigerwaldsee, one mile below nearly vertical mountainsides. It was quite tight and took some time to work my way down and out past the dam.

Some sort of mountain above Vättis.

Following the valley to Bad Ragaz.

Bad Ragaz with the Rhine River. Bad Ragaz Flugplatz is in the middle left, a tiny little field with interesting winds and a cantankerous airport operator. I could not land there on this day due to Pentecost. Flugverbot!

Liechtenstein! To the right of the Rhine. Ends just behind me and just past the mountain, also borders Austria on the right, outside of the image. The country is so small that it gets one image.

Gamsberg. Per Wikipedia, “not to be confused with the mountain of the same name in Namibia.”

Möllis, canton Glarus. This little airport is a personal favorite on Google Earth in flight simulator mode. For over a decade, when I have “flown” using said flight simulator, it is always in this valley. I shall return once I get around the fact that I need a sponsor to land at the airport in this image.

Obersee, before fueling.

Glarner Alpen, after fueling, looking south.

Druesberg, looking north, canton Schwyz.

Alpler Torstock, canton Uri.

Fulen, border of Schwyz and Uri.

Clump of mountains on the western slope of the Reuss River valley.

Border of the “half cantons” of Obwalden and Nidwalden. 

Aare River Valley, canton Bern. Lots of glaciers hiding in those valleys.

Lauterbrunnen, valley of death with the Jungfrau.

On approach to Saanen with a sore ass.