Imagine yourself sitting inside a glider. The engine is silent. The only sound you hear is the wind rushing past. You are soaring thousands of meters above the ground. Then suddenly someone opens the cockpit canopy, climbs out, and begins scaling—yes—the wing of the airplane.
It sounds impossible. Yet that’s exactly what Slovenian climber Domen Škofic did, collaborating with Red Bull and pilot Blanix to turn this outlandish dream into reality. Their daring project was named Plane Climb.
From Rock Faces to the Open Sky
Domen Škofic is no ordinary climber. In 2016 he won the Lead Climbing World Cup, and he’s conquered countless difficult routes across Europe’s crags. Yet despite his many accolades, he felt something was missing. Climbing rock faces and competing in halls had become familiar routines. He wanted something new—something nobody else had dared to attempt.
That’s when the idea struck: why not climb in mid-air?
Of course, turning this wild fantasy into reality could not be done overnight. It required a highly specialized team, an adapted glider, and smart engineering to make the vision safe enough to attempt. Red Bull, known for embracing extreme stunts, quickly backed the undertaking.
One of the most fascinating aspects of this project is how central Domen’s father, Pavel Škofic, was to making it possible. Pavel, an engineer, designed the special climbing holds (hand- and foot-grips) to attach to the wing of the aircraft.
This wasn’t a trivial problem. The holds had to be strong enough to support the climber’s weight plus aerodynamic forces, yet light and nonintrusive so as not to damage the wing’s structure or spoil airflow. If the design failed, it could crack the wing or create excessive turbulence.
Eventually, they built holds capable of handling more than 1.2 tons of force. These small pieces of plastic and metal, once affixed to the wing, became incredibly strong anchors. Pavel also ensured their shape was smooth and aerodynamic, so as to avoid disturbing airflow.
Before ever attempting to climb in flight, Domen practiced extensively on the plane while it was still grounded. He repeatedly climbed the same routes attached to the wing, memorizing every shift in hand and foot placement—anticipating how the aircraft might vibrate or flex.
He studied every detail, including how the aircraft might respond to his movements midair.
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Training Against the Wind
Once the technical groundwork was in place, Domen had to train under conditions more extreme than any rock climbing route.
First, the wind. The glider would fly at around 80–100 km/h. The instant he stepped outside the cockpit, his body would be blasted by wind as fierce as from a gigantic fan. Domen later described it as “climbing in front of a massive fan.”
Second, the cold. At 2,500 meters of altitude, the air is frigid. Factor in the wind chill, and your hands and fingers—climbers’ vital tools—can quickly become numb or stiff. One slip or paralysis of a finger could spell disaster.
Third, the mental stress. There is no sane climber accustomed to scaling a slick metal surface thousands of meters above the Earth. Every move is a risk. The margin for error is vanishingly small.
The Daring Day of Execution
On the day of the jump, a modified Blanik L-13 glider (branded “Blanix”) was flown over Aigen im Ennstal, Austria. The altitude: 2,500 meters. Domen sat in the rear cockpit, wearing a parachute weighing over ten kilograms as a backup safety measure.
The pilot, Ewald Roithner, flew the glider in a stable trajectory. With conditions favorable—though the wind was ever-present—Domen unlatched the canopy and carefully crawled out of the cockpit. Imagine that moment: he inches his body over the edge, and below him lies nothing but open sky, rugged mountain ridges, and forests far beneath.
“Once I was out, I knew there was no turning back,” he later recalled.
The climbing route Domen would follow was mapped in a figure-eight pattern. He would move from the left wingtip to the outer extremity, then traverse beneath the fuselage, and finally ascend back to the right wing.
The trickiest part lay underneath the aircraft. Airflow is more turbulent and chaotic there, the space is tight, and every micro-movement is a battle against shifting turbulence. To hold position, Domen needed immense strength in his arms and core.
The most nerve-wracking moment, many agreed, was the final mantle move from the underside up to the right wing. It required pulling his body upward against a wind gust of roughly 100 km/h on a slippery metal surface—no margin for error.
Their first attempt failed. Domen lost his grip at the final crux—his muscles exhausted at the farthest reach. He dropped, relying on his parachute.
They tried again. This time, worse conditions caused him to slip early on. His fingers were icy, stiff, and numb—rendering it nearly impossible to grasp the holds.
The goal was to finish in around a minute, though that moment would feel endless in the sky.
On the third attempt—perhaps with nerves steadier and movement smoother—he finally conquered the final crux. Having reached the end of the route, he knew he’d accomplished something extraordinary. But instead of crawling back into the cockpit, he opted for an even more dramatic exit from the wingtip he leapt, performed a backflip in midair, and then deployed his parachute. Within seconds he floated downwards, leaving the glider silently gliding above him.
When Domen touched ground, he screamed with delight. Everyone watching recognized they had witnessed something unprecedented.
More Than Just a Daring Stunt
On the surface, this seems like a wild stunt—something meant for spectacle. But for Domen, it was much more than that.
First, he wanted to show that climbing doesn’t have to be rigid or conventional. “A climbing wall can be anywhere,” he said—rock faces, concrete walls, even airplane wings. All can become terrains of exploration.
Second, he wanted to prove that seemingly insane dreams can be realized—with courage and teamwork. His father designing the holds, the pilot navigating the glider, the technical crew ensuring safety—all played vital roles.
Third, it is symbolic. Rock climbing always carries the possibility of falling; risk is inherent. By choosing to climb in open air, Domen was making a bold statement: you may fall at any moment—but it’s precisely in that risk that beauty lies.
The Plane Climb project immediately became a hot topic in the climbing world. Some were in awe, others shook their heads in disbelief. One prominent climber, Janja Garnbret, called it “crazy—but cool.”
Could this kind of aerial climbing become a trend? Probably not. The risk is extreme, the logistics monstrous, and the costs astronomical. But as a symbol that boundaries—even in sport—can be pushed, Plane Climb has already made history.
Domen, however, did not stop here. He continued climbing traditional routes, competing, and seeking even more audacious ideas. “I don’t know what comes after this,” he confessed. “But one thing is certain, I will always chase what makes me feel alive.” (Sulung Prasetyo)
