Schlagwort-Archive: ferryflight

AOPA-Nordatlantikseminar

In diesem Seminar lernen Sie, was Sie für einen Flug über den Atlantik mit einem kleinen Flugzeug wissen müssen. Anforderungen an den Piloten sowie an das Flugzeug, Streckenplanung und -wetter, Luftraumstruktur, Funkverkehr und Seenotausrüstung sind Themen des Seminars.

Dozent ist Arnim Stief, der selbst den US-ATPL für ein- und mehrmotorige Land- und Wasserflugzeuge und entsprechende Lehrberechtigungen hält und bereits mehr als 300 Überführungsflüge über den Nordatlantik absolviert hat.

Anmeldeschluss: 03.01.2023
Ort/Zeit: 07.01.2023 in Egelsbach
Kosten / Teilnahmegebühr pro Person:

  • 160 EUR für AOPA-Mitglieder
  • 200 EUR für Nichtmitglieder, (Preise inklusive MwSt.)

>> Anmeldung.

Zwei Ärzte über dem Atlantik

Mit einem einmotorigen Kleinflugzeug über den Atlantik zu fliegen, gehört zu den großen Fliegerabenteuern. Dr. Volker Herold aus Haltingen, inzwischen im Ruhestand lebender Chirurg, und Dr. Ingolf Lenz, in Lörrach lebender Allgemeinmediziner, haben dieses Abenteuer mit Bravour gemeistert. Die beiden leidenschaftlichen Hobbypiloten sind nach 18’000 Kilometern Flugstrecke und einer gesamten Flugzeit von 62 Stunden nach dreieinhalb Wochen wieder mit ihrer Maschine, einer Mooney 20M20 TLS, aus Amerika wohlbehalten und mit vielen unvergesslichen Eindrücken zurückgekehrt.

Die befreundeten Ärzte sind seit vielen Jahren leidenschaftliche, erfahrene Hobbyflieger. Herold hat seinen Flugschein bereits im Jahr 1983 gemacht, Lenz 2002. Und seit 2006 fliegen die beiden, die ihr Kleinflugzeug am EuroAirport in Basel stationiert haben, zusammen. Und gemeinsam haben sie sich nun den Traum einer Atlantik-Überquerung über Schottland, Island, Grönland, Kanada bis zum avisierten Ziel Chicago in den USA erfüllt. Ohne Zwischenfall meisterten sie hervorragend ihre bislang größte fliegerische Herausforderung.

Die beiden Hobbypiloten, die auf dieser nicht alltäglichen Tour abwechselnd am Steuer saßen, besitzen nach entsprechender Ausbildung und erfolgreicher Prüfung auch eine Instrumentenflugberechtigung. Das ist für ein solches Abenteuer unerlässlich. Ebenso eine gute Ausrüstung, zu der neben Überlebensanzügen unter anderem auch eine Rettungsinsel gehört, sowie eine umfangreiche, intensive Vorbereitung.

Ganz anderer Eindruck von der Erde
Seit mehr als zwei Jahren verfolgen die passionierten Flieger, die schon viele Ziele angeflogen haben, sei es das Nordkap, die Türkei oder Marokko, um nur wenige Beispiele zu nennen, ihren Plan. „Mich fasziniert am Fliegen, dass ich die Welt von oben aus gewisser Entfernung betrachten kann. Man bekommt einen ganz anderen Eindruck von der Erde, auf der wir leben, und sieht die Probleme des Alltags in einem ganz anderen Zusammenhang. Ich lasse den Alltag hinter mir und bin ganz bei mir“, sagt Ingolf Lenz, während für Volker Herold der Reiz des Fliegens darin liegt, fast schwerelos zu schweben. „Es ist die Freiheit, unsere schöne Erde aus der Luft zu sehen mit all ihren spektakulären Landschaften, relativ unabhängig aus individueller Sicht. Natürlich ist auch das Lenken des Fliegers im dreidimensionalen Raum etwas Besonderes.“

Minutiös haben die beiden Ärzte ihre außergewöhnliche Reise geplant. Denn im arktischen Norden spielt das Wetter eine besonders wichtige Rolle. Über dem Atlantik ändert es sich oft. Bläst beispielsweise der Wind aus der falschen Richtung, kann dies die Reichweite des Flugzeugs erheblich reduzieren, so dass es schwierig oder gar unmöglich wird, die geplante Überwasserstrecke zu schaffen. Ein gründliches und ausführliches Wetterbriefing ist daher auf allen Streckenabschnitten notwendig, zumal gerade in Grönland es nur wenige Flughäfen gibt, die zum Tanken angesteuert werden können wie Kulusuk an der Ostküste. Die Reichweite der 25 Jahre alten Mooney 20M20 TLS, die Lenz und Herold vor sechs Jahren erworben haben, liegt zwischen 700 und 800 Meilen – je nach Windverhältnissen. Die viersitzige Maschine hat keine Druckkabine, weshalb ab einer Höhe von 4000 Metern mit Sauerstoffmasken geflogen werden muss. Die maximale Höhe, die das Kleinflugzeug erreicht, sind 6500 Meter. „Und wenn man über Grönland mit Eis, Schnee und Gletschern fliegt, dann sollte man keine Notlandung machen müssen. Dann gäbe es ein Problem“, verdeutlichen die beiden Piloten unisono, die ihren Atlantikflug aber als „kalkulierbares Risiko“ bezeichnen. „Wir sind keine Hasardeure. Das Risiko, beim Autofahren zu verunfallen, ist statistisch gesehen um einiges höher“, betont Volker Herold, der eine Erfahrung von 1400 Flugstunden vorweisen kann, während Ingolf Lenz bei diesem Abenteuer seine 1000. Flugstunde absolviert hat.

Überlebenstraining vor der Reise
Bevor in Basel das Abenteuer startete, haben die beiden bei Bremen ein zweitägiges Transatlantik-Seminar besucht, bei dem sie sich nicht nur das theoretische Rüstzeug holten, sondern auch an einem Überlebenstraining teilnehmen mussten. Anforderungen an den Piloten sowie an das Flugzeug, Streckenplanung und Wetter, Luftraumstruktur, Funkverkehr und Seenotausrüstung waren Themen. Da wurden auch im praktischen Teil verschiedenste Situationen simuliert. Unter anderem mussten sie aus einer „ins Wasser gestürzten Flugzeugkabine“ klettern und in den Überlebensanzügen an die Oberfläche tauchen. Dies gehört zum Vorbereitungsprogramm dazu, schließlich sind gerade in Grönland die Fjorde, Berge, Wind und Eis Gefahrenquellen. Und in Kulusuk landet man außerdem auf einer gewalzten Piste. Mit Ausnahme des An- und Abflugs findet in Grönland der Flugverkehr in radarfreien Lufträumen statt. Und eine Funkverbindung gibt es auch nicht überall – sowohl in Island als auch in Grönland. Im Notfall müssten die Piloten auf das mitgeführte Satellitentelefon zurückgreifen.

Ein einmaliges Erlebnis
Basel, Schottland, Reykjavik in Island, Grönland, Nordkanada, Neufundland vor der Nordostküste Nordamerikas im Atlantischen Ozean und schließlich Chicago, wo ein Cousin von Volker Herold lebt, waren die einzelnen Etappen, die das Kleinflugzeug mit seiner Höchstgeschwindigkeit von 320 Stundenkilometern zurücklegte. Der längste Streckenabschnitt über Wasser dauerte knapp viereinhalb Stunden, und stundenlang führte der Flug auch über Kanadas Wälder, ohne nur eine Siedlung zu sehen. Grönland und seine spektakulären Landschaften mit Gletschern und schwimmenden Eisbergen empfanden beide als imposantes Naturschauspiel.

Nach einem fünftägigen Aufenthalt in Chicago mit seiner bekannten Architektur und einer Sightseeing-Tour in der Luft rund um die Millionenstadt ging es wieder nach Basel zurück. Bilanz der beiden Ärzte: „Es war abenteuer- und erlebnisreich sowie hochinteressant“, sagt Ingolf Lenz, und Volker Herold ergänzt: „Es war spektakulär. So etwas macht man nur einmal im Leben. Wir sind stolz auf unsere Leistung und froh, dass wir immer gutes Wetter hatten und alles ohne Pannen ablief.“ Quelle: ‘Siegfried Feuchter in der Oberbadischen‘.

Crossing the country solo, but not alone

“I need someone to fly my Super Cub from Frederick to Bozeman. Will you do it?” AOPA Air Safety Institute Senior Vice President Richard McSpadden’s question seemed too good to be true. You’re asking me to fly your pristine and beautiful airplane almost all the way across the country? Sign me up. On a calm June morning a few months later, McSpadden handed me the keys to N517WC and a tote of snacks his wife, Judy, had thoughtfully packed, wished me well, and I departed Frederick to the west. My plan was to fly to Wisconsin on day one if the weather cooperated and say hello to some of my favourite aviators at Middleton Municipal Airport (C29), then fly on to Mitchell, South Dakota, to join the annual Ladies Love Taildraggers fly-out. From there I’d fly to Rapid City, South Dakota, with the group, then alone to Bozeman, Montana. The more than 1,500-nautical-mile trip would take 20-plus hours at an ambitiously planned 100 mph.

On my way
The air was smooth and cool over the bemisted Blue Ridge Mountains, and I watched morning fog laze through the valleys and burn off as I approached the rolling hills of eastern Ohio. I crossed tortilla-flat farmland into Indiana and made my first fuel stop. I’d expected headwinds but was gifted a tailwind. Jeff Russell, genuine Piper Super Cub pilot extraordinaire and one of the kindest people I’ve ever met, had offered to let me keep 7WC in his hangar at Middleton. I let him know I’d be earlier than expected, and he texted me his hangar number and told me I was welcome to anything in his fridge.

After fuel stop number two, I modified my route to fly east of Chicago instead of skirting the Class Bravo to the west as planned. I’d always wanted to do the skyline flight, and with the help of that tailwind, I had daylight to burn. A CFI friend in Chicago gave me the lowdown on altitudes, and I reviewed Editor Kollin Stagnito’s account of flying the Chicago skyline (“City with a View,” March 2021 AOPA Pilot) and set off.

Folks typically fly the route from north to south. You can do it without talking to anyone, but since it was new to me and against the known flow of traffic (and a good idea), I opted to call up Chicago for flight following. I’d fly a little higher than the southbound traffic, and farther offshore. It was just gorgeous. The visibility, which had been hazy over most of Indiana, cleared up. Lake Michigan turned Caribbean-colored blues, and the skyscrapers bloomed out from the parkland greens along the lakeshore.

Once north of the city, I turned direct to Middleton. After a long day on an unfamiliar route, with only new airports and unfamiliar faces, I had a feeling of coming home once I had Morey Field insight. I’d visited in summer 2019 before heading up to OSH, missed out on summer 2020 after the cancellation of AirVenture, and was thrilled to be back at C29. I landed in the grass (as a Super Cub should), taxied in, and turned the corner to Russell’s row, only to find the door already open and Russell waiting for me. Russell and another C29 local, Gary, helped me push the airplane in. Turns out he’d been tracking my N number and knew right when I’d arrive. While washing off a day of bugs, I told Russell about my planned route, and he gave me words of flying wisdom. “You can’t fly direct in a Super Cub,” Russell told me. “That’s not what they’re made for. Fly high enough to be respectful and safe, but low enough to see the folks waving up at you. And have fun!”

Flight of six
Since I’d made such a good time on day one, I was able to stay in Middleton for a few extra nights before I needed to be in Mitchell for the fly-out. On one evening, the weather was far too perfect to stay earthbound. With a few texts, we assembled a small fleet—Jim Stevenson and his Cessna 170B, Ross Wilke and his Husky A1–B, Joe McDonough with his Mackey Backcountry Super Cub Rev 3, Joel Wyttenbach and his Cessna 172, and Russell and his Super Cub. We visited a few beginner side-country strips—two charted and one that was not. The charted strips weren’t particularly challenging, but it was all new to me, and I was grateful for the careful coaching from the group. The uncharted strip was Mike Kindschi’s, and that landing was a real full-circle moment; it’s where my love for the area started back when the Air Safety Institute’s Kurt Sensenbrenner and I visited Wisconsin in July 2019 to film Beyond Proficient: STOL Goal. Running out of daylight, we departed Kindschi’s strip as the sun set, the nearby Wisconsin River a glassy mirror of the flame-bright sky. So this, I thought, is what it feels like to own an airplane.

Into the West
The morning I intended to depart, I woke to unforecast rain. Headwinds of more than 35 knots, wind shear, and haze are not ideal conditions. There would be no flying that day. One sunrise later was a marginal, yet good enough, improvement in the weather, and a significant improvement in the company. With a new departure day on Saturday, Wilke had offered to escort me to my fuel stop, Blue Earth Municipal Airport (SBU). With a long day ahead and thankful for summer light, we were wheels up by 6 a.m. We let the river guide us to the mighty Mississippi River and passed over the farm fields of Iowa. Near Waukon, Iowa, Wilke said, “Oh hey I’ve actually been here.” I looked down to see a figure in a bright red shirt in a lush garden waving emphatically up at us. I waved my wings and couldn’t stop smiling—I had wondered if I’d actually see anyone waving at me, but Russell was right.

Ladies Love Taildraggers
I crossed into the South Dakota plains alone. The wind wasn’t finished with me yet, battled headwinds and midday turbulence to the fly-in at Mitchell. I taxied to Wright Brothers Aviation where an impressive array of taildraggers was already on the line—a Cessna 170, a Cessna 195, and a Decathlon to name a few—all securely tied down to contend with the South Dakota wind. All the airplanes were worth drooling over and most had a pair of stilettos in front of them, the Ladies Love Taildraggers (LLT) calling card. The folks at the FBO whisked 7WC away and I had just a few minutes inside to make introductions and proudly confirm that yes, I had flown that beautiful Super Cub in before we loaded up into two vans on our way to explore Mitchell. It had already been a long day of six-plus hours of bumpy, hot, gusty flying and I felt a little behind the curve while I lined up for a van. It seemed I was the only one who had come solo. I eyed the groups of old friends choosing seats together and was grateful when a pilot about my age came up and introduced herself. Laura Doornbos of Bloomington, Illinois, had flown in with her father, Keith, in the gorgeous 170 I’d admired earlier. She made sure I had a seat in the van with her and her dad, and we set off, chatting about our journeys so far.

We were taken to an archaeological site, and then to the one-of-a-kind icon of South Dakota—the World’s Only Corn Palace. That evening over dinner, and in between getting-to-know-you conversations and hangar flying stories, we discussed tomorrow’s forecast—winds gusting well into the forties almost all day. Even if you’ve never flown a taildragger before, you probably know that the wind is typically a greater factor in a go/no-go decision than with nosewheels. Judy Birchler, the organizer of the event and founder of LLT, stressed that there was no pressure to push our limits and reminded us that we were each our own pilot in command. When the sun rose, the wind was already howling. We shuttled over to the airport and began the long, somewhat frustrating process of waiting out the weather. Not only was the wind hellacious at Mitchell, it was also severe at our destination, Rapid City. I was unwilling to launch until the wind was better in both spots. As the day progressed and the winds lessened slightly, some felt comfortable to depart. But Keith made a good point: “It isn’t an emergency, is it? I’m perfectly happy to stay in Mitchell another night if we have to.” There was no need to push it. At long last, the weather improved, and we finally launched to the west. The three-hour leg felt easy compared to other days, and I made it to Rapid City as the last rays of light slipped behind the Black Hills.

Exploring
The Ladies Love Taildraggers squad spent the following morning driving the winding roads of Badlands National Park. Lunch was a feast of fry bread and ended with souvenir shopping before a stop at Wall Drug on our way back to Rapid City. Wall Drug—which I had somehow managed to live my whole life without hearing about—is a historic wonderland of kitsch, much more than just a roadside drug store (though it does still have a small pharmacy). That night in town, a group of us went to the old fire station for dinner. The others planned for the next day’s trip to Spearfish, and I said my goodbyes—tomorrow, I’d fly on to Bozeman solo, or as far as I could make it. Keith and Laura offered to help push the airplane out of its sloped, grassy parking spot. They made my morning a whole lot easier. Since I’d miss out on the drive the ladies would take the following day to Mount Rushmore, I decided to fly by on my way to my fuel stop, Sheridan, Wyoming. Helicopter pilots chattered to each other on the charted frequency. I could tell by their quick back and forth that they did this all day every day. I gave a basic position report, adding that if my altitude interfered with tours to let me know. One of the tour pilots let me know my altitude was just fine and thanked me for calling—most transient traffic, he said, didn’t call. As I departed toward Spearfish and Sturgis, waypoints on my way around the Black Hills, I marvelled at the terrain. These western hills would’ve been eastern mountains. Spearfish looked like an aviator’s haven, with multiple grass runways tucked away in the hills. Sturgis was surprisingly tiny and I wondered where all those motorcycles park every summer.

Last legs
On my way to Sheridan, the true Rocky West began. From miles out, I could see the towering, snowcapped Bighorn Mountains. I landed and checked the weather. The forecast had changed, and the radar now showed a thin but growing line of convection directly between me and Bozeman. I was only two hours away from my destination, but the risk wasn’t worth it. Thankfully, the weather the following morning was just as perfect as forecast. The familiarity of the route, plus the comfort and affection I’d grown for the airplane over the many hours of our trip, made that final leg even sweeter. These were my old stomping grounds, and where I’d earned my instrument, commercial, multi, and CFI certificates. I said hello to my old friend the Bighorn Canyon and climbed abeam the deep green Pryor Mountains. I kept climbing to give myself some more security near the mountains and headed directly toward Livingston and the Bozeman Pass. Mountain passes can present a bit of an X factor. On a calm day similar to this one during training, my instructor and I had approached the pass only to be met with a textbook downdraft. With full power at VY and still descending, we turned around and headed back toward Billings. Remembering that, I approached the pass, hypervigilant of any changes in the wind and ready to turn around if needed. Before I knew it, Bozeman tower cleared me to land, I touched down in the grass and taxied in for a post-trip oil change. Minutes after shutdown, I handed the keys over to McSpadden, and my little companion was whisked away into the hangar at its new summer home. My job was done.

Time to spare
The next day, feeling grateful after 24.7 hours and a couple of thousand photos, I flew home to Los Angeles via the airlines. I learned so much from this trip. I do, I confirmed, want to own my own airplane one day. I want adventures like this to be part of my normal life. I learned for myself something I’d already suspected and been told—flying with friends is better than flying alone. Last, I was reminded on every leg just how fortunate we are to live in a place where a trip like this is possible. From one coast through the heartland, across the Mississippi, to the mountains, this country is extraordinarily diverse. So, what are you waiting for? Take the long and winding road. Go fly. Source: ‘Alicia Herron on the AOPA website‘.