The last days of southern Norway were something of a whirlwind. It featured a final 8-hour glacier flying day with thousands of photographs, the next day flying to Bergen for the annual inspection, one day off, and then a two day minor flying binge to the southern part of the Netherlands. A long-awaited modification was due to be installed, so as part of repositioning the plane out of Norway, it went to the shop for some weeks of work.

By this point, I had flown the west coast of Sweden to Lolland Falster, Denmark twice. Since I was not heading south, but rather west at the bottom of the Jutland Peninsula, the more expedient routing was to hop over the water from Sweden to Skagen, Denmark, which would shave some time off the flight. I was on a bit of a crunch, as I had to make a stop in Norway for customs purposes, land at a viable customs airport in Denmark, and have enough fuel to have these points all work out. As it turned out, I could only make Texel for the night, which meant that I couldn’t do the whole trip in one day. There was enough daylight, just not enough opening time at airports. Why not just have them open when the sun is out? Perhaps we ought to close roads at 7PM also?

Anyway, the flight from Sweden to Denmark involved roughly 35 miles over water, which is 23 miles longer than my prior record, other than an ill-fated adventure in November of 1999, when I rented a 172 and flew from Buffalo, New York to Toronto, Canada, straight across Lake Ontario in strong wind and 6-mile visibility with water temperatures of 43 degrees Fahrenheit (5C). My rationale at the time was that “there are plenty of cargo ships heading to and from the port in Hamilton, so I can glide to one.” I admit a slight bit of pause when I was out over water and could not see land in any direction, but alas, downtown Toronto appeared out of the murk and life was good. I planned a return flight to the USA at night…in November….except I was saved from my own stupidity by the sheer fortune of the door falling off the aircraft before I started taxiing. We took a car home. Upon explaining ourselves to US Customs, we were “selected for random additional screening” at the border.

Somewhere since that monument to teenage stupidity, I developed a mortal fear of water. I don’t like it. That’s all. There is nothing more to it. It makes my skin crawl. I get the heebie jeebies. Everywhere I look, I see nothing but doom when over water…. images of an airplane cartwheeling in the water flash in my mind, along with sinking below, gasping for air, sharks, and the like. Oh wait, there was that kayak incident in Colorado when I sank in the middle of a 40F/4C lake, was gasping for air in the cold water, and had to swim to shore….

Water is not my thing.

The problem is, I had this grand plan to fly 300 miles over the North Atlantic for some silly adventures in the future. As soon as I pointed the nose to the wests-southwest at 4,500’ toward Denmark, I immediately hatched a brilliant idea how to not fly 300 miles over water in the future.

After about 15 minutes of teeth itching, I was over Denmark. Down to Billund for fuel, where I had the “Legoland approach,” then back in the air, crossing into the Fatherland for eventual landing in the Netherlands. I could have taken a longer flight and stayed close to land. The thought toyed with me repeatedly: out over the water, or close to land? “There is no good reason to take an extra risk.” “It doesn’t save much.” “But it isn’t that much risk.” “But its water.” “And I don’t want to fly an extra 20 miles. My ass hurts.” I suppose the logic behind the addiction of crime comes into play. If I did it once already without getting caught, why not do it again?

So, 50+ miles out over water it was, cruising over the German island of Helgoland, which has an airport. I suppose having a landing option in glide range for a tiny fraction of the crossing somehow made a difference. At any rate, I eventually reunited with the German coast, crossed into the Netherlands, landed at Texel, and completed the remaining 100-mile leg the next day.

85 total miles over water with only some modest heightened fear, yet I refuse the 300-mile trip. No one ever said fears make any sense. I’d take a forced landing on a glacier at 15,000 feet in the middle of winter any day over a water ditching.

What took 8 hours of Super Cub flying time and one overnight took 36 hours, a bus, tram, three trains, and two commercial flights to do in the reverse, arriving back in Norway….to begin the three-day drive south.

The Norwegian Air Force giving me an honorary overflight as I depart Voss, Norway.

Over the Hardangervidda Plateau. This should bother me just as much as flying over water….and it doesn’t.

West coast of Sweden, about to turn over the water. 

Even though I can see Skagen, Denmark on the horizon, I do not like it. At all.

Skagen.

Helgoland, Germany. A pilot friend noted that it is common to see visiting general aviation aircraft arrive here with an entire family (with small children) disembark, none of which have life jackets and no flight plan. If the engine quit, it likely would be the end of them given the water temperatures. Ignorance is bliss.

German mainland on the horizon. Clearly since I didn’t sink the first time, I am immune to risk now.

While one could argue that the scenery along the Dutch coast is pretty, it is hard to notice when one’s rear end is in a pitiful condition from too much flying.

I didn’t come to Norway for the fjords, per se, though they go hand in hand with the existence and location of the glaciers. Where Ice Age glaciers were largest, meltwater channels and other such geologic activity drove the scouring of the depths of the valleys that later filled in with water from the ocean, becoming the fjords as they are. Some of them are thousands of feet deep, in effect an extension of the orography present above the ground.

Of all things, the Alps offer an above ground perspective of what the depths of a fjord might look like, as similar deep valleys are all above ground. One could even argue that such lakes as Lake Geneva, Vierwaldstättersee, Lake Constance, and the Italian Lake District are effectively fjords without connecting to the ocean. The difference pertains to the elevation of the plains abutting the mountains. In the Alps, it is above ground at the base, whereas Norway’s mountains terminate at the ocean.

In any case, the Sognefjord is the longest fjord in Norway. It is also the second longest in the world. Given its proximity to the base of operation, it was a regular feature of flights to and from the high terrain. My default cruising altitude when crossing the fjord was 5,500 feet above sea level, as I had to clear either a ridge, or the Fresvikbreen, a plateau glacier on the south side of the fjord. I was also frequently at 5,500’ to 6,500’ when wandering around the Jostedalsbreen and nearby glaciers.

It is unfortunate that I did not have a chance to fly the length of the fjord in an east-west direction. My crossings were in various places, at various times, mostly on a north-south axis. In any case, it is not a land flowing with milk, honey, and emergency landing locations. Much of it was rather severe, with a farm field or two that I regularly kept in mind, or just resigned myself to getting wet if the prop stopped spinning. I wore a lifejacket for virtually all flights.

Aurlandsfjord, an arm of the Sognefjord. Any other fjords mentioned from here on out are branches of the main one.

Fjærlandsfjord. Jostedalsbreen hiding in the clouds.

Nærøyfjord, from a mile above.

A breezy Sognefjord, looking east.

Westward view above Vikøyri, with a tad of rain.

Aurlandsfjord again, from a mile above.

From the north…

Lustrafjorden, something like 120 miles from the ocean.

Convergence of Aurlandsfjord & Nærøyfjord. The emergency landing locations are delightful.

Nese.

Lustrafjorden again, with an offensively large cruise ship.

Nessane.

Fjærlandsfjord again, looking westward toward the ocean.

Looking south…

A nice evening…

I initially read that the Hardangervidda Plateau is the “largest eroded peneplain in Europe.” That wasn’t attractive, so I kept looking and found that it is the “largest highland plateau in Northern Europe.” That won’t suit, so I dug around until I stumbled across a respectable site that stated that it’s the “largest mountain plateau in Europe.” That sounds about right for my “ours is bigger than yours” mini-series of blog posts, so let’s run with it. Here is the thing: it is a giant plateau, almost all of which is above timberline, for which I have seen nothing like it. It is a large pile of rocks, bogs, water, snow, ice, wind, clouds, and reindeer going on for literally hours of flying. In short, it is delightful.

Granted, there is an inverse relationship between its delight and the suitability of emergency landing locations. The place is hundreds of miles of relentless cheese-grader rocks. I would dream of a large snow field. I’d seriously consider a glacier. I might even dump myself into a freezing cold lake. Anything else is a rapid transition from flying….to coming to a complete standstill…likely almost immediately. Thankfully, it was not necessary to test it.

There is a certain freedom that arises flying above the high-altitude plateaus of Norway. The Hardangervidda is not the only terrain of its sort; it is merely the largest continuous feature of its kind. In many other areas, after a profoundly deep fjord bisects rock thousands of feet tall, the above-timberline glory continues in its resplendency. Many times, after having finished a glacier binge, I had a long flight back to base, most of which was over terrain like this. It was peaceful.

What is interesting is the raw freedom that is a little different than mountain flying in the Alps. The Alps rise from low valleys to dizzying heights and come right back down, often rather quickly. While that means incredible features, it often does not entail a continuous presence at high altitude or, if it does, it means going from near one peak, over a valley one to two miles below, and then to another peak. There is something about being near the ground yet in forbidding terrain that makes it even better (though, on balance, I prefer the Alps).

Norway’s relief is also largely measured in its fjords. The plateaus suddenly drop off, sometimes almost vertically, to bodies of water below. That is the majesty of Norway, apart from a few mountain ranges with some basic relief. In any case, it is something I wish to return to at some point…. except in the winter when snowpack can reach as much as 20 feet deep.

Crest of the Hardangervidda…in mid July. A few small glacial features lurking under the snow.

Hardangerjøkulen, the largest glacier on the plateau.

Cheese grater glory, though there was some snow at this time. I did have pause that a forced landing on “snow” might be a small lake, for which I would then fall through the ice and eventually die. This place is a cornucopia of ways to end up dead if the engine quit.

Where the Hardangervidda gives way to the Hardangerfjord. The weather here is usually fantastic.

About a month later, in a similar (but not exact) location. If one wishes not to have a forced landing on the rocks, then just glide down below (trying to avoid massive power lines), and sink it into the water instead. I wore a lifejacket on every flight over the plateau for that reason.

More of the contiguous section of the western part of the plateau.

This time with some glacial features. To the left, it is still the plateau (above timberline and all) though lower. To the right is the highest part, where I spent most of my time.

The eastern part of the plateau gets less gnarly, though landing here wouldn’t be much better. It is rougher than it looks.

The lower part, looking to where it ascends to the higher part. No trees, no settlements…just rocks mostly.

Getting lower, though vegetation is very boggy. Soil is shallow, so walking across much of this would be really squishy and difficult. 

A different flight, earlier in the summer, this time from Fagernes to Voss. One can see scrubby trees giving way to grass then rock…and then it carries on uninterrupted to the right as it ascends.

Even the valley below is mostly treeless. It plays tricks on the mind that the place is somehow semi-arid like the US West, which is totally false. This place is as wet as it gets. It is just cold, above timberline, and often devoid of soil.

An abundance of water bodies substantiates that there is no illusion of “dryness” here.

It is not unreasonable that many of the largest geological features by various measurements are found in a similar location. Sizable tectonic movements coupled with abundant precipitation has created some monstrous icesheets in the past, the movement of which created various intriguing things. The tallest mountain in Norway, Scandinavia, and Northern Europe is one of them.

Galdhøpiggen is 2.469m / 8,100’ tall and found some distance east of the Jostedalsbreen. Precipitation here is much less than over the aforementioned glacier, owing to a range of mountains that absorbs the first round of incoming Atlantic moisture. It is higher and further inland, which means that temperatures are colder. Therefore, a few glaciers flow from the mountain.

The elevation of the mountain itself is on the low side of my exploits. I used to base the PA-11 at a runway sitting at 9,927’ in Colorado in a valley, whereas in almost every flight in Switzerland, I have to exceed 8,100’ to get over terrain to get where I want to go. On the other hand, when I did the peaks over 6,000 feet in North Carolina, where I presumed it would be “easy,” it was quite challenging due to weather and distance.

This peak is part of a list of 189 peaks over 2000 meters in Norway, of which I have now flown them all. True to form, the list seemed easy as I sipped tea while sitting in front of my computer over a thousand miles away. When it came time to fly to them all, it was a lot of work, due to a fusion of wind, poor weather, and distance from airports. I suppose this will be the reality of every mountain peak conquest, which is part of the fun.

Hurrungane Range. This deceptively from a distance looks like the tallest peaks in the region, though it is not. Galdhøpiggen lies a bit to the east.

Vetle Skagastølstindane from the north. Still not the biggest one…though it prominently appears on the horizon all the time. Styggedalsbreen flowing from it.

Galdhøpiggen, not looking all that prominent, though it is the biggest one in Europe north of the Tatras. Svellnosbrean glacier below.

Galdhøpiggen peeking on the right. Nørdre Illåbrean to the left with Tverråbrean below. 

Svellnosbrean again.

Storjuvbrean left, Svellnosbrean right, with Galdhøpiggen, from the west.

Galdhøpiggen from the south.

Galdhøpiggen from the northeast, with the Styggebrean.

Same thing…just closer.

From the north. Styggebrean left with Storjuvbrean to the right. I must say that I do not mind a sea of rocks and ice with cold wind. 

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.