A few thoughts on the adventure of cross-country flying in the Alps

When the morning mist still hangs low in the Achental valley and the first rays of sunshine bathe the peaks of the Wilder Kaiser in a delicate orange glow, a unique choreography begins at Unterwössen airfield. To outsiders, it may just look like a bustle of activity, but for us pilots, it is the prelude to a symphony. It is the beginning of a day when gravity loses its absolute power and is replaced by elegance.

The Dance of the Elements

Gliding, especially here in the Alps, is much more than just a sport. It is a three-dimensional game of chess against nature, in which you never play against the elements, but always with them. Anyone who has ever sat in a modern high-performance glider knows that magical moment: the tow rope disengages, the hum of the motor fades away, and suddenly all you can hear is the sound of the air rushing past. A rich, quiet whistling as it sweeps over the smooth plastic surfaces.

From this moment on, the world below becomes small and unreal. The houses of Unterwössen look like toys, Lake Chiemsee in the north glitters like a lost silver coin. But the long-distance flyer's gaze is not directed downwards, but upwards and ahead. We are looking for the energy that the sun releases in the rock of the mountains. We are looking for the “beard” – that invisible updraft that carries us, circling like a silent waltz, up to the base of the clouds. It is an experience of both humility and grandeur when you climb to 3,000 meters solely through the power of the sun and the snow-covered peaks of the Central Alps are suddenly at eye level.

The Arena of the Alps: From the “race track” to France

Unterwössen is not just any airfield; it is a legendary gateway to the Alps. From here, opportunities open up that make every pilot's heart beat faster. When the thermals are right—on those famous “amazing days”—the Alpine arc transforms into a gigantic highway in the sky.

The classic route often takes us deep into the Pinzgau region. We fly past the Wildkogel, take advantage of the reliable thermals at Gerlos, and glide along the Inn Valley. For many, turning at the Zugspitze or far to the east at Liezen is almost routine. But modern cross-country gliding knows almost no boundaries.

These are the great days when history is made. Days when pilots from Unterwössen cover distances that were once considered impossible. 500 kilometers are often just the beginning. The “thousanders” – flights over 1,000 kilometers without a drop of fuel – are the crowning glory. Some routes lead over the Brenner Pass, deep into the Dolomites, where the rugged cliffs of the Rosengarten and Marmolata offer a backdrop so breathtaking that you forget you are flying for a few seconds.

And then there is the dream of the west: on absolutely perfect days, the energy of the atmosphere carries the white wings far beyond Graubünden, past the Maloja Pass, into Valais and sometimes even as far as the French Alps. Taking off in Upper Bavaria, turning over the lavender fields of Provence or the glaciers near Grenoble, and landing back in your home valley in the evening – this is not a utopia, it is reality in the cockpit.

Pilots: Strategists of the skies

Who are the people who squeeze themselves into these cramped cockpits, spending hours reading the skies with intense concentration, often braving the cold and turbulence? They are a community of individualists who are nevertheless deeply connected. There is the experienced “old eagle” who knows every ridge and every thermal peculiarity between Watzmann and Mont Blanc. There is the young up-and-coming pilot who is chasing new records with state-of-the-art on-board electronics and an intuitive feel for air masses.

In the cockpit, everyone is on their own. Every decision—do I continue flying straight ahead or take advantage of this weak updraft?—has immediate consequences. It requires courage, patience, and deep confidence in your own abilities and the aircraft. You have to read the clouds like a book, feel the wind before the instruments show it, and understand the rhythm of the day.

But on the ground, when the hoods are opened in the evening and the sweaty, happy faces squint into the evening sun, the individual sport becomes a team experience. The “heroic deeds” of the day are discussed, the tricky passages in the Engadin are analyzed, and everyone drinks a beer together. This camaraderie, this blind understanding for one another, is the foundation of our club.

The aesthetics of silence

Perhaps it is difficult to explain to non-flyers why we do this. Why we endure hours in the cold, why we risk landing in unfamiliar fields. The answer lies in the beauty of the moment. It's the feeling when the wing flexes gently and converts lift into speed. It's the light in the late afternoon, when the shadows in the valleys grow long, but you yourself are still gliding along in the glistening sunlight – in what is known as the “final approach.”

When, after hundreds of kilometers, exhausted but deeply satisfied, you reach the familiar basin of Unterwössen again, slow down, and your bike gently touches the grass of the slope, then you know: you were a little closer to heaven than everyone else.

Cross-country gliding is more than just collecting kilometers. It is proof that humans can fly—not with force and noise, but with intelligence, emotion, and the pure power of nature. It is the most elegant way to discover the world. And once you've been infected with the “cross-country flying bug,” it never lets you go. See you at the base!