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Errands at 15,000 Feet

To understand this flight, it becomes necessary to dial things back to last summer spent in Switzerland. I had a very specific list of things I wanted to fly to: the 82 peaks over 4,000 meters (13,123 feet) in the Alps, located in France, Italy, and Switzerland. I thought I had successfully completed the task, except when I went to work on writing the book, I noted that two were missing, and a third clump of peaks would be better suited with different photographs. How could I have come this far, photographed everything large I saw, and missed two? Well, I did that in Colorado back in 2014 when I chased the 58 fourteeners; I missed one and fortunately was able to get it before moving the airplane to North Carolina (it happened to be the closest one to the airport). The nefarious peaks in question in the Alps shared a characteristic of the lone peak of Colorado: They were some of the smallest on the list, thus appearing inconsequential when surrounded by their larger brethren.

I concocted the brilliant idea to get all three in one flight. The Aiguilles du Diable in France (4,074 meters/13,366 feet), Punta Giordani in Italy (4,046 meters/13,274 feet), and the Dürrenhorn in Switzerland (4,035 meters/13,238 feet). It should have been doable in theory, except there was this pernicious reality called an overcast over the Oberland. I figured it would be touch and go to get back to Saanen, so I planned on fueling in Sion if things delayed and that I’d sort it out if the overcast didn’t lessen as planned.

When I got to Gstaad Airport, there were plenty of airplanes flying around, including a PC-24 doing touch and goes. Given that it’s a VFR-only field, there must have been some egress out of the Oberland. I took off, planning to go west via Les Mosses, though there was a business jet up to something I wasn’t sure of, so I turned south over Gstaad, continuing to Gsteig, where a tiny hole in the overcast appeared. It was far too amorphous to climb through, so I continued west over the pass to Ormont-Dessus, then Leysin toward my escape to the sunny Rhône valley. From there it was a full power climb all the way to the Mont Blanc Massif, then eastbound past Grand Combin (4,314 meters/14,154 feet). Clouds were 40 percent coverage over the high peaks, requiring flying around them at 13,500 feet, with relatively clear skies elsewhere, meaning that they were orographic summer lift. I had originally hoped to blast straight to the Dürrenhorn from Saanen, except I now had to reverse the plan.

I came across the Matterhorn (4,478 meters/14,692 feet) in its illustrious cloud-forming glory, then had some angst that the Monte Rosa Massif appeared to be covered in clouds on the south side where Punta Giordani was hiding. It then occurred to me that there were clouds the other handful of times I swung by, and I probably didn’t notice this smaller peak because it was hidden. Thankfully, the clouds parted for a minute on the Italian side of the ridge, so I got my photo and moved on.

From there I went north back into Switzerland toward the Mischabel Group, in pursuit of the Dürrenhorn. Yet again clouds were billowing up, with Dom visible, though not Dürrenhorn below. Perhaps again the same thing happened? Well, no, upon recollection it was completely clear when I flew here last. The problem is the Dürrenhorn is not exciting compared to massive ice caps nearby.

I went over the ridge between two peaks shrouded in clouds, distracted a bit by the beauty of the scene, hoping I could come around the north side and swoop down to get the peak. Fortunately, the clouds were clear from the angle of the Nadelhorn, so after some fancy footwork around moving clouds, I got a shot and moved on.

Rhône Valley, clear of clouds. Altitude roughly 8,000 feet.

Massif du Chablais (10,686 feet). I showed my [nonpilot] wife this photo, and it might as well have been an image of an airplane crash.

Aiguilles du Diable, France (foreground), Mt. Blanc (ice cap-covered background). One can understand why, when I spent my time above the highest summit, that I didn’t notice these rocks below.

The Matterhorn (14,692 feet), from Italy.

Punta Giordani, Italy, yet again below. Signalkuppe (14,940 feet) was above and behind me.

Dom, Switzerland (14,911 feet) in the clouds, a pleasant surprise.

That meant Dürrenhorn (13,238 feet – how piddling) would be at risk of being shrouded. Fortunately it was clear enough to sneak a view.

Now that my errands were done, I had to figure out what I was going to do about getting back to base. I could see that the entire Oberland and Swiss Plateau were socked in from above, with no holes. I decided then that I’d burn off my excessive altitude by cruising west along the Bernese Alps and land at Sion. I requested permission to cross the TMA, which was granted, and then my ability to transmit stopped working.

I did the whole triple radio battery swap. No change. Tried other frequencies. No change. I could hear, just not speak. If I did the squawk 7600 routine, I’d be let into Sion, though likely not out until the radio was fixed. What a bother! I thought a bit about trying to make a go at Les Mosses and land at Saanen, where a radio was not needed. If the pass was open and no further problems developed, it would work, though that’s it, with no buffer for fuel. That was as dumb of an idea as it sounded, so I opted for Bex, a short grass strip which technically requires prior permission. I landed without incident and found that the radio problem was the mic connection dislodged lightly.

For the flight back into the Oberland, it was evident Les Mosses was open, as well was the overcast in the process of clearing. Since I know little about the vagaries of poor weather in Switzerland, I wasn’t going to play with all the things that could go wrong in high, steep terrain with overcast. At any rate, after almost four hours of technically challenging, ice cold, unpredictable flying, I decided that the flight was a silly idea. Did I really need to hit them all up in one binge session? “There is no reason this needs to be difficult. The next flight I am going to make enjoyable, period.”

Is this idiot whining about flying in the Alps? No, just disapproving of my own unrealistic ambitions. The mere fact that I have flown to these peaks in the past doesn’t make them easy in the future.

The view from 12,500 feet of the Oberland. Home base is in the distant right. 

Approaching the Rhône valley for landing at Bex, 9,000 feet below the cloud deck. Bernese Alps, Switzerland in the foreground, Mont Blanc, France (15,774 feet) in the background.

Les Mosses pass, flight altitude 5,600 feet.

I definitely lived up to my decision on the next flight five days later. Münster is a small field located high in the Goms Valley of eastern Valais (known as the “Texas of Switzerland”). It is open for June through August and is located at 4,400 feet in a deep valley. I contacted the airport manager, got permission (once I described my mountain experience), confirmed fuel, and set off.

Weather was uncharacteristically dry. There were almost no clouds or haze in the Oberland, which is unusual, with glorious blue skies. I had a rough idea of where I might go, though was only constrained by arriving at my destination before the fuel ran out. In flight, I saw that terrain on the northern edge of the Alps was completely clear, so I hung out at 7,700 feet and photographed major terrain from below, as I had hoped to do for last month’s post (and ended up above the clouds at 13,500 feet instead).

The flight was positively glorious.

I continued east over the Sustenpass, south to Andermatt, west to Furkapass, then down the Goms Valley, eventually to land at Münster once the glider traffic jam cleared up. Münster is practically heaven. Scenery was exquisite, with the sound of the turquoise rushing Rhône River alongside the airport, blue sky, remaining snow from last winter on a few peaks, and illustrious green trees and grass. If the airport was open year-round, I would have moved to that valley.

The airport manager asked where I was from, and when I said Upstate New York, he said he has relatives in Rochester. I pointed to the Cub and told him that “I soloed that airplane 45 minutes from Rochester.” Another pilot came over and we chatted for over 20 minutes. He did some training in Cubs in the Swiss military when he was young and was raving about how wonderful the airplane was. Some advice he was taught: “Make sure you come at a peak with the proper altitude in advance, as the airplane does not have the power to climb.”

He articulated his surprise that I showed up. “Who would imagine a Piper from America, here in Münster?” Well, I concur! I never imagined that this Piper would end up in the Valais, either.

I was going to head west and figure out a way to get over the Bernese Alps on the way back to Saanen. The problem was that there were a few orographic clouds, and wind was bumpy over the passes. I wasn’t sure about how to get over without getting beat up, so I decided on climb out to head over the Grimselpass. That was the right call as there was a fair amount of wind per the lakes at the pass, though no bumps. I then descended down to 1,000 feet agl over the Brienzersee, cruising right over Interlaken, then back into the Oberland for landing before the 8 p.m. deadline.

I had some time at the airport afterward, as I needed to change the oil and there were some aggravations to sort out, typical of being in a new place. That afforded a classic hour in evening light after a long day of flying. I was the happiest I have been since I can remember after a flight, rating it probably in the top ten of all time. I suppose the difference is merely perspective.

Golitschepass (7,148 feet) in the foreground in the Oberland, Bernese Alps in the background.

Oeschinensee (5,177 feet surface elevation). I am usually 6,000 feet or more above it after a Jungfrau binge.


Lauterbrunnen (below) with Mittelhorn, Schreckhorn, Eiger, Mönch, and the Jungfrau (left to right). Flight path was a bit right, straight ahead, then left beneath the peaks in the back.

Jungfrau (13,641 feet) from 7,700 feet altitude. To get a wide angle vertical of something so high above a high-wing airplane, it is necessary to bank 50 to 60 degrees to the left.

Across from Grindelwald, I came across an interesting opening in the mountain range.

So I went into it and found a veritable cathedral. 

Ischmeer, with Grosses Fiescherhorn (13,280 feet) in the rear. A bit of katabatic wind off the glacier, which is normal apparently when I get that close and they are that big. Still figuring that part out.

Ober Ischmeer. This was a very tight situation, even for a Cub. I could not discern my agl visually, as there were no trees, people, or buildings, so everything is subjective. Looking at Google Maps on terrain mode later, I figured out I was 500 feet above the glacier. 

Out of the cathedral. Rather vertical rock above Grindelwald, continuing east.

Three layers of mountains in the foreground. The valley to the Grimselpass eventually opens to the right. Winds got frisky in here.

Andermatt.

Grimselpass, from the south.

Münster, looking south. I was nearly scraping the trees on the other side of the airplane. It’s a Swiss thing….

Münster, looking north, scraping the trees behind me again.

Climbing out uphill…slowly. Goms Valley.

More altitude…still in the Goms Valley, with the Rhône River below and its headwaters on the horizon.

Grimselpass. A forced landing would be better suited with floats.

Interlaken, looking back up toward Jungfrau.

Climbing into the Oberland.

Gstaad, about to enter the circuit. 

Garrett Fisher is an aerial adventure photographer, having photographed some of the most rugged and wild terrain in America from his 1949 Piper PA-11. After living in Germany with the Cub, he recently moved to the Spanish Pyrenees to continue the flying adventure. He has published six aerial photography books covering the Colorado Rockies, Wyoming, high terrain in the Southeast, and the Outer Banks, with more US and European books in the pipeline. He blogs regularly about his flights at www.garrettfisher.me.

Switzerland

We decided to head to Switzerland again for the summer, which presented the obligation of flying the Cub there. The first weekend I chose had the unfortunate reality of being infernal heatwave in Europe, where temperatures in France reached 113F and 102F in Cerdanya, exceeding the previous high that I had experienced in the Pyrenees of 95F. It is generally a temperate place without extremes, so this was pretty warm. After my punishing trip to Texas in the heat, humidity, and thermals of an early Southern heatwave a month prior, I wasn’t in the mood to repeat myself, so I delayed.

A window showed up to go a week later, with sunny weather in the Pyrenees, France, and the western Alps, so I took my chances, even though it was supposed to be warm.

As the day approached and I undertook flight planning exercises, I noted a trepidation brewing, which caused me initially to do a thorough check of the airplane a couple of days before leaving. Was this some sort of deep intuition about a problem that I was ignoring? On careful examination, it occurred to me that I had pause crossing France, which I didn’t understand, as I had done it five times in the past. One factor is that, each time, I insist upon going a slightly different way, as the southern half of France features a wide variety of things to see in a narrow band of 75 miles. That adds technical burden to the flight, some of which I forget about each time, inclusive of a French fuel card, special military zones to be checked, flight plans, a byzantine web of restricted areas unlike anything in America, fuel status of airports, landing and handling fees, language restrictions, and a flight plan for customs clearance into Switzerland.

Now I knew what my problem was: crossing France is a tremendous amount of work where lots can go wrong. One could easily find himself marooned at an airport with no ability to fuel and not enough fuel to make an alternate, meaning an early night in a hotel.

The departure out of the Pyrenees was interesting, as a morning inversion developed, which I could clear easily, only to plunge into MVFR Saharan dust that was in a layer 6,000 feet and higher, a first where the haze is only at high altitude. At one point I was concerned it would go IFR, and then it suddenly cleared to a hot and hazy summer day over the French foothills. Proceeding north, it was quite hot, so I stayed up at 5,000 feet, descending slowly once I got past some Mediterranean hills. As I approached a control zone, I asked for clearance from flight following to get through it (something they usually will relay). I was handed to Rodez Info, who told me there “is a strike today in Clermont-Ferrand, so there will be no Info service.” I tried calling the tower and was too far away, so I ducked under the cake, now tossed around in heat and thermals.

This went on awhile as I approached the highlands of the Massif Central near the Cantal Mountains. It is a dormant stratovolcano which has partially eroded away, creating some interesting faux above timberline terrain. Since Info service was on strike, I couldn’t get status of the restricted area, which meant I couldn’t quite see the peak I wanted to overfly. Hot and sweaty after my low altitude jaunt around Rodez, bumped by thermals, wishing I was at my destination, I began to lose faith in the gospel of aviation that ‘more flying is better.’

Fuel was at Saint-Flour, then off to the eastern Massif Central timberlands, down to the Rhône River for my ceremonial crossing, a reflection of past stories while sneaking by Grenoble’s airspace, glancing at fertile farmlands that I recall distinctly from the flight down from Germany in 2016.

Cantal Mountains, France. Maximum elevation 6,086′.

Timberlands in eastern Massif Central. Trees look quite healthy and there is some logging activity.


Crossing the Rhône River.

Farmland in the Rhône River valley.

Fuel was a GA airport outside of Chambéry, choosing a non-controlled field to avoid the mile walk required to pay a 5 euro landing fee at the larger airport north of town. Instead the field was a “French only” airport, a reality one must contend with in places in France, where all radio communication is strictly in French. It was a poor day to arrive, as gliders were swarming like gnats. I waited until traffic subsided, slipped in for fuel, noticing a very specific indifference by individuals on the ground, and after 15 minutes of glider winch activity and landings, found a window to takeoff for the final leg into Switzerland.

My questions about whether I was enjoying myself went away once I began cruising in the Pre-Alps a few minutes later. It is technically a separate mountain range that looks like the foothills of the Alps. Elevations tend to top out in the 4,000’ to 8,000’ range, with thick pine forests, exposed rock, and occasional ridges that look like the Alps.

The Pre-Alps gave way to the Chablais Alps at the border of Switzerland, and my disposition went from fatigue to pure joy. Vertical spires of rocks, small glaciers, remaining June snow, and thunderous waterfalls abounded. I climbed to about 8,000 feet to swing by the Massif du Chablais, a ridge that taunts us from the chalet in Switzerland, and from there swung by Les Diablerets and made my cruise into the Bernese Oberland, to land at Gstaad Airport, where the airplane will spend the summer.

Col de Bornette in the French Pre-Alps. I came from the left and crossed this same pass when flying to Switzerland last year.

Mont Fleuri, France, still in the Pre-Alps (8238′ / 2511m).

Mont Blanc in the background.


Switzerland, how I love you.  Les Dents Blanches (8533′ to 9042′ / 2601m to 2756m).


Massif du Chablais.

Bernese Oberland.

I was extremely content with my choice of location, and after literally “planes, trains, and automobiles,” I was back in Cerdanya the next day, and we drove to Switzerand the day after that. A few days after arriving a nice day was forecast, at least with respect to the fact it is sunny. I am still trying to figure out why one front means clear air, or another means a sunny day with incredible haze, or it means haze in one elevation or area, yet not in another.

Anyhow, I hoped to photograph Lake Geneva in summer light angles, though the morning showed sunny skies with horrific haze. I decided to go up anyway and “swing by the Jungfrau but at an altitude that isn’t 14,000 feet.” Given that it was to be sunny, I figured I could get some angles that never really made sense to try while based in Sion, as terrain is something quite severe and takes a lot of fuel to climb Sion over the Alps, back down to where humans live, then back up over the Alps, and quickly back down to normal elevations.

It didn’t take long in the air to decide I needed to clear the clouds over the Oberland, which I did in a hole over a massive waterfall in Adelboden. From there, the clouds were 50% coverage and clearly went to 11,000 feet, so I’d have to clear them. I wanted to see the Jungfrau, and it would be even better if it was sticking out above the clouds. Snaking east, I climbed as I went, hugging terrain, avoiding clouds, and thoroughly enjoying myself. Eventually I popped out at 12,000’ north of a sizable glacier, noting that the clouds were effectively piling up on the north side of the Bernese Alps and getting pushed to higher altitude, drying out on the south side. I finally did get to see the Jungfrau, after climbing to 13,500’, staying on the north side due to a stiff breeze. The air at altitude had perfect visibility, and stunning views.

On the way back west along the ridge, I noted that the clouds had thickened significantly, with less holes and higher heights. It was still clear to the south via the passes, and north out of the Oberland. Eventually I found a hole between Adelboden and Frutigen and corkscrewed down 3,000’ and popped over the pass towark Lenk-Simmental. Humidity and haze had increased greatly under the cloud deck causing carb ice at cruise RPM, though it was restricted to where it piled up against the Alps, indeed an interesting microclimate, as things were dry on the other side in the Rhône valley near Sion and drier 10 miles north of the base of the Bernese Alps. Anyhow, I cruised along the menacing looking ridge before slaloming around Oberland peaks and finally joining the circuit over a rather vertical rock just north of the airport.

While the first flight was one of technical requirement, to get from one point to another, it turned out to be the best and the worst at the same time. I think I can, at this point, finally declare that I do not like cruising at low altitude in thermals on hot summer days (it has taken long enough to cement that preference) yet alongside that displeasure I find the utter transcendental bliss of flight above glaciers well above 10,000 feet, which is simply the most enjoyable thing I have ever done in an airplane.

Rüwlispass (5636′ / 1718m).

Waterfalls above Adelboden.

Gemmipass (7447′ / 2270m).

Hockenhorn, hiding in the clouds (10803′ / 3293m). I gave up trying to climb over it, went to the right in the lee of the pass, and climbed above the clouds in the distance.


Et voila! Üsser Talgletscher. 

Same glacier, looking the other way.

Eiger (13024′ / 3970m). So much for the plan to “photo from below on a clear day.” Its not like I find this disagreeable.

Jungfrau (13642′ / 4158m).

Bernese Alps with clouds backed against them to the north.

And down through the hole above Adelboden.

Cruising along the ridge, where my O-200 turned into an ice machine.

CFIT poster.

Beneath Les Diablerets.

Entering the pattern for Saanen. Standard procedures call for flying above an enormous rock, then making a square pattern around Gstaad. Its a wild airport.

Garrett Fisher is an aerial adventure photographer, having photographed some of the most rugged and wild terrain in America from his 1949 Piper PA-11. After living in Germany with the Cub, he recently moved to the Spanish Pyrenees to continue the flying adventure. He has published six aerial photography books covering the Colorado Rockies, Wyoming, high terrain in the Southeast, and the Outer Banks, with more US and European books in the pipeline. He blogs regularly about his flights at www.garrettfisher.me.

A New Normal

I suppose it was an eventuality living overseas that I would finally start accepting how things are done here and slowly forget the ever-present reality that “this would have been easier in America.” At this point, my immersion has gone to a new level, where it has steam rolled whatever resistance remained.

For those that read last month’s post, it was about the Catalonian independence referendum and my utilization of general aviation as a way to make sense of all of the upheaval here in Catalonia, by flying on a daily basis. As the days continued past the suspended declaration of independence early in October, my sense of angst did not reduce, as I kept thinking about the fact that all of my assets here in Spain are not insured against civil unrest and war. For that matter, nobody has coverage for that sort of thing. Being so close to the French border, logic said that we should have a plan, and we did devise one early on: first our safety if stuck at home, second our ability to sneak out, and third the financial effects of it all. As I took stock of the continuously tense situation, I decided that my escape plan with the airplane had some holes in it.

I joked that I would hop in the plane and make a James Bond escape across the border, declaring an emergency if I had to and requesting political asylum. If lives are at stake, that is how it would go down, and I’d endure unhappy French gendarmes if I had to. Then, as I thought more about the reality that we may wish to reposition assets for prevention, then my WWII escape from behind enemy lines would not get the sympathy I had hoped, especially at St. Leocadie, an airport merely 8 miles from La Cerdanya aerodrome, yet over the border in France. If it was a foul weather day, I would need to land there, and it is both an “altiport,” which is a restricted use airport in France requiring a signoff before being permitted to land, and a hybrid military installation where advance registration is also required. I decided it was time to get the site licenses and registration taken care of.

Of course, I could not use my airplane, as I would need the site license to land there to take the lesson in the first place, so I rented from the local flying club and went up with the Chief Pilot. It was a 1959 Super Cub with a 150-horsepower engine, the same model my grandfather informally taught me how to fly in at age 8. I initially expected the whole affair to be a nonevent, though I had a nagging suspicion I was in for a lot of work, which turned out to be correct. I hadn’t flown a Super Cub in 20 years, and never from the front seat. The lesson would be in Spanish, a common second language for both of us. As anticipated, the checklist was in French, and as I noted this fact, I was told by the instructor that “when [he goes] to America, the checklist will not be in French.” Right. Airspeed was in kilometers, which is about as awkward as driving a car in the UK. That all aside, the lesson was pleasant, though left me sweating like I was a student again, and confirmed a longstanding suspicion: while I am becoming a better aviator flying the PA-11 so much, I do not fly many models, and I wonder if over specializing is not the smartest thing to do. It was good to fly another machine.

Le Super Cub – St. Leocadie, France

After the lesson, I now had two site licenses, as we visited La Llagonne, a glider field at 5,600’ elevation. A few days later, I flew up to La Llagonne before the season entombed the place in snow and mud, taking some food and enjoying a bit of a meal surrounded by scenery that looked like Colorado and Wyoming. In this moment of quiet reflection, I began to realize that the magnitude of aviation experiences to be had is cumulatively becoming almost overwhelming. In my initial indignation at bureaucratic nonsense, a subtler enjoyment of the depth of culture and experience was not being noticed. Despite the seemingly anachronistic requirement to have this site license, it creates a situation where not many get to land there, so it is kind of special to be able to. That, and yet again I am nibbling on some food staring at this airplane, amazed how many places it has been. Besides, why would I expect the French, Spanish, or anyone else to care about what an American pilot thinks about their rules?

La Llagonne, France – 5600′ MSL

After getting the site licenses taken care of, any angst about independence evaporated. I made a plan, took care of all paperwork and other affairs that I could, and decided to stop caring. Shortly thereafter, I decided to enjoy a Friday afternoon and putz around the hangar on what was a hazy day unsuitable for photography. The warmth of the late October summery weather beckoned a flight around the pattern, so I decided to leave the cameras in the car and head up with the door open. During climbout, someone asked me “What do you think of the Republic?” “Republic? Did they declare independence?” “Yes, just now.” Figures, I have a moment of peace and a country is born beneath me.

Independence declared. I grabbed the camera and went flying, Urus, Catalonia.

For those that follow the news, the independence saga continues, a political drama that is by and large entirely unpredictable. That being said, I quit trying to predict it, and keep flying. Recently, a raging Tramontane wind coupled with a strong low between Corsica and Rome, creating furious winds that finally cleaned out all Catalonian haze, high and low. Once the winds calmed down, I decided to swallow my angst and conquer a flight I have not been able to do since I got here.

The Mediterranean is 54 nautical miles as the crow flies, yet is inexplicably one of the most complex routes, and that has nothing to do with airspace. Taking off at 3,609’ MSL, I have to climb to 7,200’ to get over terrain, then commence a step descent over terrain that looks like severe Appalachian hills: densely forested countryside with West Virginia-style curvy roads and few fields. These gnarly hills twist and snake, changing their form and working their way toward the Mediterranean plains, a cruise initially at 5,000’, which gives way to 3,000’ and then roughly 1,500’, as Barcelona’s airspace is overhead. Turning to cruise down the coast, terrain starts to act a bit like Big Sur, which cliffs adjacent to the ocean and terrain up to 1,200’ here and there close to the water, giving way to valleys that drop to sea level, containing developed areas. There is a lot of think about with regard to an engine failure, though the scenery is exquisite. All of these areas are absolutely filled with microclimates.

Climbing to 7,200′ MSL to leave La Cerdanya

Cruising at 5,000′ MSL

Descending to 3,000′ MSL

Mediterranean Coastal Plain. 1,500′ MSL cruising altitude.

Costa Brava, with Montseny in the background.

Not a good place for an engine to quit.

Tossa de Mar

Palafolls

Fueling was at a ULM field, Palafolls, a short field at sea level wedged amongst 10-foot swamp grass, which was an entertaining approach with unmarked high-tension lines, an elevated highway on short final, and a factory complex so large that the roof would have made a suitable emergency landing location. Taking off from there, I finally had a chance to fly around Massís del Monsteny, a 5,000’ hill east of Barcelona that frequently taunts me from a distance. Being so close to the Mediterranean, the hill almost always has sea haze or clouds making imagery unsuitable, except today.

After Monsteny, it was a descent down to 3,000’ to photograph the ridges west of Vic, which were uncharacteristically free of persistent fog and inversions. That gave way to cruise climb over West Virginia terrain, clearing a ridge at 5,200’ before giving full throttle for the climb through a downdraft to 7,200’ to clear Puigllançada, then descending alongside ski resorts in stiff wind, for a long final back to La Cerdanya at 3,609’.

Massis del Montseny near Barcelona. Note Mediterranean in far left background.

Cliffs west of Vic, 3,000′ MSL cruising altitude.

5,500′ en route to 7,200′, encountering light rotors off the hills.

Puigllançada to the left, at 7,200′ before descending into the valley to La Cerdanya.

It has been a historical enigma why I was averse to taking the flight in the first place, and yet that aversion was confirmed by how tired I was after 4.5 hours of flying over this route. It is easier to fly above timberline, in the Pyrenees or the Rockies, in the middle of winter, than this kind of flight. It is certainly the opposite of low and slow over farm country, and after some reflection, the level of complexity, terrain variation, microclimates, development, remote areas, and mix of coastal and mountainous terrain over a short distance makes it unusual, challenging, and rewarding. I would also suppose that while aviation is aviation, the sheer immersion of inputs and visuals in an exotic nation places more processing burden on the mind, as there is so much density of things to see and process, especially while flying over new surroundings in a place where sovereignty is, well, up in the air.

Speaking of flying above timberline, book #13 has been published: “Around the Summit: Flying Grand Teton.” It is an aerial photography manifesto of every nook and cranny of Grand Teton National Park, featuring my most technical mountain flying to date in the Cub.

 

Garrett Fisher is an aerial adventure photographer, having photographed some of the most rugged and wild terrain in America from his 1949 Piper PA-11. After living in Germany with the Cub, he recently moved to the Spanish Pyrenees to continue the flying adventure. He has published six aerial photography books covering the Colorado Rockies, Wyoming, high terrain in the Southeast, and the Outer Banks, with more US and European books in the pipeline. He blogs regularly about his flights at www.garrettfisher.me.

Provence: a Monet of Control Zones

Like most ideas about flying in Europe (or anywhere, for that matter), I sit on my throne of ignorance on a cold, rainy night, fantasizing about a flight to some matter of interest, as though the airplane will fly itself with no real effort required. This plan was hatched back in Germany, at the behest of my wife, when I thought that any destination in Europe was easy to get to…largely because I happened to merely be in Europe. Oh, how little I knew!

After the move to Spain, the idea of lavender in Provence got infinitely easier, because it was “only” 160 miles away as the crow flies. Oddly, though, I didn’t land in France again until 9 months after the move, even though I had made multiple landings in the country on the flight down from Germany. Consistently, I opted for the laid-back and disorganized nature of Spain, meaning that an airport may or may not be attended, that fuel may or may not be there, and well, “no pasa nada.” Nothing is going to happen. France is much more wired than Spain, and as previously mentioned, has nothing short of barbarically complicated airspace.

A few weeks prior to this trip, I took a 5-hour flight over the heart of the Pyrenees, making that first landing in France in 9 months to refuel, and I felt less anxiety flying above timberline than in controlled airspace. The terrain that I was flying over was plain silly, with massive mountains as far as the eye could see, yet I was relaxed and at ease in that environment. If the engine quits, I’d land in a meadow and pitch my tent. If the radio, transponder, iPad, or anything else fails that connects me to the outside world, I’ll fly home by memory. No pasa nada. Complex airspace is another animal, as one system is dependent on another, and each deviation from the original plan requires a lot of work to coordinate relevant parts. Failures, problems, and incursions have the benefit of additional services, with the drawback of aviation authorities with a list of questions if the problem is severe enough.

This is easier than dealing with ATC.

Be that as it may, there were lavender fields waiting, and I was going to photograph them. I finally sat down to do some flight planning, and of course, the Mediterranean Coast beckoned also, meaning a glorious Monet of French control zones. At the end of the coastal binge was the Camargue river delta, an amazing area where the Rhone River empties into the Mediterranean Sea. It was as complicated as it could possibly get, though I was inspired.

The weather check called for infamous Tramontane and La Mistral winds, something I had experienced before, though as of the prior night, the total amounts were manageable. The next morning, however, the TAF for Avignon called for gusts to 52 knots, and Marseille had issued a SIGMET for severe turbulence for most of the flight path. I postponed the trip tentatively for a day, and then noticed that conditions were ideal on the Spanish side of the border. I took off for a five-hour odyssey into the Monegros Desert to photograph some scenery on my list, coming back tired enough to wonder if I had the stamina to make Provence the next day.

Monegros Desert, Spain

The next morning, the forecast was windy, though acceptable, and even better for day two of my travels. I filed my flight plan at home, drove to the airport, activated via phone, climbed out over La Perche Pass, France, and began my relatively quick descent out of the Pyrenees and into the South of France, with the Mediterranean on the horizon. As I contacted Perpignan Tower for clearance through a control zone, the Tramontane was beginning to pick up. On the other side of the CTR, it was blowing. As my flight path merged with the beach, staying at 800 feet AGL to avoid overhead military airspace, the wind was positively howling as I flew with a 40-degree left crab and kept power between 1800 and 2000 RPM, due to a strange uplifting convergence right over the beach. Shooting conveniently out the side window while biting raging headwinds, I was barely able to pass a windsurfer.

Departing Perpignan’s CTR as wind begins to pick up.

Howling offshore wind, with 40 degree crab. Note drifted sand.

As I entered Beziers Tower’s CTR, the winds started to relax quickly, meaning that the Tramontane fury was about 50 miles wide, also enabling me to relax as my ETA shortened rapidly due to normalizing groundspeeds. That meant I could follow the precise contour of the coast, enjoying old and new French towns and villages set against turquoise waters.

Beziers gave way relatively quickly to Montpellier Approach, a three frequency juggle to get cleared to follow the coast around an elaborate dance of dense air traffic. I departed Montpellier’s frequency while on final for Candillargues, a small general aviation field with an approach path over the Etang de l’Or, a golden salty lake that would mean certain total loss to any unfortunate airplanes that lose their engines coming into this airport.

Sête, France

Final approach to Candillargues, over the Etang de l’Or

Fueling was as is typical in small French airports: wandering around to find someone who invariably speaks no English, argue with the automated fuel pump (which would not take my French Total fuel card), find someone eventually that speaks English, and sort it all out. For as much as there are stereotypes about the French, they have always been helpful, even though they look at the americain and his Cub with a skeptical expression, clearly wondering if I have a screw loose.

I continued to the Camargue Delta, which was beyond words. Between the marshes, salty ponds, and salt lakes, the bulk of the area is water, with small viable emergency landing locations. Despite being under Istres Le Tube’s approach control, I was happy with my long clearance through the coast to the Rhone River, and even more at peace that I was away from human population, despite helicopter traffic and extensive water in all directions. I suppose I am wired for wilderness surroundings – there is something incredibly calming and free about it.

My time along the coast terminated with an explosive collection of salt lakes, and then a new personal record of the slowest cruise groundspeed: 37 knots. La Mistral, while not turbulent, was extremely strong, resulting in an agonizingly long period in the CTR with Istres Le Tube, before finally able to navigate through a series of waypoints out to the north and into the loving arms of Avignon Tower, where I got cleared through that CTR, but not the adjoining Orange CTR, requiring a more traditional avoidance path to finally break free of the shackles of controlled airspace, where I made a landing in light wind at Carpentras for refueling.

Camargue Delta

At this point, I expected to spend the night, though it was 4:30, and I found a local pilot to give his recommendation for lavender in the Luberon. I set off and flew for almost three more hours, wandering around the famous town of Sault, even coming in distant view of the Alps, before winding my way back to Carpentras, where I realized I speak enough French to order a taxi by phone to take me to my hotel.

Ascending the Luberon. Mount Ventoux (6,273′) in the background. Due to La Mistral, the peak records 56+mph winds 240 days per year.

Sault, with lavender

Lavender

Apt


The next day, the flight was direct back home with one fuel stop in Lezignan, and only two CTRs to cross. I finally made La Cerdanya by mid-afternoon, gracing the conclusion of my trip with the worst and most graceless landing in 5 years. Tallying up the numbers, I spoke with 10 control towers and 2 information services, flew 17 hours, and took 10,400 photographs in a three-day period. The last time I undertook such a flying bender was photographing every named glacier in the state of Montana in two days in September 2015.

French wine country, en route home.

Pic du Canigou (9,134′) nosing above the marine layer during the climb into the Pyrenees.

La Cerdanya – just need to survive the landing on a sunny day.

In a moment of reflection, I realized a few things during the flying binge. I thought I would re-assemble the airplane in Germany as soon as it got off the container and continue flying that I did like this in America, though here in Europe. It took 18 months to work out the mechanical squawks, airmanship, and most importantly, my newfound fears after the emergency landing in the wilderness of Wyoming in 2015. Despite my reticence of flying into France, I got the hang of the military and controlled airspace regime by the time the trip to Provence was concluded, so there is something to be said about skills and experience. The most profound moment was to lay eyes on both Provence and the Alps, famous and beautiful areas known as exotic and distant tourist destinations, yet here I am in the same airplane I took my instruction in the mid 1990s as a teenager in Upstate New York, seeing places I wasn’t sure I’d ever see on the ground. I still have continuous moments of amazement that such a simple little airplane manufactured back in the 1940s could take a person so many places.


On the subject of colorful and interesting waters, I recently completed “Yellowstone’s Hot Springs: An Aviator’s Perspective,” a book containing close up aerial imagery of hundreds of the hot springs located in Yellowstone, taken during my time wandering around in Wyoming. It is available on Amazon or garrettfisher.me.

 

Garrett Fisher is an aerial adventure photographer, having photographed some of the most rugged and wild terrain in America from his 1949 Piper PA-11. After living in Germany with the Cub, he recently moved to the Spanish Pyrenees to continue the flying adventure. He has published six aerial photography books covering the Colorado Rockies, Wyoming, high terrain in the Southeast, and the Outer Banks, with more US and European books in the pipeline. He blogs regularly about his flights at www.garrettfisher.me.

O Controller, Where Art Thou?

In some respects, having Germany be the third country I have flown in gave me a very inaccurate picture of international general aviation (Canada was #2). Many foundational items of German aviation, albeit senselessly and absurdly strict, follow a similar framework to American flying. The main difference between America and the Fatherland was the intensity of reporting and enforcement, whereas phases of flight weren’t particularly earth shattering in their differences.

There is a phrase here on the Iberian Peninsula that applies to daily life: “Spain is different.”

It most certainly applies to aviation, as I have previously disclosed when attempting flights to different airports. As I jubilantly declared in my last post, I considered the problem “conquered,” and thought I could joyously move on as though everything was normal, flying to whatever destination I wish without any unpleasant nervousness or anxiety.

Thus, I decided to take a flight to the Central Catalonian Depression, which is an area that looks somewhat like the Midwest, filled with relatively flat and open farmland. In one section of this area near Aitona, there are vast orchards of peach trees, and they all bloom at once for a two week period in March. In order to pull off the flight, I would need to refuel, and the only place to do so was at Lleida, a [gasp] towered airport. In Spain, passage through any controlled airspace requires the filing of a flight plan, so I would have to do the familiar routine of dancing with the Cadí ridge and hoping I could raise Barcelona Approach in time to activate, while also dealing with one of my favorite things in the world: busy, towered airports.

Central Catalonian Depression – On a different day when the haze was less.

As I surfaced the ridge, visibility was miserably foul for photography purposes, though still VFR, which is a reality I have to contend with here in Catalonia. This section of Spain is nothing but an amalgam of microclimates, with a density I did not think imaginable. As in the USA, a forecast for VFR is not necessarily equal to good photography weather. Dismayed, I considered turning back, though I thought of the reality of my upcoming travels to the United States for work, meaning that if I did not get the peach trees on that day, I would not get them until the following year. If there is anything I have learned bumbling around the world in a Piper Cub, it is to do something now because no two days in the air are exactly alike.

No haze – Pedraforca.

Haze, five minutes later in the Pre-Pyrenees.

Raising Barcelona Approach went rather well given terrain, though radar contact took a while. One of my primary issues with being pushed by regulation into complex airspace and flight following configurations is that is doesn’t jive well with classic low and slow Cub flying, and tends to present more aggravations than it is worth. Nonetheless, apparently I chose the busiest part of the day, as Barcelona Approach was getting slammed with an overload of airline traffic. It took 15 minutes to iron out the activation and get a squawk code, which showed me that the 30-minute activation rule for flight plans does not seem apply here. I should know better, as very little that is time sensitive in Spain actually matters.

Peach Trees Near Aitona







I again tried to explain that I wanted to activate the flight plan and leave the frequency, and was again rebuffed as though I hadn’t spoken in the first place. I received a few traffic notifications, then a full hour went by with no communication as I snaked around the orchards, flying at 500 feet and taking pictures. Upon deciding to head to Lleida, which was not far away, I had to add power to climb to pattern altitude. In the process, I called Barcelona Approach for the ok to switch to Lleida Tower. “We don’t have you on radar,” was the reply. “I am climbing.” “Ah, there you are. Ok proceed to Sierra Whiskey and call Lleida Tower.” It seemed that we developed a mutual unspoken accord to ignore each other.

I then attempted to raise Lleida Tower, calling 4 times. Each time, there was nothing on the frequency. I checked volume and the frequency. Nothing. I swapped radio battery. Nothing. Circling over Sierra Whiskey entry point, I called back to Barcelona Approach, who told me to stand by. Five minutes later, I received a reply: “There is no one in the tower. Just announce on the frequency and monitor.”

Agricultural lands in the short distance from Aitona to Lleida.


Approach and landing at Lleida was post-apocalyptic. The runway is very wide and long, suitable for airline service, with a grand and flamboyant tower and terminal. This is all set in the middle of nowhere. There is not a single building around the airport unrelated to aviation, instead surrounded by wide open agriculture. After power down, I stood there, taking in the silence while before an Orwellian monolithic control tower which was, oddly, devoid of a controller, on a Saturday afternoon. The place was dull and quiet, and what little activity was taking place seemed like it was happening without any sound, owing to the grand and out-of-place nature of the airport.

Orwellian, monolithic, and empty control tower.

During refueling, the attendant asked if the airplane took avgas or jet fuel. In Spanish, I noted avgas, and he pointed out that there was no identifying sticker.

“Actually, there is one. It’s in English.”
“No, there isn’t. I cannot refuel without a proper sticker.”
“It says ‘aviation fuel only,’ which has worked in the United States, where the airplane is registered. Aviation fuel is avgas.”
“Well, it doesn’t have a sticker, and I have to put one on if I am going to put fuel in.”
“I was able to fuel in Germany for months without this sticker.”
“Do you want fuel, or not?”
“Fine, stick it on!”

Totalitarian sticker, next to the existing sticker. 

Our conversation then drifted to the lack of a controller, and he shrugged while mentioning something to the effect of no airline service today, so the guy “must have decided not to show up.” The point was missed that controlled airspace is seemingly left to chance, while totalitarianism rules when it comes to stickers.

I received the same story when paying the landing fee, that the controller “must have decided not to show up,” also met with a shrug and nonchalance that seemed unbefitting of an airport with airline service. Nonetheless, I decided to make it work for me and asked if I still needed a flight plan, since the airport was uncontrolled. “Well, you actually don’t.” “Then I am not filing one.” “Are you sure you really want to do that?” “Yes.”

While taxiing out, another airplane called the tower, also puzzled at the lack of reply. I replied back that I am “just another airplane” and there is “no one in the tower right now.” After a pause and repeating myself, the other aircraft fell into line and figured out they needed to do traffic announcements like an uncontrolled field. The flight home was uneventful and quite pleasant, as the first real springtime weather was upon us, and I could fly with the door open and chill out on the way back to La Cerdanya.

Cathedral in Catalonia. One of the many unique elements of European aviation.

Back in La Cerdanya….no haze.

After this whole affair, I had an online exchange with an air traffic controller that I met in person at an airport, and he made it very clear that I am a moron because I didn’t read the AIP, which clearly states that the control tower has varying hours. His ham-fisted Basque nature met up with my American self-righteousness, where I pointed out the “official” nature of the Jeppesen subscription that I purchased at a rather high price (see my post from last summer), specifically to avoid situations like this. In Europe, each country has different symbols, colors, and layout for their sectional maps, and so far, each iPad navigation app uses its own proprietary vector format, which is so far entirely different from each national standard. I opted for Jeppesen for flying in the Fatherland, where being 300 feet off a pattern line can cost €500 in fines. Jeppesen’s approach plates, at least in Germany, are official and overlay nicely on the navigation app in flight. I had checked Jeppesen’s airport information page on the app for Lleida, which looks very similar to the German AIP and the American AF/D, and thought that it was sufficient as it did not list the schedule.

It wasn’t. I pulled up all 11 pages of the AIP for Lleida, and it is the most precise encyclopedia I have ever seen for an airport. One could land a reusable SpaceX rocket based on the extent of information provided. Buried within this lovely document was the hours for ATC: 13:00 to 16:00, Fridays and Mondays. For only six hours per week (3.57% of the time), the monolithic control tower is in use, and yet the entire airspace is marked as though it is Class D 24/7. Unlike the USA, there is nothing on the map indicating that there are Class E hours. Unlike France, there is not an automated reply when one calls an out-of-use frequency, playing a recording in French and English advising which alternate service to use. And further unlike the USA, there is no ATIS to call to get a recording advising of obvious anomalies. One would have thought that such limited hours would be somewhere prominent?

The most amusing part of the whole thing was the pernicious attitude, from Barcelona Approach to every staff member at the airport, that “the guy must not have shown up.” Those words imply a lax disregard for one of the pillars of aviation, yet the reality was that the tower was being run in compliance with Spanish procedures. Even if a controller simply decided not to show up that day, I can only wonder if anyone would care. Though, after living in Spain for this long and reflecting on the reality that not a single person mentioned tower operating hours, I have come to understand that nobody probably would. Spaniards are masters at navigating around surprise deficiencies, and simply express no emotion that things should have been another way, nor think it’s a big deal (unlike my very American level of drama in this post). Time, commitments, contracts, and obligations are subjective (with the exception of driving), though in a strange twist of affairs, Spanish people seem to be incredibly happy and friendly.

What can I say? Spain is different, though in the interests of full disclosure, I am enjoying myself tremendously.

Garrett Fisher is an aerial adventure photographer, having photographed some of the most rugged and wild terrain in America from his 1949 Piper PA-11. After living in Germany with the Cub, he recently moved to the Spanish Pyrenees to continue the flying adventure. He has published six aerial photography books covering the Colorado Rockies, Wyoming, high terrain in the Southeast, and the Outer Banks, with more US and European books in the pipeline. He blogs regularly about his flights at www.garrettfisher.me.

Why do we fly?

Community discussion among pilots takes the broad assumption that more flying is better, and predominate reasons pilots do not fly more is a limitation of money or medical conditions. Further, it is passively assumed that the mere act of being in an airplane is sufficient, and that we pretty much all do it for the same reasons.

It then occurred to me that, even though I grew up next to my grandfather’s airstrip and aircraft restoration shop, the standard dynamic was that I nagged him to fly, and he opted not to for sometimes weeks at a time. With an aircraft and runway next door, and from my perspective, the cost of avgas not an issue, the reality was that he wasn’t motivated to exert the effort; it only interested him in limited circumstances. Eventually, he confessed to the syndrome at age 75, when he bought a Bell 47 and earned his helicopter certificate, to cure the fact that fixed wing aviation lacked sufficient intrigue to bother.

It is assumed that we all love the $100 hamburger, and would engage in the practice more if schedules, money, or weather permitted such. Having lived for a period in the vaunted mecca of aviation, Alpine Airpark, there was a predictable phenomenon: new arrivals flew all the time, whereas longer-term owners would fly once or twice a week. The fantasy of daily formation flights among friends happened when it was new and exciting. When it became the new normal, people flew less, save for those who used aviation as a mode of transportation, or had some economic basis for flying.

All of these unspoken realities beckon the question: why do we fly?

I had that question smack me in the face in early December. We received a heavy snowfall in the mountains, with snow levels that came down relatively close to the valley. Of course I went flying, and captured some initial scenery that I intended. As I kept flying, I opted to head over Andorra, out of a sense of obligation with regard to a book project I had in mind. While it was pretty, it wasn’t, in the core sense of the word, something I was all that interested in. As I traversed extremely severe terrain in the Pyrenees, the thought crossed my mind that I wasn’t really enjoying myself. I immediately pushed it out as nonsense, and continued along.

Cadí-Moixeró after heavy snowfall – the part I was happy with.
IMG_0569 (569 of 1547)

Severe terrain over the Pyrenees. Andorra before the ridge, France on the other side. Nagging suspicion I am pushing myself too hard.
IMG_0885 (885 of 1547)

The next flight was a few days later, as I saw some clouds encircling Puigmal, a peak just shy of 10,000 feet on the France-Spain border. As I climbed above the clouds, I was greeted with stunning scenery of snow-covered peaks and sunshine, mystically set against a backdrop of clouds. Air was still, and the experience should have been magical. Instead, I had a profound and visceral realization: “What the hell am I doing up here?”

Puigmal – What the hell am I doing up here?
IMG_1763 (53 of 640)
Consistent with a strange sense of determination that I have, I obtained the photographs I had in mind for that flight and flew back to the airport, knowing that something was different inside. For the next three weeks, I had zero interest in flying, period. There was no desire, and the thought didn’t cross my mind at all. I made some headway after a text conversation with an acquaintance back in Wyoming, who made the comment: “You’re the most intrepid Cub pilot I know.” His observation opened up some very interesting introspection, as I started to make sense out of that profound personal moment circling Puigmal above the clouds.

Puigmal – finishing the job in a motivational haze.
IMG_1895 (185 of 640)

The tail had begun to wag the dog with the airplane. My personal goals are to explore terrain unknown to me; I photograph as a complementary activity. As my work enters the public sphere among readers, it gets noticed for the happenstance adventuresome elements required to undertake such exploration and photography, and that circled back to create a chase seeking more adventure for the sake of adventure. In a strange recursion cycle, I had the rare chance to be part of the public conversation about myself, and then started thinking I was personally motivated by the very things that others enjoyed about what I was doing.

That leads to the broader question that affects the entire pilot community: how often are we affected by the tail wagging the dog? Public conversation implies a binary and reductionist motivation to flying, and to what extent do we tell ourselves we are motivated by the very things others think applies to all? For that matter, are we doing ourselves a disservice by portraying a fantasy that many have to learn the hard way? For those that came to Alpine, Wyoming as new residents, brimming with joy about finally living the dream, there was someone else putting the property for sale, and still many others where the property sat dormant and remained unused. How many decades did some of these people fantasize about living a life centered around aviation, only to achieve it, become demotivated, and end up giving up on the dream altogether? Wouldn’t it be wiser to sort these issues out in advance, as opposed to making a massive purchase later in life, only to become disillusioned?

When I shared certain realities about my globally nomadic lifestyle with a friend, honestly cautioning him against falling into the same traps that I did, he wrote back and said: “You’re ruining the dream.” At first, I felt kind of bad, as though I was the Grim Reaper, here to tell people that their dreams are nothing but vain fantasies, until I did some deeper analysis of the matter. It is then that I realized that this friend of mine was feeding on the same zeitgeist about the romanticism of travel, that the mere act of doing it implied a deep sense of satisfaction, as others are portrayed as happy for doing so. My warnings to him were to understand his own motivation for wandering and to ignore popular reasoning, as things are not always as they are presented.

It is easier to accept a dream held out to us by others than to build our own, as many times our own is much more complex. Do we all wish to fly for the airlines, live on an airpark, commute to work in an airplane, restore an old airplane, have a personal jet, or the like? There is no straight answer, as aviation is a wide area of interest with almost limitless possibilities, and we participate for our own reasons. Certainly, the worst possible motivator is to decide to like something merely because everyone else thinks that is what the majority wants.

A logical question is what happened after my three week meditative hiatus from aviation. I figured out why I fly: to explore new things. Once that little switched turned on upstairs, I hopped in the plane and finally conquered Montserrat, the volcanoes of Olot, and a list of some other things. The reality is that, since that moment, I am flying more on average than before, and I distinctly enjoy the freedom I have chosen to give myself. As for the question I left at the end of my last blog post: I have not flown to another airport yet, though I am sure the time is coming soon.

Back in the saddle – Montserrat, on the outskirts of Barcelona.
IMG_3417 (605 of 1597)

Inversion over the plains near Lleida.
IMG_3802 (990 of 1597)

Volcano – Olot, Spain
IMG_0583 (537 of 965)

Fire season in the Pyrenees: January. 
IMG_2101 (120 of 159)

Mountain wave cloud over Moixeró ridgeline. Already back at confusing adventure flying.
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Descending mountain wave over La Masella
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First valley snow – La Cerdanya – LECD airport in right center.
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Garrett Fisher is an aerial adventure photographer, having photographed some of the most rugged and wild terrain in America from his 1949 Piper PA-11. After living in Germany with the Cub, he recently moved to the Spanish Pyrenees to continue the flying adventure. He has published six aerial photography books covering the Colorado Rockies, Wyoming, high terrain in the Southeast, and the Outer Banks, with more US and European books in the pipeline. He blogs regularly about his flights at www.garrettfisher.me.

Getting used to flying in Spain

Faced with the task of yet again having to get acclimated with general aviation in a new country, I find that the process this time is 70% less painful than the move from the United States to Germany. Those from the outside (or, for that matter, from the inside) of the European Union might be inclined to summarize the difference as being inside the EU, as somehow the process is markedly easier. While there are a handful of conveniences for recreational flight inside the Schengen zone, it really is a clash of two different styles of flying that isn’t happening this time. As I reflect on the transitions taking place, I find that I was in a bubble, of sorts, while flying in the United States.

My grandfather did not and still does not believe in burdening a taildragger with any sort of “excess weight.” Under his definition, that means any equipment, systems, or avionics that was not installed on the J-3 he flew in during flight training in 1947. Therefore, he restored my current aircraft in 1996 without a starter, radio, transponder, or electrical system, leaving an aircraft with nothing but minimum VFR day instrumentation.

Minimum VFR Instruments – purely stick and rudder
PA-11 Instruments

I would fly that airplane, in that configuration, until June of 2015, crossing the United States three times, flying every single peak over 14,000 feet in Colorado, and the highest terrain in the southern Appalachians, among a list of other poorly thought out adventures.

Who needs a radio? Wetterhorn Peak (14,015′), San Juan Mountains, Colorado
Mt Wetterhorn

To make matters more, well, ruggedly individualistic, my grandfather repeatedly told me while I was young that talking on the radio was a waste of time, and to just avoid all controlled airspace. Again, I followed that mantra until the summer of 2015, managing to pull off a brand of flying that is a delightful cocktail of vintage, adventurous, inconvenient, marginally safe, insane, and an absolute pleasure.

The thing is, I could not fly that airplane outside the United States, whether it was to Canada, Mexico, or the Bahamas. I gazed over the Canadian border from the PA-11 both near my grandfather’s airstrip in upstate New York, and in Glacier National Park at the convergence of Alberta, Montana, and British Columbia, never able to cross the line due to the abundance of equipment I didn’t have. Sure, there were waivers, though would one really make a regularity out of crossing the border without both a radio and transponder? For that matter forget the ADIZ over water, or Mexico, not that I really would be inclined to make a 50 mile water crossing without the ability to call for help.

Canada is the opposing side of the lake (taken from Glacier National Park, Montana). Not allowed to cross without an equipment upgrade.
Canada

Mode C requirements were never an issue, under the cake, due to the lack of an engine-driven electrical system. ADS-B also was and is not a compliance issue for this kind of flying. However, to join the modern world of aviation, cross borders, and fly into anything other than a simple Class D field in the US, the barriers kept growing between my airplane and an increasingly complex national airspace system.

Moving to Germany was at least 70% the pain of upgrading the airplane to the modern era and 30% the shock of new customs and regulations. The electrical system, starter, and transponder were a sizable affair to get installed and operational, as was getting accustomed to using it. Prior to the German move, I made a total of 25 landings at a controlled field, despite having had a pilot certificate for 18 years and a commercial certificate for 2. The idea of modern airspace was a bucket of cold water in the face.

Having gotten used to a rather difficult German regime coupled with modern aviation, and having also lived through a flight from Germany to Spain that felt like Thelma and Louise in the air, it has become time to make some sense out of the differences between Spain and Germany, and also Spain and America.

I must say, it’s a work in progress. Spain is a complex mix of cultural norms: a pervasive disregard for regulations, with a vicious enforcement mechanism from a frustrated government. On one hand, Spaniards view laws as suggestions, and on another, I haven’t seen so many police officers on patrol since I lived in South America during a revolution. The same maxim holds true in aviation: generally speaking, there is a network of small fields used only by light aircraft, where flight is essentially just like the US: radio suggested though optional, air traffic control and related equipment not needed, American-style pattern callouts, and flying truly by sight without much in the way of airspace to contend with. Landing fees are reasonable, information service is non-existent, and airports are completely laid back, like how one may find a small field in Kansas.

On the other hand, all flights to and from controlled airspace require a flight plan. If one were to change his or her destination in the air, a flight plan must be filed over the radio, or an emergency declared in order to land. In some airports, there is security for general aviation, and a paper flight plan must be present to access the tarmac. Landing and handling fees can be extremely high for those airports. If controlled airspace is involved, don’t mess with Spain. If not, you’re free to do as you please.

Flying in La Cerdanya is as simple and pleasant as it looks.
LECD

We’re situated extremely close to France, which is a whole other animal that I will address in a future post. The difference is probably as stark as how different flying is in the US and Mexico: two different worlds with markedly different approaches to general aviation.

Weather in the Spanish Pyrenees has much of the same vagaries as one would expect in any rugged mountain area: severe mountain waves, rotors, and very localized weather. I will dive more in a future post into the complexities of flying in a mountain chain with peaks up to 11,000 feet that is sandwiched by the Atlantic and the Mediterranean, though suffice it to say I am slowly figuring out how to fly in the mountain waves without dying, and how to fly on our many sunny north wind days when mountain waves are a hazard. There is also the matter of persistent inversions in the Catalonian plains, an abundance of microclimates, and the fact that the border of massively different weather systems is usually the hill just to the south of the airport.

The Pyrenees can be a bit rugged.
Pyrenees

Mountain range to the south of the airport. Note inversion to the right, clear air to the left. This is a common weather boundary.
Cordillera

Persistent Catalonian inversion.
Persistent Inversion

Don’t forget the mountain waves on north wind days.
Mountain Waves

Though I finally figured out how to fly in them.
Riding the Waves

It took me two months to get the Spanish aviation weather site to work, and a short time to also figure out the French site. I finally managed to deal with learning how to do ICAO flight plans on the iPad, as opposed to my previous habit of having a guy behind the desk in Germany or France taking pity on me and filling it out on paper on my behalf and faxing it in. Getting flight plans activated is extremely complex, as both in Spain and France, one cannot get radio reception in the mountains until already in controlled airspace.

When summing all of this up together, it is interesting to note that I have been in Spain for a few months, and I have not once landed at another airport other than the home field. I have flown from the plains of Catalonia to the highest peak in the Pyrenees in Aragon to vineyards by the sea in the south of France and most points in between, every time turning back home without stopping for fuel. Despite my apprehension-driven reticence, I have been flying nearly as much as when I was living on an airpark in Wyoming, photographing absolutely tremendous scenery on a regular basis.

I am not afraid to cross into France, deal with French ATC, and fly in another world along the Mediterranean, yet I am reticent to actually land anywhere other than my home airport.
France

Hopefully, by the next post, I will have gotten the nerve to land somewhere else.

 

 

 

 

Garrett Fisher is an aerial adventure photographer, having photographed some of the most rugged and wild terrain in America from his 1949 Piper PA-11. After living in Germany with the Cub, he recently moved to the Spanish Pyrenees to continue the flying adventure. He has published six aerial photography books covering the Colorado Rockies, Wyoming, high terrain in the Southeast, and the Outer Banks, with more US and European books in the pipeline. He blogs regularly about his flights at www.garrettfisher.me.

How many languages can be spoken in one pattern?

One of the delusional fallacies I used to aid in the process of convincing myself that I could live through moving to Europe with the airplane was a fanciful notion that “English is the language of aviation.” That statement is correct if you’re an airline captain flying into national capitals. For general, aviation, it’s a different story.

That was first emphasized as the bulk of traffic pattern activity in Egelsbach, Germany was carried out in German. As there was information service, I was under no obligation to understand anything that was being said, as the info controller could provide traffic advisories to me in English, and my radio callouts were also in English. It didn’t take long to pickup some German in the pattern, as the entry and exit points, along with all pattern movements, was extremely strict, precise, and noted on the map. “Tango, delta, and kilo” denoted common routing, and “Squawk vier vier vier eins,” among other common traffic lingo was heard enough to draw sufficient comparisons and get an idea of what other airplanes were doing. It had the feeling of being brand new with a radio all over again (a reality that dates back only to June of 2015, when I got a radio in the good old USA).

I chose an American instructor for my biennial in Germany, and he advised me that some airports in Germany are approved for English and German, and some for only German, all noted in the official airport directory. I thought that was a grotesque violation of all that is holy, an overzealous need for Teutonic categorization. “They should be speaking English, its aviation,” I thought to myself, bathing in my American-centric view of the world. That, and seriously, it’s just easier if everyone would do things my way and speak my language. What kind of moron thinks Germans speak German while flying, in Germany?

I then read up on flying in France, also talking with Germans on the subject. “You’ll need to learn some phrases in French, they won’t speak English to you. Its how they are.” Aware of these warnings, I pulled up a cheat sheet of aviation terms on my iPad and plunged into France, intent on crossing the entire country, in marginal weather, for my move to Spain, without learning a word of aviation French. Every single flight service, information, and tower controller spoke English, with no reservation or chastisement, although I must confess that the accents were hard to manage on the radio. It turns out that the Franco-German Reconciliation is still a work in progress when it comes to their opinions of each other in aviation.

Arriving in Spain, it did not occur to me to check and find out what language is spoken in the pattern. For that matter, despite speaking Spanish, I had never flown once in a Spanish speaking country; therefore, I found myself realizing, as I crossed the border from France into Spain, that I didn’t know any of the terms for pattern callouts. At first, I did a traffic callout in English, then intuition told me Spanish would be smarter, even though the pattern was empty. I opted for “circuito” for pattern, and instead of downwind, “pasando al oeste al norte del aeropuerto para aterrizarme cero-siete” (passing to the west to the north of the airport en route to land zero-seven). The next time I flew, it became apparent everyone uses Spanish, or so I thought.

I thought I was moving to a Spanish-speaking place. Sure, I knew there was a regional language, Catalan, though I thought of it as a dialect, or something spoken in small, traditional villages by a select few old-as-dirt sheepherders. That would be false. Catalonia is practically its own nation, with road signs and just about everything in Catalan. What gives? I am still a linguistically inept fool, even though I speak the national language. To make matters worse, we’re 12 miles from France.

Spanish is not the only language spoken in the pattern. Catalan is intermixed with abandon, meaning that while two pilots are calling out in Spanish, another is speaking Catalan. Other days, French pilots will toss in French, which universally means “see and avoid” to me, as I don’t understand a word they are saying. To confuse things even further, a group of Brits dropped in for two weeks for some glider binge flying, and they made pattern callouts unapologetically in English. On those days, I made my callouts in both English and Spanish, with a view to self-preservation. The maximum language count I have heard, during one flight, is three, though in total, I have heard four languages spoken in this pattern.

While it sounds like a royal pain in the rear, I have come to find the entire process amusing. Unquestionably, see and avoid is being used more than ever before. At the very least, I am considering taking some Catalan and
French classes.

Left base for 25, France 2 miles behind me. Which language to speak?
a1

Morning climb out, looking just over the border into France.
a2

Bottom right little hill is where the border of France, Spain, and Andorra meet. National languages of French, Spanish, and Catalan, respectively. Airport in the valley over the hill.
a3

Airport in the valley to the right, France is the left half of the valley, Spain the right.
a4

Garrett Fisher is an aerial adventure photographer, having photographed some of the most rugged and wild terrain in America from his 1949 Piper PA-11. After living in Germany with the Cub, he recently moved to the Spanish Pyrenees to continue the flying adventure. He has published six aerial photography books covering the Colorado Rockies, Wyoming, high terrain in the Southeast, and the Outer Banks, with more US and European books in the pipeline. He blogs regularly about his flights at www.garrettfisher.me.

Moving out of Germany

There was a quiet moment last May, where I heard of yet another uncannily strict rule about pattern movements in noise-sensitive areas where I made an immediate and concrete decision: Germany is not working out as anticipated, and nothing is going to change it. My wife was in agreement, and we started the research process to come up with something else. The first rule was that it must be good for aviation: scenic, low air pollution, and a good airport, preferably an airpark. We expected the process to take awhile.

In short order, I had a verbal on a house rental on an airpark in western France, near the Atlantic. While France was not on my radar screen, an airpark certainly was. Next came a strange call from our landlord, who informed us that, due to family circumstances, they’re moving back in, and we need to be out in three months. Just then, the airpark homeowner decided to sell in lieu of renting, and there we were, scrambling to figure something out, and to do so quickly.

I was, under no circumstances, bending my rule about aviation. Many might ask why another location in Germany was not selected, and the answer is multi-faceted. German rules, which hark back to the Third Reich, require attended information service on the airport for it to be open. Absent such service in force, it is considered “out of hours” to use the airport, resulting in a massive fine. While it sounds disingenuous, Germans will freely admit that the practice originated in the Nazi era, and that its original utility is no longer warranted, though that’s how it is. That created a situation where scenic areas away from cities had information service during limited hours, whereas full-time runway availability would be reserved for more populated areas. With just that in mind, it kicked Germany out of the picture. I also have received many emails from various Americans who have flown in Germany, and all but one have given up entirely, citing the very thing I grew to be afraid of: rules stacking up so high that one ends up not flying. Much of the past summer was spent not flying for similar reasons, and it was time to flee to greener pastures.

Flying in Germany: Verboten!
Germany

What then commenced was an epic search, availing myself of Google, aviation associations, and swarms of emails, trying to find airparks all over Europe from Norway to Portugal. I considered moving back to the US, though why take the plane apart when I just put it together? Why install an expensive Class 1 transponder to fly around Mt. Blanc (15,674’), be within 4 hours, and then not do it? I would regret leaving for the rest of my life, so I decided to make it work, even though I didn’t know how.

I found a private airport with a house for rent on an island in Denmark… “sorry, we just rented it someone else.” A house for rent on an airstrip in Portugal…too small for a home office. A castle with a cottage in the French Alps, with a private airstrip… “sorry, it is impossible to heat in the winter” (we would have only rented the cottage). Then I expanded the search to pretty places with airports nearby. I started with French islands on the Atlantic, and every single one of them had no hangar space. Courchevel, France, an 1,800 foot strip at an astonishing 18.6% grade, located around 7,000 feet had space, except my wife took one look at the photo and said no (understandably so, it was above timberline in the Alps). Then I found a place in the Benasque Valley of the Spanish Pyrenees, which is in the middle of absolutely nowhere, and my wife asked, “You actually think I am going to live there?” Spaniards have since confirmed she was right with her observation.

Out of randomness, I googled Andorra, a sovereign micro-nation in between Spain and France, and found an airport in Spain, outside of Andorra. The area looked pretty, and I called about hangar space. There was not any at present, though it seemed that I could alter the laws of physics if I showed up with enough unmarked banknotes. I started looking at house listings and found a very nice area 35 minutes to the east, so compelling that I thought I would be okay living there and yet again driving some silly distance to the airport. As I browsed house listings and associated satellite maps, I discovered an airport that was not on ICAO maps, “Aerodromo de la Cerdanya.” Hmm… I called and voila! They had hangar space! “I’ll take it! Send me the paperwork.” “Um, don’t you want to see it?” “Yeah, sure, I’ll drive down from Germany next week. Meanwhile, I want it!”

Aerodromo de Cerdanya, Spain – new home airport! France is the top third of the image, Spain is the rest.
Cerdanya

After a merry go round looking for housing, we found something, moved our things to Spain, and recently, I flew the airplane from Germany to Spain, requiring two days of epic flying that stretched the limits of my abilities on all levels, more so than crossing three time zones in the USA with the same airplane. Details about the trip are on these two posts.

Frankfurt, Germany to Valence, France – Trip Report
Valence, France to Cerdanya, Spain
 – Trip Report

It was not until I left Germany with the airplane that I could make sense of what rubbed me the wrong way so much. Like any place, there were extremely kind and helpful people in the pilot community and a few prickly ones. It was not a single person or group of people that made the experience difficult, it was the collective animal of German culture that espoused strict rules, above all else. The rules around driving in Germany are strict: you have one second after a light turns red to vacate the intersection, otherwise your license is gone for one month on the first offense. Out of gas on the autobahn? Steep fine. Pass on the right? Serious consequences. Rear end someone? Good luck getting insurance to buy you a new car. Yet, the result is one of the safest highway systems in the world, and the only place with no speed limit. I regularly drove 130 miles per hour, without fear for my life.

Too bad flying in Germany is not as nice as the Autobahn…
F 5

In a well-placed setting, German rules can make things actually freer: safer cars, better engineering, faster roads, gasoline combustion engines, diesel engines, the jet engine (uh oh, I am starting to sound like my grandfather!). Nothing about German driving felt like 1984 or restrictive. In fact, I felt that high-density areas flowed better and I felt safer, calmer, and freer than ever driving at Mach 0.178.

When it comes to aviation, Germany makes the mistake of assuming that general aviation is the Autobahn. If there were 10,000 airplanes in the air at once, that approach would be an absolute necessity. There are not. VFR skies are wild and free, a product of how expensive and difficult aviation is, swatting planes out of the sky through bureaucracy and crushing financial burden. I saw other traffic, outside the pattern, twice in the entirety of my time in Germany. The density was less than when I lived in Charlotte, N.C., and even less than the Front Range of Colorado, both places where I flew without a radio. My personal view is that the quantity of rules was unjustified in light of actual conditions in the air.

Grenoble-Chambery, France control zone.
Grenoble

I did, though, realize some things while flying through France. Where Germany is kind enough to leave vast areas of uncontrolled airspace, France does not. It is a massive jigsaw puzzle of restricted areas, requiring an elaborate juggling act to navigate around, under, or over all of these spaces. On the other hand, French controllers were incredibly kind and forgiving, and French flight service extremely helpful. I was cleared direct to and from every controlled field I landed with no pattern adherence, and the French were very helpful as my destination airports kept changing with the weather. English was spoken through the entire country, enough that I kind of feel like a schmuck for blasting through their entire country not knowing the language.

Passing through Grenoble-Chambery’s control zone, I was finally able to accept that Europe will never have the simplicity and ease that rural areas of America have. Europe is as beautiful as it is because of a depth and density of culture that differs vastly from North America. While it theoretically could be had both ways, right now, it isn’t. It wasn’t until I felt that I was dealing with an air traffic system that was there to help as opposed to catching infractions that I could take that personal step and roll with how things are on this side of the pond.

South of France (Mediterranean left horizon, Pyrenees right horizon) – one of the many amazing things to see in Europe.
IMG_0876 (876 of 1112)
Castles. There are castles all over Europe.
IMG_0981 (981 of 1112)

There is more to come about aviation in Spain, and also France, as the pattern nearly touches the French border. Initial highlights include unlimited landings for €20 per month, totally uncontrolled airspace with American-style open callouts, stunning terrain, and an adventuresome culture of pilots that has a touch of bush flying to it. I also failed to mention that I speak Spanish fluently, so I have the added benefit of not having to wander around like a linguistically inept fool.

A few photos from within 20 minutes of the airport.
S 1 S 5 S 6

Garrett Fisher is an aerial adventure photographer, having photographed some of the most rugged and wild terrain in America from his 1949 Piper PA-11. After living in Germany with the Cub, he recently moved to the Spanish Pyrenees to continue the flying adventure. He has published six aerial photography books covering the Colorado Rockies, Wyoming, high terrain in the Southeast, and the Outer Banks, with more US and European books in the pipeline. He blogs regularly about his flights at www.garrettfisher.me.

There is no Union in Europe when it comes to navigation data

I started an unwitting journey to understand the machine of European airspace data with a simple objective: find the “European version of ForeFlight.” For Americans, it’s not that complicated. We use one tablet app for flying; the issue is which one. Pricing, data, and functionality aren’t all that different, and boil down to the last few things that tip a pilot toward one choice or another.

I had no clue what I was in for in Europe.

Like everyone else in the US, I was drinking the Kool-Aid that the European Union had turned Europe into one big borderless flight zone, so things should be easy like in the US, at least when it comes to something so simple as data. They were not. One app only included half of France. Another didn’t include much north of Austria. Another used open source maps. And yet another seemed like it would work, except a la carte pricing quickly got terribly expensive when multiple countries were added. Then there was the “official” versus “un-official” approach plates.

In Germany, some airports are extremely strict about pattern flying. When I mean strict, fines are €500 for the first violation of flying more than 300 feet off of the exact pattern trajectory. To be clear, this is not every airport in the country, it is the ones with noise abatement concerns. Nonetheless, I wasn’t in the mood for knowingly unofficial approach plates. Even more so, I wanted functionality where GPS navigation would overlay on top of the official approach plate and show a lovely little airplane icon flying a precise German pattern.

I eventually settled on Jeppesen’s Mobile FliteDeck VFR app. It costs $387.39 for a year (at today’s exchange rate), is EASA approved, and solves most of the concerns that I had, prepping me with a nice tool chest for what I hope is not an inevitable brush-up with overzealous regulators.

Multiple people in Germany suggested other options, solutions equivalent to electronically taping a bunch of maps together. By the time I flew to four countries, add-on prices would have had me up near the Jeppesen price.

Then, by chance, I ran into Markus Marth of Jeppesen at Egelsbach airport. After ranting about my fusillade of concerns, he educated me on a few things that go into the creation of a European app, and invited me to stop in the office in Neu-Isenburg to understand more of how it works.

I must say, it was quite a learning experience as to how little most of us know when it comes to what goes into the aviation data on our maps. Jeppesen is the supplier for many major airlines for global navigation data, information that is eventually fed into Flight Management System computers. When a corporate jet or airliner shoots an approach anywhere in the world, the ability for the flight computer to pull it off, without data errors or confusion, is the product of hundreds of employees maintaining a global database of continuously changing navigation data.

That master database is the data source for my particular VFR tablet application. For just VFR data affecting the United States, Jeppesen employs one employee to manage FAA data changes. They employ a stunning thirty (30!) employees to manage European data changes. Western and central Europe’s landmass could fit into the continental United States twice. Using that ratio, it would be like having to have a full-time employee to manage chart updates only for each state in the United States.

Each country in the European Union organizes its own data. Charts are in different formats, with different symbols and colors. The equivalent of the Airport Facility Directory is different for each country, as are the terminal procedures and approach charts. All of these changes have to be standardized into one app, from multiple sources, in unique formats. Some countries have privatized this information, for which it must be bought from a company. Others give it away. In the case of the United States, the FAA offers it for free, instead of charging a license fee for each use. There are no known plans or frameworks for European countries to unify aviation data, so as of today, the best option is a software provider and application to make charting look the same. That is an interesting reality, as it causes a bit of a headache glancing at the German sectional, then back to Mobile FliteDeck VFR. Even worse, each app I previewed in Europe has a different “standard” map and symbol presentation.

Jeppesen was kind enough to satisfy my insatiable thirst for esoteric information by showing me how their IFR and global data process works. At first, I thought it was of little relevance to GA, then I thought how the whole airspace system would implode if airline flight computers received erroneous data. Suddenly, a slew of Airbuses would be making wrong turns, and our little bubble of VFR freedom would get invaded with chaos. In many ways, the proper functioning of the entire airspace system makes our brand of personal aviation as free as it is.

In each 28-day chart cycle, Jeppesen finds 120 global discrepancies in aviation data provided from official sources. These discrepancies might be something like the AFD listing runway 31, and the approach plate listing it as 30, as an example. In effect, governments make those mistakes. This is somewhat to be expected, as there are 220 providers furnishing data in 40 languages, though I must admit it was unnerving to entertain the idea that governments screw up navigation data. Aside from standard update cycles, NOTAMs are checked twice per day, and FDC NOTAMs are checked and incorporated into chart updates (you know, that obscure NOTAM type checked only on BFRs and checkrides…).

I asked if governments furnish this information in some form of data format that can be imported. Nope. Most of it is simply a PDF. Therefore, the information on the PDF has to be vectored into a custom language, the vectors visualized using custom software, overlaid to GPS mapping (to make sure that runway coordinates are actually the runway and not off by a margin), and then finally committed to the master database.

Then there is the matter of crosschecking and quality control. Imagine if someone didn’t have their coffee that morning and keyed the wrong location coordinates for an approach fix for a major global airport, and a false update went out to airliners. The chaos would be quite ugly. For critical data, Jeppesen employs varying levels of double-entry and verification, all the way up to a second person having to blindly re-calculate changes and have them match precisely before it is accepted.

The whole process left me stunned as to how well the US system works when compared to Europe. Imagine if our sectional maps changed structure, colors, and symbols for each state in the United States. Further, imagine if there were apps that were only for varying sections of the country, with significant add-on prices for other regions. To make matters worse, imagine having to pay significantly higher prices than we’re used to in order to have the privilege of having all of this non-standardized data. Europe is certainly exotic and interesting, though it can really be confusing. The more time I spend here, the more I am coming to realize that there are some things that we do very, very well back home in America.

Garrett Fisher is an aerial adventure photographer, having photographed some of the most rugged and wild terrain in America from his 1949 Piper PA-11. After living in Germany with the Cub, he recently moved to the Spanish Pyrenees to continue the flying adventure. He has published six aerial photography books covering the Colorado Rockies, Wyoming, high terrain in the Southeast, and the Outer Banks, with more US and European books in the pipeline. He blogs regularly about his flights at www.garrettfisher.me.
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