When I saw from a distance the place I would have to climb a few hours later, I began to grasp the scale of the challenge ahead of me. Completely unlike anything I had ever done before.
AXALP was getting closer. It was greeting me from afar. The adventure was beginning.

In my opinion, the scope — the focus — of what aviation photography seems to involve at the start of your journey is fairly limited: trips to the airport to take photos, standing by the fence, local airshows…
Little by little, you start widening that focus: international airshows, spotter days abroad and even visits to air bases. What you have around you starts to feel like it is not enough, and you make life increasingly complicated for yourself.
Before you know it, at some point along that journey, you decide it is a good idea to go to the middle of nowhere, where aircraft might happen to fly at some point.

The reward? A spectacular photo.
That airport fence near home is a distant memory. Now you are packing your backpack to head out into the middle of the countryside to some remote airfield, perhaps to a reservoir to photograph firefighting aircraft…
Or even to climb a mountain in the Alps to watch aircraft flying low and firing their guns.

And it turns out that mountain has a name: AXALP.

Fliegerschiessen Axalp, more specifically, is a live-fire exercise in which the Swiss Air Force carries out manoeuvres using live ammunition, firing at targets positioned in several areas of the Axalp mountain. Which means:

• Aircraft
• Aircraft flying low
• Mountains in the background
• Live ammunition being fired.

All pros. There had to be some downside… Right? It sounded easy.
The biggest downside, or difficulty… is also one of Axalp’s greatest pleasures and wonders. If the show takes place on a mountain in the Alps, at some point you are going to have to climb it.

17 October 2023.
After a little over two hours of driving to reach our accommodation in Interlaken, Switzerland welcomed us with the only restaurant open at 10:30 p.m. The most expensive McDonald’s of my entire life.

I was nervous. It was a mixture of stress from having only just arrived, knowing everything we still had to prepare and the bare minimum number of hours we needed to sleep. The other part of the nerves came from excitement. An enormous amount of excitement.

I always said I was chasing things that combined emotion with memorable photographs — something that becomes increasingly difficult to find once you have been in this world for a few years. And I was only a few hours away from experiencing my first Axalp. I was a bag of nerves.

What did Axalp involve? Widening the focus. With some positive elevation gain. Axalp and its photography positions were at an altitude of 2,200 metres.
For us, that meant climbing 700 metres of elevation in the middle of the night, in late October, carrying a backpack full of food and warm clothes, as well as the camera gear, obviously. And, of course, praying that the weather behaved itself and did not force them to cancel the day, making the three-hour climb pointless. That was going to be the same situation for perhaps hundreds of photographers who, like us, wanted to conquer the mountain.

There was a catch to those 700 metres of climbing: there was a chairlift which, although it did not remove the hardest part of the ascent, saved you half of a long, fairly level section. To avoid the queues, we had to get up absurdly early.

I did not know how, but I had to sleep. Before that, though, there was one critical point: the backpack. Adventures like this are when you appreciate having a sturdy, properly equipped backpack. It pays for itself quickly: Hiking poles (vital), head torch, chocolate bars, bread, cold meats, lots of water, plenty of warm clothing, first-aid kit, sun cream, cap. Prepared for everything and nothing at the same time.
And, of course, the camera gear. Camera, lens, rain covers, cards and batteries checked a thousand times. Double, triple and quadruple checks. Hyperactivity.

So many variables and exciting new experiences that all pointed towards a sleepless night. And the melatonin was doing absolutely nothing.

18 October. Wednesday, Axalp Day 1. 4 a.m.
I heard an alarm I had been longing to hear for hours. I washed my face to get rid of sleep and imaginary eye gunk, we put on our thousand layers of clothing, did another double-triple-quadruple check of everything and got moving. Before getting out of bed, though, I had to check something vital: the Swiss Army website would confirm the status of that day’s display. They could cancel at any moment, for any reason. But the news were good. Green to go.

Our first destination was the beautiful village of Brienz. From there, a bus would take us to the starting point of the cable transport up the mountain. We needed to catch the very first bus if we did not want to spend hours queuing and miss aircraft movements.
Coffee, then the easiest miles of the day. Clinging to the steering wheel and heated seats as though our lives depended on them. We genuinely had no idea what we were about to experience. Heat? Freezing cold? With my mixture of nerves and sleep deprivation, I was not giving it much thought either.

We parked and easily reached the departure point, where they gave us an all-inclusive Axalp wristband and we got on the bus. It would take about 30 minutes to climb a winding road, packed in amongst other people and wrapped in layers of clothing and camera equipment. Not exactly ideal, but that day we welcomed anything that gained us a few metres of altitude. That brought us to our second luxury of the day: the chairlift. I have no idea what I imagined a chairlift to be like at that point, but reality was nothing like it.

Let me tell you something: I had never been on a chairlift in my life. And suddenly there I was, riding one in complete darkness in the Alps, barely making out the treetops beneath my feet, with all my camera gear clutched as if my life depended on it.

I looked upwards and could just make out the mountain, and above it a sky packed with stars, with the Milky Way clearly visible. As soon as the tension of the moment allowed me to, I realised what I was actually looking at. One of the most impressive moments of my entire life. Because I was holding onto all my belongings as if my life depended on it, I could not take a photo of the moment — and I can assure you I would not have managed anything usable anyway.

“Because I was holding onto all my belongings as if my life depended on it” –> Kind of a lie. When we were almost at the end of the chairlift, I shifted slightly to get ready to get off and could sense (hear) 50% of my drinking water for the day rolling down the mountain. Lesson learnt right at the start: secure everything properly to your backpack. Especially anything attached to the outside.

Once we had recovered and taken care of basic human needs (sleeping, eating and pissing are all the same: do it wherever you can, because you never know when you will next get the chance), it was time to begin the dreaded climb. “Fliegerschiessen Axalp”, said a sign pointing to the right. And when you looked to the right, what could you see?
Nothing. Pitch black. Our only reliable guide was a line of lights. We trusted that they were heading the right way, but we had no guarantees. We simply had to follow the line.

It did seem they were right, though. A narrow, muddy and slippery path took us towards that little line of lights. The brand-new hiking poles were already working overtime. I did not particularly want to look too far to the right. Until then, I had never seen the Swiss landscape in daylight because I had arrived after dark the previous evening. As the minutes passed, the landscape around us slowly came to life. Something told me the sunrise was going to be memorable.

We reached the end of the straight line of lights, at which point it turned into an uphill line of lights. After an hour of walking, that is not exactly what you want to see. But it was a good sign: there was “not much” left.
There was still more climbing to do, but the hardest section was behind us. And there was more and more light. And I was increasingly aware of what a privilege it was to experience something like this.

A delicious piece of Swiss chocolate handed out by the Army welcomed us to Axalp’s first official photography position: Brau. It was the perfect place if you did not want to climb any further. You could see the aircraft and get good photos. Also, because it was the lowest point, it was where the medical helicopters were stationed to rescue anyone who got injured. But, as I said, it was the lowest photography position of all. And having made it that far, I was going all the way.
And that did not come for free. The price: another decent climb.

But it felt different now.

We were there. In Swiss paradise. We could finally see those landscapes we had seen a thousand times in photos and videos. The peaks, the snow, the targets. We had to stop every so often, not just to rest — which was essential — but to actually take in where we were. And, while we were at it, to message loved ones and update social media with the adventure we were living, adapting ourselves to whatever slope we happened to be on.

That was how we reached the second position: Tschingel. The largest area, the middle of the three positions, at the same altitude as our target location. We could not stay there for long, because the path between those positions was closed during the display, as it was dangerously close to the aiming point of the shooting range.

After immortalising the beauty of the surroundings and already beginning to taste victory, we tackled the final section and, almost three hours later, reached our target: Ebenfluh, the third of Axalp’s available positions, right next to the area control tower.
It was official: we had conquered AXALP. And well before the show was due to begin at 1 p.m. The journey there only made the ending even more spectacular.

Having just arrived, the first task was to settle in, and that was not entirely straightforward. Finding a comfortable, reasonably stable spot on a hillside packed with people who would not block your view was difficult. And it became more difficult with every passing minute. Because you would think that having to climb a mountain in the dark just to watch an airshow would be enough to put most people off and keep the crowd fairly small…Or so I thought.

I have to admit something: I do not prepare for airshows. I do not study the displays or every detail beforehand, apart from the most significant or relevant bits. I could memorise the schedules and know exactly which shots were coming so I would not miss key moments, but… I like surprises. The excitement of not knowing every detail of a display outweighs the frustration of missing an important shot. And I have missed plenty. But I refuse to spoil it for myself.
Why am I telling you this? Because we found out that the rehearsal for the display would start 30 minutes after we arrived. In other words, we were going to get “two airshows” in the same day. And people wonder why I do not want to ruin these kinds of surprises for myself, right?

Although I have to admit that was only half true. I had already seen one big spoiler for that edition of AXALP: the opening. An F-18 would make a knife-edge pass between Tschingel and Ebenfluh at almost transonic speed. With mountains in the background. Which meant the very first aircraft we were going to see from that spot would be unbelievably difficult to:

• Find
• Focus on
• Frame
• Shoot

And do all of that in… what, five seconds at most from the moment we heard it?
The adrenaline was back. I was a bag of nerves. So many new emotions, and the day was only just beginning (a lie). The action was getting close, the weather looked good… and I started shaking. It had been a while since that had happened to me.

Suddenly, we heard the first aircraft. Two F-18s appeared high overhead to begin familiarising themselves with the terrain. The warning was appreciated. If we had already been on alert… from that moment on, it tripled.
Everything went quiet. People were pointing into the distance. “You can see it now,” my friend said. “Yeah, yeah, I can see it,” I replied. Absolute lie. I could not see a thing. And I was wearing glasses. This was not the time to mess it up.

It was not until I heard the roar of the F-18’s GE F404s that I managed to lock focus onto it and hammer the shutter at a not-at-all risky shutter speed. Less than two seconds passed between me finding it and the F-18 absolutely destroying my eardrums. AXALP had begun.

I had to suppress both the emotion of the moment and the instinct to check the photos. Two F-18s were inside the display area and could appear anywhere, at any time. Quick check of the settings, then carry on. The first two aircraft of the day carried out a ground-firing exercise. During the rehearsal it was simulated; during the actual display it was live. It was the first time I had ever seen a fighter firing its gun, and I have to say it was spectacular. The first truly unique thing you get to see at AXALP. I more or less knew this already, but projectiles are fast. Extremely fast.

Advice: if you ever find yourself photographing something that is firing either at a target or at you, and you want to freeze the rounds in the frame, do not even think about shooting below 1/4000.

The show continued with the Swiss Air Force F-18 Demo Pilot, whose display included the second thing that is unique to AXALP — although admittedly it is more common elsewhere: flares. Loads of them. And he was not the only one.
The Swiss Pilatus PC-21 continued the displays. After two F-18 demos you might be thinking, “well, meh”, “a bit weak”, “bit of a comedown”, but the truth is that it surprised me in a very good way. Beautiful, fast, agile and close.

The rest of the flying programme consisted of varied demonstrations, such as parachutists jumping from a Pilatus, SAR exercises with a Super Puma, and different formations involving several dissimilar aircraft. But essentially, the bulk of the displays had already happened, I am not going to lie to you. Do not expect a RIAT-style flying programme because that would be unrealistic. You can expect three or four hours of flying at most.

Once the rehearsals were over, it was time to refuel ourselves, socialise, make friends and, basically, kill time until the real demonstrations began. Time to eat and hang our sweaty clothes out to dry. Those fences came in handy. I had lost 50% of my water on the way up, but the Swiss had the whole operation very well organised and there was a stall at Ebenfluh selling drinks and food — cash only, if I remember correctly. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw water…
But I had forgotten where we were and what sort of water they drink around there.

Make still water great again.

At around 1 p.m., the proper displays began. The rehearsals had been incredibly useful, not only because I had already managed to get some good photos and could now take a few more risks, but because I could anticipate certain “key” moments in the display.
Getting a second attempt means you can fix the mistakes from the first, and you do not always get that luxury. We made the most of it. And there were extra surprises too, such as the Patrouille Suisse and its F-5s, which had not flown during the rehearsals.

I remember one pass in particular, right at the end of the display…

I more or less guessed what they were going to do. I put the camera down on the ground and watched it with my own eyes. What did I lose? A photo that 1,000 other people have. What did I gain? A spectacular moment consisting of all the F-5 leaving a cascade of flares in a spectacular place, seared into my memory in fire and snow.
An unbeatable finale, bathed in flares.

I spent a good while simply taking it all in before facing the next major challenge: getting back down the mountain.
We had several options for descending. We still had the chairlift that had helped us on the way up. But we were at Ebenfluh, the furthest point from the chairlift. The queue would be enormous. Several hours.

On top of that, the hardest part of the climb now had to be descended. In my opinion, that was even harder. And, as I have already mentioned, we would have to queue for at least two hours because everyone from Brau and Tschingel would already be ahead of us. No go.

We chose a scenic route that did not require the chairlift. That route meant heading down the slippery hillside — although it was softer than the rocky side we had climbed — to connect with a more stable descending path. Around 5 km. Once again, the hiking poles were lifesavers. Without them, on slippery, muddy ground, it would have been very easy to fall and/or injure yourself. Lesson learnt, and fortunately I had brought them. Unlike another lesson I learnt: footwear. I was wearing boots that I thought were suitable. They absolutely were not. The descent was painful; they dug into my calves and, to make matters worse, they were not fully waterproof. Take note of that, because it is a very important point up there.

The gravel track sometimes turned into paths covered in rocks, which added a lot of fatigue and increased the risk of falling or getting injured. The closer we got to the end, the easier it became. And the views were still incredible.

Almost two hours later, we reached the base of the chairlift and therefore our starting point. Mission accomplished. Now we “only” had to survive the queue for the bus, and then we would finally be back at the car.

I am not going to lie to you: I was absolutely wrecked. Physically exhausted. Lack of sleep started to appear. Mentally, I was already thinking about the following day, Day 2 of AXALP. And the weather forecast did not look good. Clear skies, but a lot of wind, with warnings across the entire country.

While my friends queued for the bus, I walked over to some stalls where Swiss military personnel were selling AXALP patches, and I got two unpleasant surprises:

• There were no patches left.
• The following day’s show had been cancelled.

I went back to the queue with the bad news and we checked it properly. The Swiss Army published the status of the following day’s display on its website based on things such as weather and other variables. And yes, there it was.

To be completely honest, our initial reaction was about 90% negative and 10% positive. While standing in the queue, we imagined having to make that same physical effort all over again the next day, and it felt VERY uphill from where we were standing (pun intended).
But that 10% of positivity disappeared quickly. There would be no more AXALP for us. That day would be the only one we experienced that year, because the official flying days are Tuesday (training), Wednesday (1st airshow day) and Thursday (2nd airshow day). It could happen. But a cancellation is never easy to take. And that day had been spectacular. We wanted more, but it was not going to happen.

Every trip involving risk needs a Plan B, and the following day we would have to use ours. The local air bases would save the day, but our AXALP 2023 was over.
We ended a spectacular day with the most well-earned pizza of my life, although the ending had left us with a bittersweet feeling. Even so, we came away with a great set of photos, an unforgettable experience, completely new sensations and, most importantly, no injuries.

As of today, I can tell you that 18 October 2023 was my first and, so far, my last ever day at AXALP. 2027 gives me hope that I will experience it again, but for now that is all it is: hope.

Although this story has been written with a slightly heroic tone, the physical effort is nothing titanic. You just need to be in reasonably decent shape — which the protagonist of this story was not. So do not let the physical effort put you off. It is definitely worth it.

Up on that mountain, along with one of my bottles, I left a thousand emotions, adrenaline, goosebumps and an adventurous side of Jorge that the Jorge of today misses. And he will return.
Because you should always go back to the places where you have been happy.