Schlagwort-Archive: Garrett Fisher

Exotic Frustration Near the Alhambra

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

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

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

Outbound was over the pass to Sion. I learned that the 9 litres I burn to hop from Gstaad to Sion are not worth the 30 minutes it takes to fuel, so I quickly park at Tango 10, get back in the plane, and head off to Montpellier, France.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An International Smoke Mystery

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Svartisen, Second Largest Glacier in Continental Europe

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For Fans of the Eternal Ice: Book #33: Glaciers of Switzerland

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After flying an interminable amount of hours over years of summer seasons, sorting through almost 40,000 photographs, post-processing and exporting a little over 2,000 images, and then winnowing those 2,000 down to 928 images to represent every glacier in Switzerland, it is done. I have given birth to a book that is almost four times the size of any other photography work of mine, coming in at 542 pages. Writing the book involved more work than the flights. I am sure I forgot a glacier or two, though I digress.

With the release of this work, my focus has changed. In the past, I was more intimately concerned with pricing, distribution, retail presentation, royalty percentages, and a final equilibrium that appealed to the largest number of consumers. In the end, I don’t think pressing all those levers amounts to a hill of beans, so I decided to do something I wanted, which was to make a book large enough that it would break a toe if you dropped it. The glaciers of Switzerland themselves speak with such a visual magnitude that I wished to present them in printed form in the closest similarity that it felt in the air.

All images except a couple were taken in the PA-11. Despite having the PA-18 since 2021, it just worked out that even some of the glaciers I chased in 2022 were still done in the PA-11, as the Super Cub seemed to always be in the wrong country for one reason or another when it came to glacier season. When I step back and look at the project now that it is done, I am left wondering how I did it in that little, underpowered, unheated, under-fueled aircraft, though, well, it is done.

For some reason, Amazon.com in the US has decided to keep the price down dramatically for the time being, so if you’re interested and able to order from that platform, it is the best place to get it for now. Source: ‚Garrett Fisher‚.

Spain, Morocco: Spanish Africa, Pillars of Hercules, Southernmost Point in Europe

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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…

Source and entire report: ‚Garrett Fisher‚.