For a while I have wanted to reminisce in writing about the “good old days” flying back in America, and a subject has surfaced that affords an opportunity to compare the two modes of flying. Perhaps European readers will find some of the details about flying in the West educational, and for everyone else, it might be interesting to note how the differences between both continents are made large by very small changes.

The project at hand is the publication of my magnum opus, “Glaciers of the Rockies.” Just before moving to Europe, I undertook an ambition to fly to every remaining glacier in the United States Rockies, during annual snowmelt, with the intention of photographing them before they disappear. Scientists estimate that could be as soon as 2030 for storied Glacier National Park, with varying results for other ranges. Given the time frame of a decade and a half and a looming move to the other side of the world, this project took front and center stage in the final summer before leaving, as it was logical to wonder if I’d be back again in that part of the world, with the PA-11, in sufficient time.

The project was undertaken while living at Alpine Airpark in Alpine, WY, roughly in the middle of the glaciers I intended to see. They were strewn along mountain ranges from northwest of Boulder, Colorado to Glacier National Park at the convergence of Montana, Alberta, and British Columbia, a linear distance of nearly 800 miles. For facts’ sake, what few glaciers in other Rockies states that existed have melted in the past few decades, so it was down to a list of ranges in those states. California, Oregon, and Washington have glaciers in the Sierras and Cascades.

Locations of the glaciers spanning 800 miles.

From the remaining glaciers in Colorado….

To the Wind River Range of Wyoming….

To Glacier National Park, Montana.

I had a short window to fly them all, and got it done between roughly August 10^thand September 23^rd, having flown about 50 hours just for the project, hitting the highest peaks of 11 mountain ranges, which was no small feat in a 100-horsepower airplane. In the middle of this 43-day period, I lost about 20 days to thick smoke, and had to get the rest done in small windows where air was clear and winds slack enough to fly close to such high terrain. As far as mountain flying goes, the primary enemy was wind, as many of the glaciated ranges are near the Great Plains, which makes them windier than interior mountains. Five of the eleven ranges featured more wind that I would have preferred, and they all were part of a continued learning experience.

Late season smoke didn’t help. Bob Marshall Wilderness, Montana. On one of two active flight plans for the project as there is not one single shred of civilization in this image.


Neither did early season snows obscuring the glacier beneath. Absaroka Range, Montana, with Great Plains to the left. It was rather windy.

Longs Peak, Colorado (14,259′) while in pursuit of remaining Colorado glaciers. At this altitude so close to the Plains, there is always unwanted wind.

As the project was done in America, the biggest issue was time, distance, weather, and wilderness, and not rules or regulations. I had recently installed a radio in the Cub, so I had that added resource; however, I did not have a starter or transponder. During the course of the adventure, not one single area of airspace that I needed had a restriction. I landed at three towered Class D airports, two of which were chosen due to convenience; the rest were uncontrolled. I filed two flight plans: one for the flight over Glacier National Park, given its harshness, and another over the Bob Marshall Wilderness, equally as much given its remoteness. I was able to maintain flight service position reports in Glacier, whereas the Bob Marshall Wilderness was in a radio shadow. Both flight service professionals accurately predicted in advance where I’d be able to talk to them. In all other wilderness terrain flying, I basically expected to be on my own should the worst happen. I paid one landing fee at Jackson Hole. The entire project required one flight service resource (online and by phone), and my iPad software was flawless and accurate.

If this same project were being done in Europe, 70% of it would be possible whereas 30% simply would be excluded. Of the remaining 70%, 30% would be an enormous aggravation due to small changes, and the rest would be similar to America.

Let’s for a moment draw the same line I had from Glacier National Park to Alpine, WY, then down to Rocky Mountain National Park, CO, except here in Europe. 800 miles with the home airport roughly in the middle. If that were the case here, we’d go from the mountains west of Madrid, here to La Cerdanya, and northeast to the center of the Swiss Alps, equally 800 miles. While there are not glaciers in every mountain range, the presence of various ranges is somewhat similar, so let’s pretend for a minute that I am chasing figurative glaciers in the highest parts of all mountain ranges in this line.

West of Madrid would be fine, including fuel. As the mountains head north of Madrid, it would be almost impossible due to restricted airspace and would require flight plans for the portions that would be doable. The high country south of Zaragoza would be possible, though a massive aggravation due to lack of airports and fuel, requiring carrying jerry cans in the back seat and 24-hour fuel reservations at Teruel. Here in the Pyrenees, fuel tends to work for the most part and airspace is rather open, with the exception of two Spanish national parks where overflight requirements are about 2,500’. On the French side, the location where the actual glaciers of the Pyrenees exist (there are a few in reality!) is all restricted, requiring 3,300’ AGL overflight. Remember that the Pyrenees comprise the border of two countries, so that is a healthy dose of complication. Also, three airports on the French side require the old French Mountain License, which has now been superseded by the EASA Mountain Rating. Those that do not are quite low, so descent to fuel and climb again is lengthy.

Yes, there are actual glaciers in the Pyrenees, and not all of them are restricted (like the below beneath Pico Aneto, Spain 11,168′).

Though some places are. Monte Perdido, Spain (straight ahead) is quite restricted. The French border is to the right, and small glaciers hiding there are also restricted airspace.

Continuing on, the Massif Central of France is a complete hodgepodge of continuous and chaotic military zones, requiring either flight plans or flight following. Many airports are restricted to members of certain flying clubs. A few others, despite being pretty low, are angled and therefore require the Mountain Rating. There are a few park areas, meaning that crossing the Massif Central requires heading to 3,300’ AGL in a few places. This results in few fuel options. From there, the next stop is the foothills of the Alps and then the highest part of the Alps, before terminating in the middle of Switzerland. All airports in the French Alps that are not down at the bottom of valleys (at 2000’ or less) are altiports, meaning that the Mountain Rating is required. That means a new license or the choice of descending 11,000’+ feet for fuel and climbing back up. The biggest glaciers of the French Alps have a combination of park areas, with a variety of restrictions ranging from 1,000’ AGL to 3,300’ AGL. The highest peak in the Alps is restricted, which it is possible to get permission. Crossing into Switzerland requires the clearing of customs on the ground. There are also a few noise restrictions, though far less than on the French side.

Three foreign languages would be encountered in this hypothetical project. iPad navigation software and national charts could not be relied upon as final information; advanced phone calls and coordination to airports would be required in Spain to make sure airports actually exist. Schedules for fuel would need to be checked. Some airports would only take fuel cards or cash. All of them would charge landing fees. For each country, entirely different preflight services would have to be sorted out to navigate NOTAMs and weather. A radio and transponder would be absolutely required for a good portion of the exercise. Many flights would depend on clearance through restricted zones, which may or may not happen on that day.

I ask myself what it would take to pull off something similar if it were here in Europe, spread out so far, and I get nauseated thinking about it. It would take years. There is no way, in the same airplane, that I could do such a thing in one summer! In fact, I haven’t considered doing the glaciers of the Pyrenees due to restricted areas over them. My primary concern with the American airspace system was the availability of fuel, which was splendid. A secondary concern was services in the event of a forced landing. Absent a happenstance ability to radio an overflying aircraft, I was entirely dependent on the ELT in the USA. There was next to nothing owing to remoteness, whereas Europe has far more radar coverage, radio coverage, and other services available due to population differences.

In both countries, the airplane needs to be airworthy, the pilot licensed, and the weather suitable for the intended flight. Pattern operations and actual flying is relatively similar. Europe differs from America in having less airports and imposing small requirements that on their own are not that big of a deal. When those small requirements are added against other factors, then the amount of flights that one could or would want to take drops quickly.

A bigger difference is the feeling of flying in each place. There is something incredible about the openness of America that is hard to put to words. Once leaving the “density” of the East Coast and crossing the Mississippi, it is an almost poetic experience to cross the Midwest, wander the Rockies, explore the deserts, and yes, chase glaciers. Whatever the spirit of America is, if one could reduce it to something simple, I could feelit when flying such great expanses in a Cub. Ever since coming to Europe, I have been working on a number of books that resulted from ambitions while flying in the USA, and each time I dive into my photo archive, it is an immersive experience, not just in the specificity of American landscape, but a zest I can’t seem to put my finger on. While Europe from a Cub is hard to put to words also, they are two completely distinct personal experiences in the air and I often find myself longing to have them both.

Why does this (Sawatch Range of Colorado, September)……

….feel so different in the air from this (October in Central Pyrenees, Spain)?


Or does this (Hungry Horse Reservoir, Montana with 10,000′ peaks in Glacier National Park)…..


….feel so different from this (La Cerdanya, Spain with 8,600′ Cadí-Moixeró)?

Europe has a way of making aviation feel elitist, under constant threat, and somehow wrong. It’s somewhat of an illusion, as the rules on the books and the economics of the situation allow the flying I do, just as the rules and economics in America allow flying that is pretty similar. Both places have something worth seeing. In the US, it tends to be expansive beauty whereas in Europe, it tends to be a mix of the old and new, natural beauty mixed with centuries of deep cultural impact and caretaking. The air molecules and how the airplane flies are the same.

I think I am venturing into the philosophies of growth as a pilot as well as what flying has meant to humankind from the time we yearn to soar like birds, to the moment we can use iPads for navigation. Inside of this existential personal exploration of the ruggedness of the West versus the complex magic of Europe, there is my growth from a low time pilot to a more experienced one. When I arrived in Colorado in 2013, I had 371 hours as a private pilot. I arrived back East in 2014 with 466 as a commercial pilot, and then arrived in Wyoming for the “real” western stint in 2015 with 568 hours. By the time I left later that year for Germany, I had 871, and I now have 1263 total time, which means that my flying career can be broken into even thirds: East Coast, Mountain West, and Europe, with similar totals in each.

Despite the challenges Europe offers, there is still more growth on the horizon. When I was installing a list of expensive equipment in late 2015 in the Cub for its operation in Europe, I had a decision to make about which transponder to install: Class 2 (up to 15,000 feet) or Class 1 (up to 50,000 feet), which cost a few hundred dollars more. With my dreams set on Mt. Blanc in France, the highest peak in Western Europe at 15,774’, I installed the Class 1 transponder. The Alps were an instinct even as I was wrapping up the glaciers of the Rockies, and it remains a more tangible goal. Stay tuned for some glacier exploration in Switzerland that will make the biggest glaciers in the US Rockies look small.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The plan for Portugal was 3 always months, so the time came to go back to Spain. If there is anything I have learned about moving a Cub across time zones and continents, it is to depart in advance of the plan to move locations, returning via public transit, as opposed to taking public transit first and flying the Cub to the new place the next day. The rationale is rather simple: go/no go decisions are made same day, and changes in weather or circumstances are offloaded to trains, taxis, and airlines. To do things in reverse separates the go/no go decision by 24 to 48 hours, which when flying time is added on top of it, things get nutty.

I was able to leave one week before our anticipated drive out of Portugal. Weather has been remarkably foul across the Iberian Peninsula, commencing roughly when I flew to Portugal in February, and continuing for months. Recall that when we left Spain, we had recently received almost three feet of snow, following months long drought. A massive reservoir south of Cerdanya was disturbingly low. Within 40 days, it was full. The entirety of Spain has been receiving such cold and excess precipitation.

That meant that the elusive idea of a pleasant sunny day was out the door. Week after week and I could not find a day with a stretch of 600 miles of dirt with the sun shining. Finally, I realized that I was stressed out about the trip and I really wanted to enjoy myself, so I broke it into two pieces. The first step would be the Portuguese Coast to Casarrubios near Madrid, and then I would return to get the plane after arriving in Cerdanya. That also alleviated weather concerns, as it was possible to find better weather for part of Iberia as opposed to the whole thing.

I finally decided to make a go of it on a partly cloudy day. The forecast had been innocuous, until the morning of departure. Squalid coastal air had been getting stuck between the coastal hills and the Atlantic with surprising amounts of fog in previous days. This particular morning, it had lifted to a point and partially burned off, with a satellite map that indicated I could get the heck out and escape before the afternoon went to pot. I flew through the soup and over the hills, while under the cloud deck, only to have it get lower and lower. Flying at 700 feet above sea level and approaching 500’ AGL, I was getting near the Tagus River plain, which is nearly at sea level. It’s also rather wet. About 20% of the sky was clear, so I popped over the cloud deck to 1,400’, greeted by a sea of clouds. Intuition said I’d be fine. Eventually, the Tagus River overcast below gave way to the Alentejo, where clouds rose to 2,500’. I ducked in a wide gap and underneath had spectacular visibility, giving way to a pleasant Spring day.

By the time I got near the border, I had fallen out of radio contact with Lisboa Mil (Portuguese military flight following service). On the other side was a giant Class D airspace for Badajoz, Spain, measuring over 40 miles wide. I couldn’t raise any approach, radar, or tower frequencies, so I decided to climb from 1,300’ to 2,500’ to get cleared to cross it, en route to my first fuel stop. After tons of back and forth due to not showing up on radar, despite the transponder being on, I got cleared through and spent almost a half an hour until I popped out the other side, enjoying the Extremadura countryside.

My first stop was Aeródromo El Moral, near Ribera del Fresno. It is virtually in the middle of nowhere and enjoys the distinction of having officially opened in the last two months. A friend of mine got a notification online of the grand opening and sent it to me in April, and I decided to tag the place as it filled in a massive gap of places to refuel in western Spain. The people were incredibly friendly. A local hotel owner decided to make some room amongst vineyards so pilots could land and stay at the hotel. Investing obviously significant time, energy, and money, they built hangars, created an official runway, and dove in with their new business venture. As they do not have a fuel pump installation, they were waiting with 40 liters of mogas in jerry cans, which they filled just so I could refuel. There were no landing fees, either! I was rather amazed at their ingenuity and entrepreneurship as well as their friendliness.

The flight to Madrid from there was pleasant and uneventful, with a tiny tailwind. Extremadura looks a bit like the US West, with agriculture in decent color given springtime, all of which will give way to beige tones as the heat of summer approaches and wears on.

Casarrubios is another fantastic airport, just outside of Madrid. The people are incredibly helpful, stowing the Cub for €10/night in a hangar, and dropping me off 25 minutes away at the metro station (it was on his way home, but still). I repeatedly offered money, and was repeatedly rebuffed. This is starting to feel like aviation in America! The routine home involved 3 metro stops and the last flight of the day to Lisbon, arriving at 11:20PM, where my wife was waiting, and we got back to the house after midnight, having taken off 14 hours earlier in the Cub.

A week later, we made the 12-and-a-half-hour drive across Iberia to the Pyrenees. The weather, as one could imagine, was foul upon arrival and would be foul for most of the upcoming week. There was a one-day window on Monday, so two days after arrival in Catalunya, I rode a 3-hour regional train to Barcelona, a high-speed train at 185mph to Madrid, a regional train to Móstoles, and a 30-minute taxi ride to Casarrubios. With two hours of daylight to spare and stunning blue skies, I took off to photograph the ancient part of Toledo 22nm to the south, returning to put the plane in the hangar, sleeping onsite in one of the airport’s four hotel rooms for pilots. Staff kindly helped organize my order for dinner with the onsite restaurant to be left in the room when I got back from my run to Toledo, as the restaurant was closing while I’d be in the air. Again, I can’t emphasize how out of the way these people go to help pilots. It really is a different feel than what day to day life is like in Spain.

The next morning, final weather checks seemed pretty good for most of the run to Cerdanya. There would be afternoon thunderstorms of varying coverage, though limited to the Pyrenees and expected earlier in the afternoon. I fully expected to dance around them, though had things choreographed as storms would be incoming to Madrid and Teruel behind me. Better to get on the move and make it to the Monegros Desert, where I could wait things out or head to one of two alternates: La Seu d’Urgell (35 minutes by car from home) or Lleida (2 hours by car). Worst case, I would overnight in Lleida, and enjoy the next morning’s clear forecast before it rained again.

Madrid featured a light breeze and temps in the 50s, which felt like late September in New York, which is odd given that its June and the place is usually an inferno. As I was in flight, stratus began moving in from the south, which posed an existential question about crossing 6,000’ mountains between me and Teruel. Intuition said to proceed, as I had an alternate at Sotos. Squeezing over each ridge with about 1000’ total space between peaks and clouds, I finally was able to literally see light at the end of the tunnel, coming over the ridge and landing in Teruel, a large airport in a valley above 3,000 feet in Aragon. If I made it this far, I can definitely make the desert, which was good enough.

Teruel is a strange place. Pattern calls are in English. There are no tower facilities or flight plan requirements. The runway is enormous, a French company uses it as an airliner graveyard, and a British company operates a flight academy. Despite all of the facilities, it is required that 24-hour notice be given, or fuel will not be provided. After powering down next to an enormous Airbus, I was greeted by what appeared to be a fuel attendant:

“Do you have documentation?”
“What do you mean documentation? I have all sorts. What exactly do you want?”
“Documentation to refuel.”
“What kind of document do I need to refuel? It’s a plane and it needs fuel.”
“What about your reservation?”
“I have an email.” Silent glare from the anti-fuel guy. “Do you need to see it?”
“Yes.”

I pull up the email along with confirmation of receipt. He reads it awhile, glares, snorts, and then says “Fine. Wait here. I’ll get started to refuel.” In all seriousness, I swear he would have made me spend the night and wait 24 hours, all the while not caring if I got a taxi to get me car gas with jerry cans as a work around. Eye roll. Spain. What can I say?

What then commenced was about 30 minutes of phone calls, avgas installation logs, documents, and measurements, suiting up, and then an astronaut filled my tank with avgas. Right after, a flight school aircraft pulled up after doing some training, and he began refueling them, though I didn’t see a request for a reservation….

Security then came to drive me to pay the landing fee. She asked if I had a fluorescent safety jacket, which I did but wasn’t in the mood to wear. “Oh, you have to put it on because of the Guardia Civil.” “Under what scenario would federal police forces be wandering around this strange place?” I thought to myself, donning the jacket and hopping in the vehicle for the ride. I went to put my seat belt on and was told not to bother.

Upon entering the building, two Guardia Civil officers are standing there, glaring. They ask for identification. Thinking it’s a bit strange, I furnish it. They then ask about my airplane, where I am coming from, where I am going. “Is there a problem?” “No, we just have to note all this down for each flight.”

Now that the interrogation is over, I proceed upstairs to pay the landing fee. There, I am also asked an absurd amount of information. Mind you, I have already provided name, registration, persons on board, MTOW, origin, destination, and address for the advance reservation, to the fuel guy, and to the Spanish police force. Now, I have to provide it a fourth time, sign a contract, and then fork over €10 for the landing fee. Apparently, the regulatory infrastructure contemplates that the airport is a passenger terminal, even though there are no airline flights. Everyone shows up, does what is asked of them, and the world keeps turning in Teruel. I have learned to laugh and quit caring. At least the people were nice, even the fuel guy, once he realized he couldn’t send me away without avgas (capitalism anyone??? What planet am I on???).

The flight took me over 5,000’ terrain, which was clouded in with adequate clearance and then rapidly gave way to the Monegros Desert, where I descended down to 2,000’. I left Madrid in cool weather, was freezing in the cockpit over high terrain despite a sweatshirt and pants, and now tore the sweatshirt off as temps soared into the 80s. The sun was out in full force, with distant thunderheads visible 50 miles away over the Pyrenees.

I had intended to land at Alfes, a nice aerodrome according to my navigation software. I decided to check a site before leaving called aterriza.org, a Spanish language user-contributed website where pilots leave comments about airports and conditions. It is a self-avowed “wikipistas” (‘wiki runways’) and on it, I found an official notice that it had been closed in 2015, the case taken to the Spanish Supreme Court, and the Supreme Court having ruled that the closure was final. Why is it in on my map? I overflew it anyway, noting runway numbers with no Xs. Such is Spain, where the AIP, maps, and official sources are not always accurate.

I instead landed at Mollerussa, a ULM field requiring a good old short field brake screeching landing to transfer 5 gallons from the backseat, check radar, text the wife to get a weather report, and make the final 60nm leg into the Pyrenees and home. Of all ironies, it was sunny the whole way as the storms moved off to my right.

It felt good to be home. Since then, I have enjoyed the last week checking out an incredible residual snowpack in the Pyrenees, stunning wildflowers, and explosive green vegetation. The rains and cold continues, so much that it snowed above 9,000 feet, interior temps in the house dropped to 57 and I had to start a fire, in June, in Spain, to heat the place up. One year ago, it was 90 degrees for a high with no snow left.

From the flight planning stage outbound to Portugal in February until after arriving back in June, I kept struggling to understand why it was such a difficult task. If this was America, I should have had no problem picking a good weather day and nailing the entire flight in one stop. Both times, I intended to do that, and couldn’t pull it off. I then undertook an analysis, and found the following data points:

Pyrenees to Portugal: 665sm
Longest single day flight in USA with the Cub: 1075sm
Longest single day European flight with the Cub: 434sm
Longest single day leg this round: 365sm

The longest I have historically pulled off outside of America was from Frankfurt, Germany to Valence, France, at 434sm. It would have been longer had the weather not turned and required three hours of waiting. The thing is, that was in two countries that were not Spain. On both legs crossing Iberia, I had to phone ahead to coordinate fuel, deal with foul weather, deal with Spanish police, land at rugged little fields, and do fuel transfers with jerry cans. The struggle against the system adds up, and single day mileage goes down. What can I say? It’s how it is, though I can certainly attest that its incredibly interesting.

VFR on top, 1400′ MSL, Tagus River Plain, Portugal

Twenty miles further along, in the Portuguese outback.


Wildflowers, approaching the Spanish border.


Crossing the 40+nm wide Class D control zone of Badajoz.


Don Benito, Spain.

30nm west of Madrid.


Just before arriving at Casarrubios to leave the Cub for a week.

Old section of Toledo, the evening before the second leg.


Somewhere southwest of Valdaracete.


Crossing into La Mancha – poppy fields in bloom. They *always* are brilliant on an angle and turn dull when overhead. It can drive someone mad seeing it for hours.

At 6,000′ west of Teruel, squeezing over relatively uninhabited scrublands while freezing cold.

Airliner graveyard in Teruel.

Highlands between Teruel and Monegros desert, cruising at about 5,300′. 

Mequinenza Reservoir, Monegros Desert. Temps in the 80s and down at 2,000′. 

Alfes. The only indication it is closed is the evidence of cars having made use of the runway.  

Showers off to my right, approaching the foothills of the Pyrenees.

Back in La Cerdanya, cruising at 5,700′, looking at 8,600′ terrain. Note the steam from a recent storm.

A few days later: cumulogranite over the hill beneath Tosa d’Alp.

Penyes Altes in 590nm infrared, roughly 7,000′ elevation at the peak.

June Pyrenees snowpack, just over the border into France. Altitude 9,300′.