Start to the great adventure.
Even though we had applied a long time ago for the permission to
fly into Turkey we had nothing in our hands when we took off on Saturday, July
12, 1997, me with my ASH26E from Amlikon near Zuerich, Switzerland, the home of
my flying club, and Fritz with his ASW24E from Eschenlohe near Munich, Germany.
The declared goal of our adventure was the holy mountain Ararat, the mysterious
landing place of Noah's ark at the eastern border of
Turkey to Iran. For weeks it had been raining, the ground was wet, but today at 10 o'clock
in the morning the sky was still clear even
though Fritz in Eschenlohe was doubtful: early and low cloud development over
the near Alps. High time to leave! Finally, all the
equipment was in place, the map for the first leg positioned close at hand and
the flight plan with Parma (Italy) as destination was filed. The last thing to do was to
transfer all the well-prepared co-ordinates of desired airports with positions well into
Iran from the laptop into the Zander. Problems with the laptop, OK, calm down and start again;
but what is this? All co-ordinates were gone to hell! Nothing helped. In the end
I had to manually put the data for the next airports from the printed list
(which I luckily still had) into the Zander, an exercise that became the daily
routine for the next two weeks, like brushing teeth. Over all this fuss the sky
had clouded up and finally after a short tow and a quick bye bye to my fellow
glider pilots on the ground I was dangling towards the
Alps, low underneath weak and watery cumuli. Soon, the
thermals were gone and the cumuli had given way to rainy overcast. I had to take
out the Wankel power in my back. In light drizzle between and above clouds I
smuggled myself through well familiar terrain from Lichtenstein towards Chur and
finally over the Julier pass into the Engadin valley near Sankt Moritz. What a
relief: the high Bernina mountains were bathing in the sun and the way to
Italy was free with promising high and healthy cumuli marking the way (the way to
Italy is free). I got Fritz on the radio; he just
had escaped the rain via the Brenner pass and was
thermaling happily along lake Garda towards the flat Po
valley. As we left the Alps weak and low cumuli waited
for us in North Italy but they were good enough to bring
us safely into Parma with cold
engines. The "cleared to land" was familiar to us, as was the restaurant at the
airport and the sleeping place under the wing of our gliders in front of the
hangar. Two years ago on our first trip to Greece we had
learned to appreciate the hospitality of the Aero Club of Parma. We slept well
in anticipation of the race down south along and above the mountains of the Appenin
(our bedroom in Parma airport is aired out).
With the Sun through Italy; or How Fritz Closes Brindisi Airport.
The next two days brought us gliding pure over the mountains of the Appenin, through sunny
Tuscany (healthy cumuli over the northern Appenin) down to the boot of
Italy. We had stopped in Rome at Urbe airport (our gliders are lined up with general
aviation at Urbe airport in Rome) carefully avoiding Guidonia where two
years earlier we had been caught and kept in custody for a day by our friendly
NATO Italian Air Force commander Munzio Fabio defending the skies of Europe
against spies from Russia in gliders (!). The cathedral of St. Peter appeared
under our left wing when we took off from Urbe heading for the first hill in the
Appenin, set in the blue sky lightly painted with early fluffy cumuli. Rarely
did we loose contact to the cloud base that extended down to the boot of Italy
(great gliding down the boot of Italy). Only occasionally, when a gap opened
in our glider paradise, we were forced to get lower and drill the thermals out
of the hills dotted with small villages with their steep churches and market
places glued to the mountain side. The day passed quickly, the mountains changed
into hills and soon the earth below us was flat like a checkered pancake. The
shadows of the few cumuli moved towards the horizon and to our right we could
see the deep blue bottom of the Italian boot. Fritz had reached the altitude for
the final glide into Brindisi Airport. Brindisi approach was not
busy. Even after he realised that Fritz was not an helicopter but a glider he
remained friendly and after a short while he handed him over to
Brindisi tower: "Expect left pattern for runway 32."
I monitored Brindisi approach and after 10 min it was my turn. Expecting the same easy orders I had
difficulties to understand him: "D-KWML you cannot land in
Brindisi, the airport has been closed." I tried to argue with him.
"I am a glider and just need a small part of the runway, a taxi way will do too."
His voice was rather stern and did not leave room for bargaining:
"Sorry, Sir, the airport has been closed due to a crash and there are emergency
procedures on the airport; you can proceed to Normannii and hold there until the
airport is open again or you have to land on another airport." "No Sir, I cannot tell
you how long it will take." I was utterly confused; I took out the engine, turned around
and headed north. The only decent airport on the map was
Foggia about 150 km North and of course all the thermals were gone. What had happened to Fritz?
I tried to call him on our frequency but with no luck. Ten minutes later
Brindisi approach came back: "D-KWML if you still want to land in Bridisi, the airport is
open again." Fritz was standing on the taxi way and caught my left wing when I came to a
stand still. I tried to explain to him that all Italian controllers were nuts telling me that I
should hold over Normannii! But he had the better explanation: after his landing
on 32 he took too much left rudder to enter the next taxi way with maximal
speed. The wing dropped too low and hit the first blue lamp on the taxi way.
That brought the ASW24 to an abrupt standstill and alarmed the man on the tower.
Three fire engines came roaring by and the airport was closed.
The leading edge of the left wing of the ASW24 was open for about 10 inches but it did not look too bad. With the help of the repair kit that we carried along the hole was closed before midnight and even though it was now green from the raw polyester we were ready for the next day.
The (glider) paradise of Greece or: German Lufthansa answers on 121.5.
We felt like old hands when we crossed the Adria by engine power. Two years
ago, on our first trip to Greece, we had spent the night before the big jump
over the Adria in discussing all the possibilities (distance, power failures,
final altitude for reaching Korfu or Kerkira for the Greeks) but now we knew
what to expect (= hell in Kerkira with big and frequent jet traffic).
Brindisi air control had requested
that we definitely had to make a stop in Kerkira for
custom purposes. Once in the air, we knew better. We entered
Kerkira airspace with gliding mode in 3000 m and asked
for permission to continue towards the Greece mainland,
new destination Joannina. After successfully convincing the approach that we
definitely could not dive down over the Kerkira VOR to 1500 ft over open water
(gliders, gliders) and, yes, it would be our own responsibility to remain VFR
(what else in perfectly blue sky?) and, yes, we both had a German passport, we
were allowed directly to Joannina. Our endless glide brought us over the
colourful harbour of Iguminetsa onto the mainland
(approaching Mainland Greece in Iguminetsa).
After 15 more kilometers over totally flat countryside our altitude was just enough to reach the foot of the steep rocky mountain ahead of us. The sun and the wind were behind us and, sure enough in spite of the cloudless sky, our endless calm glide ended with a roaring lift up and above the first mountains in Greece. It was easy to reach Joannina and while Fritz had already landed I tested for some time the remarkable thermals over the lower peaks of the near Pindos mountains. Indeed, there was no custom stress, not even the passports were asked for. The man at the tower had only an interest to rent us a car that let us explore the nearby Greek ruins with a huge amphitheatre and to find a decent hotel up in the mountains. And to our surprise, after calling Munich air service, the paper containing the permission to enter Turkey came out of the fax machine. Miracles still happen! We took a day off hiking through a spectacular canyon. Thank God the canyon was rather narrow, at least we did not see so well the beautiful cumuli lining the sky from east to west. The next day (before take off in Joannina) was clearly not as good, but comfortable enough to glide along the northern border of Greece to Macedonia; Arnissa was passing by, the lonely glider port at the foot of steep mountains where two years earlier we had slept under the wing of our gliders. Fast stretches with strong thermals alternated with hard work in desperate search of lift, low over rolling hills and alongside of inviting lakes. Dimokritos airport near Alexandropolis at the coast of was our goal. The next day should bring us from there into Turkey. "Fritz, what is the frequency of Dimokritos?" "Sorry, it is not in the Botlang, but call Thessaloniki." No answer from Thessaloniki, it was still too far. "Why don't you call on 121.5, the emergency frequency?" Only the second try gave a response. It was not God, but the German Lufthansa on their way from Athens to Frankfurt who were rather surprised to listen to German glider pilots at the border to Bulgaria. They found the frequency for us and wished us good luck for our adventure. After struggling through threatening evening thunderstorms we finally reached the flat coast line and the long glide got us safely into Dimokritos airport. Nobody answered our call. The windsock was readily visible, so we just set down as we had learned it, except that the runway was nearly two kilometres long. It turned out that the airport was closed for the day, but the manager was still around. He had been a glider pilot himself and did not charge us with the landing fee. He took us in his car to a hotel of his friend in Alexandropolis. His friend had been in Germany for some time where he had found his German wife Erika. And Erika was also the name of the hotel which was not a bad choice at all.
Istanbul at the Golden Horn, the city of Justitian, or: the real stress only starts after landing.
In contrast to our expectations the flat countryside along the
Mediterranean sea was not without thermals. After
climbing with motor power to 2.000 m we fell into a weak lift below 1.100 m,
first in the blue and then marked with cautious little cumuli. 200 km had passed
and we started to get nervous. We had filed an VFR flight plan into
Istanbul which was our obligatory
airport of entry but we had no approach chart. Obviously,
Istanbul had to be a very busy
commercial jet airport. 30 km out we climbed with motor power into safe
altitude. Again in glider mode, we listened for some time to the staccato of the
approach control, took a deep breath and announced our wish to land in
Istanbul. The fellow on the approach
was a cool professional. He got us on the radar screen (Fritz had a transponder)
and brought us straight into left downwind for 06 and handed us over to the
tower. "D-KWML you are number 2 after Jet on final. You are cleared for short
final and first high speed taxi way to the left." We were flying the pattern
with very high speed in order not to bother the fast flowing traffic behind us
and raced in close formation a few meters over the threshold of the runway. It
was plenty of speed to take the next taxi way, and finally, our fast birds
rolled out and came to a standstill. After opening the canopy I released my
tension by letting out a scream of joy. Wow, we had reached
Turkey, we were
at the border to Asia! The rest should be child's play.
Little did I know!
Small yellow cars appeared announcing "Follow Me!" After
recognising that one wing tip of our gliders was touching the ground it was
difficult to explain that we had not crashed and simply wanted to push these
elegant and delicate symphonies of aerodynamics to the ramp. No way! Other
little cars appeared, ropes were attached and soon Fritz disappeared from view
jogging happily on the wing tip of his glider. My "tow car" entered a major taxi
way, big Jumbos were piling up behind me and the screaming jet noise became
unbearable. My driver decided to speed up the transportation process and soon I
felt like participating in the Olympics without being qualified. I tried to
convey my running deficiency to the happy driver. Finally my desperate "Stop!!!"
was heard. He turned his head, realised my problem and abruptly put his foot on
the brakes. I already saw my beautiful glider crash into the tow car. But a
miracle slowed down the ASH26 and brought it to a lucky stop behind the car. The
tow rope had entangled itself around the wheel and had prevented the disaster.
Seconds later I was lying under the fuselage cutting out the rope, knife in
hand. But what was that? The wheel was not yet free when the air was leaving the
tyre with a sickening hiss. The jamming rope had saved the glider but had broken
the valve. The tyre looked like a dirty rag and the glider was stuck. The jet
noise around me was deafening, swarms of people appeared from nowhere screaming
in a foreign tongue and the airport manager in broken English extended
unmistakable threats in my direction.
The nightmare finally ended shortly before sunset, the glider was parked far away from the ramp on an unused airstrip but again ready for action. This miracle was entirely due to Ali, the ingenious chief of Celibi's workshop. Not only did he invent a method to lift the glider off the ground with a fork lifter, he also found the one person who sold me (for nothing less than 180 US$) the only existing inner tube on the airport fitting the tyre of the ASH26. What did it matter that finding the tubing was an action of three hours, waiting endlessly for the permissions to drive around the airport, trying to fight unbelievable beaurocratic obstacles in politely smiling faces?!
We had earned a day of vacation and hence, the next day we were mingling with tourists in Topkapi.
Finally in Asia, but progress towards Ararat is less than encouraging.
Getting to the gliders at 8 o'clock in the next morning brought us back
into the now familiar nightmare. The man at the gate entrance asked us for passports and a flight
ticket of which we could produce only the first one. The boss of the man was
listening carefully to our explanation: We did not have a ticket because we had
an air plane out there ready for take off and we were the pilots of these air
planes and we wanted to take off, now! The boss was very polite and spoke English fluently.
He looked again at our passports. He did not smile when he asked us: "And where is your
ticket? Sorry, either you have a ticket or you have to have an airport
identification." And he showed us his. "No other person is allowed to enter the
airport." "Can we show you our glider out there?" "No sir, you cannot enter the
airport." "Can we speak to your boss?" "You are speaking to the boss!" Was this
for real?
The people from Celibi saved us again after we got them finally on the phone from outside the airport. They met us outside, got us in through a hole in the fence, led us through dark hallways and finally we were on the ramp. Once inside, we were again among normal people, the flight service was efficient, polite and competent, we could file a flight plan and no one noticed the lack of the identification card. So much for security at Istanbul airport. We still had to pass the nightmare of getting AVGAS and to actually getting to our gliders and move them close to the runway (definitely no more jogging). But in the end, a crew of 5 Celebi's, an airport official with a tie and black jacket, two nice fuel ladies (carrying the paper work), the actual fuel man with his truck as well as the fire truck were witnessing our remarkable and hopelessly late take off (30; finally all obstacles are behind us, take off in Istanbul). What a relief; with full power we were racing down 06, the Istanbul nightmare was finally dropping away, Topkapi, Hagia Sofia and the Golden Horn passed on the left and we entered Asia (Leaving Europe, entering Asia). It was hot, the sky was cloudless and deep blue. No movement was in the air, the compass pointed toward the East and slowly we were climbing with engine power into cooler air. We had left the city; flat, green, rural countryside opened in front of us, and further east a chain of small cumuli became visible. The endless glide got us under the low cumuli. There was lift, but it was weak, watery and uncomfortably low over the ground. If that was all the lift that Asia could offer, we better would have stayed home in the Alps.
Now, the ASH26 was clearly better than the ASW24 and soon I was 50 km ahead of Fritz. Our goal was Samsun on the coast line of the Black See, 600 km towards the east. The westerly wind was pushing us along but we could not avoid realising that we would not even reach Bolu, half way to Samsun. The ground was rising, but the meek cumuli over our heads did not. Soon, the operative altitude had shrunk to 200 - 300 m, I could see details of the highway underneath me. There were still ample possibilities for an outlanding but what then? This was crazy, the highway was winding up towards a pass but this gate to Bolu was covered in clouds. Fritz was demoralised, he could hardly regain altitude after the short glides between the low and heavy cumuli and patience was not his thing. He had already thrown the towel and we were discussing the escape route. The direction south west, away from the lift killing shore line, seemed the only possibility. After some blood pressure-raising stretches along lift spending ridges at low altitude and strong winds the sky cleared up, and in the end we even fell into some decent thermals before we reached the altitude for the final glide into Bursa. It was the first and only time on our trip that we had not reached our daily goal. Since Istanbul we had not gained a single kilometre towards our declared goal in the east, the mighty Ararat. But we were confident, after all, there was lift in Asia. What did it matter that the distance to Samsun was now even more than 600 km?!
Dream glide towards the east, or how dreams can end in a field of sunflowers,
and how Fritz becomes a TV star.
The bureaucracy in Bursa was Paradise against what we had gone through in Istanbul.
The policemen even offered us tea and two of them smiled happily and proudly into my camera
(a rare situation: the policemen are on our side). After taking off
before noon the sky was still blue but
already alive with rising air. Fritz had less problems to fall into the rhythm
of the pulsating blue thermals than I. He had chosen the open valley while I was
betting on the step ridge extending to the North. But soon the difficulties were
forgotten, the thermals got reliably strong, healthy cumuli painted the sky and
their high base of 3000 m let us soon forget yesterday's depression
(the dance begins). The countryside was still friendly,
small mountain ridges bordered wide open valleys, occasionally we passed deep
blue lakes and we thoroughly enjoyed the newly discovered glider paradise of the
Anatolian Highland. The day passed quickly, more than 500 km were behind us, and
soon Fritz, 15 km ahead of me, was milking the last decent cumulus on the
evening sky. Our goal, Samsun on the shore of the Black Sea, 80 km to the North, would
probably be in gliding range after reaching the base of the last cloud. Fritz
was already on his glide to the North and I was squeezing out the last feet of
altitude below the ageing lonely cloud when he came over the radio. "I am
loosing altitude fast, I probably cannot make the ridge in front of me. The wind
is too strong, I am on the lee of this ridge. I am turning back, there is no use
to take out the engine in the strong sink hole." Few minutes later it became
more dramatic. "I have lost all my altitude, I will turn on the engine now."
"The engine does not start. I am too low, the engine still does not start. I
have to look for a field." After some tantalising minutes he came back: "yes,
everything is fine"; well, not quite - he was sitting in a field of sunflowers
and his plane was just being pulled out of the yellow field. It had taken me
some time to get his co-ordinates and to find his tiny white plane way below my
circling search. As soon as he had pulled his plane out of the sunflower field
he tried to start the engine. It was frustrating: the engine sprang into life
without hesitation. "Fritz, did you see this large military air base with two
very long runways? Tomorrow, we will find a large truck and transport the glider
in pieces to the air base and you can take off again." After everything was
said, I took out the engine and headed towards the north into darkening sky and
strong head wind. My mood was equally dark as the sky. What if we could not get
the ASW24 into the air again? Would I then continue alone to the holy mountain,
or turn around? But the idea of flying back to Germany alone was not too appealing.
The sink in front of the rising mountain barrier was strong but I could pass the flat top with a comfortable margin. On the other side, I could switch off the engine and began the relaxing glide into the rising darkness. Faintly, I can recognise the coast line, low down I see the glittering lights of Samsun and, behind it, the black darkness of the sea. Finally I see the airport high above the lights of Samsun, and I am landing almost professionally.
The airport manager is still on duty. But we have great difficulties to communicate. According to the flight plan he had expected two planes but could see only one. His English vocabulary was limited to "O.K." for approval and "problem" for denials. Finally, he understood that "the other" was sitting in a field close to Merzifon (O.K.), 80 km to the South. "No crash, but I need a car to get there, still tonight", (problem). The taxi was a 20 year old Mercedes from his friend, but thanks to the hand-held GPS we found the ASW24 still before midnight. In front of a nearby gas station Fritz was giving an interview to a company of Turkish soldiers belonging to the Search and Rescue squad of the near air base. They had observed him disappearing in the sunflower field and tried to rescue him. The beer was flowing heavily and the commander promised us to come back tomorrow morning at eight with lots of people and a truck trailer to bring the ASW24 to the air base. My gloomy thoughts were gone and we were looking forward to tomorrow's action. We slept under the wings of the ASW24 securely guarded by four poor soldiers with their gruesome machine guns. Did they guard us against robbers or did they keep us in custody?
When the sun came over the horizon the next morning the soldiers were gone together with our luck. The morning passed, no commander appeared and no truck, only the heat became uncomfortable (waiting for the rescue). It took the rest of the day to organize a taxi, to get money (a nightmare), to enter the incredible bureaucracy of the air base and convince the air base commander to rescue Fritz from the field and let him take off from the base. But finally, it worked. It became a military operation to take the ASW24 apart, fix the pieces on car tyres on top of this huge flat trailer and to truck it to the base (retrieval becomes a military operation; 54; it was not a trailer, but big enough for the pieces of the ASW24). Again, the night was falling when Fritz was finally sitting in his ASW24, the motor was running, the commander was saluting and Fritz disappeared two inches over the red glowing horizon. When I finally met him again (the taxi driver had patiently waited the whole day to bring me back to Samsun airport and to find a hotel) Fritz was not happy at all. His outlanding in Merzifon had damaged the landing gear. He was unable to retract the wheel, the wheel break had become useless and rolling straight ahead was only possible with full left rudder. What was worse, the engine had acquired an occasional cough as if it was not adjusted correctly. Clearly, we had to do some repairing. Could we do it tomorrow? At least I knew how to get to the break adjustment.
On the next day we were hanging on the cellular phone with Schleicher on the other end. Karl Droß was listening in Poppenhausen to the sound of the sick Rotax engine while I was turning the adjustment screws of the carburettor and Fritz on the phone gave the signs. With the help of a long strong iron bar we tried brutally to bend the wheel back (recommendation Schleicher!) (we have to straighten the wheel somehow!). In the end, the ASW24 had still a preference for the left when we pushed it on the ground but at least the wheel was retractable again even though, for the rest of the tour, the lever in the cockpit had to be fixed with a rope. The day had been sunny with promising cumuli at midday but later on, the clouds had become heavy, and the occasional rain showers were fitting with our sinking enthusiasm. In the evening we were sitting in the noisy dining room of Samsun's best hotel, our gloomy mood was as low as the quality of the soup that we were consuming. "Fritz, look at the television, you must." And here he was: Fritz, the hero of Merzifon, in front of his elegant glider, the yellow flowers in the background. I could not understand what he was saying but it sounded very important and the holy mountain Ararat was part of it. Why not: two German glider pilots in search of Noah's Ark.
Thermaling along minarets over steep hills and not without some anxieties. Be Allah with you!
We took off around high noon. The runway is located high above the town and
we felt like ski jumpers when the ground was falling away in front of us. Only a
small sandy beach gave us doubtful
assurance in case the engine should quit on us. The base of the small watery
clouds was uncomfortably low over the top of the hills which sloped steeply into
the coast line. Soon we had packed away our engines, we had turned to the east
and were trying to catch the meagre lift streaking lazily up the hills. The
close contact to the steep ground raised my blood pressure. Very seldom could we
make it to the top of the hills but then we were already touching cloud base.
Occasionally, we glided along minarets, jumped over steep picturesque valleys,
always checking the coastline for landable beaches
(looking back towards Samsun; could one come down safely at these beaches?).
Progress was slow; sometimes the coast line consisted of vertical rocks, no place to land, and lift
was precious. At least the wind came from the water, and on the ridges with
great effort and patience we could hold the altitude sailing eastward. Fritz
tested starting the engine and was not too happy. The 24 horse power two stroke
Rotax came fine, but it was not running very smoothly. It kept choking. Was
there something wrong with the fuel flow? Again, as always in weak lift, Fritz
was falling back. This time the few places where the coast line offered
seemingly landable beaches had an additional attraction for him.
To our left, over the open water, about 20 km out, huge cumuli nimbi started to raise their heads out of the Black Sea. At the same time, the low cloud layer to our right became thicker and began to engulf the top of the hills, and overhead, the colour of the sky turned grey from the rapidly developing overcast and light drizzle. Lift was gone and we had to escape to the left over open water. I was almost glad to finally start the engine to escape the misery. Samsun was now further away than our goal Trabzon, still 100 km to the east. The map showed the airport directly on the coast line. The situation in the back of us was equally bad as in front, making the decision easy: go east! It should be possible to climb high over the low cloud layer to our right and later, after the long glide along the slowly disappearing coast line under us, we would sneak from the water under the low cloud layer, not without the landing gear safely locked (somewhere around the corner must be Trabzon). And there is was: the long large runway, directly on the beach, cleared to land, no problem.
It cleared in the evening, and our gliders, lined up neatly in front of the Russian Tupolev, were glowing red from the sinking sun (my ASH26 is being put to bed in front of the russian Tupolev).
Something which did not belong there must have been in the evening soup, or was it the salad? Anyhow, later in the night Montezuma got hold of me and I became leaky on both ends. Luckily, the next day was a zero. Heavy rain made any thoughts of flying superfluous.
My day passed in the horizontal mode with alternating Coca Cola and Imodium forte while Fritz was visiting the local museum. The next morning I could stand on my feet again, the sky was clear and we were ready for action. We had to escape the coast and again reach the dry and barren highlands of Anatolia. Gliding along the dark green coastline had been a big mistake. Shortly before 12 o'clock our gliders were holding in front of runway 09 (ready for take off in Trabzon, but the spark plug is broken). Fritz would go first. The engine would not start, soon the battery was empty. No problem, I would organize a car battery. 10 minutes later the Rotax was hanging on the big spender but still no fire. "Fritz, the fuel is running out of the muffler!" And then I saw it: the plastic part that was housing the spark plug was broken off. It must have been damaged beforehand, no wonder that the engine had trouble to run smoothly the last days! Fritz really had been lucky; what if the final break would have happened over the unlandable coast line? It took us two hours driving by taxi from one car shop to the next. Finally, we found an old used parts dealer and, by God, he had the right item! It looked a little shabby but it was the right part. Fritz was ready to pay any prize. The man smiled: "You are my friends, accept my humble gift, when we meet again you will help me, be Allah with you."We raced back to the airport, thank God, the gliders were still waiting for us in the grass next to 09. The plastic housing was quickly put in place and the engine was running, smoothly!
After take off I was heading directly for the hills, the strong engine easily brought me on top of the hills between and trough the low sickly cumuli, and finally I could look over to the other side. There, the sky was blue, the low clouds had completely disappeared and the terrain had lost all the lushy deep green colour of the hills on the coast (back in the barren Anatolian highlands, the lonely cumulus in front is close to 4000 m). The barren Anatolian highland, a dry desert spiked with high mountain ridges and scarred with deep dark valleys was an awesome gliding experience. Effortless and with steep spirals I was lifted up into the blue sky. 3000 m, 4000 m, forgotten was the lowly creeping along the coastline. The coast was dramatically sinking away, covered with a thick vale of clouds crawling up from the Black Sea (the coast line of the Black Sea is covered with low clouds). Further to the northeast, the mountains reached the altitude of the Matterhorn. But we had to be careful. The close influence of the calming Black Sea was strong and it was better to keep the menacing peaks clearly to our left. Later in the day, high cumuli formed over our heads and let us reach 4500 m. We were dancing along and Fritz had regained his optimism. He tried to convince me to give up our plans of this morning to land in Erzurum as the base camp for tackling Ararat. Instead, he wanted to push on right now to the holy mountain. "Fritz, it is still 300 km to the Ararat and no place to land in between. It is already five o'clock, if we continue we will have to land some place in Iran!" We arrived 2000 m over the two long runways of Erzurum. Fritz tried his engine several times and reported that the operation in the morning was a perfect success. The engine started right away and there was no longer any stuttering (we arrive much too high and too early over Erzurum).
We landed in close formation on the main runway, turned still with high speed into the next taxi way and came to a standstill about 150 m before the ramp. There was someone standing doing the signs as for a big jumbo. His arms froze in mid-air when he saw our wing tips touch the grass. He ran to the fire engine and raced towards us. What a reception! He looked at us rather suspiciously, were we O.K.? Yes, no problem, can we put the gliders somewhere? Soon we were surrounded by a bunch of friendly and loudly talking helpers who pushed our gliders to their resting places. The day was still light enough to take a taxi and drive through the impressive old city of Erzurum. When we had dinner in the best restaurant in town we were sitting under a picture of the holy mountain. We had reached the deepest Kurdistan and tomorrow our goal would be Ararat.
Coffee at holy Ararat.
Today we should reach the holy mountain. Hot and deep blue loomed the sky over Erzurum.
With ready gliders we were waiting at the beginning of the long runway of the airport that
was partly military, partly commercial
(the big day, waiting for the thermals in Erzurum, today Ararat is our goal).
The only big traffic this morning had left, it was close to 11 o'clock
and there was still no trace of a cumulus in the sky. Ararat, the holy mountain
of the Turks and more so of the Armenians, was about 300 km to the east, and
today we wanted to have this landing place of Noah's Ark under our wings.
Erzurum in the Anatolian highland in the eastern part of Turkey is 2000 m
high and offers the last reasonable airport for tackling the more than 5000 m
high mountain. With mixed feelings we took off into the blue sky. The
countryside around is dry, desert-like, and, aside from isolated hamlets, empty
of civilisation. Occasional ghastly mountain ridges interrupt the dry and barren
land and the idea of an outlanding was not appealing. But very quickly these
dark thoughts were wiped away by the strong blue thermals that quickly carried
us in high and cool altitude. And less than an hour later the sky was painted
with healthy cumuli and strong lift was underneath them
(the way to the holy mountain is a gliders paradise). Fritz was
speeding along. I, more the dreamer, needed to drink the colour of the sky and
to get lost in the strong thermals and to dance from one cloud to the other.
Cloud base was over 4000 m and we both thought Ararat would be a snatch. Fritz
saw the holy mountain first. About 50 km away His Majesty pushed the
snow-covered head through the inversion in a circle of small clouds below his
snow-covered crown. It reminded me of pictures from Kilimanjaro or Fudjiyama.
But, clearly, he was not so easy to be conquered. The cumuli had disappeared and
we began a long glide into hopelessly calm air, but with great enthusiasm
towards our far and ever rising goal. Fritz started talking nonsense on the
radio: "I am 2500 m high but close to the ground, Ararat is maybe 15 km away; I
have to take the engine out... it does not help, I am still sinking and the
ground is rising in front of me, it is hopeless... I am turning around and go
back to Erzurum!" What we had not
realised was the strong wind from the south-east, and we were fully in the lee
of the "little hills" in front of Ararat that were still more than 3000 m high
(98; so close, but how do we get there?). Desperately, I fought with the
narrow, turbulent and strong lee thermals that occasionally ripped through the
sinking air. It took half an hour of frustrating patience to get on top of these
hills. Finally, there was no more danger to be sucked down on the lee side but
on top, the thermals did not exceed 4000 m and mount Ararat was still towering
over us with more than 1000 m to go. Fritz understood the offerings of the
racing shadows of the short-lived cumuli first. With such a strong wind the
broad shoulder of Ararat must provide lots of ridge lift! The border to Iran was
under our right wings when we invested all our courage (and our last spare
altitude) to race with high speed deep into the gigantic slopes of the big
volcano (ridge flying was the solution!). It was quite a liberation when,
close to the rugged terrain, we were carried effortless in calm air and strong
lift onto the top of the holy mountain. We were racing around each other
shooting pictures, getting drunk by the altitude and the wild beauty around
us. The wave on top of Ararat
pushed us close to 6000 m, and I felt like having drunk three cups of strong
coffee on an empty stomach. My early symptoms of lack of oxygen. The long glide
back to the heart of Kurdistan into Van, at the border of
the lake with the same name, was uneventful; it was time for dreaming. We would
find a good restaurant and talk about Noah, the old guys, or about the
unbelievable calm lift on the good side of the holy mountain
(Fritz with the airport manager of Van and his daughter,
she was the one who understood our english).
Rhapsody in Blue, followed by a decadent but excellent dinner next to the swimming pool.
Tackling the holy mountain had been the high point of the entire tour and we were swimming on a cloud
of self-confidence. Had we not solved the motor problem of the ASW24 and sailed
around Ararat nearly 4000 km away from home? After some time, we had learned how
to land on these large airports. Only after landing and before taking off life
was difficult. All major airports (and hardly any other existed) were in the
hands of the military. We filled in endless papers, showed our passports, and
were frustrated by senseless waiting periods. Fuel was never available for us
and there was always a substantial landing fee. But once we had overcome the
barrier of the airport building and had actually reached our parked gliders in
the morning, everybody was very nice to us, we were offered tea, and many helped
us to push the gliders to the runway
(Turkish hospitality with the traditional tea, but only after we are finally on
the ramp). The airport of Van was about 2000 m high, located
directly at the shore of a beautiful lake. We followed our standard rule: take
off at the first sign of a cumulus, but not later than 12 o'clock noon.
It was hot and it took half of the endless runway to lift off in the cloudless
sky. The air was deadly calm and nothing was shaking my steady climb to 4000 m
on top of the Volcano at the western end of lake Van
(with engine to 4000 m on top of a nearby volcano, but no lift up there!).
In front of us stretched an empty
country with few green specks to the horizon; brown-grey ridges were cutting
through this dry hot highland, and no cumulus in sight.
| Click thumbnail for larger image. |
Winfried at Marfa, April 1998. |
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After half an hour event-less glide into the west, and 1000 m lower, finally soft blue lift ended our increasing nervousness. We went back to old techniques: look for clues on the ground, check the wind direction and search for dark and sun-exposed ridges (122; all day long search for lift in a hot and cloudless sky). Half the day passed with acrobatics not too far off the ground and only later in the day we reached high terrain, and under deep blue sky we were lifted up with dramatically turbulent thermals which became calm only beyond 4000 m. Beautiful colours developed around us, flying was pure pleasure, and soon we were safely above the glide angle to the runway of our destination. I was shooting pictures of the ASW24 circling in front of bizarre dark mountain peaks or the wide open valley of Erzinçan (the end of the day, near Erzinçan). Beyond our today's goal towards the west, there were cumuli forming on the horizon. Fritz wanted to test those cumuli just to be prepared for tomorrow: big mistake! The clouds, when we were finally under them, were watery and heavy and we almost did not make it back to the airport without engine power (in Erzinçan airport the reception committee was unusually large). When we later walked through Erzinçan in search of food, I had the distinct impression that Montezuma's name was written on the door of all the local restaurants. We asked the taxi driver for the best restaurant in town. 15 min later we had dinner in the restaurant of the rich, next to a luscious swimming pool, and three waiters, all in white, were serving on us. The food (including the rich salad) was exquisite, without consequences and not even expensive. The fact that we were the only guests did not disturb us in the least.
Over the Euphrat to Kayseri, or: how does one buy a real Turkish carpet. When we landed in Kayseri, we must have been a small sensation. The commander of the air base himself, together with his saluting crew paid us a visit as we were cleaning our elegant gliders. His first officer drove us into town and connected us with his friend who was kind enough to give us an excellent tour through Kayseri at night. We ended up in the old romantic Karavansery where he had a picturesque carpet shop. He told us all about the qualities of Turkish carpets and all about the way how they were made. And, of course, I ended up buying a beautiful carpet which actually made it home to Konstanz, and there it keeps up my memory of this remarkable night. We paused for one day, we found a guide who showed us Kapadonia with its caves and cities below the ground. Clearly, being a tourist was more strenuous than gliding for six, seven hours in the sky of Anatolia.
Cleared to land but where is 06. After take off we wanted to connect with the thermals rising from the first hills in front of the huge Volcano. But the big fellow was not to conquer, the thermals died down halfway up and we were frustrated. The mountain ridge beyond the volcano, our desired route, was apparently thermally dead, not a trace of a cumulus. After some lengthy discussion we changed our plan and decided to go for the Sahara. It took a few minutes until I had convinced Kayseri control to change our flight plan to Isparti. "Can we land there?" "Yes, it is a civilian airport." The first hour passed without great problems, the infrequent blue thermals were not breath taking but never got us lower than 1000 m above the pancake-flat ground which slowly turned greyish white and empty. In the beginning, we moved very carefully, took every lift we encountered and, in between thermals, hardly exceeded the speed of the best glide. Occasionally, we passed small villages that were glued on low ridges which crossed this barren land. A huge dried up lake appeared in front of us and way beyond it we could recognise isolated small cumuli (beyond the dried up lake a promise of high cumuli). I invested all my altitude to get underneath the tender creation of this promising fluffy white stuff. It was the beginning of a day-long dream with unbelievable strong lifts, cloud bases of more than 4000 m and high speeds. Sometimes a little patience was necessary when we arrived too low under the next cloud (in paradise again). It was there and it was strong, but its path to the lonely cloud far above our heads could be crooked and difficult to find. The countryside passed by quickly and the pancake was gone. We had reached mountainous terrain, Fritz was 30 km to the south and talked about an air base underneath his wings, probably Konya where three fighter jets were just taking off. "Fritz, maybe they take off to get you." Five minutes later I saw them, slightly below me to the south crossing my path. One of them turned sharply and raced towards me. There was no escape. Seconds later the cockpit seemed filled with jet wings when he roared few meters over me. Then I saw the other two turn as well. But their radius was not narrow enough and they passed 30 meters on my right side with vertical wings. They had just played with me but my nerves were on edge and I was glad that they did not come back. With the mountains the clouds became thicker and we had to pay attention how we moved. The landscape turned into Switzerland (without the Swiss) (around Isparti: Switzerland in Turkey). Deep blue lakes were framed with dark green mountain ridges and bizarre rocks contrasted the soft coast line of the lake. Isparti airport was in comfortable gliding range and just around the next mountain. I was waiting for Fritz and watched the huge build up of the Texan size nimbi in the mountains southwest of Isparti. The evening sun created a fast change of incredible colours around me and I was shooting one picture after the other. It was time to land. The gliders should be safely secured before the clouds would relieve themselves. I was circling high over Isparti, I could see the airport with its concrete runway. The controller seemed not very busy. I told him that we were two gliders from Germany he said a few words in German and told me that I was cleared to land on 06 but he did not have me in sight. Funny, this runway below me did not look like 06, more like north/south, and this smoke flag came undoubtedly from the wrong direction for 06 and did not seem to be calm. Well, he must know what he was talking about. I declared "final" and again he cleared me not without telling me that he still did not have me in sight. I came down with remarkable speed and had real problems to settle down and come to a standstill before the runway was over. I tried to complain to the controller. He no longer answered. Fritz was in downwind and he also was cleared for 06. "Fritz, you must land from the other side, the wind is very strong and from the wrong side." Too late, he already had turned final. He came racing down the runway. No break slowed him and before going straight ahead into the bushes at the end of the runway he had to turn into a field to the right and luckily for him only grass finally stopped his fast move. Friendly soldiers came running towards us and soon we were surrounded by a laughing crowd. Nobody seemed to pay attention that we were blocking a runway but all our questions did not elicit any understandable answer. But at least they all helped us to push the gliders in front of the building on the other end. Then the situation changed. First the major, then the commander himself appeared, both spoke rather limited English and they were not happy at all. We had landed on a pure military base that was only used as a helicopter landing place for the troops. We were treated like criminals, our passports were confiscated, our minute baggage was searched and my spare Garmin went as well. It took two hours until an English speaking soldier was found who finally understood us. No, this is not Isparti airport. It was, up to half a year ago, but now this place is a purely military operation. The new civil airport of Isparti just opened 10 kilometres to the west and was not yet on our maps. It was hard to believe but it took another half an hour before the commander allowed us to contact the civil airport and explain to the controller why we disappeared from his radio. And, of course, he had already started the first level in the search routine and he had called all available airports in Turkey. At least from there on we were already known wherever we landed in Turkey. The commander finally recognised that we were not from the CIA, he started to talk with us via the friendly translator and gave us back what he had taken before. He even let his driver bring us to town. Meanwhile, the valves of the sky had opened, the almost one foot high water was streaming down the main street in Isparti and we had to reach our hotel bare footed.
Downwind over the amphitheatre of Ephesus. Looking out of the hotel room the next morning made us hurry. Low and wet cumuli before 9 o'clock in the morning were not too promising. We arrived early at our military airport. No, we could not take off without the permission of the commander; no, it was not known when he would arrive at the airport; no, we could not file the flight plan without having the permission to take off. No, we could not go out to the field and ready our gliders before we had filed a flight plan. Incredible, but finally we did take off at one o'clock and just lifting off the ground seemed to be the biggest achievement of the day. Our flight plan was to Ephesus with its antique amphitheatre and the temple of Artemis. Cloud base was low and we were acrobating for a few hours at alarming altitudes along low mountain ridges carefully passing wide valleys with the speed of best sink (low altitude acrobatics under watery cumuli). Later on, it got better, until finally we approached the Mediterranean coast; the head wind became significant and finally the thermals died down underneath a muggy grey sky. It took some time until the 2000 m altitude had streaked over our wings and in the end, the eternal last soft, warm air lifted us into the final glide to Ephesus. The runway came in sight and seemed to end in the water beyond. Only in the downwind, wheel down and locked, I could recognise the amphitheatre below me and the tourists milling around like ants (turning left base for Ephesus airport, where is the antique amphitheatre?). The wind was strong, as every night here at the coast, as we were told. But for once, this airport was purely civilian, a few Cessnas and Pipers were standing around, but no soldiers with their Kalashnikovs (Selçuk-Efes Havaalani, our first airport in Turkey without the presence of Kalashnikovs). Our only problem tonight was to tie down the gliders carefully, no passport checking, no forms to fill, no waiting for nothing; this was paradise! We walked to the antique sites and turned into tourists for a few hours. Later, when the sun was setting, the taxi was unloading us in front of a restaurant in Selçuk, and below the statue of Goddess Artemis we had dinner. It could have been worse, roger.
Inönü is the only glider port in Turkey and we are the heroes of the day. Fritz is complaining, we could make good distance back in the direction of Greece, the day is still young and the thermals still strong. I am circling in 3000 m over the glider airport and it takes a few minutes until I can recognise the grass strip and the 15 gliders nicely aligned in front of the hangar. I got the chief of the operation on the radio. He not only had one tow plane but five, and, of course, he would tow us tomorrow, and yes, there was a possibility for us to stay overnight and we even would get something to eat, and beer they had as well. "Why are you not flying?" "The wind is too strong down the ridge, we stopped towing half an hour ago, it is too dangerous." We got exact orders how to approach, and 20 minutes later were received by a bunch of young enthusiastic glider pilots who were in training here in Inönü. They pulled us professionally to the ramp, helped us to remove the bugs from the wings of our gliders. "Did you really come from Efes today and you did not need the engine?" The two Schleicher gliders were the centre of attention and, of course, their pilots as well. They had some problems to believe that we circled above their holy mountain Ararat in 5500 m and had come all the way from Germany to do it. No, not by ship, but the glider way. The engine was only for getting us off the ground, yes, admittedly, the Adria was pretty empty of thermals and there the engine was essential. The operation here in Inönü reminded me of the old days in German glider schools, it smelled a bit of pre-military education. The pilots here did know how to get to altitude in thermals, but to leave the airport beyond the range of their gliders was definitely forbidden. The instructor had close to absolute power, and if the hopeful glider pilot had to produce an outside landing (successfully or not) he was not the hero but had to be dismissed immediately. "Are you not flying cross country here in Inönü? Are you not having the first world class championship in Inönü in the fall?" We had a very nice evening, plenty of food and beer. We told lots of stories and it was after midnight when we fell asleep in our own bungalow and we both had our own room, what a luxury!
The voice of Allah is coming through the clouds. The glider training had not yet started. What was it today? Too little wind? The sky was still blank but to the northwest the first signs of trouble were visible. Finally, the chief instructor could be convinced to tow us and the entire crew was witnessing this event. Fritz was first (Fritz is ready for take off in Inönü behing this huge tow plane). No, he would tow both of us (there were still four tow planes sitting in the grass and some eager tow pilots as well!). It took 20 min until he came back. Fritz reported good lift and was gone. I was suffering in tow of this huge plane that pulled me with lots of noise and little power in low altitude around the hills. I was tumbling around, flaps extended, and praying for speed, trying in vain to tell him to speed up, this is not a Blanik. The minute it was somewhat safe I pulled the rope. Anything was better than dangling near stall speed behind this dinosaur of a flying machine over unlandable terrain. I could still reach the airfield but was too low to take out the engine. It was not necessary, the 3 m/sec lift ended my misery and shot me gloriously up to cloud base above 3000 m. The sky had changed and for now it was full of strong cumuli, and I hurried after Fritz who had escaped westward. For some time I had forgotten the bad forecast and was racing towards Greece. I had taken a more southerly route than Fritz and was surprised when he, more to the north, started to talk about difficulties, lowering cloud base and weakening lift. Then he became more serious: "do you think we could turn back to Inönü, is it still open back to the East?" "Fritz, you are too close to the coast line, why don't you turn more to the South. Here it is still okay. There is no need to worry; in front it looks much better than in back. It makes no sense to go back to Inönü. Maybe we would not even make it any more for Inönü. In the worst case we could head for Bursa and forget about Greece for today." 20 minutes later my confidence began to be dampened a bit. The cumuli got heavier and already two in a row did not want to pull any longer. Cloud base was falling, the visibility became poor and the terrain seemed to grow. The engine brought me back to the uncertain cloud base. There was no more thermal activity and the sun had disappeared. I still believe it is flyable, but escape will only be possible with the engine. I am still high and I am gliding westward. Visibility is deteriorating, I am getting lower, following a mountain slope to my left and becoming increasingly more anxious in this murky soup. Next to my left wing, vaguely discernible in the intimidating mist, I can recognise a small village formed around a slender minaret glued to the steep hill. And then, there it was, this intensive voice, calm but firm, coming from nowhere, but clearly from the outside, and it seemed to talk to me! Was it telling me that I was off track? Was it telling me that I should get the hell out of here? This really got into my bones. I was ready to believe that Allah was talking to me. The voice of Fritz coming out of the speaker brought me back to reality. "What is your assessment of the situation, what are your intentions?" The favoured sentence of Fred, my flight instructor from Boston, who some years ago had shown me how to fly around in a Piper Cherokee, came back to memory: "When everything goes to pot think: C C C" (calm, climb, confess)." Calm I was with difficulty, climbing I initiated in this minute, but for confessing there was still some time. Five minutes later I climbed out of the murky soup and could assess the situation. I was between two layers of clouds and there were still holes in the layer underneath to see the ground. The overcast was still 1000 m above me and there also were occasional small blue holes. For the time being I would continue due west and in case the two cloud layers would merge I could still climb on top and confess to Istanbul approach. Allah had pity with us, the lower cloud layer became broken and below, the mountains were residing. I was gliding along and after some time had finally sunk under the broken clouds. The ground was close but I was moving over a flat pass that would soon fall comfortably towards the west. From the recent rain the air had became crystal clear and the visibility straight ahead seemed unlimited. And the miracle happened; the dark cloud above me held me in a soft thermal and slowly I could breath normally again. I was enjoying the calm circles over the pass for a few minutes before I got Fritz on the radio to tell him in a cool, professional and undisturbed voice that the way to Greece was free. As we proceeded westward, the thermals became stronger, the overcast had dissolved, and we only were battling the strong wind blowing in our face. About 50 km in front of the coast line of the Marmara Sea we had to tackle a huge rotor-like cloud but beyond it, the turbulent hot air carried us effortless to 3000 m. We had reached the waterway between Turkey and Greece. It was eerie to cross this huge piece of water; below us big ships were moving to and from Istanbul, and above us a gigantic cumulus was sucking us skyward (good lift over the Sea of Marmara). The long glide over open water towards the green coast of Greece elevated me into high spirits. We had escaped Allah's revenge and in half an hour our calm glide in high altitude would bring us safely below the chain of small fluffy cumuli over the coast of Greece. To the left, an island grew out of the dark blue water, and the evening sun was painting it with incredible colours (gliding onto mainland Greece). Of course, Dimokritos airport was closed again and this time we even had to climb the fence to get out. But Hotel Erika in Alexandropolis still had a room for us and dinner around the corner did not disappoint us.
We are going home. The next morning during our pleasurable and easy ride over the Pindos mountains I got a bit emotional. Would I ever come back to these mountains, this paradise for the long elegant white wings of my glider? The rest was easy. The controller in Kerkira needed some persuasion and kept telling us that is was against his advice and entirely our responsibility to fly directly to Brindisi from our present position and high altitude (instead over Kerkira VOR in 1500 feet over open water according to his advice) and to remain strictly VFR (what else under a perfectly clear sky?). There was a last solid cumulus over one of the small islands north of Kerkira (the last lift before the big jump back to Italy). We squeezed it to the end and turned towards Brindisi. This time we reported to Brindisi approach, Fritz had his transponder running and we were treated as IFR professionals. We could see the runway from 30 kilometres out, no cloud in the sky, but the controller was worried. He kept telling us about imaginary traffic high above or far away that we never could see: "you are now three miles out but off to the ILS centreline, turn left immediately." Sure, why not!
Rain awaits us in Rieti, but dinner with our Swiss friends warms our heart. Over the loudspeaker I tried to find Ueli Preisig, my Swiss glider friend of whom I knew that he was participating in the competition. He did not answer but instead Hausi Nietlispach, the Swiss flying legend. He had arranged dinner tonight with Ueli and his family and would we like to join? Dinner in a restaurant high above Rieti in a picturesque village was superb as was the company, the stories of old times and future plans.
The rain wall north of Florence stops us and the day ends in Borgo di San Lorenzo
under the wings of our gliders below the stars of Tuscany.
On top over the Po valley and with mixed feelings towards the Alps. That evening we celebrated the successful ending of our Ararat adventure with style and true Bavarian beer. The next day the weather was sunny again. Fritz towed me the glider way into a promising day and it was no problem to reach Amlikon, my Swiss home base, with a cold engine (back home over familiar terrain: over the Arlberg pass). When I reported downwind, only Herrmann Trunk circling over the Säntis noticed that I was back again.
In retrospect. The total flying distance was 7812 km and the daily average distance 325 km/leg. I had taken off in Amlikon on July 12th and landed there again on August 9th. For recreation purposes, we had paused for a total of three days, on one day we had an retrieval action, one day was spent repairing the ASW24 and on one miserable day I was out of order. Winfried Boos |