There is a reality that I have come to discover endemic to flying binges: my desire to blog evaporates. Last summer, during the heat of the moment flying to thousands of glaciers of the Alps, I barely blogged at all. Last month may have been my second busiest flying month to date and, well, here we are barely rustling the energy to get a post going.

It did occur to me that I did start a non-profit called the Global Glacier Initiative with a mission to fly to as many glaciers as possible and photograph them. I also happen to have an infatuation with glaciers. Does it not make sense to devote a blog post to the largest glacier in Continental Europe, which is also the largest glacier that I have ever seen?

This is how I find myself motivated to post on this illustrious rainy and cold morning in the mountainous west coast of Norway. There are better locations to spend the summer if one cares about fine weather. I still question if I find such weather a problem. It is the coldest summer I have experienced in my time on this earth, even chillier than Breckenridge, Colorado at 9,360’, where the temperature exceeded 80F once.

The Jostedalsbreen is a plateau glacier oriented southwest to northeast, with a maximum elevation of 2,083m / 6,844’. There are countless outlet glaciers which proceed from the plateau, which lead into steep glacial valleys that often become fjords. Some of them connect directly to the ocean, whereas others form large glacial lakes. I must confess that I am awed by the severity of what 6,844’ terrain can offer here. Recall that I am accustomed to the drop from the Jungfrau at 13,642’ to Interlaken at 1,863’. One can understand the skepticism about such shorter heights.

The weather is naturally complicated. Thousands of miles of the warm Atlantic, fed by the Gulf Stream, comes to a harsh and abrupt end, as weather systems slam into mountainous terrain. Some areas to the northwest of the region receive as much as 220” of liquid precipitation per year in the hills. It is obviously raining the majority of the time. On marginal days, which I have flown, the southeast side of the glacier is exposed to the sun, with clouds arcing over the top, and raucous winds.

Bjørnakyrkjebreen, an outlet glacier. The plateau glacier is hiding in the clouds.

Austerdalsbreen, looking down.

Baklibreen. The large part of the glacier is hiding in the clouds. 

Jostedalsbreen. A wonderful mix of snow, ice, and clouds.

The first time I photographed a glacier in the rain….

Lundabreen.

Taken at 9:30PM. There are certain advantages (and annoyances) to the sun setting at 11PM and rising before 4AM.

Langedalsbreen. This is the thinnest part of the glacier complex, as one can see that the glacier does not go very far on the other side. When one adds up continuous ice to the left and right, it goes on 37 miles.

Kjenndalsbreen. Finally got to the north side, where the weather is usually worse.

Kjelkevarden (rock on center right). Elevation 1,717m / 5,633′.

Tjøtabreen.

Lundabreen again.

Southwestern part of Jostedalsbreen. Ice cap elevation 1,647m / 5,404′.

Looking toward Tunsbergdalsbreen. I believe it is the longest outlet glacier in this complex.

Odinsbreen & Torsbreen, which lead to the Austerdalsbreen below.

Probably north of Austerdalsfjellet, though I am sure no one cares about the name. The clouds left are orographic in nature and often slither along the glacier from the northwest.

Bøyabreen. The water in the distance is the Fjærlandsfjorden, which connects to the Atlantic.

Bjørnakyrkjebreen & Langedalsbreen.

No particular name for this piece of ice. It was quite nasty wind in here.

Austerdalsbreen again. I know, overkill. I should break all of this down into bite size fragments suitable for the attention span of a gnat.

West of the Fåbergstølsbreen. One has to give the Norwegians credit for a creative alphabet.

Upper part of the Tunsbergdalsbreen.

Lower part of the Tunsbergdalsbreen.

I think this is the Bergsetbreen.

Småttene and Strupebreen, which merge to form the Lodalsbreen.

There is a phrase that was coined in Scandinavia, flyskamm, which means “flight shame.” It denotes the feeling of environmental sensitivity regarding carbon emissions for airline travel. Before I get into flyraseri, its alter ego, I ought to address a question that comes up regarding my glacier photography pursuits. Flying a Piper Cub or Super Cub is compared with jet aviation (invariably by someone who just returned from a 20-hour flight to New Zealand on holiday), and then I am asked: “How do you answer using aviation to photograph glaciers?” The answer has a thing or two to do with fuel consumption with each aircraft type and then we carry on.

I wonder which one uses less fuel….

Flyraseri, as I call it, known in English as “flight rage” is a thing. No, it is not unruly passengers on airliners, but rather the built-up tension that results from either not flying or, as I have come to understand, the tension around being in a new location and wanting to get up in the air as soon as possible. I first discovered it when I repositioned the Cub to Portugal some years ago. I returned to bring the car and other items some weeks later, tied to the formal arrival with our rental accommodation. The weather was not good, though I found myself in the air, wondering how I would get back down in a raging crosswind on a flooded coastal, downslope runway. I am still here, so that says something, though who knew that wet sand is that slick?

There was quite a problem that had concocted itself in Norway. While I could rejoice at bringing the Super Cub from almost Africa to Skien, Norway in May, the weather was not cooperating for my July arrival in Norway. We had the car ferry overnight from Denmark to Bergen, Norway planned, though forecasts indicated that the only day to make the 2-hour flight from Skien to Voss was on the day of arrival. I bought a ticket from Bergen to Sandefjord a week before, only to watch both the weather tighten and come to realize that I might have chosen a silly time. The ferry landed at 12:30, and the flight took off at 2:15. My refundable ticket proved to be useless, as a pilot strike meant other options were filled, so I either would get the plane or leave it….for a week. How ghastly to contemplate.

My wife questioned the merits of such a stressful endeavor. Can we get off the ferry and get to the airport in time? “You’re going to have me get to the house by myself? I have never been in Norway.” Ever the tender husband, I kindly suggested that she figure it out. “Would you have me leave the airplane for a week on the other side of the mountains?” Knowing the bull-in-heat tension that would bring, I found myself on a turboprop flight to Sandefjord at 2:15, then a bus, train, and car ride to Skien, where I took off into worsening weather to cross Europe’s largest above timberline plateau, the Hardangervidda.

The flight was a baptism in wind, lowering clouds, ice, rock, trees, and fjords. Norway is more impressive than I expected.

While I snuck in one hour before rain, that didn’t solve the tension that arose 4 days later. The rain has been quite bleak, to the point of Norwegians whining about it (who doesn’t love summer afternoons in the 40sF/9C?). A weather window materialized, so I set off into the hills, wedged down an utterly stunning fjord, over to the Sognefjord, the longest in Norway and second longest in the world. Perhaps it is even prettier when the weather looks like it is trying to kill you.

Norsjø.

Seljordsvatn.

Somewhere near Krossen. Doesn’t exactly look inhabited.

Hardangervidda Plateau. 

Røldajsvatnet.

Åkrafjorden.

Southern terminus of Folgefonna, a rather large glacier.

All of this is glacier ice covered under snowpack.

One outlet of the glacier. White smooth snow in the distance is still glacier.

The glacier is 25 miles long. Hardangerfjord to the right, Norway’s second longest. It goes around the glacier, out to the left (out of sight) and eventually to sea.

Hardangerfjord with Hardangerjøkulen glacier on the right horizon.

Vangsvatnet, approaching Voss.

Voss. The town was a hotspot for Nazi resistance, until the Luftwaffe bombed it April 1940. 

Four days later….near Oppheim, heading into the rainy hills.

…where I discovered Nærøyfjord, a UNESCO World Heritage site. I am flying at 2,700 feet above the water!

Over Sognefjord. An enlarged version of the image shows the longest electric span of wires in the world. I was at 2,700′, while wind reports at 3,806′ were 45kt. It was a tad like riding a bronco at times.

Time to turn around! The only way back is the way I came, which is the farthest water on the left, then down a long fjord to the right. On every flight after this, I have started wearing a lifejacket.

Nærøyfjord to the right. The only emergency landing option is the water. The fjord is up to 4,000 feet deep, depending on the location.

Heading up the Nærøyfjord. Two tiny emergency spots available. This fjord is one mile from the water to the top of the terrain.

While this field below looks suitable if need be, a boat tour through here revealed some different realities.

Approaching Voss from the north. Obviously ideal flying weather in the fjords and mountains…

Once I figured out that I was approaching 2,000 hours of flight experience, I developed an internal itch to do something daring. For some reason, I had not flown to Mont Blanc in over 7 months, despite adding a more powerful [and heated] aircraft to the fleet. I think I got distracted by the ability to fly 30 minutes after sunset, thus enjoying nearby sunset tones in the Bernese Alps. Anyhow, Mont Blanc was on the brain, so I decided to make a go for the summit in the PA-11.

I can probably count on one hand the number of times I have actually summited Mont Blanc. It takes 90-105 minutes to get there, of which 60-75 minutes are spent circling the mountain to gain altitude. The higher the airplane gets, the slower it climbs, requiring flirting with whatever ascending air can be found. That is probably the reason I keep things to 14,500’ and below most of the time, as the view is substantially good enough, and the workload is less. I suppose there could be some reticence wandering around in an ancient [unheated] taildragger more than halfway to Everest, but I digress.

I had one failed attempt due to weather. I thought it would be a chance to surmount some menacing clouds, only to turn the clock over at 2,000 hours while having to avoid some snow at the French border. This flight followed on the next reasonable day, which was augmented by the glory of towering cumulus and cumulonimbus in the background. Usually, the bad weather is hanging out over Mont Blanc itself, so it was nice this time to have it serve as a backdrop. It did seem to be on the march toward the summit, so after getting my jollies, it was out of the flight levels and back to earth.

French and Swiss borders at about 11,000 feet.

I am sure this is what Piper had in mind for the aircraft when they designed the PA-11.

Mont Blanc, from my common altitude.

Italiano side of the mountain at roughly 14,000 feet. 

Southeast face beneath the summit. The risk here is sudden wind doing something unfavorable, given the angled slope on the north side and massive vertical drop on the lee. I found a bit of lift ironically, so I ran with it.

While it looks like I am above the summit, I am about equal with it (15,771′). 

Now I am above it. 16,000 feet. Some lovely thunderstorms in the background accenting the image. Also note that the clouds on the west side of the summit have grown in just 5 minutes.

The summit clouded in as I was beginning my descent.

Plateau du Trient, Switzerland (ie, its a glacier). Clouds gently hugging on three sides.

Mont Blanc from the Bernese Alps. It is in the jumble of clouds on the center right horizon. Nothing sets one’s mind straight like a jaunt to an ice cap without a sufficient jacket. Life is good.

The original plan at Halmstad was to preventatively get ahead of an inspection and maintenance program for the Super Cub. I was quite relaxed at the idea of spending two nights in the same hotel room, where I could recharge before proceeding on for the last leg of the adventure.

The problem lay in the fact that the mechanic was 1000km away in northern Sweden.

Had we not discussed what was happening? Apparently, I was talking to a wall, or he took me for a fool. In any case, it is hard to do mechanical work (or at least to get mechanics to do paperwork) …. without a mechanic, so I gathered my things at 1:30PM, called a taxi, and returned to the aircraft.

Since Lolland Falster, Denmark, I had been retracing my steps in November when I ferried the plane south. The format continued, as I traced the exact path up the Swedish coast, over the border into Norway, over Oslofjord, and into Sandefjord/Torp to clear customs. This time, it was brilliantly sunny, which exposed what I was flying over last autumn, when I daringly went VFR on top for a ridiculous length of time: rocks and water, with little else. The entire landscape is a cheese grader when it comes to forced landings, though so be it. What one cannot see does not hurt him….

As expected, customs didn’t give a hoot about my entry into Norway and cleared me by phone for the final 20-minute flight to Skien. I could have been importing gold bars, unmarked bills, or crack, and nobody cared. Yet, as I wrote about on the original exodus from Scandinavia, I might as well have been engaging in human trafficking when customs found out that I dare leave Norway after having purchased an aircraft.

Skien is where the plane would be parked until my return for the summer later on, where it would get marshalled north into the fjord lands of Norway. More fun awaits, though in the meantime, my arse enjoyed the recovery period. 24 hours of flying should come with an automatic proctologist visit.

I can honestly say that flying from a stone’s throw to Africa direct to Scandinavia was not something that I had contemplated. Eight countries in one flight is a new personal record.

North of Halmstad. On the “road” again….

Southwest of Kungsbacka.

Källö Knipla.

Rönnäng. None of these names are familiar.

The cheese grater…rivjärn in Swedish…

Something of a needle in a Swedish haystack.

Approaching the border of Norway.

Oslofjord. Much less concerning when covered with clouds!

Holding east of Sandefjord for an incoming 737. I have had uglier places to hold…

No uranium on board…cleared by customs! Goksjø.

Base to final at Skien. Not ugly.

Day three was something of a relief, as the longest stretch was now behind me, as were the interior sections of Europe. I was now on the coast, with cold temperatures and sunny skies, albeit a near permanent headwind, which had a way of adjusting to be straight on the nose as flight paths changed.

I was staying in the hangar in Texel, where a kind Super Cub pilot, who runs a maritime aerial photography operation, offered lodging. We have much in common with our aircraft and methods, though he likes to fly over the ocean, of which I am afraid, and I like to fly over mountains, of which he is afraid. It is amusing to listen to both of us convince the other one that our choices are perfectly safe, and that the other option is the dangerous one.

Anyhow, the day began with a planned formation flight from Texel to Ameland, a short 30-minute flight. While we snapped some photographs, I came away questioning the laws of physics, as his 108 hp Super Cub seemed to be just as fast as my 150hp Super Cub. That reminded me of the last air-to-air with a 65hp J-3 in Portugal, while I was in my 100 hp PA-11. I struggled to keep up then, as I did now. I would suspect that the error in the Standard Model of Physics lies in the fact that I like to fly at low RPMs in both aircraft. Anything above 2100/2200 is just so heinously noisy….so I have a bigger engine that I refuse to rev up…if that makes any sense.

After Ameland, I continued east along the barrier islands of the Dutch and then German coasts. It reminded me of the Outer Banks of North Carolina. In fact, it is the place that looks the most like the OBX that I have found since leaving them, other than the Faro Delta in Portugal, though that is not comprehensively enough of a similarity.

The Dutch and German coasts have various nature preserves, so I found myself at 1,500 to 2,000 feet, depending on the rules. That made for less of an explosively artistic experience, though it did make for a pleasant flight. As the islands came to an end, I crossed the bay where the water heads toward Hamburg, testing my displeasure with overwater flight. Eventually, I reunited with the German mainland and continued to the northeast.

While most of Schleswig-Holstein is rather plain (whilst literally being….a plain), things started to get interesting as I approached Denmark. Lakes showed up and rapeseed fields (what a name) burst in yellow color. That matched improving lighting conditions and had an otherworldly experience, one that only got more powerful as the ocean became a backdrop.

Germany gave way to Denmark as I crossed the strait, 12 miles over water, in the opposite direction as in early November 2021, when I was ferrying the aircraft south. I decided to land at Lolland Falster again, for the basic reason that it was easy and I could get fuel, which worked out fine.

My last leg for the night also repeated my November adventures. It was to the northeast, east of Roskilde, west of Copenhagen, over the Oresund Strait, and into Sweden, where I flew north along the coast to Halmstad for the night, landing just in time before the peculiar closing time of 7:35PM.

Day three…sunny on the Dutch Coast.

Looks quite a bit like the Outer Banks.

Crossing into the Fatherland. Borkum.

Baltrum.

Wadden Sea. Did I mention I do not like flying over water?

Northwest of Plön. I answered a philosophical question here that had been lingering for some time: if I forget to change the fuel tank selector, how long after the engine sputters will it take for me to figure it out? Two seconds.

Near Heilingenhafen, with the ocean as a backdrop.

Making the crossing to Denmark.

Øresund Strait, from Denmark. Sweden on the other side.

Approaching Halmstad for the night. Finding a taxi, despite there being 10 of them at the airport, was senselessly cumbersome.

I would have been perfectly content, save for usurious urinal fees, to have spent the night in Biarritz. However, a possibility of coastal fog bunched against the Pyrenees caused an evening run 90 miles to the north. The next morning, that assumption turned out to be correct. I took off on a hazy, humid morning from Arcachon, heading north/northeast into the hinterlands of Bordeaux.

A more direct routing would have consisted of one thousand miles of repetitive scenery: fields, trees, roads, a few rivers, and alternating presence of human settlements. While most would be enthralled at crossing the heart of France and beyond, I found the prospect about as exciting as flying over Pennsylvania. Having grown up near the eastern Great Lakes, much of the East Coast offered little in the form of variety that I was seeking. Instead, it was a question of tree species, the exact height and nature of hills, and temperature. Otherwise, it’s all the same. I was not necessarily looking forward to much of the flight on this day given its Pennsylvanian commonality, though it had to be done.

I texted my wife a photo of the Gironde, taken with atmosphere that was remarkably similar to when I crossed the Mississippi River three years prior…in Mississippi…in hellish heat. She replied with great excitement that her favorite Bordeaux comes from a winery on the eastern shore. Snarling at the morning haze and reality of being in France all day, I wrote back cynically: “Is it near the nuclear plant I am diverting around?”

The flight droned on for hours to the north, away from the coast. It went west of Cognac and over the Loire River, before landing at Blois for fuel. I honestly am not sure why people get so horny about travels to the Loire River. It may as well be Ohio (albeit tended to in a much more orderly fashion). Anyhow, I landed on the first grass strip with the Super Cub since I bought it. The Baby Bushwheel (a trade name, which means it is exactly rather big) is designed for off roading, and it fit right in.

Taking off to the northeast, more hours of droning took place. I must admit that well west of Paris, farmlands had a slight bit of texture and openness, which was refreshing compared to the forested pastoralism of southwest France. As I approach another river, I thought to myself: “maybe it’s the Seine. I probably should check so I can get some photos” while rolling my eyes. Apple Maps immediately showed that I was approaching Giverny, the famed town where Monet did his work. While it was exciting to, by chance, overfly one of the few things I could possibly care about in the middle of France, I couldn’t help but wonder exactly what was so inspiring about the place, though he clearly made the best of it.

Roughly 45 minutes north of Giverny, the temperature plunged as I got in range of the English Channel. It was a welcome relief from slight warmth, which was understandably worsened by engine heat. Now it was cool outside, which made it pleasant in the cockpit.

Fuel was at Calais, on the French side of the English Channel. Apparently, at this airport, “French only” means that no one will speak to you on the radio, in French or English. I made some inquiries about the field in use in French, to which I was met with silence. Aware that parachuting operations were taking place, I opted to not overfly to look at the windsock, so I landed to the northeast, consistent with cruising winds at 1,000 feet. It turns out I landed on a tailwind…only to find three French aircraft patiently waiting on the proper runway, where they took off after I entered the taxiway. Clearly, they understood my French and what I was doing and rudely refused to mention that the wind was blowing in the other direction! France. The warmth of its people is overwhelming.

After fueling, it was now time to turn to the east and northeast. I choose this routing to minimize time over the middle of Central Europe as previously ranted about. So far, I had spent just shy of six hours flying over repetitive terrain, away from mountains and coast. Refreshingly, I was back at the water.

I was in Belgium in no time, itself which didn’t take too long to cross. I was cleared at 2,000 feet, which was dismaying, though so is the coast. It is quite populated, so I did not miss much. The Netherlands, on the other hand, was more interesting and had freer airspace. While it is a populated country, there was enough space to enjoy myself and have a sense of relaxation. Earlier in the day, I was not sure how far I would be able to go, as anything can happen along the way. Headwinds were worse though fuel stops were reasonable. As evening set in, I eventually made it to my intended destination for the night, which was the Dutch island of Texel. While I was most certainly not at my final destination, the hardest part at this point was over.

Mississippi River….La Gironde. 

Somewhere west of Cognac.

Somewhere north of Cognac.

Just past the confluence of the Vienne et Creuse Rivers.

Loire River. Why does it feature so much in self-aggrandizing travel literature?

Probably northwest of Orléans.

West of Paris somewhere.

Seine River and Giverny.

English Channel on the horizon.

Leads to the Baie de Somme.

Almost to Calais.

Approaching Dunkerque. One of my night cross country training flights in the 90s was to Dunkirk, New York. Like the grand oil refineries on the French Coast, Dunkirk, NY put a boorish and enormous coal-fired power plant on its waterfront.

Belgium.

Oostende, Belgium.

Port facilities north of Bruges, Belgium.

Belgium left, Netherlands right.

Zeeland.

Northwest of Vlissingen.

Oosterscheldekering otherwise known as “Eastern Scheldt Storm Surge Barrier.”

North of Renesse.

Sand patterns with Rotterdam port on the horizon.

Rotterdam port.

De Pier, north of The Hague.

West of Amsterdam.

De Petten.

Lange Jaap lighthouse with Texel over the strait.

While I had planned on departing from Spain at roughly this time, it was the onset of infernal heat that gave some added incentive to escape. The coast itself was often quite pleasant, with strong winds blowing through the night through the Strait of Gibraltar. The problem materialized when going more than 2 miles from the water, when temperatures would rise dramatically. I was monkeying with the airplane on the ground, 20 minutes inland, when it got so hot that I was not only nauseated; all I wanted to do was eat and sleep. Ironically, it was roughly at 2PM, when the whole of Southern Spain categorically closes their shops and does the same thing. While Andalucía is not humid like the US Southeast, there is something about the form which the heat takes that erodes any desire to exert effort.

Nonetheless, the time for my escape came, with an alignment of good weather to my destination, plus a coming record-breaking heatwave. I did not need to be around when temperatures approached 40 C / 104 F….in May.

I will keep my final destination obscured for the moment, other than to say that it was planned differently at first, it is far, and it is not Switzerland.

On the way to Seville. Climbed directly to 3,000 feet to escape some of the heat.

Seville.

Somewhere near Hinojosa del Duque.

Convergence of Andalucía, La Mancha, and Extremadura. It reminds me most of South Park, west of Colorado Springs. The only difference is about 9,000 feet of elevation.

This area torments me from satellite maps, as it looks stunningly “textured.” The problem is that the scale is too large, and the aerial view can’t grab it. I find that satellites are usually terrible indicators of good texture…it is better to just find it by chance.

Over the hills southwest of Toledo. At 5,000 feet, air temperatures were pleasant.

Tagus River, west of Toledo. Air temperatures were not pleasant.

Just southwest of Madrid, before stopping for fuel. “A beautiful inferno.”

East of Madrid. Suffering in the heat. The engine radiates quite a bit through the firewall and also in the slipstream. When it is hot outside, it is hotter in the PA-11 or PA-18!

Northeast of Madrid, eyeing those rain showers with anticipation (for cooler temps).

The airplane got a bath after this.

East of Soria, between rain showers.

Entering La Rioja region. I would fly lower, except I’d have to climb back up in 30 minutes, so I stayed high.

Ebro River valley.

Southwest of Pamplona.

Basque Country!

While it is still Basque Country, one would forgive me for thinking I was in East Tennessee.

French Atlantic….20 minutes after the prior image.

Flying north in Bordeaux after a few stop on Biarritz. Those wankers wanted to charge $59 to use the toilet (after paying $43 for landing and $275 for fuel)! I had to walk quite a distance out of the secured area to urinate, then come back in. Apparently it was my fault for “not purchasing the luxury package.” Since when is a urinal “luxury”? Then again, we pay $60 to drive 6 hours across France (one way) on toll roads, where the rest stops….lack toilet seats. C’est le France, un pays médiéval. 

Bordeaux’s coast is repetitive.

Approaching Arcachon for the night….a time which had finally come. Mon derriere was suffering at this point.

One of the first things that I fantasized about when moving to Spain was to visit the Alhambra in the PA-11. It is a notion that is derived of having no clue whatsoever of cause and effect and the litany of macroaggressions one must face when operating a private aircraft in Iberia, which explains why more than half a decade has gone by since my initial illusions before I found myself operating the second symbolic steed of economic inequality above Granada.

The Alhambra, arguably one of the most famous tourist sites in Spain, dates back to possibly the Roman era though owes its fame to the Islamic era as it was a major site during the time when Spain was ruled by the Moors. It was later an early royal court of the Spanish monarchy, the site where Christopher Columbus received royal approval to embark on a mission that would discover two continents and change everything. A successive Spanish ruler decided to expand the site, gave up, squatters moved in, it fell into disrepair, and then Napoléon discovered the place all over again, smashing part of it in the process. Now it is a tourist attraction, which means that the site is in effect a microcosm of 1000 years of Western history.

It happens to be situated above Granada, a picturesque Spanish city, and below the Sierra Nevada. The semi-arid orchards of Spain lie to the west, a rugged land that on one hand feels like a desert and on another feels partially verdant and rich in agricultural production. Spain often has two personalities pervading the same land.

The flight was largely a commute in the beginning, as I had to pass over scrublands for some distance. I have found such terrain mostly in the American West, where rugged, harsh, mostly dry unforgiving land receives enough rain coupled with oppressive heat to yield some vegetation. The problem is that it is not enough moisture to create verdancy, and not enough dryness to yield the spirituality of a desert.

That terrain transitioned to orchard groves in abundance, which later got drier and more textured the closer I got to Granada. Once I got to the western boundary of Granada’s decently sized Class D control zone, I made contact with the tower, who pulled a classic Spanish trick: without any other traffic in the control zone, I had to follow “standard procedure,” which was to enter at point Sierra and then proceed northeast to the city center. The problem with this scheme was that it involved a 10-minute detour to the south, while climbing more than 1,500 feet to avoid tall terrain. Once I got there, I was told to descend back toward Granada and to “stay below 1000 feet above the ground.” The only problem with that was….800-foot-deep alternating canyons below. If it was America, I would have been yoyoing (well, I wouldn’t have gotten such a dumb clearance, but I digress), though since it is Spain, 1,000’ AGL really means 1,000 feet or so, kind of, as a reasoning person would see it, so ‘just don’t cause any problems.’

While I would be inclined to reduce the charade to a circus, I happened to fly over stunning terrain, so there was no complaint. What then followed surprised me, as most control zones have elaborate VFR tunnels to avoid commercial air traffic and city centers. I was cleared to orbit over the Alhambra and Granada’s city center, provided that I “stay at 1,000 feet or below.” So, there I was, slaloming around with the flight path of a drunkard, happily snapping photos, not too far above the dense buildings in Granada.

After the Alhambra naturally comes the Sierra Nevada. For those that do not understand Spanish, “nevada” means “snow” or “snow covered” in this use, which is true to its form on that day. It is a range small in length while happening to be the tallest mountain on the Iberian Peninsula…even taller than the highest peak of the Pyrenees.

Everything in Spain is subjective. I had spoken to a taildragger pilot some days before, and he assured me that the restricted zone over the Sierra Nevada was negotiable with Granada ATC, whereas another, shorter restricted zone down to the coast was utterly inflexible. The reverse was true. I was not allowed to fly over the Sierra Nevada proper due to it being a park (though people could downhill ski and drive on roads through it…). At the same token, the controller wondered why I was even asking for permission about the coastal restricted area, as if it is self-evident that it is not restricted.

After a flight along the coast and a refueling stop at La Axarquia, I was inclined to finally visit Ronda. When I went to cross Málaga’s control zone using the VFR tunnel (as I had done in the past), I was told that I could not enter it “at this time of day” and either to head 25 miles out to sea or 50 miles north. I asked to climb to 7500’ to overfly above it, and they sighed and said they’d make an exception and allow crossing the VFR tunnel at 1,500’ (that subjectivity thing appears again). It took 20 minutes to cross, as I had to hold tightly many times due to constant airliner traffic on two runways. The crossing procedure involved precise overflight of both thresholds, right over an airliner beginning its takeoff roll! It turned out to be a neat experience.

Since at this point time was running out on daylight, Ronda again was abandoned. I opted to climb to 4,500 feet and fly westbound along the Mediterranean ridge. It was a fantastically textured flight, with Morocco visible clearly on the horizon on the other side of the Mediterranean. There is something about Africa on the horizon that stirs the soul in a way that wasn’t expected. I enjoyed the view of it for 30 minutes for the crossing of the Sierra de Grazalema, then over Jerez’s control zone (and another airliner taking off), before sneaking into Trebujena just in time.

Textured terrain before rugged scrublands. South of Morón (pronounced “More-OWN”). There is an Air Force base there, and it was delightful to hear an American refer to it as “moron” on the radio.

Rugged scrublands. Without humans farming vast swathes of Andalucía, it probably all would look like this if entirely natural.

Where Spanish olive oil comes from, 60 miles north of Málaga.

Embalse de Iznájar. Lots of rain recently has nearly filled it up.

Flying southbound to point Sierra. Note the Sierra Nevada in the center. I am intending to go to the left horizon, yet am flying to the right for no other reason than Iberian culture coupled with an obtuse controller.

On the way back down toward Granada. Not complaining that I saw this!

The Alhambra.

Alhambra in the center, Granada below, Sierra Nevada on the horizon. 

Granada.

Sierra Nevada.

Sierra Nevada with the Mediterranean on the right horizon.

Los Carlos.

Punta de la Mona. A mona is either a female monkey, a drunk person, a small attachment to an obsolete piece of armor, something to do with a hair clip, a bow, or some esoteric attachment to a bullfighter’s uniform. 

Málaga airport, just before crossing at the thresholds.

Textured Mediterranean ridges north of Marbella. Africa is barely visible on the horizon. 

North of Estrepona. The Rock of Gibraltar is on the horizon, as are the mountains of Morocco. Something about seeing Morocco makes me happy every time.

Sierra de Grazalema. 

The section of the Atlantic Coast on the southern portion of Portugal has been on my to do list for a long time. When the PA-11 was based in Portugal, the section of coast managed to evade my efforts, as it would have required a combination of an overnight stay plus a dazzling array of confusing and extra fuel stops. The distance involved does not work for a single fuel tank Cub though….it works with a Super Cub.

After takeoff, I was told to head out to sea by Seville Approach, as a restricted area, that thus far had never really been restricted was in fact restricted. That meant a bit of a climb, then a dance around that zone and an active “real arms firing area,” more than likely associated with the US base at Rota. With that behind me, the trip was a westbound routing at 1000 feet above the ground along the Atlantic Coast.

Just before arriving at the Portuguese border, I saw my first glimpse of marshlands and coastal rivers, which reminded me of the southeastern US. As I crossed the border and continued toward Faro, the marshlands associated with distinct barrier islands, which eventually gave way to the Ria Formosa wetlands, which look like a miniature North Carolina Outer Banks. It was a majestic swirl of sand, marshes, islands, and sea…. normally prohibited due to the nearby Faro Airport. I managed to convince ATC to allow passage along the coast, which they did. At one point, I was asked to hurry up (I was admittedly flying at low RPM) as an airliner was on the ILS.

West of Faro, barrier islands give way to rocky promontories and caves famous to the Algarve. West of Portimão, my intended refueling point, I cut the corner northwest bound, avoiding the southwestern tip of Portugal (Cabo de São Vicente), and crossed to the west coast of Portugal, heading north until the sun fell behind clouds. Instead of carrying on to Lisbon as I had hoped, I turned around and methodically made my way down to the coast to the southwestern most point in Europe.

The ancient Greeks and Romans had names for this place, the latter calling it magical. Once Catholicism got involved, invariably a miracle happened, for which a shrine was erected. That was tended to by monks, through the destruction of the shrine during the Lisbon earthquake of 1755. In the modern era of great social awakening, an enterprising German speaking individual has paid homage to the rise and fall of great civilizations and their attendant spiritual connection to this point of geographic significance by parking a food truck on the premises: “Letze Wurst vor Amerika.” Last sausage before America.

Once I found it on Wikipedia some years ago, I never forgot. I had to make my pilgrimage to the patron saint of overweight bellicose German tourists.

Refueling, or should I say “paying the landing fee” at Portimão followed, which was a colossal exercise in the depths humans can achieve by directing their collective efforts toward mediocrity and underachievement. What was most unbelievable from the entire affair was a fusillade to my wife, ranting about how “I prefer Spanish incompetence as at least they have the honor and bravado to tell you to your face, without any shame, that it’s not their job and if you don’t like it, land somewhere else. These seemingly laid back non-confrontational idiotic morons make me look like an asshole if I get rightfully on a rampage at their brazen stupidity.” Unsurprisingly, my wife took a page from the Spanish playbook and reminded me that flying is my problem, and if I don’t like it, perhaps I shouldn’t do it. Point taken. Though I am still not over the fact that I have developed an affection for Spanish smugness and obstructionism. Life in Spain alternates between a warm affection and a never ending battle of wit over the slightest minutia. I suppose I don’t mind it.

Like a good Iberian, once my little bitch fit was done (even if largely to myself), the tide of fury blew over, and it was back in the skies for a 2 hour flight to Spain, along the same coast in fading evening light. The Faro controllers let me fly along the coast again (“hold at the lighthouse”), which is a testament to the positive side of Portuguese nonchalance. The restricted area was still restricted, so back out to sea, then a blazing descent into the rolling plains of coastal Andalucía. Almost six hours on the tach, all of it along the coast…a very splendid day.

West of Huelva, Spain.

Isla Cristina, Spain…first appearance of coastal marshes similar to the southeastern US.

I have seen colors and textures like this in the Outer Banks and in the northern marshes of Bear Lake, Idaho.

Over the border to Portugal.

Barrier islands.

Fuseta. Reminds me of some of the inlets along the Cape Lookout National Seashore in North Carolina.

Ilha da Armona. Ie, “hurry up as an airliner is on final.”

Past Faro, along the coast of the Algarve. I have a friend who has orchard property from his family nearby, acquired decades before all this development took place. He refers to the place as the “al Gharb,” which is the Arabic origin of Algarve, to express his raging disdain at the nonsensical overdevelopment of the coast. There does seem to be a “full speed ahead” approach to touristic development. 

Ribeira de Odiáxere, not far from Portimão.

West coast of Portugal. A certain majesty exists here.

Still the west coast…now southbound.

Approaching Promontorium Sacrum. The cape is to the right, as the ocean is both in the background and foreground. “Land of Serpents” according to the Greeks. “Church of the Raven” according to the Arabs.

Last Sausage Before America. I have completed my holy pilgrimage.

Back in the al Gharb. I stayed in a hotel in the center along the coast last October. It was to preview a Swedish registered Super Cub for sale down here. While there was nothing ostensibly wrong with it, I opted against the purchase. Less than two weeks later, I was in Norway signing paperwork for the aircraft in which I sat to take this photo. Anyhow, I took a quick test ride with the seller over this point, and water colors were majestic, as they were today.

Refueled. Portugal left, Spain right.

Chipiona, Spain. I am absurdly high due to heading out to sea for the restricted area.

Velvet texture before entering the circuit.

There are many reasons that I wanted to go to Gibraltar. It is a separate country, the rock is eponymous, the Strait of Gibraltar is naturally interesting, and the place separates the Atlantic and Mediterranean. The problem lies in the fact that Spain is not happy that it signed a treaty assigning sovereignty to individuals other than Spain, so the story goes that they assigned a lovely series of astonishingly annoying restricted areas along the coast, making flights into and out of Gibraltar difficult. That means a trip out to sea, which, as we know, Garrett does not like. In my prior visit with the PA-11, the reality of the distance involved and the out to sea trip meant that fuel was a problem, which meant a stop in Gibraltar itself, which meant significant fees to close the road, as well as clear customs both ways. I appropriately abandoned the idea in 2018.

With a better aircraft that could fly to Gibraltar and back, including the nautical jaunt, without fueling, I decided that it was time. Given that I had four hours of fuel, I started the flight frolicking in the normally restricted areas near the mouth of the Guadalquivir River, then proceeded along the coast toward Tarifa, Spain, the first point at which I had to be out to sea.

Along the way, a nagging slice of deviousness brewed, which was able to proceed from naughty thought to naughty deed. Since I could actually talk to Seville Approach (that is something of an issue at 1,000 feet above the ground, far from Seville), I asked if I could cross the Strait of Gibraltar, wander around a bit on the coast of Morocco, and return on this flight plan. “Yeah, no problem,” was the reply. Hmmm…

I wasn’t entirely sure that I would do it, though….I was sure I would do it. The crossing actually wasn’t that long, maybe 10 miles at the thinnest point. Winds were 30 knots out of the east, funneling through the Strait, which is very common. As soon as I could see terrain across the water in Africa…yes…Africa, I decided to go for it. Gibraltar itself would have to wait. If the engine quit, I had a life jacket and I’d get wet. If things worked out well, I might have been able to land it on a cargo ship, provided that it was heading eastbound into the wind.

The crossing was uneventful. I arrived at the Moroccan Coast, giddy as a school girl, and made a flight around Ceuta, a Spanish exclave in Africa. Spain oddly controls a small sliver of the airspace in northern Morocco, so I flew a few miles down the Mediterranean side, then a few miles down the Atlantic side, and then I returned. Fuel was one thing, as I had been lounging around Cádiz, not knowing I would make a transcontinental impulse decision. Another factor was thick haze and incoming clouds, which made further exploration somewhat moot. I will come back later.

I rode the winds coming over the coastal hills like a cowboy, getting thrown around as I blazed the opposite direction, infinitely faster on the return trip. Needless to say, I landed with a smile on my face. Just five months ago, I left with my new purchase on a foggy morning near Oslo, and here I just came back from Africa with the same Super Cub….

Salt flats and Guadalquivir River.

Chipiona.

Cádiz.

Faro de Trafalgar, Spain. They want Gibraltar back but named one of their own promontories after the UK. Wrong…. I did a bit of research and Trafalgar is derived of an Arabic etymology. This is one of the sites where the British Navy smashed the Spanish and French navies, so the reverse is true. The UK appropriated the name and has been rubbing it in their face ever since.

Punta Camarinal.

Tarifa, Spain….the beginning of the restricted zone, as well as the southernmost point in continental Europe. I thought Tarifa was a literal name that was connected to somehow collecting tariffs from ships through the Strait of Gibraltar. It is actually named after Tarif Ibn Malik, back when this part of Spain was part of the Caliphate.

Strait of Gibraltar. The Rock of Gibraltar is to the left (northern Pillar of Hercules).

Ceuta, Spain, an exclave in Africa. I am taking the photograph from Morocco.

Fnideq, Morocco, otherwise known as الفنيدق. Holy shit!

It looks so delightfully crazy down there.

Promontory of Ceuta. Ceuta is a restricted area (of course). Why not make things difficult?

Jebel Musa, Morocco. Ahem, جبل موسى. Southern Pillar of Hercules. 

Barbate, Spain. It used to be Barbate de Franco, because the dictator Franco would visit there. While it may appear that I am a jerk for bringing it up, it took 23 years from the fall of the dictatorship until the town changed its name in 1998.

Vejer de la Frontera. One cannot help but notice a tad of commonality with Moroccan architecture. Such an observation’s reception by a Spanish person depends on how culturally self-deprecating they are.