It makes the experience so many times more beautiful to have it together than when you're alone. When you actually end up going by yourself because the other person maybe doesn't have time that day, and you're out for an hour, you think, yeah, somehow someone is missing. Because it's just, with two people, yeah, what's the nice way to put it? Shared joy is double joy.
Podz-Glidz, the Lu-Glidz podcast.
Stories from the cosmos of paragliding. Today
with Markus Kaup and Lucian Haas on the mic.
Paragliding in the flatlands means no mountains to take off from and no slopes to find your thermals on. You launch from the winch, and then it's already an art to find the thermal entry so that you can eventually stay in the air there for hours.
Markus Kaup from Münster has 25 years of experience in terms of flatland flying. He has actually completed most of his flights from the winch. And although he already has several flights over 100 kilometers on his XC account, his biggest goal when flying is something else. Staying up, gathering airtime. Over the years, he has gained a lot of experience and developed recipes for how to achieve long flights in the flatlands as well. In this episode of Podz-Glidz, he explains some of the ingredients. This includes, among other things, the advantages of the step tow, the importance of cloud shadows for thermal release, techniques for safely gliding along under low airspace ceilings, and much more.
The wealth of knowledge Markus is sharing here should provide some "aha" moments not just for Alpine pilots, but for many seasoned lowland flyers as well. But before that, I have to say something. A huge thank you to all the listeners and readers who already support Podz-Glidz and the associated blog Looglides. You help me tremendously in continuing to support these projects. I hope that with the knowledge and information I've brought you today, I can continue to develop you further while keeping it ad-free—and therefore independent. If you're not yet among the supporters but urgently want to change that after listening to this podcast episode, you can find all the necessary information, such as a PayPal link or bank transfer details, on the Looglides website, specifically on the "Support" page. How much you might want to give is, of course, entirely up to you. For those who are unsure, I recommend one euro per podcast episode and two euros per reading mode as a non-binding guideline.
We'll see each other next month on Looglides.
Markus, you got your winch towing certificate 25 years ago and have been flying a lot in the lowlands around Münster since then. Has lowland flying changed over the years?
Yes, it has changed. I believe that in the lowlands, in order to fly successfully there—and especially to be able to fly for a long time—you have to analyze and recognize the conditions in the air very sensitively, above all. And I think this learning curve is significantly longer compared to flying in the mountains. Because of that, lowland flying has really changed significantly for me over time.
Simply because the experience just keeps growing. And that experience is necessary in order to make progress.
Exactly, so experience leads to success, and you start to be able to focus more and more on details for which you had no antennae or any perception at all at the beginning. Yes, whether that's, for example, perceiving thermals or wind movements in grain or corn fields, perceiving swallows at a greater distance, perceiving cloud shadows in combination with possible break edges. And that took a very, very long time until I was able to connect that with searching for a possible next lift.
Did you approach this in any way that was very systematic for yourself? Or do you say it's an experience that basically creeps up on you over the years, and at some point it's more like, you just have a gut feeling and then you just fly?
afterwards? Both. I mean, of course, a lot of it is through trial and error, through success and failure. And then, I actually started relatively early to always record my flights, you know, by letting a camera run, and I'd watch those flights over and over again, especially when they weren't flyable or during the winter months. And, for example, I only really became consciously aware of the cloud shadow issue at a certain point. So, from that perspective, it was already a bit analytical. Then, of course, whenever there was any information across the lowlands, if any experienced pilots—Sepp Geschwendtner, for example, has also shared some from time to time—or if you could get information, I'd take it.
And I ended up soaking all that up and then really trying to put it into practice for myself.
You've mentioned the word cloud shadows several times now. What is so crucial about cloud shadows for you, or what do you look for in them? What do these do?
Cloud shadows? Yes, well, cloud shadows ultimately mean an extreme temperature change on the ground. And at this temperature change, the thermals often break off at ground level. And unlike in the mountains, where you just look for the next slope that's in the sun—earlier in the day in the east, later in the day in the west—that doesn't happen in the flatlands, of course. And because of that, I have to look at the ground to see where thermals might detach so that I can find them. And especially now on days when we have cumulus clouds, I always have to know as a parameter where the wind is coming from, even at ground level. It might not, or often isn't, the same wind direction as at altitude, especially when you're high up.
But the wind also shifts a bit with altitude, you have to take that into account. And besides the clouds and all the other things you have to watch out for, you have to look at how the clouds are moving on the ground. So, if I see, for example, a cloud shadow moving over a large forested area, and behind that there's a river or a railway line, and after that there's a body of water, then I know exactly that at this boundary, there's a high probability that the thermals will break off. And they break off especially when the cloud shadow moves across that boundary. And if I try to calculate the time delay and the wind shift a bit, and maybe have some luck with that, then I know exactly at which boundary the thermals will break off. And if I can already spot the corresponding cloud in advance, then that's actually the guarantee for the next lift upwards.
You're mentioning time delay. How long does it take for the thermals from the spot where you say the cloud shadow is reaching the ground—and you're at, say, 1,000 meters or whatever height you're at—how long do you calculate that time delay to be? How long will it take for that triggered thermal to reach you up there?
Ultimately, you can't really do that, or at least I can't give a general answer for it. I can't just look at my watch and know exactly, "It's 30 seconds." It depends on my altitude, of course, and then on the strength of the thermals. It's actually more like I start thinking about where this thermal is heading—if one is coming from there, where is it going? And that's where I plan my flight path. Then, if I can—meaning if I don't have any airspace restrictions—I fly basically in a wind offset along the imaginary line where I'll eventually reach that departure, that departure area. Which means
So, do you actually target cloud shadows or follow them or something like that?
Yeah, chasing them is difficult because you often have to fly through long stretches—especially if they're large cloud shadows—that are in the shade. And it's often in the lowlands, at least for us; we have base altitudes of 1,000 to 1,200 meters. That's the average day; on particularly good days, it can go up to 16 or 18. It's actually really extremely rare to go over 2,000 meters above ground level.
But 1,000 meters already means you have 1,000 meters of working altitude above ground, because the ground there might be 50 or 60 meters high, right?
Yes, that's right, but 1,000, 1,000 meters are already relatively quickly slid off. Mhm. So there, you can't search for much. It's different if you fly, what do I know, in East Germany, yeah, in that hotspot. Hotspot, old warehouse, there it's often like—I'm there at least once a year. And there we often have base heights of 1,600 or 1,800, 2,000 meters above ground. When you fly there, you know, okay, if nothing comes, yeah, you get restless when you're suddenly back at 1,000 meters. And then you look and think, yeah, in our Münsterland, you only start at 1,000. Mhm. No, and that's already a significant difference again. So the thermals in Münsterland, just like with the...
For the Dutch, where we also fly every now and then, it's generally weaker. And simply the base heights are significantly lower. Because of that, you have to be very careful with the altitude.
That means, as you just said, you can't really fly through long shadow phases. But from the side or something, you would then fly into those cloud shadow boundaries accordingly, because you say that's often the trigger point.
Yeah, exactly. And on the other hand, I also eventually learned through this retrospective analysis of the flights via video why I was sometimes stuck on the ground, because I had flown through these long cloud shadows. Something I didn't consciously perceive at all a few years ago. I'd get annoyed, like, why can't you find the next thermal? And in hindsight, I realized, yeah, you're there, I don't know, for 10 minutes through a huge shadow. Or maybe the sun was already out again at that moment, but I was basically flying behind the shadow. And a short time later, even if that area is back in the sun, it often takes 10 minutes, fifteen minutes, until the next thermal could be triggered there again.
What do you do when these cloud shadow areas are basically on your own course? Do you fly a detour or how do you navigate around those dead zones?
We usually try to fly as large an area as possible with the wind. And when I see, okay, there's a cloud shadow, nothing to be expected there, then the way is actually at about a 45-degree angle to the right or left. And then I'd look at the ground again or at the clouds to see where the next thermals are most likely to be. Although you could say that if you're at 1,000 meters altitude, I'd look at the ground until about 600 or 700 meters. Yes, and the last 300 meters I'd look at the clouds. That's what I decide based on where I fly.
Looking at the ground also means looking for those cloud shadows for you. Looking from cloud to cloud means for you, I mean, you're hucking upwards, so how do you orient yourself relative to the clouds? But looking at the ground also means looking at the clouds, but specifically at the shadows they cast. And other structures that, of course, somehow predominate in the landscape.
Yes, exactly. Cloud shadow is just one important structure on the ground. The other structure is the vegetation. Yes. Or I have villages there, I have forests—later in the afternoon, forests very often come into play because moisture follows right after. Yes, and when you notice the thermals getting weaker, I'll fly very deliberately over as large a forest area as possible again, and I can often get another lift upwards there.
If you were to break it down like that, is this cloud shadow perhaps even the most important area for takeoff? Because you always say you have a clearly recognizable, defined takeoff edge there, and while the ground might be more or less strongly heated and thus provide weaker thermals accordingly, the takeoff should still happen because of the shadow one way or another. So, in the end, is that one of the most important factors in the lowlands, at least when there are clouds?
Yes, I'd say so, because I have to fly over the fields anyway, and then I always orient myself additionally by the cloud shadows. And then I plan the route, as I said, either straight ahead or 45 degrees to the left or right, just to keep every possible option of finding some lift up there.
That assumes you're already up there and can look around to see where the cloud shadows and thermals are. One of the biggest difficulties for many people when flying over flat terrain is just getting up there in the first place, or finding the connection to the first thermal and then moving forward. So, flying over flat terrain means if you want to get up there, I first need the winch, the start, and stuff like that.
How do you do that when taking off? Is there a specific tactic you use to ensure that if you take off like that, you'll definitely get into a thermal somehow?
If I could always choose when I was allowed to start or when I could start, then of course, it would be correspondingly easy. But that option doesn't exist. So winch flying is teamwork, it's club flying, yes, and we are lucky that we have a winch operator who doesn't fly himself anymore, so the winch operator problem is currently really subordinate. But it's just the case that there are 10, 15 pilots standing there and you agree on a starting order, and when it's your turn, it's your turn. So, well. Actually, at most, tailwind or strong crosswind is the reason why I can't start.
Otherwise, I can't say, oh, it doesn't suit me right now, I'll wait another 10 minutes. Yeah, so at most I can say, I'm not starting at all, and you let the other pilots go ahead, and then go back to the rope later. From that perspective, the possibility of choosing a starting time is certainly difficult. Yeah, of course I can plan for the day, and that's where the planning starts. Yeah, I can usually, or always, plan the preparation for such a flight the evening before, where you look at what the German Meteorological Service says, when thermals are expected to start. Yeah, and then, then I know, if they say late release, then I don't have to expect at 10 o'clock that I'll already be staying up there. Then I can make a start, but I'd be very careful about going on a cross-country flight if it's already thermal, because the worst thing is to be standing on the ground for 10 kilometers on a well-forecasted day.
Or standing on the ground for half an hour. And then, depending on where you've landed, you need one or two hours to get back. And by then, the day is, at least for a large part, already thermically spent. You
you said earlier, yeah, that's how it is for us. Where is it for you, what's your club called? And describe the flying area you mainly use there a bit.
...are. I fly in Coesfeld-Gauppel, yeah, so that's Coesfeld, if not the second-largest city in the Münsterland or one of the larger district towns in the Münsterland. Located west of Münster, yeah, in a towing area that, if you were to fly over it, you wouldn't recognize as a towing area at all. Um, many small areas, agricultural land, and in between there's a green path that ultimately serves as the tow line. Yeah, and basically the problem in the Münsterland is simply these very fragmented agricultural areas. Which means there are very small partitioned plots. Yeah. So here, where the areas are only there and a long tow line can be found, it's simply extremely difficult.
Mhm. Yes, and we have about 800 meters there. And thus, the release altitudes in normal towing are not very effective. Yes, so we would have between 180 and 220 meters if we were doing normal towing. From that, I think we might get into a bit more detail later, but we have this staged towing, which the Dutch have actually perfected with paragliders. Uh, yes. We have established it here, and because of that, we can achieve larger release altitudes and thus also the chance to optimize the entry into the thermals.
I mean, we don't even have to put that off until later. You just mentioned the staged tow, but before we talk about that, I think there might be some listeners who aren't very experienced with being towed in the Alps. Maybe you could just explain what the difference is between a classic tow and a staged tow? Okay.
So, with the classic tow, the tow winch is located at one end of the flying area, and then cables are laid out between the tow winch and the launch site. Often, these are winches that can provide two cables in parallel. Then, the pilot clips in on the other side. After going over the launch leader and making radio contact with the tow winch, you start, and you are then towed over the winch up to 60 or 70 degrees. Depending on the wind conditions, a tow from 800 meters results in release altitudes of about 180 to 220 meters.
Thermal entry—actually, that's something that's been confirmed for me over the years as well. You can usually reach a good, safe thermal entry between 300 and 400 meters above ground. Because then the thermals are a bit channeled, several smaller thermal bubbles often break off, and those are also relatively usable for a paraglider. Therefore, if you want to enter from these low altitudes, you really have to be at those 180, 200 meters at exactly the right time to then get over this critical area between 200 and 300 meters with a first strong bubble. And with staged towing, it's just like I explained at the beginning, that you're pulled over the winch.
And then, the wind is in a direction where it slackens the tow, but you don't unclip; instead, you fly back over the launch area with the tow and reach about 100, 150 meters again, getting what is essentially a second pull—we call this a second stage—where we start again at 100 meters. And we reach 250, 270 meters, and you can repeat that again in a third stage, and in Germany, as is our terrain in Großfeld-Gaupe, they are allowed up to 450 meters above ground, which we almost never fully utilize. During this phase, you naturally fly over the terrain multiple times.
and if you then realize while being towed that there's a thermal lift there that's strong enough—which often happens, as I said, between 300 and 400 meters—then you're sounding good. And you've already found your entry point.
Is it also the case that when you're hanging on a rope during a step-tow, you always have to fly straight back over that path, or can you already tell while on the rope that the thermals often trigger about 100 meters to the left, at the row of trees or whatever, so that you can still fly your lighter loops and say, I'm already scouting the better thermal spots and keeping an eye on that too. If there's nothing there, then I'll just get towed up another step.
Yes, basically that is possible. It's just that regarding the site's authorization, the operational areas of the site may not be flown over with the rope. So, not beyond that. That means it depends on the site's authorization whether I can move sideways and at what angle. Basically, in our case, the operational area is relatively large in one direction, up to a railway embankment. Yes, and this railway embankment is often a trigger for a thermal as well. And then it's like in the second stage, if you haven't found anything in between, where you say, well, okay, you're also flying back—to maybe explain that, when flying back with the rope, you already notice, okay, here's the thermal.
Yes, but I'm still at 250 meters, that might be a bit tight. Then you fly through the thermals back, turn around, and when you turn and are pulled back toward the winch, it's already the point where, in the second stage, if you haven't found anything in between and notice that this thermal is now significantly stronger, that's the point where you say, okay, now I'm going out. Yes, and you can ultimately vary it a bit on the rope to fly into different areas as well.
Would it be possible to say, for example, I'm not finding anything, I keep sinking lower, so you could say I can do five, six, seven stages, where I'm basically always sinking back down from 250 to 150 meters and then pushing myself back against the wall. And then maybe have myself towed back up again with reduced tension, so you could say I stay in the air and on the rope as long as it takes until I finally find that one thermal that takes me up.
Yeah, so on thermally active days—at least for us, it's ultimately the case that you definitely have an entry point after two or three steps. And in recent years, when there are thermally active days, the experienced pilots here need a maximum of one or two tows and then we're off. So then we're gone. Of course, you also have to consider—and those were the big reservations initially within the club, and it's still a recurring topic when people talk about us doing step tows—that it naturally means an increased time investment. And of course, I could have myself towed for seven steps, even with reduced tow power and staying at roughly 450 meters, just to get that lift upwards.
We do that sometimes when we're flying in the wind. Or in the winter, when you're just a bit hungry for flight and you say, come on, let's just do a few stages and stay at that 450-meter altitude. Six stages, seven stages. But usually, it's the case that only a handful of pilots are there, where you just say, okay, let's spend a bit of time on that. But on normal, thermally active days, that's not actually the approach we favor or what we do.
Do all the pilots in your club do step towing now?
At first, of course, there were some reservations, as I've already explained, because it was simply assumed that it would mean an increased time commitment. But it turned out that those who did the staged winch actually found their entry into thermals quite effectively and then eventually took off, and the pilot field on the ground cleared relatively quickly. And there were really days that didn't exist before, where no pilots were left. That we dismantled the winch at noon and then waited for the pilots to return from their cross-country flights sometime in the afternoon. And by now, it's actually the case that really only very few pilots have or haven't yet obtained their staged winch license, because it is already recommended to have a bit of flying experience to be able to master those procedures, which are a bit more demanding than a normal winch.
Would you say you'd recommend step towing to every club, sort of as a guarantee for successful cross-country flights, or at least as a successful start or a guarantee for getting into cross-country flying in flat terrain?
I would recommend it to clubs that have those kinds of conditions based on their terrain. So, an old airfield or a Cottbus, or a site with thousands—1,200, 1,300 meters of winch track—they don't need it. They reach 300 to 400 meters with a normal winch, and the time investment would certainly be way too high. But if you have a site where you have to make do with 200, 250 meters when releasing, and if the technical and terrain conditions allow for it, I would always favor flying Ternec if there's interest. And that's actually the case for most pilots; I would always favor that.
And the chance of getting a thermal entry is certainly significantly higher.
I'm assuming that if you're being towed, you always do a step-tow, because of course you want a safe entry into the thermals.
No, once we established the step tow, I also very, very often wanted to take the maximum height with me. I said, okay, 450 meters is always better than 350 and of course better than 250, but I often also had the experience—because in the flatlands thermals often pose—that if I let out an early thermal at 250 meters, I didn't find it again later at the final height of 450 meters. Because it's not like in the mountains, where I fly to the lee side and then get back in, but if I don't see it, it might be gone afterwards. That means if I start and I have, I have a strong thermal and I'm at least 200, 250 meters high and I really have it on the rope, so I'm being towed by a thermal and I've really climbed strongly for three, four seconds, then I also exit at that height today.
Especially when the base wind is higher, because otherwise I might not have the chance to find the thermals again later.
How do you actually do that with your winch operator? With such strong climbs in the thermals, if you say three or four seconds, you actually have to get out relatively quickly so that you can basically turn around and enter the turn immediately. In my experience, often when people work with leg signals or whatever, by the time the winch operator realizes that they really want out or something, they've already been towed for another four seconds. And then they have almost no chance left of finding those thermals properly. Do you radio him and say, I need to get out right now? Or how do you do that? We have...
it's intended that everyone should fly using radio as much as possible. So, at the very least, there's a radio connection between the pilot and the winch operator that most people use. And especially with the stepped tow—meaning those turning maneuvers—it's not mandatory to use the radio, but it makes things incredibly easier. On top of that, I believe for about three or four years now, we've had an electric winch at our site, which is very insensitive to quick unhooking or even to the winch itself unhooking under light load. Of course, the goal is to slacken the rope tension, which usually works well too.
Once you're up there and have found your entry point, it also means for you that flying is actually cross-country flying, if
What does it mean? No, flying for me actually means airtime. So the first goal is to stay up there. Stay up, get high, move the day along, and understand the thermals of the day, because every day is different. And that is the main goal. It's not uncommon for me to turn the radio way down right after launching, because then it really requires maximum concentration to be able to stay up. And then the first goal is to get high, and as much as possible see where the optimal base is. Then you get a sense of what the wind shift is at altitude, and in which direction you're being pushed.
And that's when the actual consideration begins: okay, once you've reached the base, where do you fly next? Is there maybe—we have the Münster-Osnabrück airport in that area. And if we have southwesterly winds, then after fifteen minutes you're actually at the limits where you initially have an altitude restriction. And then it starts... That's when the tactical consideration kicks in: how can I fly around this area?
That means if you say airtime, that's what mainly matters to you, then you don't care much about kilometers and XC points.
Yeah, exactly. I mean, of course it's nice to see a few kilometers in the DRV XC rankings eventually, and to occasionally hit over 100 kilometers there. But I'm actually more happy when I manage flights that mean five or six hours of airtime. And the second aspect that has shaped my cross-country flying so much over the years is flying as a pair—flying with multiple pilots. Over the years, my flight buddy Gerd and I have actually developed a real strategy for how we can fly together for as long and as far as possible.
Yeah. So there has to be some kind of decent plan. What do you pay attention to, or what kind of rules have you set for yourselves for flying together?
So the first plan is certainly to get up there together first. Which is definitely the most demanding part at the beginning. Especially
in winch flying, only one is towed at a time, and the next one can only start, say, ten minutes later, once you've already made it through your first three stages.
Exactly. If we have a 15 or 20-knot wind at altitude, you can actually calculate that you'll have lost sight of each other relatively quickly. So we have a cross-country flight frequency, which means we can still communicate relatively quickly. Then we switch the radio frequency from the field so as not to disturb the towing traffic too much. And then the one who gets up first tries to give the second pilot some hints, maybe on where they found the entry point. Maybe to recognize them, sometimes there are buzzards there, sometimes there are swallows, sometimes there are other clues to help the second one. And the one who is highest tries to wait for the others. So they basically pause at a cloud, under a cloud, and then keep flying out on the windward side, so as not to end up on a cross-country flight with the wind already, but to wait until the second pilot is there.
How well?
does that work? How often? Do you still lose sight of each other? When the two of us go up, we actually never lose sight of each other. Depending on the altitude, it's already to the point where we might be a kilometer apart at times, because each of us is looking for new thermals individually. And as soon as one of us finds thermals, it's relayed over the radio, and the second one joins in. And then, of course, it's also decisive that the one who is higher waits until the other has climbed again. And the lower you are—for example, if you're looking at 600 meters—you're close together. If you're at 1.5 or 1.8, you can be further apart. But you actually always know exactly where the other pilot is at any given moment.
So, during every circle, you check again: where is the other person? Are they climbing? Are they not climbing? Where are they? And you don't have to imagine that it's wild radio chatter the whole time. That would eventually get on my nerves too. Instead, it can sometimes be that you really don't radio each other for fifteen or twenty minutes, you just keep seeing each other and circling together. And it makes the experience so much more beautiful to have it together than when you're alone. And if you really do end up flying alone because the other person maybe doesn't have time that day, then a flight like that, when you've been out for an hour, you think, yeah. Then
it's such a flight, when you're traveling for an hour, you think, yeah.
It's like someone is still missing, you know? Because it's just... well, what's the nice way to put it? Shared joy is double joy. It's...
Nowadays there are these so-called Farnet variometers, which also have buddy functions where your variometer shows you where your buddy is, at what distance, what their current climb rate is, and other things like that. Do you use anything like that as technology?
For me, that's actually too much technology. So I don't use it. I tried it out once. I had a transmitter running in parallel with it. But then you have to look at the navigation even more. And so, I don't use it. I couldn't get the hang of it—maybe the training time was too short—but it just didn't work for me.
On many of the cross-country flights you do—you mentioned Münster Airport earlier—but there are other airports and airspaces that, in all directions, are always capping you out somewhere. Yeah, you either have to fly around them or stay under an airspace cap where you say, I'm not allowed higher than 1,000 or 1,300 or whatever. How do you deal with that when you know there's an airspace ahead with a cap where you're not allowed to fly higher? How does that change the way you might proceed tactically, how you look for thermals, or how do you manage it when you notice you're actually climbing too high—how do you still keep yourself low enough, but in a height band where you say, I can still get more thermals there?
As I explained earlier regarding searching for thermals, if there's a cloud shadow and I have to maneuver at a 45-degree angle, I naturally try to steer away from that airspace as early as possible once I realize it could become relevant to me in the long run. I try to maintain that 45-degree angle away from the airspace as early as possible so that I don't ultimately get pushed into it. Because there's nothing worse than having to exit a great thermal because an airspace altitude limit prevents it.
Now let's play out the scenario where you can't fly around this airspace, but you know on my cross-country flight, there's simply a ceiling there and you have to crawl along under that ceiling. Even so, you know that height is safety—also safety in the sense of greater safety, of catching the next thermals again. At the same time, you're not allowed to climb too high and you're always playing this game of, I can't go too high, I might have to lose some altitude, in whatever form, but I still want to stay in as high an altitude band as possible. How do you do that to successfully keep crawling along there?
Ultimately, there are two strategies. This happens relatively often with us at the Münster-Osnabrück airport, this restriction on the northwestern edge. There, 3,500 feet is the permitted altitude. That's about 1,300 meters or something, right? Exactly. If we have a day where I can fly at 1,600 or 1,800 meters, then I build up that altitude before this airspace and glide along the front boundary of this airspace the whole time, sort of a bit across the wind, not optimal, until I'm at those 3,500 feet, so that when I'm at those 3,500 feet,
to glide under the airspace and get out on the back side relatively quickly. But of course, that only works if the day is good enough for me to build up that huge altitude beforehand. Otherwise, long glide distances without thermals across the wind or at a 45-degree angle are very much height-destroying. That would mean gliding under the airspace at the maximum permitted altitude. Exactly. Then, with a distance of about 50 meters from the upper limit, that's always the target—not higher, because it's staggered—and then gliding under it at that height. On days when that's not possible, for example, because the wind is too strong, then the altitude isn't actually that high. In that case, the strategy is, because the thermals also pull through this airspace with the wind,
then the strategy is to exit on the windward side of these thermals, so before the airspace, to sink as far down as possible so that you're under the ceiling. And then you glide back into the thermals, which have moved under or into the airspace in the meantime, climb back up to those 50 meters from the ceiling, and then fly out of that airspace on the windward side again.
That means, just to make sure I understand the picture correctly, "airside" means you're flying against the wind, so basically, you're flying backwards for a bit on your route, but then you've lost so much altitude that you can get back into your thermals. And then, if you look at it in the altitude band at the end, you get this very tight zigzag in your altitude profile. Yes, quite
Exactly. And the strategy is not to lose the thermals. Because if I lose the thermals in the flatlands and then have to find the next one at a low altitude, that's the bigger problem. The goal is ultimately to keep finding the thermals that pass through this airspace over and over again. Of course, that means the mental path these thermals take has to allow for it. If they ultimately enter the further layering of an airspace—meaning, in the worst-case scenario, they go over the runway from Münster Airport toward Neubrück—then I obviously can't do that. But if they just make a 45-degree angle under this highest ceiling, so to speak, and I mentally say, okay, I already know what the wind shift is, then I can already imagine how these thermals will move through there. And then it works very well.
I did that with my first hundred-kilometer flight, which I flew with Gerd, by the way, at Weeze Airport. We used that exact strategy to navigate through the airspace restrictions over a distance of just under ten kilometers with that tactic, and in the end, we were able to celebrate our first flight over 100 kilometers together.
Just to clarify the understanding. You fly into the thermals against the wind, then sink down a bit there. How much do you wait—how long do you wait—before turning back? Is it just a quick flight out where you say, "Okay, I've had three meters of sink for ten seconds, so I'm already at 30, 40, or 50 kilometers," and then it's worth turning back again, or is it a bit longer? Or is it really just a very narrow altitude band that you try to stay within?
That depends a bit on the quality of the thermals. With strong thermals, it can sometimes be that you can't steer out of them very quickly. And if I have a thermal pulling up at four or five meters per second, it can happen in a flash that I'm in the prohibited area, meaning I've already committed an airspace violation. And I definitely want to avoid that. That means I usually fly, or we usually fly, so that when we fly out on the wind side, there's first a sink band where there's extreme sink, and after that, normal sink again. And until then—and if I'm allowed 1,300 meters, then until about 1,100—then you turn back again. Then you go through the sink band again and then you basically enter the thermals again, trying to see where the core is.
And of course, you have to keep an eye on the altimeter the whole time so you can climb out early, usually about 100 meters before, and then maybe another 50 meters up to the ceiling.
And what do you use then? Do you, for example, look at your GPS and say, you're flying exactly your flight path that you flew out, you're flying exactly back on the path to say, now I know that I'm at least hitting the thermals exactly again?
I don't look at the path because the wind drift might have moved it somewhere else. So I really fly by feel and then basically find this lift again, and as I fly into the lift, I feel whether I'm heading straight for the center or if I'm off to the side. And then, when I'm close and it's lifting again, I do a search circle and then you've got the thermals. So if it's moving along somewhat consistently, of course, then you've found it again relatively safely.
Is that also a technique you might sometimes use when flying cloud thermals, where you say you turn until you're under the cloud? Now, tactic one: you just continue flying under the cloud with the wind, you might be a bit faster than the cloud, and then at some point you fly out on the lee side of the cloud. Another possibility, if you say you care more about airtime than XC kilometers in the end, you could also say you hang under a cloud, don't want to get sucked in, so you keep drifting out a bit on the lee side, let yourself sink 200 meters, fly back under the cloud, and climb up again. And since you know that with the wind in the flatlands, the cloud is also being displaced at 20 km/h over ground, you could stay with a cloud like that for hours as long as it holds, and if it keeps approaching itself with its cloud shadow, you could say I've found an elevator that I keep using over and over.
Yeah,
Exactly. That's often the strategy, especially when we're flying as a pair; to wait for the other person, we use exactly this strategy where the one who is high stays up. So, ultimately, that also marks the thermals so the other pilot can see, okay, there he is with the wind offset, where do I need to enter if I'm lower to potentially get there. And so you don't get sucked into the cloud, the higher one really flies out ahead on the loof side using the same tactic, sinks again, and then climbs back in until you're together again. And on days when we have strongly predicted thermals, the distance between thermals is sometimes so large that it's not that easy anymore. That it's not realistic at all to find the next thermal.
And then it's really like we just let ourselves get blown across the country for half an hour or an hour by the cloud, with a 15 or 20-knot altitude wind, until that thermal maybe eventually collapses—so this cloud collapses—in order to keep looking. So it's not uncommon for us to really use this cloud for as long as it provides effective lift.
You just said that on days when we're no longer gaining altitude effectively, with particularly strong thermals, the distances between the thermals are so large. Why is that?
Yes, I think you'd have to go really deep into the theory for that. I can't explain it, I can't derive it right now. But from a flying perspective, it is definitely true that when the base is extremely high, it's very difficult to find the next thermal.
But those are two different things. You mentioned strong thermals and a high base. Is it on days with a high base where the distance is greater, or on days with strong thermals?
On days with a high base. On days with a high base, the distances between thermals are often so large that if you don't find the next one immediately, it's difficult to reach it, yeah.
That means the higher the base is, the more it makes sense to say, I'll just stick to this cloud and let myself get blown along by the ridge lift and the cloud, instead of saying I'll fly directly, directly forward and hope that I actually find the next one.
Yes, and you can often see that in the cloud picture, whether a cloud is reachable or not. And with clouds, it's often the case that they are further away than you actually think. You always think, "I have to get there," and you glide and glide and glide. And we are already relatively slow with the paraglider. And then you wonder that you only manage to get there with a mediocre altitude.
When flying in flat terrain, there's often this ideal or idea of, "Oh, there's a cloud street that I can just fly along." Based on your experience, how often does that actually happen? How often do you really have days where you can ride along wonderful cloud streets?
Well, I think I've had that two or three times so far. Where you really don't fly in a circle and just have to go straight ahead or partially accelerate to ultimately not fly into the base. Being sucked in is, at least for us, more of an exception.
That means you've been flying for 25 years. If you're saying two or three times, then it really is
rarely, actually. Yes, you have to see that the quality, including staying up for several hours, has maybe been limited to the last—I'd have to check—the last ten years for us in the lowlands. Before that, it was actually always just, there was a lucky punch day where you flew for half an hour or an hour. And actually only in the last ten years, I'd say roughly, is it really the case that you can reproducibly stay up again and again and stay up for a long time. That certainly has something to do with the experience you've gathered, but certainly also with the changes in the equipment.
Speaking of equipment, are there actually gliders for flatland flying where you'd say they're better suited than others, or any glider parameters that you'd say you definitely have to pay attention to if you fly a lot in the flatlands?
The most important thing from my perspective is that you feel comfortable under the glider you're flying. That you don't have to keep learning the glider, but that you basically have a feel for what's happening with it. And whether it's an A-class glider or a B- or C-class glider or a high-performance two-liner, whatever it is, from my point of view, it's ultimately not relevant for flying long in the lowlands. If I were flying under a glider, if I were flying under a D-class glider or some absolute high-performer, and I was stressed about keeping that canopy above me, I certainly wouldn't fly for long and I certainly wouldn't have any fun. So that wouldn't be fulfilling for me.
Of course, the higher these gliders are categorized, the more I have the chance to be more effective against the wind, across the wind, and potentially in terms of speed or distance. But that's not what I want, and it's not what flying gives me.
What about wing loading? I know at least a few pilots who say that in flat country, you should never fly at the top of the loading range, but rather just in the middle. And some even say they specifically bought a large glider that they only fly in the lower third of the loading range, because they say, okay, that way I just have a reduced sink rate and, in the weak thermals we sometimes have in flat country, I can get up much better.
I don't think that applies to current gliders anymore. I would never fly a glider in flat country with just minimal loading; I prefer having the speed reserve I get when I'm in the upper range of the loading, rather than just loading it lightly and being maybe two or three km/h slower. I've experienced this myself—I've lost ten kilos over the last year because I just changed my diet a bit, did more sports, and thought that a few fewer kilos would do. And I noticed for myself that I'm moving slower with the glider and that the loading, well, you can really feel that.
And I don't have the feeling that I can use the thermals better now. On the contrary. So I'm really considering whether I should take five or six kilos of water just to have my speed reserve and also that perceived canopy pressure. It's just that I feel like you can sense it a bit better when the wing loading is in the middle or upper third. What glider are you flying now? I'm flying a C-class glider, the Nova Sektor. And does it fly? Would you say it's also decent in the flatlands?
Yeah, well, before that I flew a Nova Phantom, which is also a great glider in terms of performance. But I need a glider that shows me more where the thermals are. I need a bit more dynamics. It has to work a bit. Then I get the feeling that I know what's happening where. Other pilots might find that too turbulent. They'd prefer it to be a bit more dampened. I need, in a way, a bit of this...
yes, the agility and the feedback in the canopy that I can actually feel.
Then you just get a better feel for the air, for what's going on there. Yeah, exactly. Well, especially in the last three years, we've had somewhat extreme weather, or rather extreme climate, actually. It's very dry, probably in your area in Münsterland too. Has that changed the flying for you in any way? Have the thermals become different in recent years?
So, it felt like there were naturally more days where you could just fly with us. Yeah, otherwise, Münsterland is known for being very flat and very humid. And because of that, I think there were overall more flying days, since the thermals weren't that good for us. Whether they are now stronger or even borderline, or noticeably more borderline, I can't really confirm that.
Maybe more days with high bases because it was just so dry?
Yeah, definitely. So now, in 2019 and 2018, we already had several days with really extremely high bases, where it went up to 2,000 meters above ground here. But phenomena like those you see, for example, in the east—I'd like to repeat the old Lager or in Niedergörsdorf, where you can actually see several dust devils standing in the fields at the same time—I haven't observed that here with us. Let's switch topics a bit.
how do you handle that? Markus, you're a dentist yourself, you even have your own practice. Then you have a family, three kids. How do you manage paragliding alongside your job and family and all that? Or balance it all? Also, time—if you say you want airtime, then many hours are gone and so on. How do you make that work? I
I always try to figure out which days are actually worth going out for. On mediocre days—like back when I was a student or a young assistant and only had a girlfriend, where you'd basically hang on the rope every day it wasn't raining—I just can't do that anymore. And when it's foreseeable, usually from the middle of the week onwards, that it'll be flyable towards the weekend, I really try to pick the days where I have the chance to fly for as long as possible. How do you recognize the...
especially good days, and what do you look for? What are the most important indicators for you beforehand that say, "this is going to be a good day"?
Yeah. I mean, there are some great tools, for example, this Top-Meteo, which I use quite intensively. They have a forecast with predictable base heights and predictable wind speeds. And that's certainly what we touched on regarding the dry summer. That's what's subjectively felt to be an issue for us. That there are many, many days that might still be thermally interesting, but aren't flyable anymore in terms of the weather—meaning the wind speed. And those are the parameters I look at: what kind of wind do we have, what's the wind strength?
And the quality of the thermals, whether they're particularly good or just mediocre, isn't really that decisive. So, if I have time on a day like that and can organize it, I'll try to take advantage of a day that's good to fly where thermals are expected.
Describe, in terms of the most important parameters, what would be ideal for you regarding wind speed, base height, and where you'd say the thermals are still pleasant to fly or...
So? Ground wind around 10 km/h would be ideal, 15 km/h is still okay. And then the gusts are always specified too. So if there are gusts. More than 30 is already getting into the borderline. So preferably gusts around 20. Yeah, if then during the midday there's a 30 or 35 in there, that's also fine. And those are all models. So from that perspective, you always have to decide on-site, of course. And otherwise, base height with us, if it says, I don't know, midday or early afternoon 1.4, 1.6. So 1400, 1600 meters base height, no tendency to spread. Then that already speaks for a great day.
Three years ago, you also got a real pilot's license. I mean, honestly, you fly UL today, three-axis controlled. What fascinated you about that, besides paragliding, which you already put a lot of time into, to say, "Now I'm also going to get the UL license"?
To add to that, it ultimately remains a... what's the nice way to put it? Wait a second. So it's not a pilot's license, which is why we're always mocked by the real pilots. We are aviation sports equipment operators. And the UL also belongs to the category of aviation sports equipment. So we're actually still not real pilots. It's always such a semantic thing. No, why I did it was actually because I didn't have enough total flight time. So then, when autumn comes and it's actually no longer possible to fly, I had this idea that I have to do something more in the air. And the UL was just a nice addition where you can fly along, where you can fly right into autumn, and where in the summer, with the higher wind speeds, you can certainly still fly, whereas with the paraglider it's better to stay on the ground.
And just that horizon. And yeah, just to extend the airtime once more.
That means you're just obsessed with flying and say that a paraglider isn't enough for me. There aren't enough days in total throughout the year. And the remaining days where I could also take time off, I want to use those with the UL.
Exactly. Although, if I have the choice between flying with the UL or with the paraglider, I always choose the paraglider. Because that's the flying I find most original. And yes, in the UL, the engine rattles. Yes, it's loud. It's nice. Yes, you also get into areas where you'd never get with the glider. But that tactic in the thermals, sitting there in the wind, I don't know, smelling the pine forests in the summer. And I don't know, when you fly over a combine harvester that's currently harvesting, smelling that grain hundreds of meters above it. Those are just things. I can't experience those with the UL.
And that's what makes paragliding so special in a way.
Well, you have much, much more experience with paragliding by now. Are there things where you'd say, there are things I'm taking from paragliding that are useful to me when paragliding? Or that help you in some way where you know, another UL pilot doesn't know that. They're missing that paragliding background. And haha, what can I even tell them, what can they do with that?
Yeah, so when you talk to the UL pilots, when there's been a flight day and you sit down or stand together afterwards, they'll say, "Wow, it was so thermal today and it really shook me around." And somehow, when I'm out in the UL and I see a cloud that's very effective and I don't feel like getting shaken around, I just fly around it beforehand. I think that if you know what thermal clouds look like up there, you can take that into account when flying the UL as well.
Have you ever intentionally flown thermals with the UL, where you'd say, "Wonderful, I'll throttle back the engine and still climb 500 meters here"?
So, in the Halter community, we don't ultimately have a UL that's really capable of flying thermals. But I did once pull the engine back to idle under a large cloud and did a few circles there. I was able to gain a few meters of altitude, but it's no fun. The aircraft just isn't designed for that, and I didn't really enjoy it.
Now you're always faced with the decision: paraglider or UL. Are there also ways to combine them?
Yes, well, as I said, if I have a choice, I would always prefer the paraglider. I've been lucky enough to combine them twice now. I'm with this Nova team Germany, and we actually have a meeting once a year. And that was in 2018?
Wait a second. No, in 2019 they wanted to meet in the Bavarian Forest over a long weekend. And of course, the driving distance for a weekend to Regensburg is very long. And by chance, it just coincided with the availability of the UL. And the weather was different. That was just good too. And then on Friday after work, I flew to Regensburg with the UL to a small airfield. I unpacked my paraglider there. The other team pilots picked me up there. And then we went to fly at Hausstein, I think that's the name of the mountain there, after an excellent briefing. That's where I did my longest flight so far, over 150 kilometers. And then we spent the evening together.
And then on Sunday morning, I got back into the UL and was back home by late afternoon. That would certainly be hardly doable by car. Public transport or the train would also certainly not be feasible within that timeframe.
Besides all the flying, you also constantly make videos. Both of your paraglider flights and sometimes videos of your UL flights and stuff like that. And a lot of that has what I'd call an "explainer" format, where you actually show what you're doing and how you're doing it. Sometimes you also say what's happening during the flight, or you've prepared it afterwards. That's very time-consuming, though. What drives you to want to convey so much to others?
Yeah, maybe it has something to do with my history. I was involved in teaching at the university for about 20 years. And I always got feedback that it's especially good when it's told in an exciting way, when you explain things in an engaging manner and explain as much as possible practically. And I don't even know why, but at some point I just started explaining a flight and what I was thinking during it. And the feedback was so positive that I thought, yeah, I just enjoy doing it. And sitting down on days when I'm not flying to prepare these things—it gets you back into aviation again. That's simply my motivation for doing it.
Which of your videos is a must-watch?
Yeah, that's tough. Yeah, which one would you say someone who's not a very experienced lowland pilot could learn the most from? Or where is the most information still contained or something like that. It
There's one cross-country flight that was just under 100 kilometers. To Bramsche, so to the northeast of us. That's a flight where I almost landed several times and it kept going upwards again and again. Ultimately, it was filmed relatively easily with just one camera, but it's already dubbed over. Unfortunately, the end isn't quite on there because the battery gave out then. But that's certainly for those who want to imagine the tactics a bit. And I'm there in the Mittelland. I flew along the Mittelland Canal, where at that moment I didn't even know it was the Mittelland Canal, as it was designated. And I found several thermal sources there again. I think you can follow that quite well, as we just discussed.
Then there's a 77-kilometer flight over the Rhine. I think that's also one of my most-clicked videos on YouTube. Where that is again... I was in a phase under a cloud street, flying underneath it, just as we mentioned. Where I really had to prick up my ears afterwards and move out sideways because it just kept going higher and higher. And then finally there's this cross-country flight I did with Gerd, my first hundred-kilometer one, where there were also video recordings. And I eventually split that into four parts. Where at the beginning the problem was, as we just discussed, that we didn't find the entry one after another. And we both actually flew alone for an hour.
And we were only able to meet up after an hour to continue flying together. And that's where that bit of tactics is explained again—flying out of the thermals toward the airside. So, for anyone interested, you can certainly take a closer look at some of the details there.
Markus, we're slowly coming to an end. But one question remains. From all your years of flying, the experience you have now. Are there any insights or experiences that you would definitely recommend to others, or to junior pilots or something like that? Where you'd say, "This is something I can only recommend people do," or what they should pay attention to.
So for me, if someone asks what they should do to have the best experience possible, I'd say the most important thing is to find your composure while flying. Don't be obsessed. Don't think, "I absolutely have to stay up there" or "I absolutely have to fly for a long time." Just say, "I'm going flying to have this experience." And out of that experience, a wonderful flight eventually develops—one that you can then draw from. So, when I've had great flights, I'm still completely buzzing from that experience for the next few days. And that's what it means to me. And that's what I'd actually tell everyone.
Try to convey that this is really what makes it what it is.
And as I said, but of course, everyone has to decide for themselves. If someone says, "I want to fly cross-country now, I want to fly thermals," I would never start going around saying, "I have to get the optimal mileage now. I have to do my 50-kilometer flight now. I have to do my 100-kilometer flight now." Those distances come naturally. I would always recommend trying to stay up as long as possible in a relaxed way. And then the distances come naturally. What is
with this team flight? Would you also say that's something I can recommend to everyone? Or is it so complicated that you have to be a significantly experienced pilot for it to actually work together?
Yes, well, experience certainly doesn't hinder it. The two pilots have to be compatible. So, the two pilots have to do roughly the same things. They have to have the same qualifications, in other words, the same level. It can certainly be the case that pilots who haven't been flying for that long can manage it well together. But each one individually must be able to get up safely and stay up there. And also flying to the destination together must clearly be the priority. Because you have to wait in between. You have to wait for the other pilot and have to say, okay, I'll get there by, I don't know, the end, if I wait here under the clouds for ten minutes until the other one is there. When the other one is back up, I might have, bottom line, five or ten kilometers less that I want to have. And if my priority is to fly as much distance as possible, then you won't be happy with that.
But if you say, I want to have this experience together, from the takeoff through all the experiences under the clouds, navigating around various airspace restrictions, all the way to the landing and then, of course, the recovery—then that's an experience, and for me, that's everything. Whether it's hundreds of kilometers or just 80 kilometers together, I would always favor the 80 kilometers together.
And is there any other goal, a special flight, a specific experience or something like that that's still on your bucket list?
do you have? Yes, I want to land here at home once. So, once in Münster. I've already made a few attempts. Unfortunately, I've always failed miserably. Not because it's that far. I think it's less than 30 kilometers. But the ceiling here is at 762 meters. That means I'd have to glide a distance of about ten kilometers at 762 meters to get here, where I live, around the corner there's a large sports park and next to it agricultural land where you can easily land. But getting there is very demanding, being able to conquer this airspace. And that's the big goal. I've already tried it with the tactic of flying behind the thermals.
I failed after five kilometers under that airspace. And then, on a low-wind day, I tried flying in crosswind. But unfortunately, I didn't have enough altitude to make it all the way here. So that's still my goal, something I definitely want to pull off again at some point.
Alright, Markus, then I hope that this small but fine wish of yours also comes true. Thank you for the very nice stories about low-level flying and the many little tricks and tips you shared. I think one can get a lot out of that, and I really just wish you
all the best. Yes, thank you very much for the interview. Thank you for the exchange. And I wish you all the best as well, stay healthy. Definitely.
That was Markus Kaup in conversation with Lucian Haas. In the show notes for this podcast episode on Fluglights, I've put together some further links. Among others to Markus' YouTube channel, his blog called Two Birds, but also a text on Fluglights where I once explained why a high base in the lowlands goes along with a larger distance between the thermals.
By the way, there are already around 40 hours of additional podcast episodes from Podz-Glidz. You can find them on Soundcloud, Spotify, iTunes, Google Podcasts, and many other audio catalogs. If you don't want to miss an episode, you can also simply subscribe to Podz-Glidz in your podcatcher of choice. But don't forget, especially if you are a regular listener and perhaps also a reader of Fluglights, I would be happy if you would support my work as a patron. In the end, I'd like to quote Markus Kaup again. He says, discover serenity while flying. Those who fly relaxed fly longer and go further. Ciao.