Ol' Sam. A Work in Progress.: Adventure.

Realitycheck.

Thu, 30 Aug 2007 17:55:59 GMT

Well, I almost went and signed up for 'Friendswithoutborders' in order to involve myself in the Ice Road Truckers thread....then I came to my senses. I'm almost positive that I don't want to get into discussions that invariably end up in 'flames' and name calling.

( 27/09/07 I changed my mind and did join in the discussions on FWB)

However, here's another two cents worth.

'Realitycheck', I'm glad you confirmed my number at 3, thank you. Yes, I too knew Gary Robinson, but only as a little kid running around in RTL's shop. One of his favorite expressions was "See Nick, lookout!" The family had just returned from a Hawaiian vacation, there are many 'scenic lookouts' in Hawaii. I too was saddened by Gary's accident. I wrote a piece called 'Prosperous Lake Follies' back in March of this year.

With regards to 'realitycheck's' comments. Re: Ice Roads deaths or rather should I say, "the lack of them". Ah, Wayne Gzowski of Arctic Divers, that's from where the figure 39 deaths came. Just about every winter someone, too anxious by far, to start lake/river sledding or on an ice driving adventure, sinks in their sled or pickup. I was on a couple of body recovery dives with Wayne and George....... in open water. One dive I remember, was under the Yellowknife River bridge looking for 'Three Fingered, Louie Lockhart'. I was not a good enough diver or for that matter swimmer to ever venture under the ice in deep water. Frankly the idea scared the living shi-ites out of me.

I did another body dive on Gordon Lake with an RCMP Officer by the name of Chris. We were looking for Freddy Lockhart, who fell out of the front of a boat and drowned, we never did find him. Thirty feet down, being towed on a planer-board behind a boat out in the middle of a lake not knowing when you're going to come face to face with the body of an old acquaintance, is not what I would call 'sport diving'. I never went on a body dive again.

I've attached a couple of photos of my old buddy DC and myself, attempting to recover a Twin Otter from Moose Bay on GSL just outside of Yellowknife. We were unsuccessful and eventually a heavy lift 'chopper' was brought in to do the job. This effort at salvage also failed. Too heavy and waterlogged the Otter was dropped by the chopper, right there close to Jollife Island, in front of a large audience. Somewhere in my archives I have an old 8mm movie of the dropping.

Cheers.

Ace Cabs.

Wed, 02 Nov 2005 19:02:43 GMT

After lunch yesterday, an old friend and I went to the 'Perch' for a beer or two. Of course, as it usually does, the subject of Yellowknife in the old days came up.

One thing led to another, eventually I was reminded of the winter of '69 when I drove taxi for Ace Cabs. Ace Cabs was notorious. Cut throat and drove like daemons.

It's hard to get fired as a cab driver, but a lot, if not all the guys driving for Ace, were former '44 Taxi' drivers. Quite a bunch of guys, most did a bit of bootlegging and other nefarious things on the side to supplement their income.

One, Brian 'X', even had an illegal after hours club just over the bridge, on Latham Island. Poor old Brian, some wife complained to the cops, because her husband was staying out all night, drinking down at Brian's place. The cops raided the joint and shut it down. Too bad, so sad. It was a great place, I used to go there every night for a beer or two after my shift. Everything was a buck. Beer...a buck, shot of whisky...a buck, cola...a buck, cigs...a buck, sandwich...a buck. In the back room behind a black curtain there was a standing poker game going on. All the high rollers and a lot 'Names' in town, would drop by to play. Stupid really, to shut it down, it was harmless and provided a useful service to the 'night folks.'

Anyway, after they busted his club, the cops wouldn't leave poor old Brian alone. It all ended in tears. One long daylight evening he got involved in a low speed chase between him/us and Bob B & Billy Bylaw. Low speed because the engine in his car was so badly out of tune, we couldn't get the car to go faster than thirty mph. Eventually the RCMP joined in, cornered him Arnie and me and hauled Brian off to the slammer for DUI. He was convicted and got jail time for failing to stop, impaired driving and evading arrest. Shipped out of town he was, I never saw him again after that night, later I heard he died in jail.

One of the cab company owners, Stan 'X' also owned and operated a tire shop. The cab company office was located in the tire shop. Stan and his buddy Arnie had a really neat trick for drumming up more business for the tire shop and coincidentally, the cab company too.

When business got slow, Stan or Arnie would go down to Johnson's Building Supplies in the old town and buy a box of cheap roofing nails. You can probably guess the use they put them to. Yes, they would drive out on the Highway to Rae, turn around halfway, then scatter handfuls of roofing nails out the window, onto the road, all the way back to town. Bonus! The nails were recyclable.

I only drove for Ace that one winter, come spring I moved on to other things. I think that was the summer I wasted, working out at Prelude Lodge. A free and easy, fun summer in itself, plus I was getting paid for it.

Ha, back to Ace Cabs for a second. That winter I had money coming out my 'whazoo', all cash. I wore a green down vest, in one inside pocket I kept my ones and fives, in the other side, I kept all my tens and twenties and the cutest, little .25 cal Browning automatic. I didn't want to get rolled. There were some bad dudes living in the bunk house out at Con Mine, Yugoslavs, if I remember right. I only had to show it to one guy once, on an unrelated matter. I had no bank account and, there were no credit cards except Diners Club and American Express.

Paulatuk. A beginning.

Mon, 12 Sep 2005 18:13:57 GMT

Having escaped Cambridge Bay and the Arctic temporarily, in an abortive attempt to obtain my ’M’ license as an aircraft mechanic, I signed on with NWTAirways.

I spent the next 10 months in Yellowknife's, bush plane industry.

Not a lot of practical engineering went on. My job description seemed to consist solely of pumping Avgas, loading and unloading small bush planes and doing minor mechanical repairs of which my boss deemed me capable.

Long summer daylight hours were spent sitting in the right-hand, co-pilot’s seat , as we flew people and supplies to an assortment of tiny hamlets, fishing lodges and prospector’s camps.

Flying high above the taiga and tundra of the Canadian Sub-Arctic, the views were spectacular. Quite often the pilot in the left seat would let me ‘drive’. The side windows would be open, the noise from the big Pratt and Whitney radial engine out front, was deafening. The smells of av-gas, hot oil, aluminium, leather, cargo and hot engine, blending in an intoxicating and heady mixture. Can you imagine the thrill? There‘s me, high above the Barrens, navigating a course and flying an airplane , while the pilot dozed next to me. If I got too high or too low, his ears would pop, he’d wake up, thump my arm and ask what I thought I was doing. I loved it. Incredibly exciting for a young man of 23, just up from the Bog, so to speak.

In mid July, I began to get feelers from an agent of the Federal Government. He asked whether I’d be interested in hiring on, in a casual position, as a Technical (Development) Officer 1. Some questioning indicated my job would be in Paulatuk NWT. I’d be responsible for helping the local Inuvialuit population, establish a resource based economy and a locally owned and operated Co-op.

Feeling the tug of the Arctic still and believing promises of better things to come (a permanent Government job, good pay and full benefits) once I had established and proved my worth, I allowed myself be talked into it.

I said goodbye to my girlfriend and plans to become an aircraft engineer and flew up to Inuvik. A couple of weeks orientation, and another flight later, I arrived in Paulatuk.

Yikes! I’d forgotten about it in Yellowknife; my first impression was the coolness and freshness of the crisp ever present, Arctic Ocean breeze. No matter what the season, unless it’s an exceptionally calm day, most people will tell you, the air is the thing they first notice. Arctic Coast air is cool, crisp, fresh and clear. One can actually feel one’s self breathing it, it catches around the base of your nostrils, it can take your breath away. Literally, a breath of fresh air. However, your initial reaction to it, is seek shelter.

My second impression was one of being very alone again, in an Inuit world

Paulatuk is situated at the eastern base of the Parry Peninsular, on Darnley Bay, close by the Hornaday River, near the now newly created, Tuktuk Nogait National Park.

Since ancient times, Paulatuk had been a seasonal fishing camp, at some point a Roman Catholic Mission, complete with a tiny church and living quarters for the priest had been established.

I’m uncertain of the exact chronology of events, but with the continuing Cold War, construction of the DEW Line began and a majority of the once semi-nomadic local Inuit population moved to and took up permanent residence near the Dew Line Site at Cape Parry. Some of them obtained paying job as construction labourers and camp helpers for the DEW Line.

History relates, since the arrival of the whalers, these same people and their families experienced alcohol abuse problems. By the mid sixties, construction was finished, the Dew Line on the verge of obsolescence, and the jobs all gone. The People, with little to do, were soon trapped in a life of booze and welfare. That’s the story I got and the attitude I arrived with anyway.

Surprisingly, someone in Government took note of their plight and a decision was made to relocate and re-house these unfortunate souls. In consultation with them, Paulatuk was chosen to be their new permanent home. Roughly eight, very basic houses, plus one building shell for the store, were quickly constructed, at the old fish camp by the mission.

Amazingly, after a lifetime, the old priest, one Fr. de Hurlevent, was still in residence. I hope I’ve spelled his name correctly, but suspect I haven’t. As well as, at least French, Latin and who know what else, he spoke heavily accented and not very good English. He also spoke excellent and probably heavily accented Inuktitut. His grasp and speech of the Inuit language was as good as and I think a lot better than that of the legendary Duncan Pryde.

For approximately thirty years that old priest had lived almost entirely alone, in that dingy, poorly lit, ill heated mission. Visited occasionally by his parishioners. Later he told me a bit about himself. All I remember now is; he had come there straight from France, he was born in the Rhone Valley and way back, his ancestors, Saracens, invaded France from N. Africa. He was of Arab descent.

By the time of my arrival I think his heating needs were accomplished with heating oil. For years, prior, he had heated his church and living quarters using a very poor quality coal, which was mined locally from the bluffs at the canyon end of the Hornaday River. Recently in a blurb published about Paulatuk, I read the coal came from The Smoking Hills a hundred miles away. This is not true, that’ an entirely different area altogether.

I think he had a two way radio, powered by a bank of batteries, kept charged by windmill. Come to think of it, he must have had a radio, I certainly didn’t, yet on a regular basis we were able to communicate our needs, to the outside world.

A basic 16’x16’, two room shack had been reserved for me to live in. It had a large front window and my ‘bedroom’ was separated from my kitchen-living-eating room, by a three quarter high, pony wall. The pony wall only went three quarters of the way up, because otherwise there’d be no air circulation and my sleeping room would be as warm as the inside of a fridge. My heat, was supplied by a Coleman fuel oil, space heater with a five gallon tank on the back. Light was provided by Coleman gasoline lanterns. I ordered an AM radio and an antenna kit from Inuvik. My evening entertainment was listening to all the AM radio broadcast skip. Stations from as far away as Thule Greenland (AFRTS) and Boston Mass. (WBZ) would fade in and out in a ghostly fashion. My favourite station was WBZ. I wrote to one of the Dj’s (Karl Desueze), to say I’d heard his show. He even wrote back. Me and Joe sat by the beach one night, listening to the Beatles last, live radio performance. Ethereal, to say the least.

The stated objectives of this Casual Technical (Development) Officer 1, (me), were to: Re-awaken self-motivation and pride; get these good people off welfare if possible; assist a local person of some status and education, in the establishment and operation of a Co-op Store; establish a local fishery for Arctic Char.

Oh my. How embarrassing. The first thing I did, observed by the Government official who had accompanied me, was to call a ‘town meeting’ to introduce myself and lay down the ‘law’. I spouted a bunch of nonsense about how they had to change their ways, get back on the land and basically become productive Canadian citizens. What did I know about it? Little really. Bill Hagen had hired me only because I was ex HBC and close to hand, when he needed a warm body. I was really just regurgitating the party line I’d been given by the bureaucrats, in Inuvik. My audience must have been very amused at my naivety but were too polite to show it.

As it turned out, the people of Paulatuk were some of best I ever had the pleasure of interacting with. There was no drinking, the place was dry. They were happy to be there and get away from the Dew line. They were a strong minded independent people. They knew their territory intimately. They forgave me for the stupid speech I made.

Other bonuses of the community included, the complete lack of an RCMP presence, no school, no teachers, no roads, , no Health Centre, no Government interference or representative other than myself. I doubt if the total population including, children, the priest and myself exceeded 40.

My first few days were spent visiting different families, entertaining and being entertained with lots of tea, coffee and bannock. I tried to find out who was who and who I might enlist as an ally. I met Garret Ruben, the nominee for Co-op manager. He was bright, well turned out an excellent spokesman for the community and was enthusiastic about the Store.

I met Billy Rueben, once a great provider for his family. Unfortunately an accident involving the tendons of his knee and a lack of proper, prompt medical attention had left him partially crippled.

Billy was a great story teller. He spoke good English. Most of the people did. Billy knew all his animals like they were relatives and would spend hours with me over tea and coffee, enlightening me as to their habits. Recounting the way things used to be, stories of hunting and ghosts, massacres, battles with the Indians in the past when Inuit and Indian paths crossed.

Billy’s wife Bertha, was a large genial woman. She always wore a mille flora print ‘Mother Hubbard’. In winter she just put more layers on underneath. In the mail, on the same plane I came on, she received some new false teeth . They didn’t fit well and kept popping out of her mouth. She laughed about it as did everyone else in the room. She kept them in, with her hand over her mouth. Bertha was a very traditional woman. She was probably one of the last with her ‘country’ knowledge. She made the best bannock I’ve ever eaten. Whenever she went, Bertha always won the seal skinning and tea making competitions held regularly in Inuvik.

I made friends with their son Joe. He was about my age and probably had as much local and traditional knowledge as his Dad. Joe sort of became my partner. We spent a lot of time doing things together. I owe Joe a lot for teaching a rather stupid white man, how to do stuff the right way. Joe was also a great bull-shitter, but reliable as hell when it counted. In retrospect, I realize he also told me a bunch of harmless crap.

I’d been in town a few days, when one evening, I got invited on a seal hunt. Nothing formal just several guys in a couple of freighter canoes, going out to an ice flow, sitting drinking tea and waiting for something in range to pop it’s head above the water.

Picture it; twilight, flat calm, steel grey water; a quarter acre size ice pan suspended in space; no visible land; surrounded by almost complete silence, the whiteness of the ice, the gentle and diminishing lapping of the water on the ice from our canoe wakes, the murmurings of hushed voices, the hiss of the camp stove as we boiled water for tea, all wrapped in a gentle blanket of fog.

Even though there was 24 hour daylight, if it was foggy or cloudy, as it was that evening, it could get pretty dusky and gloomy in the wee hours. There weren’t a lot of seals in the area that night. We sat there drinking tea, occasionally blasting away at any ducks unfortunate enough to be seen passing within range. We waited for the mist to clear and the sun to get higher so we could see around us better.

That night I learned, seals could be attracted by scraping something sharp on the ice or by a few taps on a canoe gunwale with a shotgun shell. Seals are by nature curious, few have had experience with man. They have no idea of the danger they’re in. As long as one keeps quite still a seal will approach within a few yards.

Staring into the mist, trying to orient myself to some sort of perspective I saw movement out on the water. What was it? A seal. How close is it? Difficult to tell. Ghostly, it seems to be floating in a mirage. Aiming my .22 as best I could given the light, I took a pot-shot. Crack! Splash. “Where the hell did it go? Shit I missed.” Someone asked what I’d shot at. I said “a seal“. There was silence while everyone looked for it. Nothing. After a while tea drinking and conversation resumed. Sometime later, someone noticed a seal carcass drifting by the edge of the ice. “Where’d that come from?” “It’s the one you shot at.” Sure enough, there was a hole, right between it’s eyes. “You killed it, great shot!”

My friends were impressed by my apparent marksmanship, so was I, considering it was pure bull shit luck. I was so happy, my other skills might be doubtful, but to these people, at least I was a good shot.

In all my years in the North, I never owned a large calibre rifle. Occasionally, if what I was going to do, required one, I would borrow it.

I always carried a .22 rifle, sometimes only my Colt Woodsman .22 pistol, sometimes both. Later in Yellowknife I was fond of packing a .44 Mag. in the bush. I had two, a S&W and a Ruger Blackhawk. My back-up firearm was a five shot, pump action, 12 ga. shotgun with an assortment of shells. Slugs, 00 buckshot, and some birdshot. A shotgun is probably the most versatile weapon ever invented.

Without a difficult to obtain and special permit, carrying a pistol in the bush in the NWT is highly illegal. However, for safety and convenience, I often did. Hmmm, I digress.

Seals have a very peculiar habit. At different times of the year they either sink or float when killed. During the summer when shot seals have a habit of sinking, it is best to shoot them with a shotgun and birdshot. This blinds them and buggers up their nostrils. Incapable of diving, they’re easy to get along side and harpoon or hook for dragging into the boat.

When hunting seals in open water, all one sees, is the top of their heads and their whiskered snout. A very small target, roughly grapefruit size. They have a very thin skull and it takes very little to kill them. When wounded and harpooned a good hard punch in the head will do it.

Flying. Pt.8. Contwoyto, a slight reprise.

Fri, 19 Aug 2005 18:45:48 GMT

http://www.ftlcomm.com/ensign/ensign2/mcintyre/pickofday/august04_03/mcavoy.html

http://1000aircraftphotos.com/Contributions/3312.htm

I never knew Chuck McAvoy, however the mystery of his disappearance in 1964 was still and often, the topic of discussion in '66. His flying exploits were legendary, one incident involving him actually running his wheels/skis across, and leaving marks on the roof of, The Old Stoppe Hotel on top of the Rock was popular.

Most people in the industry, knew in a very general way, where he had vanished and what he was doing at the time. The trouble was, his passengers were prospecting, so he hadn't told, and no one really knew exactly where he was going or what his plans were.

His penchant for bending the rules was well known. One theory to explain his utter disappearance was that he, his plane, and geologists contained there-in, simply exploded in mid air. It was known that he didn't particularly mind hauling, dynamite, blasting caps, fuse and barrels of gasoline, all at the same time. I don't know if he did but, most people smoked in those days. His plane didn't explode, but it did burn on impact.

I mention the incident and mystery simply because it was in the same general area Bill, the Nurse and I, had our Contwoyto adventure in the Otter. Who knows, we may even have flown over the crash site that day? It's also one of the great mysteries of the North, solved. I had photo's of the wreck, but can't remember where and if, I saved them on my H/D.

Another oft discussed mystery was the disappearance of Ken Stockall and his plane in the early 60's. I believe he was one of the founders of the famous Ptarmigan Airways. It was ten to fifteen years before someone noticed the wreckage of his plane, piled into a cliff, in a blind canyon in the Nahanni country.

Flying. Pt 7.

Fri, 19 Aug 2005 16:46:10 GMT

1966 turned into 1967, a long cold winter. At New Year's, barely visible through the ice fog, I remember the thermometer outside the Bank of NS on the corner of Franklin and 50th, read -50°F. It was very cold right through till after Easter. That was the winter, Edmonton, had temps in the minus 40° range, for almost thiry days straight.

Down at the old town Float/Ski base and out at the airport I continued on, doing the everyday, routine maintenance things of general aviation in the north. Things like; gas and oil, installing/removing engine covers, kicking frozen skis loose, sweeping wings, fixing small snags, humping freight on and off planes, dragging 'Herman Nelsons' around, you know, just general stuff.

Some days it would be too cold to fly or no flights would be booked. On those days we'd sit around the base, drinking coffee, telling jokes and swapping stories. Of course the funniest stories always involved unfortunate incident that happened at other companies.

There was a hilarious story involving the Mayor of Hay River, his street shoes, his Hay River pilot, losing his way, a fish camp on Great slave, a fish camp hut, coffee and a runaway airplane. It had us in stitches. The unfortunate twosome had come over from Hay River for a meeting.

The story went something like this: Returning home, crossing the lake they lost their way in the ice fog, circling, they eventually spotted a commercial fish camp out on the ice, they landed to ask for directions. The Mayor not wearing proper winter gear got his feet wet and almost frozen in the slush overflow. Once they'd landed by the fish hut, the pilot and mayor, leaving the plane running went inside for a quick coffee and a warm up.

Left to it's own devices and feeling ignored, wilfully the plane (a Cessna 180) stealthily advanced it's throttle to the point it was able to start creeping forward, gradually gathering speed until it was almost tail up. At that point the increasing engine noise attracted attention and someone went out to see what was going on. Seconds later they burst back into the hut yelling, "look out the plane is coming". In a rush everyone bailed out of the hut, just in time to witness the empty plane rushing by. It missed the hut with it's wing by no more than a hand's breadth. In astonishment they watched as plane, sans pilot, disappeared down the lake in a swirling cloud of propeller driven snow. Recovering from their surprise, they jumped in the fishermen's Bombardier 'Bug" and gave chase. After quite some distance in pursuit eventually they caught up to the plane when it's skis got stuck in a snow bank. It ended happily enough, no one was hurt.

The story was particularly funny to us in an 'I told you so', sort of way. While in YK the pilot had parked his airplane on the ice, close to our buildings. He'd made parking and fuel arrangements with our Boss. This pilot raised our eyebrows with his habit of coming down to the base in the morning to start his plane and let it warm up for a while. Trusting his skis had frozen to the ice overnight, he did this without tying the plane down or chocking the wheels and skis. The plane would sit there running and unattended for half an hour or so, while he sat inside our office watching it through the window and drinking coffee. I'm not sure if anyone was rude enough to mention this obvious foolishness to him, but he sure got a lot of funny looks and sideways glances in his direction. And, sure enough, it had come home to roost in the end.

We didn't get the story for a week after they'd departed our base. I'm sure I've forgotten some details, but when our pilot Daryl Brown told us, it had us rolling on the floor crying with laughter

Northern Nurses.

Thu, 18 Aug 2005 18:35:29 GMT

What can I say about those Northern Health, Nurses? They were/are great! They'd fly anywhere, at any time, with anyone, to provide emergeny medical/medevac assistance to those in need. Their bravery and dedication was boundless. One I know of, Judy Hill, paid the ultimate price for her Dedication.

Unfortunately, I do not remember which one of those girls was with us on the Contwoyto trip.

Flying. Pt.6. Contwoyto Lake.

Thu, 18 Aug 2005 16:55:31 GMT

A few days before Christmas 1966, NWTAir got a medevac request, to go and rescue a pregnant Inuit woman who was having difficulties. She and her husband were living in a very isolated part of the Barren Lands at Pellat Lake, close (relatively) by Contwoyto Lake NWT.

Contwoyto Lake is in the middle of the barrens, in those days it was hundreds of miles from anywhere. Long before satellites and GPS, Pacific Western Airlines staffed and maintained a small weather station and navigation beacon there. It was central to their northern routes. In the late 70's, early 80's, Echo Bay Mines operated a gold mine (Lupin) at the north end of the lake. The trucking company I worked for at that time, built and maintained a winter ice road to Lupin from Yellowknife.

Nowadays, it is at the center of the diamond mining and exploration area. There is even talk of building an all weather road to it, south from the Bathurst Inlet area. In '66 the PWA weather station on Contwoyto was in the middle of nowhere and accessible only by bush plane.

So, with pilot Bill at the controls, me as 'co-pilot' and crew, and accompanied by a Northern Health Nurse, off we went in the single engine Otter, CF-NTR. It was or was close to, the shortest day of the year, we were pressed for daylight, it was at least a two hour flight in one direction, the sky was overcast and a stiff breeze was blowing.

Arriving in the neighbourhood of Pellat Lake we circled for a while in the dwindling daylight, trying with no luck to spot the Inuit camp or some evidence of it. A difficult task considering the camp was a single, off-white tent frame, surrounded by a few dark patches, in the middle of a white desert. Not finding it, Bill decided to proceed to Contwoyto, set down for the night and look again next morning.

In my whole life I don't know how many bullets I've dodged, but I can say without doubt, our landing in the Otter at Conywoyto, was a shot fired specifically in my direction. The 'runway/airstrip' was completely unimproved and consisted of nothing more than a line of 45 gal. oil drums set out on the ice. Just finding it in the dusk was an accomplishment. The wind was blowing a gale, visibility was minimal in the ground drift of snow.

As Bill let down on final approach in the gloom, we were subjected to severe crosswind buffeting. As we tried to land, that old Otter was getting bounced all over the sky, up down and sideways. Touching down, the crosswind was so bad, we almost caught the left wing-tip on a snow bank. Bill's knuckles were white trying to maintain control as we careened down the strip, bouncing from the tops of rock hard, then fluffy soft, snow drifts. I could do nothing except re-tighten my seat belt and brace my feet on the floor under the rudder pedals and hang on to the nearest strut. I mean we were bouncing....... why we didn't nose-in, or stall and do a back flip, I'll never know.

Finally, skidding to stop in a white blizzard of swirling, whirling, blinding snow, Bill shut down the angine and exhaled, he and I just sat looking at each other in deafening silence, neither saying a word. At that moment, the nurse, God bless her, poked her head around the bulkhead and piped up with something cheery, blissfully unaware of how narrowly we had, only moments ago escaped death, in a (semi) Controlled Descent, into Terrain.

Flying. Pt.5. Contwoyto Lake. 2.0

Wed, 17 Aug 2005 18:46:22 GMT

Controlled Flight into Terrain. Hmmm, I recently read the term in an accident investigation report, liked it, and appropriated it for my blog. The official definition snipped from The Flight Safety Foundation web page ( http://www.flightsafety.org/home.html ), is as follows:

CFIT occurs when an airworthy aircraft under the control of the flight crew is flown unintentionally into terrain, obstacles or water, usually with no prior awareness by the crew. This type of accident can occur during most phases of flight, but CFIT is more common during the approach-and-landing phase, which begins when an airworthy aircraft under the control of the flight crew descends below 5,000 feet above ground level (AGL) with the intention to conduct an approach and ends when the landing is complete...."

Controlled Flight into Terrain. What a banal and innocuous, yet brilliantly concise euphemism that is. I used it, even though our (almost) crash landing incident would have been more of an ALA (Approach and Landing Accident).
Whatever. It took great skill and concentration by Bill, to get us safely landed. Another consideration and complication being the fact the aircraft was on wheel/skis, basically removing all braking capabilities from the landing. Of course there was no, turbine, reverse-pitch prop on a DHC-3 Otter either.
Several years ago, I ran into Bill at a reunion picnic. Almost the first thing he said to me was, "Remember that time I tried to kill us all on Contwoyto Lk.?" He seemed chagrined and embarrassed by it. Personally, I thought it was one of the greatest landings I'd ever been involved in. But I wasn't driving.
I have nothing but admiration for his piloting skills. Sorry Bill. I don't know if I ever shared that with you.
Break, break...
So, there we were, safely on the ground at Contwoyto. We put the engine tent on the airplane and hauled our sleeping gear up to the base/living quarters. There we met two of the most 'bushed' guys I've ever encountered. Wild men almost, they'd been isolated together at Contwoyto for nearly six months and were barely on speaking terms with each other.
Although they were probably glad of human company on the one hand, on the other, a sudden intrusion into their solitude by three complete strangers (one, a not unpleasant young woman), threw them for a loop. I, was strongly of the impression, they were not comfortable with our presence. Undoubtedly, a contributing factor was, our arrival was virtually un-announced and we brought nothing in the way of our or their supplies. Not only that, but they had living quarters (and food supplies) for two, not five. It must have stressed them immensely.
Putting on a brave face, under the circumstances those guys did the best they could to make us comfortable and welcome. Unfortunately they ended up with us staying with them for three days. The stormy, windy weather that had given us so much trouble on landing, didn't let up next morning, the morning after that or the morning after that. Finally on Christmas Eve, it died down enough for us to leave and we arrived back in YK shortly before darkness.
What a chore! Starting a, frozen solid, snow filled, radial engine outside at forty below. A big, gasoline, primus type, heater is used. A risky business considering one is placing, an open flame, connected by a canvas snorkel tube, under a canvas enclosed, gasoline engine, to heat it up. It always scared the living shit out of me to do it. Cold fingers! On top of the obvious fire danger, I'll give you cold fingers! But we got her cranked.
Did I mention we were only supposed to have been gone for half a day? Well we were, and I only took the cigarettes I had in my pocket with me. This started to be a problem at the end of day one as I was the only smoker and no one else or the camp had any smokes. I ended up opening the plane's emergency ration kit and liberating the tobacco and papers from it. Not a big deal to you, but it was extremely important to me. Sorry to say, I don't think I ever replaced those items in the pack.
I felt bad about it, but we never did find or pick up the pregnant Inuit woman. I heard that she suffered a miscarriage and eventually her husband hauled her to Contwoyto by dog sled and, in the new year someone else flew out and got her. That bit I'm fuzzy on....

Flying. Pt.4.

Tue, 16 Aug 2005 18:29:09 GMT

Here's a P&W R-985 at start-up. Actually, it sounds more like an Otter with a R-1340, but you get the picture. What a sound! Ain't it great?

http://www.huaa.com/sounds/StartUp2.wav

Flying. Pt.3.

Tue, 16 Aug 2005 18:17:33 GMT

There is absolutely no sound that does more to invoke memories and nostalgia for the North, than the sound and snap, of a Pratt & Whitney R-985 Wasp Jr. with a two bladed prop, at the first application of take-off power. So many memories of good times.

Here's a link to a forum I just found. Some funny stuff, I particularly like the bit about radial engines and helicopters trying to shed vital parts. :-)

http://www.rcuniverse.com/forum/m_1974327/tm.htm

Flying. Pt.1.

Sat, 23 Jul 2005 19:16:16 GMT

July 13

Ok. Something I started.

Hmmm, I could tell a bit about my aviation experiences in YK.

I arrived to take up permanent residence in Yellowknife, on Thanksgiving 1966. I came South having just spent the previous four years living and working in small, mostly native communities, throughtout the central Arctic and around Hudsons Bay.

Ever since I was a little boy growing up in England right after the War, I'd been in love with airplanes and had wanted to be a pilot. While in the Arctic, I'd flown around on small airplanes and at my last job in Cambridge Bay NU.,some of my duties included writing tickets and refueling airplanes for PWA and small, bush plane, charter companies. I'd met Bob Engles, the owner of a small outfit called Northwest Territorial Airways. One of my first visits after I'd arrived in YK was a drop in and chat with Bob Engles. I was delighted when out of the blue, he asked me if I wanted a job. "Oh yes please", "OK you can start on Monday as an apprentice mechanic."

Holy Crapweasel, just like that, with a keen interest but very little actual experience, I'd been invited and accepted into the very exclusive and elite community of Northern Bush pilots and airplanes. I was in awe of how lucky a young lad could be.

Northwest Territorial at that time was very small. We had three planes, a DeHaviland single Otter(CF-NTR), A Beech 18 and a Cessna 180, a DC-3 (CF-BZI) was added to the fleet shortly after Christmas. Competition for customers along the float plane bases of YK in '66 was fierce. There were three main contenders, side by each, all in a row. Closest to town was Wardair, Northwest was in the middle and Northward Aviation (a subsidiary of PWA) was at the Latham Island end. Around the corner of 'The Rock' were Gateway and Ptarmigan Airways, we didn't see or hear much of them. Although in a bit of a slump, Wardaird was our main competition, even though Northward had a couple of scheduled routes, they wouldn't turn a prop for a week at a time. We on the other hand were busy. Like sports teams, guys from each company never associated with guys from the opposition and everyone thought their company the best and, looked down on everyone else.

Winter progressed and I found out that an apprentice mechanic's job consisted mostly of refueling, checking oil levels, humping freight and very occasionally under close supervision, a bit of simple wrenching. All of the above was done outside, on the ice of Back Bay in whatever weather we were getting that day. Small repairs were done quickly, with bare hands without any protection from the cold, if a major repair was neccessary, a parachute and Herman Nelson heater were deployed. So you were either freezing your butt off or sweating to death in a tee shirt, under a parachute. On the plus side, sometimes I would get to go along on trips, sitting in the right hand seat, acting as crew, occasionally doing a bit of map reading or taking the controls for some straight and level flight.

Flying Pt.2.

Sat, 23 Jul 2005 19:14:00 GMT

After it was made Capital of the NWT, the biggest thing to happen in Yellowknife in the winter of '66-'67 was the disappearance of the Beaver CF-OBE* and its pilot Bob Gauthier while en-route between Cambridge Bay (Ikalootutiak) and Yellowknife. A huge search was mounted on his supposed track, the RCMP, the Military SAR and many local pilots volunteered their time and airplanes to no avail. This happened just around Christmas and New year.

No trace of the missing plane and pilot were to be found. Eventually the official search was called off and hope of finding Bob alive dwindled. I myself made several trips in Northwest's Cessna 180 with pilot Pete Cowie, out in the frozen blue yonder in a vain attempt to find Bob.

Once, returning home from an unsuccessful search, Pete Cowie flew that little 180 in parabolic curves just for the hell of it. It was fun watching stuff levitate off the floor and dash, the ashtrays self empty, the lunch and pee bags float around as if by magic, and getting that real zero gravity lurch, in your stomach. If I think about it, I can still recreate the feeling in my mind.

Months passed, then on the evening of April Fools Day '67, a rumour spread around town that Bob and his plane had been found. It was true, he and his plane had been found on Samandre Lake, up by Great Bear, miles and miles off track from where he should have been.

For ninety days, surviving on a plane full of frozen Arctic Char, keeping warm with smudge fires, burning oil from his engine, face and hands blackened by frost bite and oil smoke, camping in the undamaged airplane, surrounded by caribou and a few wolves, he'd managed to keep himself alive. His arm was injured and several times he'd been on the point of cutting the offending limb off with his axe, trouble was, every time he'd pick up the axe and get ready to do it, he'd pass out.

An incredible tale of survival. On his way south, he'd lost his way in a storm and finally, just before he ran out of gas and it got completely dark, he'd landed and sat for a very long time, waiting for rescue. At that time, and I think to this day, Bob holds the record for the longest time being lost in the bush and actually living to tell the tale.

The plane as I said, was undamaged, oil and gas were flown out to it and after a check it was flown out of there. I next encountered plane and pilot at Arctic Star Lodge where he and it, were based for flyout trips a couple of summers later.

Then of course there was Marten Hartwell. His struggle for survival happened in '72, years later, but under similar circumstances. Lost in the dark in a storm, he crashed into a range of high hills west of Hottah Lake.

The odd thing is, Marten's crash site was within distant sight of our Ice Road to Great Bear Lake. While we were buildin our first ice road, we were probably passing within 30 miles of him and his crash site and never even knew it.

A memorable trip during my employment with Northwest Air, was a trip on our DC-3 to Uranium City with a team of Yellowknife hockey players. They were unruly to say the least, unfortunately it was my unpleasant assignment, as 24 hockey players consumed much beer and other beverages of their choice, to try to keep some semblance of order in the cabin. Boy, I'll tell ya, those hockey players weren't too interested in returning their trays to the upright position, not smoking or staying seated till the plane came to a complete stop.

For most of the trip they drank beer, gathered in small groups lurching up and down the isles and from side to side of the plane. Making the airplane difficult to trim and getting the pilots pissed off. Me, the unhappy cabin crew, short of getting my lights punched out, could do little to stop the hi-jinks. I think in the end, I went up front, closed the cockpit door and sat in the jump seat.

Ah, but it got even better, in the Uranium City hotel, it was just one big drunken party, with the local floozies, all night long. I think the hotel kicked us all out in the end. The only outing I can compare to it for rowdiness, is the time I drove a busload of Broomball players to Hay River and back. They, drank so much beer, the bus toilet overflowed. We don't talk about the Ptarmigan Inn or The Hay River Legion........best forgotten, those.

The trip to Uranium City wasn't wasted though, our pilot, Daryl Brown taught me several useful things. Never use a hotel wash basin, (he referred to them as English urinals), never drink out of a hotel room glass (because the same rag used to clean the toilet is also used to wipe out the glasses), and the one meal you can count on to be consistent in a hotel coffee shop is a Hot Beef Sandwich, supposedly they're always the same. Personally, I vote for the Veal Cutlets. Daryl also taught me a little rhyme, "No drinking, no smoking, no gambling......... nohh midnight rambling........please remain seated during take-off and landing."

* A little research reveals that CF- OBE was in fact a Norseman and still flying as such in 1996, so I may have the registration wrong, perhaps it was CF-IOB.

Salamita.

Sat, 23 Jul 2005 19:11:56 GMT

Salmita.

An old friend and co-worker (DC) sent me this little Ice Road story yesterday. Just one of the many mini adventures we used to have.

I remember driving one of the Autocar 6 X 6's hauling a short assed "Blonden" fuel tanker, to the mine at Salmita way up on MacKay Lake. The damn truck was as long as the tanker. After Gordy W flew me up in Robinsons 185 to just south of the tree line. I repaired the front driver's side hub which had broken off because of the constant pounding and bitter cold. Then I drove truck and tanker to their destination. It was quite a trip.

The previous operator, the one who drove it 'till it calved, hitched a ride to the mine with someone else a couple of days earlier on--- Part way there, our convoy was overtaken by a blizzard and white-out conditions. Most of the road had drifted over in a wind storm earlier, they put me in the lead because the old girl had an 8,000 lb vee plow up front. In order to support the weight of the plow, the front leaf spring packs were about 20" thick!

When I couldn't see where I was going in the drifting/blowing snow, I lowered the plow. When I hit the left or right wind-rows (from previous plowed trips) I kinda figured out where the plowed "road "actually was.

Billy Warren and 4 or 5 other guys (young Weatherby was one-can't remember his name) were in the convoy - I can't quite remember who else-followed. Almost stalling the old 220 Cummins, there were times when the plow would catch and suck me into the roadside snowbank. Most of the time when that happened I had to stop---back up a bit and try to find the "road" again. Billy W, was following so close behind (so he could see the back of my tanker), that I almost backed into the front of his truck a couple of times.

The only gauge on the dash that worked was the tach. The hydraulic, plow controls were bolted to the dash and leaked like a sieve. The seat was propped up with a stack of 2 X 4's. You could see daylight out of numerous holes and cracks in the cab, the old bus heater was running full blast, all the time, trying to keep up. I was having fun doing this! Can you believe that? Yup the good ole days eh! Well I thought they were at the time.

The guys behind me kept bitching at me---because of the conditions I couldn't get the plow truck going as fast as they would have liked to travel- etc. I got stuck once and Billy had to hook up to me and pull me back.--so I said "ok one of you bastards can drive this thing "-and guess what---there weren't any takers-so they shut up after that. When we got closer to the mine and it cleared up Sonny Arden met us with a cat down on the lake. I never minded always smelling of diesel fuel back then. Black hands and black face too.

Young Weatherby was driving a Mack (I think it was blue), it had NO rear suspension- only a solid walking beam, no rubber blocks---no springs, no airbags...nothing! I remember it rode so rough, the tape in the cassette deck constantly popped out.
I rode back to YK in it, roughest ride I've ever had - you almost had to stop to talk !! - Probably what screwed my back and hip, and made me drink and smoke too!

International long nose West coasters, with Rolls Royce diesels, he had two didn't he? Never knew that RR even made diesels. Never seen anything like them before or since. How about the black Mack Factor you drove?

Got a heater in my truck...........

Sat, 23 Jul 2005 19:02:08 GMT

"Got a heater in my truck...."

"Forty below this, forty below that, Oh Bullship!" I hear you saying. "Why is it always forty below, in these adventures?" Actually a few of them took place at even colder temps, in the -45°C range. I'll note it when they do. People may say otherwise, but truthfully, -48°C is about as cold as it gets on a regular basis south of the tree-line, maybe one or two nights a year, usually around Christmas.

When I say forty below, or -40°, I'll admit it's a generalisation, I mean at least -40° but usually, not more cold than -41 or -42F. Neither do I mean; wind chill, almost forty below, a media 'forty below', or a 'Dan Rather'.. 'forty below', etc. I'm talking the about real deal.

Minus 40 degrees is a magic number. At -40° two temperature scales intersect briefly, Celsius and Fahrenheit meet at 'forty below'. It's a wondrous number. It's a nice round number. It says 'cold' to one's mind, it elicits visions of coldness. We've been educated to think of -40° as the epitome of cold and the human struggle to prevail and conquer in extremes. It's folklore.

At -40°, things really start to freeze or breakdown. At -40°, all the good stuff inevitably happens!

Naturally, it wasn't forty below all the time, the average daily winter temperature in the NWT is probably closer to -25°C/-13°F. Those were nice days, brakes worked, windshields stayed clear, cab heaters could keep up, fuel filters didn't clog, tires weren't square on the bottom and... wearing nothing more than jeans and a tee-shirt, one could get out of the truck for a quick whiz.

An old joke: Define an Arctic Expert?

That's a guy who can pee through six inches of clothing, with two inches of equipment.

You can even make a quick inspection of your truck, tires and load, without having to get into all your outside, winter gear. In winter, -20°C is considered a warm day. At forty below, everything gets difficult!

Driving on the Ice Roads, one could always tell when the temp had dropped to minus 40. An ice fog descended, exhaust fumes hung in the air longer, your steering, brake pedals, transmission and clutch stiffened up, your tires really squeaked on the ice, your trailer started to drag a bit harder. Frost started to work its way in from the corners of your windshield, your mirrors got a little cloudy and had hoar frost on them. A chill would stealthily invade the cab. If anything had a mind to break or go wrong, that was when it would decide to do so.

Some drivers tried securing thermometers to their outside, truck mirrors. It never worked. At forty below, the plastic ones broke and fell off, the metal ones vibrated to bits, needles froze, or the glass tube shrank, fell out, or broke.

Metals used in hitches, trailer springs and truck motor mounts, seem particularly susceptible to failure as the temps dip past forty below. The further past -40, the more brittle they get. Hit a bump too fast and 'bingo!', broken spring leaves. Air and fuel lines become, stiff as sticks and about as useful. And of course the colder it gets, the more brittle gets the ice.

At -40°, with the hood up, you've got thirty minutes, if you're lucky... an hour max, to repair any problem. After that you might as well just get back in your cab, conserving as much warmth as you can and wait for the next truck to come along and give you a ride. Chances are, your truck will not run again that day.

Below the tree line, in the bush and off the bigger lakes, at forty below, the air is invariably still. Get above the tree line, or out on a large lake and forty below is always accompanied by a 10-15 Km/h breeze. Suck the warmth right out of you, in jig time.

Forty below? Yes, it was always at least forty below when the bad, interesting stuff happened and stories were born

Ice Roads. Pt.1.

Sat, 23 Jul 2005 19:00:47 GMT

Yellowknife to Great Bear Lake, NWT. - Yellowknife to Contwoyto Lake, NWT.
It was a: Cold, warm, freezing, sweaty, easy, hard, exciting, boring, well paid, poorly paid, difficult, dangerous, piece of cake, beautiful, drab, fast, slow, stimulating, sleep inducing, dirty, clean, scary, tame, infuriating, peaceful, frustrating - type of job.
Ice Roads: Built/drove 'em, on/off for ten years, loved/hated every second of it. Drove all manner of trucks and equipment, sometimes I ate steak, other times... sticks and snowballs. Froze my ass, fingers, ears, cheeks, nose and toes. Made lifelong friends, acquired detractors. Stank of diesel fuel. Was ignorant, learned a lot.
Went places no ordinary highway truck was ever meant to go, drove on a paved highway. Broke; springs, seats, motor mounts, snow ploughs and resolutions, burnt clutches. Slept across the truck seats, slept in a stinky bunkhouse. Froze my sleeping bag to the wall, stuck my feet out the side window, occasionally kicked off all my blankets.
Always tried to get back to town by the weekend, to get real drunk and foolish. Never smoked dope or drank on the road. Lots did, I didn't. Never went though the ice, sank a truck or got in an accident. I had a heart attack at age 39.
I'm proud to say I knew and worked with John Denison and both his sons, Richard and John Jr. I'm proud of my work with Robinson's Trucking. The North and Canada owe them all a lot.
That about sums up Ice Roads. Would I do it again? Thirty years younger and I might.
http://www.harbourpublishing.com/book_excerpt.php?book_id=244&text_id=109&source=webonly

Some pix in my albums.

10-4! Good Buddy.

Sat, 23 Jul 2005 18:59:01 GMT

One evening in October 1971, I was sitting having coffee in the Gold Range Cafe, in Yellowknife, with a couple of my cab driving buddies, Ronny Coward and Stan Buck. They announced they were going up to Inuvik NWT, to drive gravel truck, on the construction of the new Dempster Highway. There was good money to be made. ($5/hr) "Why don't you come with us?" they asked. I replied, "I don't know how to drive one of those big trucks." "Don't worry about that, we'll teach you." they said. So began my truck driving career.

They put in a word for me with the contractor and next thing I knew I was in Inuvik and sitting in the cab of a brand new Kenworth. Ronny gave me a quick ten minute lesson on how to shift a two stick, five speed main/four speed auxiliary (5+4=20 speed) gearbox, where the emergency brakes were, and off I went. Holy Batweasel, I got good in a very short time! Within a week, I was shifting gears, using both hands simultaneously, one reaching through the steering wheel to steady it, and never touching the clutch. Yahoo! I was a truck driver! I loved it, I was hooked.

After about a month on the Dempster, just before Christmas '71, an Ice Storm shut down the job. It was so slippery, if you stopped in the middle of the road, unless you were completely level, you slid into the ditch. After some serious partying in the Mad Trapper bar, ( "play Memphis!" and drinking Brandy Alexander's) rather than hanging around Inuvik we went back down to Yellowknife to spend the holidays.

Christmas came and went and so did we... back up to Inuvik. This time though we were to be based in Aklavik, hauling gravel through the bush, to a new Dome Petroleum drilling rig. Oh, it was bitterly cold. Doing anything was always a chore, fuel and brake line were always freezing, thing kept snapping, loads froze in the truck boxes, I was on night shift and my cross-shift driver was a tobacco chewing pig. He used to spit his tobacco juice out the truck window... occasionally without opening the window first. The truck cab stank of spit and chewed tobacco, it was a mess. There was tobacco spit on the window, both sides, on the mirrors and down the outside of the door. I was not a happy camper.

Wow! My cross-shift! Lets call him 'John'. The hilarious thing was; Three years previously, I'd had 'John' as a psychotic, murdering, inmate, guest, at the Yellowknife Correctional Institute. Ol' John had battered his wife to death, and we'd had him locked safely up in Maximum Security for 'observation'. Honest to Dog, no B.S! He was nuttier than a fruit cake, he kept stuffing his bedding in his toilet and flooding his cell, he would reach into his toilet as far as he could, feeling around for listening devices, he kept track of the time by sticking a paper plate on his cell wall with chewing gum then drawing hands on it like a clock, as the day progressed, he'd torque the plate to keep it on time. I think he was slightly wall or cross-eyed. Whatever...his look was weird and crazy. Obviously he could be violent when intoxicated. Huh? How did he get away with that killing? Imagine my delight and surprise at sharing a truck with him. Delight... because he didn't recognise me. Surprise! I didn't push the tobacco juice issue.

We stayed in the old Aklavik Hotel. It was ancient, a mouse infested, cold, drafty, sleeping bag frozen to the wall, type of Palace. Probably dating back to the beginning of the twentieth century, its only claim to fame was its proximity to the Mad Trapper's grave. The only good thing about it was old Frank, (perhaps he worked for us, I forget). Old Frank was about the last person alive who had been actively involved in the manhunt for Albert Johnson, the Mad Trapper of Rat River. He liked to tell stories about that adventure.

http://www.mysteriesofcanada.com/NWT/madtrapper.htm

Aklavik was my first experience of driving a fully loaded gravel truck on an ice road. The first night I was instructed to do it, I refused point blank. Having refused, for an hour I sat quivering with rage and indecision, truck fully loaded in the gravel pit, debating my options. I almost quit right there and was on the brink of driving the truck back to town and getting on the first plane out. "Drive this gravel truck up that river, on the ice, across the river at a sharp bend, repeat all night. Are you nuts? No f*ing way!"

Eventually I succumbed to peer pressure and common sence, the other trucks after all, were coming and going from the jobsite. I was sitting there looking like an idiot. "Ok, I'll give it one try." I was scared spitless.

Easing the truck down onto the river, off I went in second gear. The first little bit was ok, the road hugged the shore, crossing shallow bits, on and off gravel bars. Further up, the banks got steeper and we were driving on the river ice proper. The worst bit was when I had to drive past the sunken remains of Gerry Warren's truck. A fully loaded gravel truck sinks instantly, stern first. He broke through the ice and sank a month before. He survived, but his truck was now sitting vertically, on its end-gate, on the bottom of the river. The only part of his truck still visible was the front bumper and tow hook poking above the ice surface.

Did I mention how scared I was? I was petrified! On my first trip up the river, I wouldn't sit inside the truck. Instead, I selected a creeping gear, pulled out the hand throttle, stood outside on the truck step, reaching in and steering through the open window. For ten miles I did that. I didn't sink, but I damn near froze to death. Too bloody cold, the cold got the better of me... the other drivers to say the least, were amused by my timidity, so I only made the one trip standing outside. After that I sat inside, but with the windows rolled down. It wasn't pleasant and I didn't enjoy the experience. After three weeks I quit and went back to Yellowknife, but not before traversing the entire Mackenzie Delta, Aklavik to Inuvik... returning the trucks to Inuvik over an ice road.

I have vague memories of hauling gravel at another oil rig in the Delta there, somewhere out towards Tuk-tuk I think. I only remember two things about it. One: Our bunkhouse was situated right in the gravel pit so, because of the noise it was almost impossible to get a good night's sleep and Two: The food was tremendously good, particularly breakfast. I love bacon. The camp cooks did many pounds of it in the oven each morning. Of course we poured maple syrup over everything.

My issues with my first ice roads experience were many. I knew nothing about the load bearing capacity of fresh water ice, I knew not who built the ice road, I didn't trust whoever did - we already had one truck sunk, it was pitch dark, cold..in the minus 40 range. We only had three or four trucks running so it could be a long time before anyone came along to rescue any driver who got in trouble. I had no idea how many feet/inches of ice I was driving over or how deep was the water. The whole concept of an ice road on a mountain river, to me, seemed extremely foolhardy.

Next winter, all that changed.

Survivors and Franklin.

Sat, 23 Jul 2005 18:56:09 GMT

1964: Since the Franklin Expedition a hundred and twenty years before, certain things hadn't changed much. One of the things that hadn't changed was the unreliability of the annual re-supply. In '63, because of ice conditions the supply ship had failed to reach Gjoa Haven on King William Island. By June of '64 all our (HBC) protein stores were exhausted. Not enamoured with boiled seal (complete with eye-balls), and tired of fish, young Chester Porter and I, went duck hunting five to ten miles SW of Gjoa Haven, close to Booth Point. At one point we sat down to rest on some rocks.

The rocks I was sitting on I now recognize as a ruined cairn (not Inukshuk), or a food cache. Not Inukshuk, because one doesn't pull those down. A popular area, several, ancient and modern tent rings were evident. Because of the very localized vegetation and proximity to the river, I'm inclined to favour the latter, a cache.

It's possible, I was sitting on a cache, constructed by members of Franklin's Lost/Last Expedition? It is known from other relics found in the area that a few last desperate survivors reached here.

I was surprised when I observed close by, what appeared to be the remains of stone walls. I asked Chester about them. He couldn't tell me much other than; they were the remnants of houses built by a mythical people long ago.

He said, these ancient people were not related to the Inuit of the present. He told me the remains were built by, as local legend would have it, a race of giants. He had a name for those giants; 'Tunii'. I now know he was referring to people of the Thule Culture.

I wish I'd quizzed him more and had time to poke around a bit. However, our search for something to eat was pressing and I investigated no further and never got a chance to return to that spot.

Bears.

Sat, 23 Jul 2005 18:51:41 GMT

Bears. There's a subject I was going to get around to later but........I see it came up elsewhere in another blog.
There is so much bullship, written and told about bears, it boggles the mind.
Grizzly Bears: I've no experience with, never saw one in the flesh, not even in Banff or Jasper. Outside the movies 99.9% of Canadians haven't seen one either. The only civilians that might ever encounter one are experienced hikers, hunters or fisherman in remote areas of the Canadian west. Most of those people know how to avoid aggressive interaction with Griz.
Polar Bears: Again, despite living in the NWT High Arctic for years, I never saw a live one. I can tell you... they will deliberately hunt you if they're hungry enough and of a mind to. Polar Bears are rare, 99.9% of Canadians don't have to worry about them. Unless of course they're 'Lost'.
Black Bears: Hmmm, now there's a thing. I've had many Black Bear encounters. The single most important thing with Black Bears is their unpredictability. I've been close enough to a big male to stick my hand in his ear, but most of the time they've been running away, more scared of me, than I was of them. Of course, there was the famous incident up in High Level, Alta. A Black Bear actually attacked a geologist and his girlfriend, chased him up a tree, caught, killed and partially ate her, then buried her remainder under a pile of leaves for later.
Three things that attract Black Bears: Small yappy dogs, frying bacon (they can smell it for miles), a pile of dead fish (likewise). Three things that sometimes deter Black Bears: Several large aggressive dogs, yelling and making a lot of noise, firearms. If the bear is determined, the only thing that really works, is the later.
I never went into the bush unarmed. In my humble opinion, anyone that goes into wild, bear country unarmed, is foolish.
"Oh my dog, Britney, he's talking about guns and killing things." "Oh, bears are so cute, why would anyone ever want to shoot one?" "Well Tif, you silly little yuppie, if a bear was about to bite yer lily white, Malmartian arse, you might consider shooting it!"
A friend of mine was woken up one morning by a Black Bear trying to break through his cabin door. With regret he was forced to shoot right through the door and kill it. Of course it was out of season, but what can you do?
Actually, of the many bears I've met in the bush, I never had to shoot and kill one, like I said, most of the time they were running away. A few times, I had to actively discourage their continued presence. Once by sticking my .44 Mag out of the tent flap and busting a cap along side the bear's ear, another time by peppering one's butt with bird shot and once by shooting over one's head. Even though that one had two cubs, when I fired in her direction, she ran away leaving the cubs up a tree.
My final thought. Sport hunting any type of bear is a crime against nature. There is no reason for it. Outlaw the practice.

Hmmm, since I wrote this, there have been a couple of fatal, Black Bear, attacks on humans. 12 ga. Don't leave home without it.

Hairy Horny Bastids.

Fri, 22 Jul 2005 22:45:31 GMT

My brother recently told me he wanted less rants and more stories. So be it.

The following, took place over forty years ago, so my memory of all the details, is fuzzy.

I'd been in Rankin Inlet NWT about six months when the HBC., winter 'post' inspection plane (a DeHaviland Beaver), arrived from Winnipeg with the CEO of Northern Stores on board. 'Big wigs' I thought, nothing to do with me. They'd been on site a few days and were ready to move on when I got the word I was going with them. I packed my bags, said goodbye to my buddies and off we went.

Green as grass, naive and trusting as hell, with not a clue where we were going. That's me. It turned out, in mid winter, by air, we were on our way to Spence Bay via Repulse Bay and Igloolik. The Post Manager of Igloolik, had recently died, we had a new 'post' manager on board for Igloolik, and were going to deposit me as part of the new staff in Spence Bay.

I'd heard the names of those places, but that's it, not a clue as to their actual physical locations in the Great White North, nor the distances involved.

Over-flying Chesterfield Inlet heading north, I think the only reason we stopped in Repulse Bay was to overnight and refuel. It was a long flight and daylight was short. About the only thing of the flight I remember was, how cold my feet were.

Before I'd left Rankin, a shipment of sheepskins had arrived and thinking myself very clever, I'd had one of the local Eskimo women, make me a pair of sheepskin mukluks. That was a mistake. Sheepskin leather attracts moisture and the wool compresses flat when wet. I have big feet, the mukluks were too small and I couldn't get a proper pair of duffle socks in them.

Starting out excited and overheated, my feet were sweating. About an hour into the flight, my feet were just about frozen! The Bossman (P.A.C. Nichols) had taken note of my silly footwear and kept asking me if I was ,"alright, in the back of the plane there." I wasn't. I was most uncomfortable. The temp outside the plane was at least minus forty, there was very little cabin heat making it's way around our cargo of baggage etc, to the back, where I was sitting. My feet, low on the floor, were so cold I was actually near to tears. But being young, stupid and loathe to admit to an error in judgement, I kept insisting I was okay. In the end, my feet didn't freeze but I was very glad when we finally landed at Repulse Bay. Oh yeah, I almost forgot, on that flight we had Coffemate in our coffee, that was the first time I'd ever tasted it. To this day. I prefer Coffeemate above all else in my coffee.

It was a long time ago so all I really remember about our stay in Repulse, is the part native, store Manager's name, Henry Voisey, and what we had for supper.

Henry and his wife, had a special treat laid on for us. Roast Caribou and onions with instant mashed potatoes and canned veg. In the old Northern tradition, Henry referred to Caribou, simply as, 'Deer'.

Please remember I was a civilised 'city boy', young and new to the Arctic. I had never eaten any kind of wild game before and wasn't exactly sure how I was going to like it. Hell, I barely knew what a caribou looked like, never mind how it tasted.

Supper was served. "Yikes, what the hell is that?" The room was quite dark, being lit by only a single hissing, Coleman gas lamp, suspended over the table, casting a large shadow directly underneath. Even in those days I must have been somewhat far sighted, because no matter how hard I tried, I was unable to focus my eyes properly on my plate. Believe me, in the gloom, I went cross-eyed trying.

Did I mention caribou hair is hollow, easily floats around in the air and gets everywhere when the animal is being skinned and dressed out? Well, there was a single caribou hair stuck to my piece of meat. Convection heat from the meal was causing that single hair to stand up and gently wave around. I was convinced it was some kind of parasitic worm and it was looking for a new host.

Oh my dog, what the hell was I going to do. I couldn't properly see what it was and didn't want to offend or appear stupid by pointing it out or asking it's nature. So, I just sat there quietly and politely, gagging internally and eating around it. I ate everything except that one last tiny little corner of meat with the hair on it. I left it on my plate, pretending I didn't see it, then lied to our hosts about how much I'd enjoyed my dinner.

Actually, caribou meat is very tasty! Since that time, I've eaten my way through several. But, I'll never forget that caribou hair and how much it grossed me out. Holy Crapweasel. I was dumb. D'oh!

Next morning we had a whiteman's breakfast of pancakes and canned bacon, then left to continue our journey to Igloolik.