Mid-February finally brought the long awaited windows of opportunity for XC flying, with almost a whole week of essentially settled conditions over Scotland, with a lovely high pressure area and light to zero winds. I’d hoped to fly a few XC’s during this period, though a few problems of a mechanical nature with my flying pals Jim Addison and Chris Fairhurst had prevented us from getting airborne as the 1st highland Paramotor squadron!

Nonetheless, I’d been keen to take full advantage of the almost ideal conditions, which have been all too rare this winter in NE Scotland at any rate. I had been thinking about repeating my last year winter XC to Ballater and Braemar (article No 26), but human nature and a spirit of adventure had my mind trained to a new, fresh goal; this time I’d be setting my sights on Speyside, not Royal Deeside.

Time to look out the kit I’d need to carry/use on the trip: Helmet with strobe atop (article No. 38), sunglasses and yellow tinted low light glasses (just in case it clouded over), windproof neckover/balaclava, and the usual thermal underwear, outer protective clothing, now provided courtesy of Ozee leisure ltd., in the form of one of their brilliant Millennium flying suits (ordered at Telford, which is light in weight and a great fit and very well designed and made), Gin winter gloves (cosy, but quite slippery fingers with them on – must rub some resin onto the material!) and in those pockets a small fuel-tank viewing mirror attached to a ski-pass ‘zinger’, digicam, mobile phone and pen & paper . My Camelback drinking system and Silva wind watch sit on my front inside my flying suit, providing further ‘protection’ against the cold, though my new Ozee suit is totally windproof, and the camelback is therefore only a psychological comfort as far as windproofing is concerned, though certainly indispensable for keeping hydrated throughout the journey, and particularly so whilst preparing for take- off.

Aboard my unit I carry (all potentially “messy” items are separately bagged): an adjustable spanner (in case I have to dismantle the unit or make adjustments to any nuts), two Allen keys, a multi tool for small jobs, spare cash for fuel, spare fuel tank cap (again, “Just in case”!) four x 100ml bottles of synthetic oil, various disposable gloves, paper hankies/towels and wet wipes for any messy operations (like cleaning the prop post flight), and spare earplugs in case of loss of the ones I’ve been wearing.

Below my Vortex seat there is a zipped compartment suitable for maps of the areas to be flown (well done Mike C-J for the thoughtful design!) I also stow my helmet- and wing- bags in the side pockets (very handy those pockets in the Vortex, I occasionally carry a couple of jars of honey to give to folk if/when I land out!). Yes, it all does sound like a lot, but does not add significantly to the all up weight. Oh, I nearly forgot – my lunch pack is somewhere in there too,suitably isolated from the oils, etc.!

On my lap I have my trusty Tetra-can/flightdeck, with alti-vario, and attached to the chest strap a mini compass for reference. I am better on knowing my way by familiarity with the hills as opposed to relying on a GPS, though I’m sure I’d like to learn how to use Kevin Taylor’s new “Quest” PDA multi functional unit which was much talked about and admired at Telford.

A careful perusal of the North Scotland airchart and a few calculations gave a theoretically reachable goal of Aviemore – over 65 miles away by road, but closer to 39 miles as a SLD target, though by no means a “Piece of cake”. Still, adventures and pastures new beckoned, and with a favorably light SW wind of around 4-5kmh (I know, I measure distance in imperial and wind strength in metric, but hey – why not?), and following an easy forward launch, I pointed my Powerplay Sting wing toward the high hills of the Grampians and settled into cruising trim. In short time my trusty CorsAir motor had lifted me to a height of over 1000M ASL as I made steady progress over the upper reaches of the River Deveron.

The upper Deveron valley, with Ben Rinnes, 2759 ft, on Speyside in the distance.

Though the previous week had been kind temperature-wise, there was still a fair amount of snow still lying in the sheltered gullies and in the North- and East-facing ridges, and these snowy traces helped outline may of the hills below my trail. In the distance I could make out the snow-clad peaks of the higher hills of the Grampian range.

It has once again been a difficult season for the skiing resorts in Scotland, due to lack of real depth of snowfall, and two of the bigger resorts have recently been put up for sale; global warming, or just a sustained milder period (of which we have had many in the last millennia) - who can say? Nonetheless, the high tops were resplendent in their winter colours on this fantastic clear-blue late winter’s day.

The upper Blackwater river and the Grampian mountains in the distance

As part of my preparation for the flight, I had telephoned an acquaintance in the Tomintoul area (roughly midway along my journey track) enquiring where the nearest petrol station was to him, thinking there was still some available at the nearby hamlet of Tomnavoulin, already recognizing that no fuel was in fact available in Scotland’s highest village itself. Indeed, Tomnavoulin had followed in the same way some two years ago, and the nearest options for fuel for the inhabitants of Glenlivet and Tomintoul was to be had either in Ballindalloch or Grantown on Spey, both some 15 miles distant. Indeed, this paucity of service stations is becoming a major problem in much of rural Scotland now, as so much is being taken in taxes on fuel by the Treasury that there is scarcely a living to be had by the forecourt operators, and many of the garages are seen throughout the more remote areas with for sale placards on display, or in some cases are simply closed down. There is simply not enough volume of sales to make a living at often as little as 2p per litre sold for the operators. Thus the adventurous Paramotorist must take precautions in this respect, if for no better reason than to save time and disappointment, not to mention an inconvenient and lengthy delay in getting airborne again!

In any event I had taken the precaution of filling my Vortex’s fuel-tank to the brim (9.75 litres), and had also a further 2.5 - 3 litres carried along in my tetra-can-cum flightdeck (see article 27), which I felt certain was more than enough to see me to Aviemore, especially given the very light headwind.

Presently, I crossed the first major watershed into Glenlivet, itself a side valley of the Spey River valley. Ahead I could see the smoke trails of the heather fires being tended by grouse-moor keepers, showing the general drift of the wind, and generally confirming my initial sense of the direction of the air drift.



The braes of Glenlivet, with heather burning being practiced in the distance, near Brig o’ Brown, on the A939 Grantown-Tomintoul road

It is generally a good sign for the Scottish paramotorist to see evidence of muirburn being undertaken, as this form of habitat management can only be safely practiced in very light wind conditions, which are of course those most suited for our sport.

Flying onward toward my goal I crossed into the Spey valley proper, and could see Grantown on Spey to the West, beyond the hills of Cromdale, and on my direct path the expanse of forest that is Abernethy and Boat of Garten, home of some of the first Ospreys to re-colonise Scotland back in the late sixties.

Forest of Abernethy and Loch Garten, with Boat of Garten village beyond.

With over 1 hour’s flying already behind me, it was at this stage of my journey that I felt it wise to reassess my fuel levels, and make a decision about where to stop to re-fuel. In the past I had stopped at the village of Boat of Garten to fill my car, and feeling it to be the better choice in terms of proximity of landing field to the fuel station, I banked right and started to stow my speedbar, and reset the Sting’s trim-tabs in preparation for landing.

The village is set back a respectable distance from the River Spey, and has fairly flat, if somewhat tussocky, heathery rough pasture fields just to the West. As the wind was suitable for an approach and landing at this side, I opted to make my landing there, and after a quick reconnaissance circuit, I put down on a lovely though small golf practice area (OS NH 942 192), within 70 yards of the petrol station. Back on terra firma again, I wasted little time on securing my kit and separating wing from power unit, and attended to that prompt call of nature that suddenly becomes necessary after 90+ minutes aloft!

Suitably relieved, I picked up my tetra can, emptied the mixed fuel within into my fuel tank, and wandered over the field toward the petrol station, feeling pleased that I was going to be able to refuel so easily and in such a relaxed (sleepy) village atmosphere, which I much prefer to than a busy environment.

Alas, “Time waits for no Man” seemed to be the axiom of the day, for when I turned the corner, I saw that where previously there had been the petrol pumps, there was only the shop remaining – Boat of Garten had become “dry” in the intervening period between my last pit-stop with car (2001) and the present day!

No matter, I had landed with around 3 litres in my fuel tank, and the remaining surplus from my tetra can took me to well over 5 litres, and Aviemore was barely 5 miles away to the South-West, and still my prima facie destination, though I knew that the landing option/proximity to the fuel station there was rather less convenient than had (or should have) been the case at Boat of Garten. I’d also given some consideration to the alternative stop at Carr-bridge, which lies only around 3 miles to the North West of Boat of Garten, and definitely still has a petrol station, not to mention a seriously handy golf-course fairway within 100yds of same, though there are a few trees around the area, like at Boat of Garten.

I managed to get up and away once again at the second attempt, my first go being thwarted by the light and varying wind direction, which may have been affected by the surrounding woods. In no time I was looking down on the old railway running between Aviemore and Boat of Garten, which still has a steam locomotive- drawn pleasure service for the benefit of the many tourists to the area.

Between the River and the Aviemore railway station there lay my landing possibility, three medium-sized fields, and I chose the middle one (the biggest of the three) to make my landing spot. I had already made one pass over the area, to check out the possible landing sites, and also to re-familiarise myself with the whereabouts of the petrol stations (there are 2 in Aviemore!) on the main street.

The landing fields at Aviemore; approach path is clear from right of picture heading ‘across’ R to L the fields as they lay in this picture. NH 898 128

A smooth landing was enjoyed (into nearly no wind at all), and a good wide expanse to take off from again was the order of the day. I’d made it!

I quickly had my unit down and isolated, and my wing gathered up and stowed nearby. Time for a wander down the street for my fuel now! On my first trip, I got to make a wee bit chat with the petrol pump ladies (“Oh it was you that flew over a few minutes ago!” they said), and in turn I duly commended them on the quality of their fuel: “Us lads fae the East have heard how guid it is, and we’re prepared to flee ower here to get some!” seemed to go down well!

Well, upon my return to my machine there was a local fellow taking pictures of my unit, and wanting to know the usual things, and I must admit to being quietly glad that he’d been keeping watch over my kit for me. I wished him and his dog well as he wandered on, an headed back for the second fill of my tetra can, which would fill up the unit and leave me with a couple of litres spare again, “Just in case”. This time, though, I’d dispense with the flying suit, as it was one of those warm winter days, and I was wilting in the heat. It felt good to be out of the flying gear for a wee while, and I could relax for a while to boot.

After refueling and checking over my unit for any obvious signs of wear and tear or items coming loose (and finding all seemingly well), I settled down in the sunshine to a late al fresco lunch!

Time had moved on though, and it was after 2pm as I laid out my wing toward the now slightly changed local air direction, which pointed me toward the High hills where the skiing and the funicular railway are located – interesting places to see from above on my return journey, I mused. Ah, but I was ‘Jumping the gun’ a little, as following a smooth take-off and climb-out East toward the pistes, I heard an unusual throbbing whirr/buzz behind me, followed by a slight loss of climb rate! I quite quickly realised that my drive belt (now having given sterling service for the past 51+ hours) must have begun to slip, and I had a bit of thinking to do! Well, I had the tools aboard with which to retighten it if I had to put down anywhere, and the most easily accessible spot to land at on the return was going to be Tomintoul, (‘dry’, but nonetheless a good choice should any assistance be required, or from where I could be picked up should I have to abort the return attempt.

I now took a great interest in the speed of my descent (I had been up again at over 1100m ASL when the problem occurred), and found that as long as I “crept” away at modest throttle, I was losing between 20 to 30 metres per minute, not allowing for the occasional patch of lift that I encountered. I was glad to note that I was not going to be forced down before my passing Tomintoul again, but may encounter difficulties in traversing the high tops at the far end of Glenfiddich and Blackwater estates. I decided to continue as long as I could, and knew there were landing out fields this side of the hills should I have lost too much height to clear them. My concentration grew as I saw the distant horizon coming pretty much to eye level, and started to gradually increase the throttle setting ever so slightly, in a bid to gain height wherever possible, and lose it more slowly. More by good luck than good management, I managed to pass over the Blackwater hills again with well over 150 metres to spare, though it was by no means certain that I’d be able to make it all the way back home, my last home hills lying at around 520m above sea level and a sea of sitka spruce plantation to traverse before the security of the fields back in my glen.

(pic above) The far end of Glenfiddich, with the horizon looming large and a possible landing site at the remote abandoned croft of Suidhe beag NJ 277 248

I was still concentrating on the altimeter reading around 670m when out of the corner of my eye I saw about half a mile ahead an RAF Tornado heading for home toward the Northern coastal base at Kinloss. He graced me with a couple of shakes of his wings in acknowledgement of my presence, and I reciprocated with a kindly wave, feeling it a little unwise to pull in the controls one after the other to make a little roll, preferring to keep what little height advantage I had! I quickly scanned the horizons in the direction from where the jet had come, half expecting to see another heading in a similar direction, but it seemed that “Top Gun” was alone this afternoon!

I now could see the local telemetry mast on top of Muckle Black Hill, 522m + 50m mast height, itself part of a proposed site for a massive 47 turbine wind park (a totally crazy idea, but that’s another story!), and realized I was going to make it back to base in the broad glen below.

The Muckle Black Hill telemetry mast, within 2 miles of home (NJ 440 348).

With less height than I would normally have upon preparing for landing, I only half-stowed my speed bar (one trigger hook holds it in place anyway, so I wasn’t worried about this at all), and had a good look over my windsock and streamers to get the wind direction right. In the event the sock was still hardly moving, and I made the final 180 degree turn to touch down some 70 yards from my quad bike – home sweet home!

I had to admit to myself that I had been perhaps a little thoughtless in determining to press on, not having considered the possibility that in doing so I may come into contact (albeit from a safe distance) with another air user. Upon reflection I would seek to put down on a suitable site if faced with a similar situation again, and adjust the drive belt accordingly, or abandon the trip if no remedy was possible. As it was, upon inspecting my drive belt, many of the driving serrations were by now missing from their rightful place, and it may have been the case that re-tightening the belt may not have helped the traction much. In the morning, I had momentarily considered a triangle from Home to Aviemore and over the Cairngorms to Braemar, and back to base again but thought there was insufficient time margin for the whole, and settled for the out & return to Aviemore; it seems just as well that it went the way it did now, all things considered, as you’re a long, long way from home in the middle of the Lairig Ghru!

I’ve also determined to carry a spare drive-belt, cylinder head gasket, spark plug and a fuel filter as well as the spare fuel cap with me from now on any XC trip, “Just in case”. These 5 items are all light, yet pretty fundamental spares that are likely to be of use to have in the event of a malfunction. Anything more radical, and I’ll happily call for backup!

Happy landings,

Steve Wright