September 2002,
St Lazare, Montreal
- First attempt
I am sitting on the wooden porch close to the small grass-covered
airstrip of St Lazare airfield near Montreal. The Coopers,
owners of this airfield, are hosting my aeroplane, a Zenair
CH-701 "The Blue Lightning" and myself for the
last couple of days. Around me there is a nice company
of old, experienced pilots. Alain and Grant are also present.
In the last week they really tried everything to enable
me to resume my flight around-the-world via Baffin Islands
and Greenland back to Slovenia where I left three months
ago. The whole company is quiet and some of us stare into
the distance. None of us is indifferent to the fact that
tomorrow we will permanently tie down The Blue Lightning
and that I will board the first airliner for Frankfurt.
Friends around me are having difficulties understanding
the fact that their country with rich aviation history
and tradition and its officials has become a rigid bureaucratic
obstacle for men that are pursuing their dreams and historic
aviation spirit of exploring the unknown and pushing the
boundaries of the achievable.
Even I take this incident as a bad dream. After 40 days
of waiting in Minsk (Ukraine) for flight plan authorisation
for the Russian leg of the flight that was already authorised,
emergency landing in Siberia, waste forest fires in central
Alaska, misunderstandings regarding certification of Canadian
aircraft in Canada, I still can't believe that I can't
go any further. The weather is nice; the huge anticyclone
is covering the NE part of Canada but my dream is dying.
What is the point of so many lucky coincidents that brought
me here? What is the point of huge efforts of so many
men and women that were involved in clearing the path
for me?
During the afternoon I talked over the phone with Ivo
Boscarol, a friend of mine and at the same time owner
of the aircraft company that produces unique micro light
powered gliders. "Ivo, my story has come to its end.
Next year I will try again and I will need an aircraft
with a range of at least 1,700 miles. Can your Sinus do
that?" His answer accompanies me through the clouds
during my flight back home. I am more than ever convinced
that next time I will leave my home there will be no force
in the world capable of stopping me.
June 6th 2004 Ajdovscina
- Second attempt
My spirits were a little low just before I took off and
started my journey. There were some reasons why I felt
that way. My permit to enter Russian airspace was again
questionable. A couple of years back I had the similar
situation that nailed me down for 40 days in Minsk and
now I was quite worried if the Russian CAA will enable
me to cross Russian airspace on my own. And the new permit
was valid for only 24 hours which meant that regarding
political setbacks, the weather situation and the length
the leg lasted, it was simply not long enough. I had a
verbal permit to fly in Mongolian airspace but a written
copy of it, signed by the Mongolian CAA was still missing.
Above all, due to a tragic accident in which a South African
trike pilot lost his life, the Chinese CAA cancelled my
permit to fly there. The Chinese decisions are notorious
for being final so there was no room for diplomatic persuasions.
Also uncertain, was flying in the USA and Canada. In
all of Europe, we were incapable of finding even one insurance
company that would accept the risks of insuring my plane
for American and Canadian airspace. The biggest Slovenian
insurance company, Triglav, took care of insuring me for
all other countries except for those two. More than ever,
the alternative routes to cross the Pacific and Atlantic
Oceans became interesting again.
Free European skies ended over the east of Hungary. I
lost my first day on the Ukrainian border, but I was however
permitted to enter their airspace after I got a certain
permit, regardless of the fact that a few weeks ago their
CAA informed me that this permit for IFR flights was unnecessary.
The flight from the Ukraine over Russia to Kazakhstan
first ended at 18,000 feet, where I encountered stormy
clouds of a cold front. Here the lowest permitted altitude
was 5,000 feet, and there I was, still in the middle of
the clouds. Russian ATC refused to clear me to descend
below the clouds and to continue my flight under VFR due
to the fact that I had no Stormscope on board. I had to
turn back and return to Donetsk where just seconds after
the aircraft was pushed into the hangar, an extremely
wild hailstorm rolled over the airfield. During the night
the cold front moved into Kazakhstan, where it ran out
of power and released me, all frightened and thoroughly
washed out, into the blue Kazakhstan skies.
Atyrau can be found more than 200 feet under sea level
off the coast of the Caspian Sea. Here the worlds richest
oil basins start and they are the reason that this region
is a politically unstable territory. The flight over Kazakhstan,
organised by their agency Berkut, passed by surprisingly
smoothly, except strong turbulence over the heated desert
landscape.
In Karagana, I received a note from our embassy in Moscow
stating that due to military exercises, the Mongolian
authorities at the beginning refused to let me into their
airspace, but later on, Mr. Buyandalay from the Mongolian
CAA, informed me via telephone that he took care of things.
Before dawn I started the flight toward the Mongolian
mountain range Altai, which surrounds the city Ulgii where
a brand new dusty runway lies. By doing so, I planned
to escape the forecast thunderstorms around Altai Mountains.
The day welcomed me with an exceptionally beautiful morning,
and at first with a smooth flight that later on turned
into a game of Russian roulette, when I found myself trapped
above a thick cloud layer decorated with stormy clouds
all around me. Before the start I couldn't get any weather
information for Mongolia, and above all, not even Jeppesen
had any flight information regarding my destination. I
found myself in a no-win situation trying to land blindly
on the airfield shrouded in thick clouds between the mountains,
which would be nothing short of suicide. Luckily a small
hole in the clouds on the Russian and Mongolian border
saved the day, the plane and the pilot.
I spent 8 days in Ulan Baatar, as I had to wait there
for the satellite phone to come from Slovenia. DHL extended
their promised time of delivery from 2 days to 8 days.
I used lost time for a drastic change of my itinerary.
The only way to proceed with the flight, and at the same
time stay out of China airspace, was a direct flight from
Mongolia to Russia. International airways over this part
of Russia are close to Sinus service ceiling. I was quite
aware that the Sinus is the only microlight aircraft in
the world equipped with only an 80-hp engine capable of
cruising at 18,000 feet, and that made persuading Russian
officials even more difficult.
In Choibalsan east of Mongolia, I filed in my flight
plan to Habarovsk in Russia and it was accepted. The beautiful
flight turned out to be worst possible nightmare. When
I was about to enter Russian airspace I lost radio contact
with Mongolian control. VHF and HF receivers stayed numb
through the flight over Russia. I even tried to use satellite
telephone Iridium to call Russian control, but I failed
to do so. Suddenly I had company, a pair of Russian MiG-29
Fulcrums joined me.
It became clear that something went seriously wrong.
A forced landing in the small city of Chita, which lies
behind Lake Baikal, turned into 11 days of psychological
warfare with thousands of official calls and diplomatic
offensives. In the beginning, the outcome of that situation
was uncertain. The Russians used words like prison, indemnity
and end of my flight around the world. But in the end
we managed to solve the situation with help of some Russian
officials, that unofficially sympathised me but were forced
to close the case, according to Russian laws.
The reasons for the situation were different VHF antenna
orientation, a recently changed telephone number of ATC,
and a complicated system of flight plan validation. In
11 days of practising bureaucracy, I became a media star
of the Russian Far East, and made some dear friends, and
significantly improved my knowledge of the Russian language.
I had first-hand information on how the enormous decision-making
system works. I tried to fly from Habarovsk direct to
Kamchatka, but the military refused to issue any permits
for crossing the Okhotsk Sea to single-engine aircraft.
So the next day found me, with a little help from my Russian
friends, all alone in the aeroplane following the local
IFR routes to Magadan. I felt privileged to do so, because
no other foreigner had ever flown alone over waste Russian
territories, which inspired my imagination with their
remoteness, wildness and political fences.
After long hours behind the controls of my Sinus, I to
physically find fuel armed with plastic fuel canisters.
I found not even one airfield had any automotive gas for
my aircraft, so I had to borrow a car or beg for transport
to the nearest gasoline station, where I filled my borrowed
fuel canisters with the gas, that I filtered as I filled
them up. This was really heavy and time-consuming labour.
The permit for every leg of the journey through Russia
was valid for only 24 hours. In case of any setbacks I
called Moscow, and with out any problems, I always got
the extension of its validation.
Flying in Alaska was a real relief. Regardless of the
bad weather, I felt more secure there. The weather forecasts
were available; plenty of airfields, no one made any fuss
about me flying IFR or VFR, and everywhere there was enough
fuel. But there is a catch. If a foreigner wants to fly
a microlight aircraft in US airspace, he will have to
fight the mills of bureaucracy for a permit to do so.
Validation of different documents, complicated customs
procedures, and insurance of foreign aircraft, are just
a few of the obstacles that he will have to cross.
To circle the Denali Mountain was one of my primary goals.
I decided that I would not leave Alaska without doing
it, but when I was close to it, I faced the cruel reality.
The weather was bad and I was running as late as hell
on my schedule and thus had no time to wait for a better
weather situation. Fortunately, God smiled on me for a
brief moment, and I found the hole in the clouds that
enabled me to circle Denali Mountain and turn my deepest
wish into a wonderful memory.
Except for some fires that reduced visibility and thunderstorms,
my flight from British Columbia to San Francisco passed
by uneventfully.
Due to new US rules, I was unable to leave US airspace
and to return to it again, so the planned trip to Mexico
became only one more unfulfilled wish. I turned towards
Oshkosh instead where the EAA convention had just started.
The pilgrimage started from San Carlos airport in San
Francisco and ended in the unbroken row of aeroplanes
closing in on Oshkosh. Everything seemed so unrealistic
to me. Landing in-between 10,000 aircraft and their pilots,
made me think that for airmen, Oshkosh has to be as sacred
a place as Mecca is for Muslims.
Pipistrel Company presented their products to the American
public for the first time, and raised quite some interest
with them. Even in America, the microlight-powered glider
that was about to circle the world, surprised visitors
that have seen everything.
One of the optional systems installed on my Sinus was
TruTraks DigiTrak autopilot that showed little cooperation
until then. The owner of TruTrak, Mr. Jim Younkin, invited
me to visit him in Springdale, Arkansas, where he promised
to make it work.
In two days I had a new 3-axis autopilot in my plane
for which Jim refused to accept any payment. I have fond
memories of Springdale, where I found men and women who
dedicated their lives to aviation and understand why people
have to circle the world in a light aircraft.
On this occasion, it didn't pay off to rush into the air
before the thunderstorms came in. After two hours in the
air, the engine cowling decided to leave me permanently,
mainly because the owner forgot to screw it back on the
fuselage. At the same time, the engine oil temperature
rose dramatically and forced me to land instantly. Robert
Mudd from Ohio, sent me his own cowling and enabled me
to carry on with the flight.
After two years, I again touched the grass of St. Lazare
airfield at Montreal. The reunion with Alain Dehondt and
Grant Corriveau was full of emotions. Alain, who took
good care of The Blue Lightning, and who finally disassembled
it and sent it to Europe, was again trying to help me.
I have a feeling that some people are destined for each
other.
Whenever things went wrong for me, Alain was the one
who found the solution, even two days later when the screw
in the Sinus variable-pitch propeller head snapped. By
a miracle, the engine and propeller ran for two more hours,
all the way to the mining town Wabush on the Labrador
Peninsula. There I waited for Robert's shipment from Ohio
containing a new propeller, as FedEx promised it would
be there in 8 days. Alain intercepted the shipment in
Montreal, where his Air Canada office shares the same
street with the FedEx office, and sent it on to me. By
doing so, he saved me two whole days of waiting.
Iqaluit or formal Furbisher Bay is filled with low clouds,
rain and wind. IFR-IMC departure ended in VFR conditions
above Greenland, with a peaceful evening landing in Reykjavik.
Later, I paid a visit to my friend and earth rounder Michael
Gordillo in Madrid, and by doing so, I also added the
necessary mileage to my FAI world record breaking attempt
in the aircraft class where MTOW is limited to 500 kg
(little more than 1,100 pounds).
The next day Michael waved goodbye to me five times in
a row, but I never really left as the engine rpm's fell
considerably, right after take-off, so I landed right
back on the hot asphalt runway. The next night Michael
and I, with some guys from Rotax, did a hell of a job
on the carburettors. Only when we removed the carburettor
dust filters, did the engine keep nominal rpm's.
The last flight from Madrid over Pisa to Trieste, passed
by quite comfortably. Regardless of my heading, I always
had a 40-kt tailwind. I took this small gift as redemption
for all the troubles that I went through, and those that
could do me in without the help of my friends on my journey
around the world
To circle the world in a light aircraft is certainly
a lifetime experience and a wish that stays unfulfilled
for so many. That is the reason why I feel privileged.
I think that the only way to do it is by flying low and
not too fast, so you can enjoy the view and learn something
about the world we all live in, as you go along. The knowledge
that we all live on a small limited space, surrounded
by nothing where life cannot thrive, broadens our perception
of life.
Our earth reminds me of the HMS Titanic where thousands
of souls loved, hated, lied, starved or became rich where
first-class passengers felt pity for sweaty and dirty
stokers down in the hull, and where personal tragedies
took place. All of them were sailing to their common destiny
on the seabed of the Atlantic Ocean. As the survivors
sat in the same lifeboat, all the differences vanished
and only real personal virtues persisted.
The Pipistrel Sinus 912 is basically a serial aircraft
with some modifications. This aircraft has modified and
enlarged wing-tanks, strengthened landing gear, removed
right set of commands, and with the use of some special
materials, a somewhat lighter structure. Every ounce was
significant. The survival equipment was reduced to a minimum,
and on board there was almost no personal luggage. One
computer, a digital still camera and one video camera,
were all I took with me. Two pounds of fuel basically
meant 8 minutes of flying or 15 miles of range, which
can sometimes decide between life and death. The aircraft
had a range of at least 1,500 nautical miles which enabled
it to cross the Atlantic or Pacific Oceans by more than
one way, in case something goes wrong with the papers.
On 25th of August 2004, I ended my 80-day long flight
around the world in an excellent microlight powered glider
- the Pipistrel Sinus 912.
I crossed the following countries and territories: Slovenia,
Hungary, Ukraine, Kazakhstan, Mongolia, Russia, Alaska,
USA, Canada, Greenland, Great Britain, France, Spain,
Italy.
I covered a distance of 21,000 nautical miles with an
average speed of 98 knots. By doing so, I burned 506 gallons
of unleaded automotive gas.
This around-the-world flight is also the fastest flight
around-the-world eastward for an aeroplane with MTOW of
1,100 pounds (Class C-1a according to Federation Aeronautique
International).
I carried out this flight alone, without any co-pilot,
and without any air escort or ground support.
