Not too long after my experience of alpine heavenly Catholic terror, it was time to point the nose north…quite far north. The trip was never supposed to happen (and neither was 2023 in Norway, but I digress). A combination of factors in 2023 converged: 100 hour inspection issues, the Swedish Air Force persistently using some airspace for training runs, a bit of poor planning, too much work, bad weather, and finally first snows north of the Arctic Circle. Annoyingly, I had to leave Norway whilst having not completed a small amount of glaciers in the vicinity of Bodø.

As I flew south through Sweden over the Scandinavian Mountains in September 2023, I snarled about my upcoming Iceland plans, and how it “might be some years before I can get these few glaciers.” I thought about the prostitutive concept of renting an aircraft (how dastardly even saying it) in Norway, and then I tried to forget.

For those that read my vitriolic diatribe about the debacle in the Netherlands with the PA-11, the plot on that misery thickens. The project management calendar called for a series of events with that shop, in linear order, that would end with both a registration change for the PA-18 and, at the time, the plan to ship it to Iceland in spring of 2024. Since they couldn’t complete tasks remotely in the same year as agreed, I pulled the plug on Iceland 2024 in early November 2023. It simply wasn’t going to happen. A whole summer, a whole glacier season…out the door…though this is the nature of the ongoing battle that glacier flying entails albeit I usually expect my adversary to be weather and not supposedly skilled professionals.

When life closes a door, it opens a window. With the project management schedule figuratively having flown into the side of a mountain, I decided to get those remaining glaciers near Bodø in summer of 2024. The time had come to fly north, as the weather was good.

I initially was just going to swing up there, fly for a few days, and come back. It would be 10 days of flying, with no car, and winging it in hotels based on weather. My wife decided she wanted to come, though a 3.5 day drive each way made no sense and, as she said, “you’re renting a hotel anyway, why not an AirBnB?”

Europeans have a sanguine approach about long flights in small aircraft. Wake up early, do some flying, stop somewhere for a 2 or 3 hour lunch, visit a museum and….never get anywhere. Rain comes, the trip is cancelled, and they try it next summer on their next vacation, and then it likely never happens.

My approach is the opposite. The goal is to fly as much as possible, as far as possible, in one day, or else….I don’t know what…the world ends? In 2023, that meant Switzerland to Gothenburg, Sweden in one day, landing at 9PM. This time, I decided to try a philosophical compromise. I moseyed to the airport at the pace I saw fit, with the sole obligation to get to Frankfurt. Things went well, so I continued to Braunschweig, where I overnighted for the first time.

The next day, thunderstorms were something of an apocalypse over Hamburg, though they were stationary. I had decided that the flight up the west coast of Sweden was repetitive, so I planned to fly directly north over the Jutland Peninsula, and then grimacingly cross the water via Laesø Island. I planned a stop at Flensburg, Germany and then Aalborg, Denmark, before the flight into Sandefjord, Norway via Sweden. It was nice to break up the miserable distances and liberate one’s rear end from the suffering of endless aeronautical toil.

Overnight was at Skien, where I bought the plane a few years ago.

The next day, weather wasn’t so hot to the north, so I took my time. It was splendid in Skien. I had offered the seller of the airplane a ride, and he had to decline owing to some obligations. When I got there, he was there, looking for his ride. “Some people are not happy right now. I am making them wait for a meeting.” And yet we still took a ride anyway, which puts a smile on my face. It reminds me of my willingness to directly accept punishment when I was 5 for lying to my parents and absconding to go flying with my grandfather.

I wanted to get to Trondheim in one go, though the distance was a bit much, and the winds were a tad on the headwind side, with some concern about crossing the mountains. With all those issues, I decided an intermediate fuel stop would make sense. After some research and phone calls, the flying club at Frya indicated they could sell some fuel, so I took off to the north.

Frya is a pretty place, with fjells up above, Nordic skiing villages around, and some downhill skiing. The runway was down at the bottom of the valley, with an approach that rivalled a typical Swiss mountain airport. Winds were wild, to say the least, blowing astoundingly hard after I landed. Apparently, downdrafts off the hills can really get quite furious on days with wind from the north.

I took off for Trondheim with some concern about the ability to cross the hills, owing if anything to a lack of information about exactly what is going on in the wilderness. I use webcams to fill in the blanks, though they tend to be in habitable regions versus up on the peaks.

Trondheim was blowing quite hard, and the leg to Bodø was certain to be a hair-rising scud run over the Atlantic. I decided I wasn’t in the mood, parked the plane, put the covers on due to the sea spray, and walked over to the Radisson Blu hotel at the airport, which I have stayed at before. It was the right decision. If a plane needs to be covered from sea spray, perhaps it is too windy…

The next day was the scud run. It had improved, but not by enough to liberate one of concerns. It is a 3 hour flight with no fuel alternates (though plenty of non-fueled airports along the way). Terrain gets worse the farther one goes north, inland and coastal. I carry a jerry can for moments like this, so if I have to land at one of these alternates, I can take a taxi 5 times to a fuel station for mogas 98.

Crossing to Namsøs was the most questionable part, with MVFR conditions and a flight down the deep fjord, though it eased up once I got to the Atlantic. From there, it was VFR to the left and IFR to the right (wedged up against terrain) meaning no VFR access to inland airports…just the coastal ones. The further I went, the more things seemed to be fine.

Eventually I crossed the Arctic Circle and landed at Bodø. From there, I picked up the rental car, met the wife as she got off the commercial flight, and then we went to our lodgings. The timing couldn’t have been more precise.

Wine country in the Rhine valley.

Somewhere north of Frankfurt.

Northern Germany. Some kind of exceptionally strange compound.

More weirdness.

“Kayakers floating above a toxic algae bloom, Denmark.” A still life.

Somewhere on the Jutland Peninsula.

“Danish Motorway.” I plan on having this auctioned at Sotheby’s.

Joining the circuit at Aalborg. There was a NOTAM that “EKYT [Aalborg] is not able to receive or accommodate alternative for foreign aircraft with armed guns, missiles or rockets due to no available safe parking.” I had to remove the Hellfire missiles in Gstaad before I left.

At 4,500 feet before leaving the Danish mainland. Having extra altitude over water allows more time to contemplate one’s entrance into a watery grave if the engine quits.

Laesø Island, Denmark.

West coast of Sweden, which seems to be something of a commute.

Approaching Skien, Norway.

Next day heading north out of Skien. I am immensely pleased every time I reach this part of Norway.

The fjells. Very liberating.

Descending into Frya.

North of Frya. Clouds were behaving.

Downwind for Trondheim. A bit breezy.

Next day flying north along the Norwegian Coast.

Unbearably tedious…

Crossed the Arctic Circle! 

A few years ago, I spent the afternoon flying to Münster, Switzerland, an airport that is open only in the summer and located in the Obergoms, in an impressively tight and high-altitude valley. After wandering around Zermatt, I transferred 5 gallons of fuel that I had toted in a jerry can in the back seat and took off to return to Saanen.

The only problem was unexpected wind over Grimselpass, slowing my forward speed. Clouds on the north side of the Alps forced an odd path, and between the two, it was clear over Grindelwald that I would not make it back by 8PM closing time. I was previously aware that Zweisimmen was open to civil twilight, with a maximum of 10PM, though it had a permission requirement. Since landing at a closed airport is similar to committing an act of mass terrorism in Switzerland, landing without permission was the smarter choice, which I did.

I made a note that I should “do a sunset flight sometime” and largely forgot about it, as I was head down in my glacier jihad in the Alps. That lead to summers away in Scandinavia, until one time in May of last year, I returned from the Netherlands, too late to land in Saanen, so I texted the folks at Zweisimmen for permission to land. Verboten! (or something like that in German). “The airport is closed at 7PM.”

Checking the AIP, I was dismayed to learn that the new closing time was now 7PM, and I had missed my sunset opportunities. Perhaps I found them more acutely desirable after having spent the previous summer in Norway, and then it struck me what I missed.

In any case, for some random reason, I happened to check the AIP again in 2024. Why? Who knows! What kind of loser reads AIPs at random? In any case, the closing time of a maximum of 10PM had gloriously returned, so I contacted airport management to arrange for some sunset flights and overnight parking outside, to which they pleasantly agreed.

The arrangement called for a lot of back and forth, moving the plane for a series of sunny days, then back to Saanen on rainy periods, with portable tie down screws and using my custom airplane covers to entomb the aircraft, protecting it mostly from sun, hail, and secondarily from rain. My wife was eternally patient, involved in the flights and car trips getting the plane over (or back).

The season for this kind of thing starts in April and ends in September, if one measures strictly the period by which Zweisimmen is open and Saanen is not. Specifically, it is roughly March 31st to September 20^th, though from a practical standpoint, it is really about May 1 until mid-August. It is not worth flying from a different airport to gain a few minutes of flying time after 8PM, though the above window is when a full hour is gained.

Further, on June 21^st, twilight lasts 39 minutes after sunset, whereas it is 35 minutes on December 21^st, extending the twilight by 11.4%, which means that I can fly that much further from the airport at the time of sunset to have enough time to get back.

The biggest detail pertains to orientation of the sun at sunset. On December 21^st, the sun sets in Switzerland at 236 degrees, which means it is to the southwest. That means that few parts of Alps here are oriented toward the sun, without other ridges blocking the light, leaving only the peaks bathed in sunset colors. On June 21^st, the sun sets 307 degrees, almost to the northwest, meaning that everything from Mont Blanc to roughly the Uri Alps is gleaming in the sunset light, bathed in incredible colors, made even more interesting with any daytime clouds.

There were a variety of flights in the aforementioned range, a product of wind, afternoon cloud buildup, and cloud activity to the northwest. Sometimes, lighting would be perfect, with explosive colors bathing the Alps. Other times, right in the peak of panting and heavy breathing with perfect lighting, thunderstorms over France would block the sun, and coitus interruptus would set in. When the wind was out of the southwest, I would plan a slow slog to Mont Blanc, haul my sorry ass to 16,000 feet, enjoy the light show at the summit, and then commence a blistering race back to the field at 9:25PM, at times having to call Alps Radar for clearance into Class C as I undertook a power-on descent, after sunset, above the clouds, at FL155, with the tires chirping at 9:48PM down in the valley.

The last flight of the season, before a trip to the Arctic Circle, was the culmination of the season’s exploits. I had discovered the “Dies Irae” opera, a glorious monument to medieval Catholic terror, and was listening to it on my aviation headset by Bluetooth. On this flight, dwindling cumulonimbus were still towering to 20,000 feet, building off the Bernese Alps in southwest flow, with a cloud deck below in the valleys. I found a way to slink around the thunderheads, sandwiched between angry towering clouds, next to angry towering peaks, with clouds below, above, on both sides, all moving with the wind, growing and shrinking cyclically and orographically. It was a challenge to maintain good situational awareness, as the peaks would come and go with the clouds blocking them, and the various cloud layers were both stationary and moving at the same time. Add into this delightful mix divine medieval Latin operatic wrath. It scared the shit out of me, though the opera is intended to put the literal fear of God into someone.

The photos were nice though, and I simply flew out of the Alps when I had enough of picking a battle with the sky. The descent to the foothills featured few clouds, and I was left somewhat stunned that such a menacing concoction of visuals and experience could lie a few minutes away by plane, as the cow bells rang and the sanguine existence that is an evening summer in the Alps filled the air after landing.

Next Spring, I will be armed and ready much earlier to resume the sunset attack.

Climbout from Zweisimmen. Towering cumulus in the Alps in the background.

Welcome to the flight levels! A little bit of granite hiding in those clouds….

Modestly challenging. The peak is over 13,000 feet, with cumulus towering to FL160 at least.

Jungfrau to the left. 

This best depicts the challenge of the mix of terrain and moving clouds on all sides. While it looked like the clouds ahead were advancing, they were dissipating as they separated from terrain, though had the sensation of movement.

East of the big hills, the clouds toned down a bit. Obergrindelwaldgletscher.

Back side of Mönch and the Eiger. 

Summit of the Jungfrau looking west. Clouds are starting to shrink as the sun begins to go down. Altitude 14,000 feet.

The Aletschgletscher.

Dies Irae! The opera reached its crescendo and so did the weather. “Day of Wrath” in Latin….

North slope of the Jungfrau.

Padre, hijo, e espiritú santo. Amen. 

Now time to head out of the Alps. The path ahead….

10,000 foot terrain down below. It is more docile than it looks.

Et voila! Out of the Alps and out of the clouds. 

9,000 feet and descending to the airport, where the gentle ringing of cowbells will belie any illusion of biblical apocalypse in the sky.

When I moved to Europe almost nine years ago, I had a short list of delusions that fed the decision. One of them was that I would fly to Venice Lido airport on a barrier island outside of Venice, as though it was easy. Having just flown hundreds of hours over mind- and arse-numbing expanses, the prospect of a relatively short flight from Germany at the time didn’t seem that outlandish.

The fact that it took a better airplane, a relocation out of the Fatherland, and almost a decade is illuminating regarding the magnitude of my ignorance.

In theory, Venice isn’t far from Switzerland. When one compares some of the other little jaunts I have engaged in, such as photographing every glacier in the Alps, or flying to the top of Europe, it seems inconceivable that there is any pause at the notion of taking a 258-statute mile flight. It could be done without stopping for fuel if I was sufficiently determined, so what is the big deal? Aren’t planes for flying and getting somewhere?

Like my musings on the creeping and surprising complexity of flying to St. Moritz, a distance half as much, reality proved to be similar. Just because one flies in the Alps doesn’t mean that crossing them is uncomplicated.

The weather had been a long run of north and northeast flow, with clouds bunched up against the north side of the Alps and regular precipitation. On what was supposed to be a partly cloudy day, I escaped the cloud layer by finding a hole over Lenk, Switzerland, corkscrewing up, and then wedging over the Gemmipass at over 10,000 feet. I was hoping to slither over Simplonpass before enjoying sunshine over the lower parts of Italy.

The reality in front of my face presented other options. Clouds were solidly blocking the pass and most of the Alps, though I found a hole on the leeside of Weissmies, after having climbed to 14,000 feet to surmount the cloud deck. It was an abrupt dive down to 9,500 feet to get under the clouds, then some snaking around thundershowers, before landing in the sun at Locarno for outbound customs.

The rest of the flight to Venice Lido was straightforward, though I had to wedge between alpine clouds building in the foothills of Italy (with large thunderstorms up in the mountains) and Class A, C, and D airspaces to the south. I can’t really complain, as it forced me over the horrors that the Lake District has to offer, such as Lake Como, Lake Garda, and so forth.

The rest of the flight was over pleasant farmland and vineyards, though it is somewhat deceptive. In summer, it is an inferno. In winter, it is fogged over with pollutants trapped below and vile air quality. I lucked out with a good day for views.

Venice Lido is a little grass strip near the water, about a 1km stop from the water taxi into the old city of Venice. I had a hotel not far from the water taxi stop, though I had a good hour before the airport closed at 7pm. “You’re here. Why not?” I said to myself and hopped in for a local flight. Raising Venezia Tower and then Venezia Approach on the radio, I asked for permission to enter the restricted area over the city. I was told to hold at the southwest part of the barrier island, which, as the clock ticked, I pulled the plug at 6:45PM so I could land. While I didn’t get what I was hoping for, it was a nice evening stroll on the Adriatic by air, and I learned to give more time with controllers the next day.

The next day arrived, and I was wondering what I should do with myself. I had gone into Venice the evening before, and had dinner plans the next evening. I contemplated a flight to Croatia, though by the time I read up on all the nonsense with flight plans and all the rest, I lost my nerve and decided just to fly over Venice itself. After 20 minutes in the air, I finally negotiated permission to overfly in orbits at 3,000 feet above the city, which was a bit complicated owing to airline traffic coming into Venice’s mainland commercial airport. I orbited for probably 30 minutes, at times having to head to the ocean to avoid IFR traffic, then allowed to resume. I thought to myself that something about the fact I even got permission seemed rare, and that I might never get to do it this way again, so I decided to go bonkers with photos, particularly the zoom lens.

I hadn’t fully comprehended exactly how exuberant I was until the buffer on the camera filled. Noting in the viewfinder…I watched as the camera laboriously was attempting to transfer….256 images….out of the buffer onto the SD card. When it was all said and done, I had taken about 1,800 photographs, down to incredible granular detail of the city.

After landing, I moseyed back to the hotel to get some lunch. I thought about flying again and said to myself “you know, Venice is enough. Nothing else around here will match that experience.” Then I thought about checking a few work emails, like the good American that I am, and then something about the languid Adriatic air seeped into the recesses of my mind. “I am in Italy. It is Sunday. I am taking a nap.” After that, it was a water taxi ride, some aimless strolling in Venice trying to avoid other Americans, and then my dinner engagement.

The next day was time to return to Switzerland. Crossing the Alps was even more dubious than the trip down. Nothing had changed about the weather: same flow, same clouds, same thunderstorms. My crossing of the Lake District was mildly problematic, though scud running in the alpine foothills meant enjoying some Italian Mary shrines closer than normal. Partly cloudy in Locarno…and then the crossing.

Simplon Pass was only doable by surfacing the overcast layer at 11,000 feet, with towering cumulonimbus to my left. I hoped for a crossing at one of the passes, and it wasn’t happening. I also hoped to cross the Bernese Alps over the clouds, and that wasn’t possible without climbing to FL170 or higher. I dove under the cloud deck and followed the Rhône River west, exploring every pass, all of which were not passable. I rounded the bend at Martigny for the moment of truth…and was met with doubt. Layers of clouds were above, below, and ahead, though I managed to keep it VFR while giving the plane a bath, then emerged out of the rain near Lake Geneva.

I thought “surely you can cross Col de Jaman.” Nope. Out to the Swiss Plateau, now fully out of the Alps and to the north, and back in at Gruyeres (yes, the cheese place), down the valley, and wedged down under 4,500’MSL, under the rain again and around the bend, with the Pays-d’Enhaut and Saanenland in view. My flight plan literally intended an arrival from the east, and I had to make a “270” and come all the way around from the north and west.

That is something of an explanation why I haven’t done this sort of thing before, though it was definitely worth it.

10,000 feet…after corkscrewing above the clouds.

Somehow need to navigate this mix of clouds, glaciers, and summits to get to the other side. 

Struggling to get it up.

After climbing to 14,000 feet, down through the hole on the other side.

Thundershower in the Italian Alps.

Lago Maggiore.

Bellagio, Lake Como.

Southeastern Lake Como.

Lago di Èndine

Lago d’Iseo.

Lago di Garda.

Hills south of Vicenza.

Marshes near the Adriatic.

Venice! From the edge of the restricted area.

Next day: with the zoom lens from high up. Piazza San Marco.

A few perspectives of the Grand Canal.

Normal lens view from the required altitude.

On the way back. I presume this is a golden Virgin Mary in the foothills of the Alps.

Lago di Garda again.

Lago di Lugano.

Here we go again. 11,000 feet in the Alps.

Not getting across the Bernese Alps via the passes.

Lake Geneva. Not according to plan but so be it.

Pays-d’Enhaut before landing.

Seventy-five years ago, on June 8, 1949, N5547H rolled off of the assembly line in Lock Haven, Pennsylvania, equipped with a wood propeller and a 90-horsepower engine. Some nondescript individual gave it a 30-minute test flight, and yet a different individual flew it for five and a half hours to York, South Carolina.

I found out this information in late 2010, after taking ownership of the airplane. I had just begun doing business with a firm not far from downtown York, South Carolina, and wondered what happened to the airplane in the gaps that the logbook showed in its later history. Seeing a private field registered outside of York, I phoned up the owner, Ed Currence, in January of 2011, and asked him if he knew about a plane that might have been there over sixty years ago. “Oh, that plane was owned by my father’s business partner, Max Mullis. There was another airfield, which is closed now, that they used.” Ed went on to explain that he still uses the building that his father had alongside Max’s business.

The airplane was part of a crop-dusting operation, which ran from 1946 until possibly 1957, when Max left for Florida to start a marina. Back then, Max was the only crop duster in town, and they used “the real stuff”….DDT. The story is backed up with the receipt of an agricultural airworthiness certificate in 1951. My grandfather would snarl about dealing with a DAR in 1996 to get a standard airworthiness certificate.

I received permission from Ed to land at his field in York, and I used it a few times to shave a few minutes off the long drive from Charlotte, North Carolina, literally flying the same plane, to the same town, 60 years later, to perform consulting work. At the time, it had no starter, transponder, radio, or electrical system. When asking my grandfather why he didn’t add a few convenient options to the airplane, he would reply with either “have you heard of a thing called weight?” or “they didn’t have any of that back in the day.” What did this mean for my commute to York in the 21^st century? I’d have to hand crank the prop, hop in, and skirt the Class B “cake” around Charlotte-Douglas Airport.

I finally connected with Max’s son in the Florida Panhandle over a year later. He filled in a few blanks, that Max had a Piper dealership, “used to crop dust from Florida to Pennsylvania,” and he used to “draw a line on a map and fly the line looking for landmarks,” which he taught his son to do. The irony is that, in 1990, my grandfather would teach me in a separate taildragger to navigate by roads. “What about a map?” “Now there is no need for that. You know where the highways go.”

The PA-11 went to Florida with Max, who later died in 1977. His flying days must have ended a few years before that, as the plane shows up in the low country of South Carolina in the early 70s, with a few inspections before the trail goes cold, at least as far as the logbooks go, in 1974.

My grandfather purchased the airplane, not far from its last inspection, in Florence SC in the late 80s. It was “derelict” and in storage with the engine and “one good and one bad wing” as he put it. The airframe would go to his winter residence in Florida, and the “bad” wing went north to New York, where it would torment me starting age 8, sitting there, year after year, untouched as he restored various other airplanes that one day flew and left the coop to new owners. “Grandpa, what about that one?” I would ask. “Oh, that is the PA-11. Your father wants one” was the reply I would get year, after year, until the wing came down from the rafters and went to Florida.

In 1996, the PA-11 flew again, fully restored by my grandfather, who made no shortage of announcements about how much money he spent in parts to restore it. He took quite some extra special care ensuring it had a freshly overhauled Continental O-200 (which survived the fury of Hurricane Andrew in 1992, coming off another Cub that was destroyed by the storm). It had overhauled mags and an overhauled carburetor. It was the 90s, when chrome cylinders were all the rage, which corrupted my thinking until a quarter century later, when I discovered the glory of merely buying new ones from the factory.

When I was 15 years old, I spent a few weeks in Lake County, Florida flying with my grandfather from his borrowed airstrip, which was a field filled with cows from the rancher that owned it, a ditch that had a habit of washing out the culvert every time it rained, and a power line dangling 14 feet above it. He wanted to give me unofficial lessons, convinced that a prospective instructor in New York would “want to milk it flying around for nothing” so “we need to get you tuned up.” That meant doing takeoffs and landings on this little patch of danger, buzzing the cows out of the way, skipping over the culvert, and landing under the power lines. I’ll never forget it.

In the summer of 1997, my grandfather trucked the airplane to New York, put it together, and announced that it is the airplane I would be taking lessons in. “But what about your [1990 model year, brand new] Super Cub? It is better.” “That is my pride and joy. You’re not touching it.”

He struggled to find an instructor, as the airfield was less than 1,500 feet long, with power lines on one end, and it unnerved the first few that he asked. He found a cantankerous old bastard, who first wanted us to fly the plane to a public airfield for lessons, for which my grandfather bent to his will and got him to agree to instruct from our airfield. I guess it is a testament to my grandfather’s old school methods that I failed to notice that the instructor was difficult. Other students later would tell me how utterly harsh he was. That got me to thinking about that one time in a Cessna 150 that he let me accidentally spin it in an uncoordinated stall, intentionally to “teach a lesson.” “What an asshole!” someone replied when I told them the story. I haven’t spun since, so perhaps it was good teaching?

Anyhow, I soloed in September 1997 (after 4.3 hours of instruction, so the unofficial lessons worked) and later got my private license in the PA-11 in 1998. I had a few years of incredibly memorable flying on warm evenings, on fall days, with the door open, in the middle of winter, around lake effect snow, in lake effect snow, above lake effect snow…you name it, I found a way to do it.

My father had owned the plane during my training and himself soloed in it, then lost interest. It would largely sit from 2001 until he died in 2010, before I took the reins and brought it back to life.

Since 2010, it has flown 10 times more than it did from 1997 to 2001. For anyone that has followed the blog and my personal history, it has flown from New York to Florida, and the Outer Banks of North Carolina to the Great Salt Lake, and from New Mexico to the convergence of Montana, Alberta, and British Columbia. In 2016, it was shipped to Germany associated with our move to Europe. It has been based in New York, Florida, Charlotte North Carolina, the Outer Banks of North Carolina, Leadville Colorado, Alpine Wyoming, near Frankfurt Germany, the Spanish Pyrenees, the coast of Portugal north of Lisbon, and two places in Switzerland. It has flown to 26 US states, 12 countries, 5 time zones, 2 continents, and has been to the highest mountains in the Appalachians, South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana, Colorado, Utah, Switzerland, France, Italy, Austria, Germany, Liechtenstein, Andorra, and the Pyrenees and has been used to photograph every glacier in the US Rockies and the Alps.

The move to Alpine, Wyoming meant the addition of a radio. The jet guys would not have it that some Cub was wandering around while a Citation was on approach, wedged between terrain. I added vortex generators that summer for safety reasons. Later that year, a transponder, electrical system, and starter were added to make it ready for Europe. In 2019, I added a wind-driven alternator and USB ports, which made life much more convenient. In late 2022, it received nav and landing lights, to allow for enjoying the moments after sunset and before the airport closed for the night during winters in the Alps. For those that read my winter rampage, it has factory new cylinders.

It is tempting to ascribe a sense of emotionality to an aircraft. One assumes, due to the passage of time, the heights the plane flies, and the fears or fatigues of the pilot that the plane is going along for the emotional ride that is the flying experience. The reality is, for all the worry and wonder that accompany the awe of flying such an old and slow plane in such places, that the aircraft does its job and is absurdly consistent. The engine starts on three cranks like it did in when I was a teenager. The oil temperature is the same depending on the power setting and outside air temperature, and she flies like she always has, no matter where it has been flown.

The plane not only makes decades of flying possible, with all of the destinations and stories involved; it seems to be a vessel for the stories of the people that fly it, from Max Mullis to an unknown owner in between, my late grandfather, late father, and now me. I often wonder how we’ll view airplanes like this when they turn 100, or 125, or older than that. Sure, they will get rebuilt, though there is no reason it can’t keep flying into the 22^nd century, which is what I hope for and will do my best to contribute to happening.

Far too many PA-11 photos below, though they happen to be the ones I could scrounge up that best tells the story of its journey in almost the last 25 years.

1997. Lake County, Florida. My grandfather hand cranking while I hold the brakes.

2010. Pulling the airplane out of storage at Fisher Field near Buffalo, New York. It is tipped on its nose to cause oil to spill forward and prime the pump, as it hadn’t been started in years. She still started on three cranks!

2013. Huntersville, North Carolina, its home for a few years. Landing just before an explosive snow burst.

2014. Telluride, Colorado.

2014. An early July morning in Leadville, Colorado, where it was based for almost a year.

2014. Lincolnton, North Carolina. Next to another PA-11! Only 1,500 were ever made.

2015. Alpine, Wyoming, after having flown it from the Outer Banks of North Carolina, nearly killing myself twice in the process.

2015. Alpine, Wyoming, parked in front of the house. The glories of an airpark.

2015. Rock Springs, Wyoming. Parked in front of a Boeing Business Jet.

2015. Double L Ranch in the Star Valley of Wyoming. In a phenomenal act of stupidity, I nearly ran it out of fuel five minutes before Alpine and had to land at a private field. Dumb. 

2015. Alpine, Wyoming. About to take what would be an unforgettable flight above the clouds, around Grand Teton, in 35 kt winds.

2015. Alpine, Wyoming. Disassembled for shipping to Germany. 

2016. Egelsbach, Germany. In the Fatherland! Who ever would have seen that coming?

2016. La Cerdanya, Spain. Just like that….out of the Fatherland. Didn’t see that coming either, but some application of logic would lend a person to conclude that life in Germany was a bit too…rigid.

2017. La Cerdanya, Spain. Just landed after a lightning bolt went whizzing by. 

2017. Bagneres-de-Luchon, France, in the Pyrenees.

2017. Carpentras, France, not far from the lavender fields of Provence.

2017. Castejón de Sos, Spain in the Pyrenees. A lovely little field. 

2017. La Llagonne, France, at over 5,000 feet in the Pyrenees. I needed a “licence du site” to land there.

2018. Cáceres, Spain. The Guardia Civil pounced with four officers and searched the plane for cocaine, convinced I had snuck it in from Morocco. After a bunch of arguing, they took selfies and waved as I flew to the Portuguese coast. 

2018. Casarrubios, Spain, southwest of Madrid.

2018. Sion, Switzerland. Amen!

2018. Engadin Airport, Switzerland. 

2018. Gstaad, Switzerland with other Cubs during the “Tour de Cervelat.” I thought the airport was public use and showed up without the proper PPRs. The staff were incredibly nice about it and I loved the energy at the airport the moment I stepped out of the plane. I didn’t realize then that it would be the future base for the PA-11.

2019. 4x4ing in La Cerdanya, Spain.

2019. Coscojuelas, Spain, at the base of the Pyrenees.

2019. Münster, Switzerland. 

2020. Bex, Switzerland.

2020. Gstaad, Switzerland.

2021. Gstaad, Switzerland. 

2021. Locarno, Switzerland. 

2021. Bad Ragaz, Switzerland. 

2021. Zweisimmen, Switzerland. Headwinds caused such a delay getting back that the airport closed, so I diverted to one that was open. I found out I parked in the wrong spot, as the hayfield is owned by a farmer. 

2021. Innsbruck, Austria, during the Alps glacier binge.

2021. Barcelonnette, France in the southern Alps, also during the glacier binge.

2021. Bolzano, Italy, before diving into the Dolomites.

2022. Gstaad, Switzerland. In semi-retirement now that I take the Super Cub to the far flung places instead. 

My view of autumn permanently changed in late September 2013. As a personal negotiation for the move to Summit County, Colorado, I had told myself that “autumns are over,” since I would be living in a county substantially filled with pine trees. While I knew there were aspen groves to be viewed on a road trip in other parts of the state, the idea of “living” autumn as it happened was a thing of the past.

On a drive over Boreas Pass at 11,000 feet in September, my suppositions were invalidated. Not only were there aspens, there were red aspens, something I thought didn’t exist. Aside from autumn being a thing of the past, any color other than yellow aspens was also resigned to the dustbins of memory.

Yet, here I was, staring at the impossible. I returned that night to photograph them under full moon light with a tripod. That started an odyssey that resulted in my first photography book, which was substantially terrestrial, and mostly of the autumn color in Summit County that didn’t exist.

What I did not expect was 1) to leave that region and 2) that the experience would in some ways corrupt my ability to enjoy autumn again. It simply has never come close since then. Not in the Carolinas, Jackson Hole, the Pyrenees, or, for the most part, the Alps.

I have previously fetishized larch trees enough with my writings to the point that, when I google them, some of the responses are my own posts. Apparently, I am unique in this specific fixation, though it brings autumn back into the discussion. Larch trees are pine trees that are fully deciduous, with needles that change color and fall off.

I can’t even recall if I knew that they existed in the Alps; if I recall correctly, my presumption was that they were limited to the Canadian Rockies and other “impossible” locales. On my first flight a week after my grandfather died in 2018, I recall trying to “take it easy” to make sure that my emotions weren’t too strong. After all, being in the airplane he restored stirred up emotions dating back to two years of age, when I took my first plane ride. As I was ambling around in “gentle” terrain, “not doing anything silly,” I discovered larches the Valais of Switzerland, deep in the Alps, in explosive color. They were stunning. I promptly resumed daring mountain flying, channeling concerns about aviation grief into jaw dropping autumn beauty.

I later learned that the Engadin in Switzerland, near St. Moritz, is probably the capital of larch tree color. I subsequently visited two other times in the airplane, spending the night each time.

The experience was transcendent, though I still had this “nothing compares to Breckenridge” thought going on in my head.

Finally, in 2023, I decided to put the matter to bed. “There are only so many autumns in one’s lifetime,” I said to myself, “time to take a vacation there [St. Moritz].” I booked an offseason rental in Pontresina, arranged hangar facilities with the helpful folks at Engadin Airport in Samedan, and carefully planned the arrival, this time with the Super Cub. I would have my wife do the 6-hour drive in the car, making it the first time I had ground transportation in the Engadin.

As life would have it, the weather for arrival day was going to be foul, so I snuck up the day before, while the weather was good, and stayed in a hotel in Samedan. The flight can be done, in theory, in less than 90 minutes, though there was a unique circumstance. It was October 13^th, and the glaciers were yet to receive any snow! I have battled snow in August, in early September down to 5,000 feet, and usually have called the season by late September at the latest. Here it was mid-October. I had photographed north of the Arctic Circle less than 2 months before, travelled to the Pyrenees to get the glaciers in late September, and was now wearing myself ragged as the glaciers demanded my attention. The flight turned out to be almost three hours.

I did some particularly close flying over Konkordiaplatz at the Aletschgletscher. It looked like late August…. snow levels up to the firn line at 12,000 feet, with torrents of meltwater running down the surface of the glacier. As I flew over the convergence of the glacier, I could see a new channel cutting, something that is foreboding, as a river is cutting on the surface. Mer de Glace, France, the second longest glacier in the Alps, has a new massive meltwater channel running down the middle of it, something that showed up this summer. I fear for the future of this glacier.

Impressed yet saddened, I continued my flight east, enjoying more glaciers on the Italian side of Piz Bernina. Again, it felt like August, which was hard to believe.

Once in the valley, autumn was in full swing. I had the chance to fly several times, though not as many as I had hoped, as not every day was sunny. I came to focus on the autumn color, though I had a choice to make. Do I get more glaciers in Italy and Austria, or focus on the trees? “The glaciers won’t last forever, but autumn will be here every year,” I said to myself, so I found myself heading into the flight levels with the Super Cub, enjoying cabin heat, range, and speed, covering much more territory than when I attacked the glaciers of the Alps in 2021, visiting glaciers up to the Brenner Pass.

It snowed for the first time after 5 days, covering the Alps in an impressive dump of snow, putting an end to glacier season, finally, in the third week of October. I was then able to focus on the autumn color.

It was interesting as I then became aware of the valley’s narrowness. It is impressively tight by any measure and always has been. However, the PA-11 is just slow enough to draw a person to flying down low. The Super Cub is just fast enough to cause one to incline toward flying higher up. I found myself not down in the trees, but at higher altitude, looking to capture sweeping views of the terrain above as it flows to the valleys below.

Since we visited for two weeks, I had the chance to hike to the Morteratschgletscher, one of the highlights of the trip. The day was resplendently blue, with bright larches, a rushing glacial outlet river, and views of Piz Bernina behind it. What was supposed to last a shorter period was much longer, as the glacier had receded quite a distance since Google last took a satellite shot. There was a moment to stand on the glacier itself, appreciating the sheer magnitude of these features that I fly over. They are truly massive, and every crevasse and feature is much bigger than it looks from the air. I was reminded why I do this…photographing them….as I could feel the impermanence standing on the ice.

I had hoped to write another autumn book based on my time in the Engadin, to recreate 2013. The inspiration did not strike, however, and I left with some clarity and confusion. The trip dislodged the notion that autumn could be no better than Summit County, yet I wondered why I had such a view for so long. Is memory that elusive and confusing?

It was a recent walk in the woods where I decoded the mystery of my 2013 experiences. Autumn, along with a few other factors, was a complete surprise upon my arrival in Colorado. It was so mind-blowingly incredible that it left an indelible first impression; however, as life would have it, we left the region before I could experience it a second time for perspective. Thus, it burned into the mind this notion that autumn had to rise to the level of a first-time experience when few things can repeat themselves with such intensity. It took an objective analysis that the Engadin is probably five times prettier than Summit County to rearrange one’s views.

In any case, I don’t tire of it, and hope to return to see the larches in the future.

Konkordiaplatz, Aletschgletscher….no snow.

Looking the other way….feels a bit like kissing the glacier though believe it or not I was flying above it some distance.

Vedretta di Scerscen Superiore, Italy.

Engadin Airport!

Ötztaler Alps, Austria, on the border with Italy. A tad of snow fell the night before.

Annakogel, Austria. It was really quite windy and some hard flying. With extra power in the Super Cub, it didn’t matter with downdrafts almost everywhere.

Weißseespitze, Austria. I gave up with the wind. 

A few days later….more snow. Cima Piazzi, Italy. The snow couldn’t get over the north side of the Alps, so the Italian glaciers were wide open.

Adamello, Italy.

Vedretta di Malavalle, Italy….west of Brenner Pass.

Wildspitze, Austria.

Vadret da la Sella, Switzerland.

Sizable rockslide onto Tschiervagletscher. I checked my archive and this did not exist the year before.

After sunset over Persgletcher. 

Snow! And some larch color in the Engadin. That is why I visited after all.

Tongue of Morteratschgletscher, where I hiked to (more to come).

Tschiervagletscher.

A flight that evening….weather was not as cooperative. Larch below, snow up high.

North of the Engadin.

Piz Bernina at sunset.

Biancograt and Piz Bernina, looking southwest.

Larch tree on the hike to Morteratschgletscher.

Time lapse of Morteratschgletscher meltwater.

Morteratschgletscher. Note the people on the left. While the perspective from an airplane is more comprehensive, it helps to come near a glacier on the ground every now and then, to be reminded how big they are.

Long walk back to the car. I have a photo eerily similar to this near Midnight Mine Rd in Aspen, Colorado, except the trees in color were aspens there.

Morteratschgletscher, with larches. This view does not exist in Colorado!

desenrascanço: Translating to “disentanglement,” desenrascanço is a kind of Portuguese MacGyverism. It’s the art of finding a solution to a problem out of left field, without the skills or resources one would usually require. It’s artful disentanglement from a problem: throwing together a costume right before a party using the clothes already hanging in your wardrobe, propping up a wobbly table leg using the novel in your bag, or just about anything you do with duct tape. (Source: Corey Moranis)

There are some stories that are beyond words.

This one is the background behind my arse-numbing flight of fury to Granada. Why was Garrett left with having to do a last-minute scramble to get the Super Cub inspected? I had taken the PA-11 to a shop in the Netherlands in June for an engine top overhaul and a list of airframe maintenance items, with an agreed completion date of September 15. The shop didn’t start work until October, and didn’t finish until January, taking an astonishing 7 months. We had an agreement when the PA-11 was done, I would bring the Super Cub, and they would move it to the US register. From May to November, every conversation came with a warning: “my 100-hour inspection will run out in November. I don’t want to pay for two in a row. The PA-11 must be complete before November” to which they agreed. For reference, the US register conversion involves an FAA annual inspection, which is the same as a European 100-hour, however the 100-hour doesn’t count, so if the hours ran out, I’d double pay for an inspection.

The hours ran out, so I had to scramble the Super Cub to the nearest shop that could touch it, which explains the saga to Spain. And I get to double pay. Brilliant.

It gets worse.

On December 1^st, I was presented with a progress update on costs. It was at roughly $10,300 for labor, as expected. “We have a few things to do and should be done in two weeks.” It was finally done in late January, and I was presented with a bill for $25,517 in labor, plus the $9400 for the cylinders I bought, plus VAT. Brilliant. Just brilliant.

One of the explanations was that “well, when we gave you the update, we had missed some hours that we discovered later.” How many? 100 or so. Oops. Shrug. I asked for a log, and it had no explanations, just a list – 4 hours here, 8 hours there, yawn. This from an FAA and EASA Part 145 regulated operation where recordkeeping requirements are intense. In the end, we were able to come to an “agreement” (‘pay or we don’t give you the plane back’) for $21,150 in labor. While I would love nothing more than to sue them, spending the next 3 years in a Dutch court to recover $7,000-$10,000 of usuriousness does not sound appealing nor is it profitable. I got screwed…what can I say.

I then had to acquire the airplane and get it to Switzerland in one piece. That proved to be difficult.

My wife offered to drive, as the train + plane + train combo takes about 11 hours. At 10 hours, the drive is a bit shorter. We split it over two days, arriving a 2PM at the shop in the Netherlands.

I had been led to believe it was test flown for an hour, so I was going to take it to Spa, Belgium for the night. When I got there, I found out it had only a 20-minute quickie in the air. With 4 new cylinders and work touching most aircraft systems, that was too risky. I took a 70-minute flight around the island, at run-in power settings, and confirmed things seemed to be fine. We spent the night in the Netherlands, and I intended to get the plane to Switzerland the next day.

The forecast had strong south winds in the lower atmosphere, though underestimated their strength at 1000 feet. They were blowing at almost 25 knots, so no sooner than I was in the air did I realize my destination of Saarbrucken, Germany was impossible.

I was looking for an alternate. Spa, Belgium came to mind. Checking NOTAMs, “Aerodrome closed due to plane crash.” Ok, how about Namur, Belgium near Charleroi? A NOTAM….”Aerodrome closed until Feb 2.” How is this possible? It was open this morning!

At this point, I was crossing a large tidal estuary northwest of Antwerp and realized that the shop had taped the window shut. I still am not sure why, and too many distractions during pre-flight meant I hadn’t removed it. I was struggling to apply pressure to get the tape to release, which it was just about to do, when there was a “thwunk” sound and the window blew out completely! It had flexed out of the track and flew the coop.

Well, isn’t this grand? Now I don’t have a side window and its…January.

Thankfully I was over water, so the window is on the way to the North Sea and didn’t injure anyone in the process (I checked below).

That still left me with the aggravation of finding an alternate, now with 90mph of wind swirling in the cockpit. Eventually I decided the flight will take two days, and I need to stop annoyingly sooner, based on airports. I called Brussels Information and changed the destination to Aachen, Germany.

That was fine, until I noticed how warm it was outside (17C/65F), which was odd given ground temps were much colder. Since I was running at high power settings for break in, that break in itself can cause higher temps, and that break in oil causes higher temps, oil temperature was much higher than normal. That resulted in oil pressure in a spot I was not happy with. That itself opens a saga with the shop, where they had changed some things in the configuration of the oil pressure regulator. It was fine the prior day when outside air temps were painfully cold, though today it was a different story.

Or was there an oil leak? Surely not. Things seemed fine. “But could there be oil burning from break in blow by?” Well, there wasn’t yesterday. “It is probably fine.” And…. I didn’t like it at all. I couldn’t confirm much from the cockpit, so I decided it was time to divert asap. The closest I found was Leopoldsburg, Belgium, which had a permission requirement and was inside a control zone for a military base. I then thought: “you know what, screw these stupid rules. I have a question about safety, and I am landing.” I told, not asked, Brussels Information what I was doing, and they didn’t seem to care.

Leopoldsburg didn’t care either, not on the radio or on the ground. It was a normal airport with people happily flying on a Sunday, who sold me fuel, were friendly, and otherwise everything was fine. I still haven’t figured out the permission requirement in Europe (and why disobeying it meets no consequence). As if flight plans, landing fees, and everything else isn’t enough, why do I have to call ahead to land at an airport?

Anyway, there was no oil leak, and even better, no oil burn. It hadn’t used any oil at all since the prior day, so that was an improvement. I decided it was the oil pressure regulator changes and broke the flight into smaller bits to land frequently. Next stop: Bitburg, Germany.

On the way, I texted my wife and told her we are overnighting in Saarbrucken, Germany, so she also “diverted” on the highway. As I crossed the ridge into the Ardennes in Belgium, the temperature dropped from 17C to 10C (50F). I realized the heat was from a Föhn/Chinook effect from the Ardennes hills. It is similar to the Chinook that would blow from the south out of the Southern Tier hills in New York in winter and create warm days.

As I was fueling at Bitburg, I noticed with some horror that there was a not-so-small hole in the wing. Examining the problem, I could see that when the window declared independence and decided to fly without the repressive oppression of the rest of the airframe, it cut a hole in the bottom of the wing in the process.

I happen to carry duct tape in the airplane, because “you never know what might happen.” As I was applying the duct tape for a makeshift field repair, a Bulgarian who had been asking me airplane questions asked, “will that hold?” “The plane flew with the hole in the wing, why wouldn’t it fly with duct tape holding the wing together?” I must confess this isn’t the first field repair to the wing with duct tape.

With the plane ghetto rigged, I set off for Saabrucken, amused to find that my wife beat me there in the car. Who said aviation was faster? A German friend replied to a text about my location for accommodations with: “Saarbrucken is the anal tract of Germany. I suggest Strasbourg instead.” I replied with an explanation that my landing options were not based which place had the best opera but rather a complex maze of mechanical and regulatory aggravation.

The next day was something of a game of cruel airport Tetris. Because I was “importing” maintenance works performed abroad on an aircraft that was VAT cleared in Switzerland, I had to stop at an airport that accepts the declaration of goods plus leave the EU from a customs airport. That limited my options. There was fog down the Rhine Valley, whilst almost all French airports didn’t have outbound customs from the EU without a nauseating web of varying notice requirements. I finally relented and decided to go for a long 2+ hour flight from Saarbrucken to Les Eplatures, Switzerland, sacrificing my short safety stops for the sake of paperwork. There were many domestic French airports along the way, and I decided that I would divert if I felt the need to.

The flight was brutal, with headwinds up to 35kt, groundspeeds as low as 36kt, and strong turbulence for half of it. Temperatures and pressures behaved. When I got to Switzerland, I expected angry accountants to be waiting on the tarmac, ready to grill me with questions (this has happened before). I had self-reported on the customs form that I had something to declare. As I had been told when I VAT cleared the airplane, I went to the “déclaration écrite” red box, only to find a notice that said, “we decommissioned these boxes.”

It took almost a month to figure out how to declare and pay VAT. Only a government office would be efficient catching those who fail to comply while making compliance impossible. Kafka lives on….

The flight concluded with no more parts falling off. When I got to the hangar, the Portuguese flight ops workers found the story quite amusing. “It’s not duct tape. It is aviation tape,” they told me, and then handed me a roll of yellow duct tape that matches the aircraft color…a very desenrascanço solution, which I will save for next time. It amazes me that, after a $35,000 aircraft repair, we’re discussing duct…ahem…aviation tape.

Anyhow, my $600 replacement window is on the way from the American Holy Land of aviation, the Super Cub is just finishing its duplicate and unnecessary inspection, and life is just grand. Its only money.

Roughly where the window absconded. May it rest in peace.

Somewhere in Belgium. Just imagine the scene with 90mph of wind in your face.

The Fatherland. By this point, I was rather confident the airplane wasn’t trying to kill me, though I believe I was unaware of the hole in the wing.

Haute Vosges with absurd wind and turbulence.

La Chaux-de-Fonds, Switzerland. 

Approaching Payerne. There were F-18s below!

In the Alps. It is much less spiritual at 7,000 feet in midwinter when there isn’t a window and one has been flying for hours. It was at this point that I began to wonder if aviation is in reality a bizarre Satanic ritual.

One may have observed that I write less than I used to. I will deliberate more in the future though, suffice it say, the world has changed since I started blogging. Oversharing and an excess of content on the Internet has altered the dynamic. Who needs to read my nonsense when there are cat videos to be watched instead?

In any case, the post in question covers the not-so-blissful side of aviation…when maintenance shops overrun schedules by months and it leads to last minute scrambling, where I find myself flying 12 hours to southern Spain at the last minute for an inspection that was never supposed to happen. Nobody said aviation was easy.

I ironically took a very similar flight almost exactly 365 days prior. It was then a three-day flight with a five-day interruption due to weather, taking in the end 8 days. At the time, I blamed it on December weather, short days, and strong headwinds. Since Spain is in a vicious drought, I told myself it would be easy.

Outbound was over the pass to Sion. I learned that the 9 liters I burn to hop from Gstaad to Sion is not worth the 30 minutes it takes to fuel, so quick parking at Tango 10, back in the plane, and off to Montpellier, France.

This time, there were headwinds, which has not happened any other time on this routing. I was doing a whopping 53 kts over the pass into France, which left me calculating alternates. I decided to head down the Alps at a lower altitude, sneaking over passes at 7,500’ to 8,500’ feet, two ridges from the western edge, which did serve to weaken or eliminate headwinds. It also made it more interesting, as snow was astonishingly deep.

Montpellier was a bit more tedious than normal owing to an aeronautical traffic jam. I had intended not to repeat my mistake of the year prior, stopping at La Cerdanya (which has no fuel). The problem was, Sabadell, Spain had ATC strikes. I filed for La Seu d’Urgell, Spain, which has fuel, as I intended to find a hotel in Andorra if I had to. That flight plan sent off a cascade of alarm bells, where I got a slew of phone calls on the way into Montpellier. Eventually the Spanish contacted Montpellier ATC, who told me the flight plan had to be cancelled for “separation”… because a single airline flight was scheduled. As my non-pilot wife said, “the airliner lands…then you land. What is so hard about that?” I stopped in La Seu the year before and can attest that fueling and other airport operations is quite hard for them.

Given that the flight plan was right before closing, I had no choice but to go to La Cerdanya. I figured I’d have to make an extra fuel stop the next day, though so be it. Then I had a brilliant scheme. I had brought a jerry can in back….”just in case.” “Why not get a taxi to make multiple runs to Repsol in Prats i Sansor, to get 98 mogas?” Of all things, the manager of the gliding club, whom I know, happened to be there, and he drove me to Repsol with extra cans, and we topped off the Super Cub at dusk. A big thank you!

I learned something in my stop at La Cerdanya the year before. 30F / -1C overnight low temperatures translates into a monstrous amount of ice on the plane, as it had to be parked outside. It does not melt in the sun quickly. I had my heinously overpriced covers for the Super Cub with me, so after wrestling with the airplane in the dark to put a full aeronautical condom on the airplane, I arrived the next morning to unsheathe it, itself a wrangling process as it was a block of ice, though it did save some time compared to watching it not melt.

The forecast for the day said I would have some headwinds, which would be on or off the rest of the day. A bit slow, though doable. They were “on”….all day…and they weren’t slow. I filed for Requena, fueled, then for Juan Espadafor, a small strip near Granada which was my destination, which I barely made before sunset due to strong headwinds. I battled downdrafts from Tarragona all the way to Granada, with turbulence most of the day.

90 minutes before Granada, with an immensely sore arse, a tired mind from riding the turbulence bronco, and fed up emotions over a flight I did not want to nor should have had to take, I entertained aeronautical apostasy. “And what the hell do I have two planes anyway for? This is ridiculous.” The notion of disposing one of them passed in short order. Which one could I possibly sell? I later confessed to my wife how I almost walked astray from the faith, and she so poignantly stated, “I wouldn’t let you sell one of them.”

I have come to understand that it may be my wife’s tolerance and encouragement of such financial profligacy toward aviation that is the envy of other pilots. In any case, I keep telling myself that the maintenance drama is merely a chapter in a book that will soon change. We shall see if it is pure delusion or good engineering.

Climbing to cross the Bernese Alps. Wind observations at the summit in the center were out of the west, 10kt gusting 31kt. Such a wide differential is not a good thing.

Over Sanetschpass at 8,500′. The winds were mildly raucous. I have experienced worse. More than anything, monochrome lighting was excellent and I was remiss to be heading to a semi-arid region instead.

Approaching the French border. Mont Blanc straight ahead, with a large mountain wave cap cloud overhead. The presence of a breeze was confirmed with 53kt groundspeed.

Somewhere in France at about 8,000 feet. Deep snow at this altitude….

Somewhere else in France. Too lazy to figure it out.

Lac de Grand’Maison, east of Grenoble. Hiding from the wind in here.

La Grand Serre…French for “Big Hill.” It was just after the village of “La Morte” which is French for “death.” Both items sound more collegiate in French, even if the culture is a pain in the arse.

Nîmes, France. 

After Montpellier, with the Pyrenees on the horizon. Montpellier Approach insisted I fly at a high altitude to ensure maximum headwinds. Why not cruise at 53 knots and land within a minute of closing?

La Cerdanya, the morning after. It looks *exactly* like it did on a December morning one year ago.

My old friend….the inversion.

Morella, Spain. Winds were off the hills in the center, ensuring maximum turbulence and discomfort.

Northeast of Valencia. Still windy.

After fueling in Requena, somewhere southeast of Albacete. 

Southwest of Santiago de la Espada in highlands at about 6,500 feet. The town translates as “St James of the Shovel.” It sounds better in Spanish.

South of Sierra Mágina, the desert northeast of the Sierra Nevada.

Sierra Nevada on the horizon. Roughly at this point, Granada Tower told me to fly 40 miles out of the way for no reason, despite no traffic. I told them no and avoided their airspace. They seem to do that as a matter of process and not traffic separation.

Sierra Nevada, not far from the Alhambra, Granada, and my destination. One might note the eminently philosophical question of why I have to cross half a continent for paperwork reasons, though nobody said this was supposed to make any sense.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

East ridge of Mönch, with the layer clearly below.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Western Vestisen, looking south.

Svartisen, looking northeast.

Vestisen, south to north.

Flatisen, with Flatisvatnet below. Atlantic on the horizon.

Fingerbreen, Østisen.

I have made no shortage of the reality that I do not keep count of the total image count taken, plotting to associate novelty with round numbers. It is my photography software that tracks the total, which fuses with my esoteric inclination toward enumeration (it might have something to do with my line of work), resulting in ceremonial moments of repose revolving around numbers of significance to the base 10 system. Perhaps a translation into more suitable vernacular is in order: I found out afterward which photograph matches a big round number. In this case, the 750,000^th snuck up and passed me by, me having noticed it a few days after I took the image.

It is of the Fornesbreen, a glacier located at 69.5 degrees north, to the east of Tromsø, Norway.

“What were you doing up there?” one might ask, particularly since there is something of a gap in the continuum of my flight wanderings. I confess to largest drought of posts since I began blogging almost a decade ago.

To answer the question, it was part two of my ambitions to photograph the glaciers of continental Scandinavia. If one recalls from 2022’s glacier season, I seem to lack the obvious skill of looking at a map, seeing glaciers, and having the foggiest clue how many hours it is going to take to photograph them. Distance is not the issue; I can clearly see the expanse, distance from airports, and the speed of the aircraft. They teach what to do next before handing over a pilot’s license (calculate time in flight). The problem is the sheer mass of the glaciers in question. When they exceed an obviously small feature, then the magnitude grows exponentially. I find myself snaking around, performing 360 degree turns, and generally flying in such a way to guarantee that anyone accompanying me would vomit. It is something of a fusion of an artistic and aeronautical orgasm: one doesn’t know where it will go or how long it will last.

Thus, I could not photograph all of the glaciers in Norway and Sweden in 2022. I had to return for the northern half, for ice found north of 65 degrees north latitude. The flight north from central Europe will be covered in an AOPA article, so I won’t steal the thunder here.

This flight was one of many during the glacier binge. A friend had visited from Switzerland, desiring to take a flight, as he had done so in the Alps. Having thoroughly terrified this individual in the past at 13,000 feet, obtaining the evening money shot in somewhat gyrating turbulence near pointy rocks, we had agreed to keep the flight with wings relatively level and a length and style befitting an outcome where lunch remains inside one’s digestive system.

The path was basic, from Tromsø to the Lyngen Alps, a glorious mountain range protruding from deep Norwegian fjords. Airflow was out of the southeast, with clouds and precipitation over the spine of the Scandinavian Mountains, affording a stirring and eerie backdrop to luminosity fixed nearer to the Atlantic Ocean. To quote the passenger, lighting was “[freaking] awesome.”

Meahccevákkejávri. I am fairly certain this is the indigenous Samí language version. The Norwegian map seems to refuse to give me the name in Norsk.

Gjømmersdalsbreen. Definitely in Norwegian, though it is about 2km from the Samí glacier.

Entering the Lyngen Alps.

Sydbreen (fore), Midtbreen (rear).

Jiehkkevárri. Roughly 6,000 feet. 

750,000! Fornesbreen.

Fugldalsvatnet, below Jiehkkevárri.

One of the outlets of Jiehkkevárri.

Hamperokken…on the way back to Tromsø.

Western slope of Tromsdalstinden…approaching Class D airspace for Tromsø.

Tromsø.