601 lines
30 KiB
Plaintext
601 lines
30 KiB
Plaintext
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A SHAREWARE TRIAL PROJECT
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YOUR SUPPORT WILL ENSURE THE SUCCESS OF THIS ENDEAVOR
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PLEASE SELECT "FOR FURTHER EMJOYMENT" FROM THE MAIN MENU
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THE ARCTIC CIRCLE AND BEYOND
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BY
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JIM PRENTICE
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COPYRIGHT 1990, JIM PRENTICE, BRANDON, MANITOBA, CANADA
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The Arctic. Hardly the place for a private pilot
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from Southern Manitoba.
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The conditions and expenses involved in a flight
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north of the arctic circle eliminate all but the very
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fortunate, or the very rich.
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The high arctic has it's own mystique. Countless
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reams have been written about the challenges, hard
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ships, triumphs, and defeats of Arctic travellers. I
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doubt if there will ever be a time which parallels the
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present for entrepreneurs north of the tree line.
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As technology grows in more southern climes, so
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grows the demand in the northern areas. The government
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controls much of the advances in technology in the
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northern communities, whether through political
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maneuvering, or outright favoritism.
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Whatever the reason, the task of getting the job
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done often rests on the more energetic and ambitious
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businessman.
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It is to my great advantage that I am a good
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friend of one of these businessmen.
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Gordon owns a plumbing and heating business in The
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Pas, in Northern Manitoba. He has many contracts in the
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local area, and does quite well by them. His business
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is different, in that he also has contracts in the high
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arctic.
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Through contracts with DPW (Department of Public
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Works), he has crews in the high arctic. They are
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installing plumbing and heating equipment in new
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construction projects, and refurbishing older
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installations.
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To some, this may seem to be a lucrative contract.
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In some ways, it is. If you discount the logistic
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problems involved in installing a heating system in a
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school, perhaps 1000 miles from the nearest high way,
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you may come to realize the complexities involved.
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Literally everything used in this project must
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come in by air. Men, equipment, tools, and material.
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The tools are not the simple box of wrenches required
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by a mechanic. Nor the assortment of screwdrivers and
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pliers of an electrician.
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The heating expert must bring in the equipment
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required to convert sheet metal into ductwork. The
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breaks, and rollers. The shears, hammers, formers and
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other heavy tools needed to transform the sheets of
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galvanized iron into a complete heating system.
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There are no suppliers up here. If an item is
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forgotten in the estimate, it must be flown in. Not
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from a nearby city, nor from the handy neighborhood
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wholesaler. It must be brought in from the home office.
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In this case, a flight of over 1000 miles.
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To explain my involvement in this, let me explain
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the situation.
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My logbook reflects that I had moved, with my
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family, from Gillam, a more remote community, to The
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Pas, on October 7th, 1977.
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With the unfathomable reasoning with which all
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bankers seem to be born, my local branch manager
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informed me that I would either have to sell my
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airplane, or live in it. I was trying to arrange a
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mortgage at the time.
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I sold my "creampuff" 1954 Cessna 170B, complete
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with the expensive 180 HP. conversion we had done the
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year before. We bought a house. After which my
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allseeing bank manager told me I could buy another
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airplane, "If I wished."
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I wished, for another 2 years, but that is another
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story.
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Actually, that other story leads right into this
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one. To keep it brief, I had bought and restored
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another airplane, a 1947 Stinson 108 3, I had done the
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restoration in Gordon's hangar. We came to know each
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other rather well.
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In April of 1982, Gordon phoned me with an offer.
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The auto pilot in his twin engine Beech Travelair
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had packed up. He had to make a trip to the arctic to
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carry supplies, and check on the progress of his men on
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a school project.
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You can imagine my surprise when Gord called me to
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go with him as second pilot, all expenses paid.
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As it happened, I was scheduled for a four day
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weekend from my own job. I phoned my foreman, just in
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case, and told him I was going up to the Arctic for a
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few days.
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April 9, 1982. Gordon and I, a full load of fuel,
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plumbing equipment, and survival gear, headed north.
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We stopped at Lynne Lake, Churchill, and Baker
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Lake for fuel. In early afternoon we arrived at Gjoa
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Haven, a small Eskimo hamlet on King William Island. We
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were more than 100 miles north of the Arctic Circle.
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To be this far north was one thing, to have flown
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it was something else.
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Gordon had been up here many times before. He read
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a playboy magazine while I flew the aircraft.
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This wouldn't normally present a problem, except
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that the directional gyro was on his side of the panel.
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Each time I did an instrument scan, I had to lift his
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book to see the guages.
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Now you might ask, what is a VFR private pilot
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doing on instruments, north of the Arctic Circle? I may
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have asked myself the same question. I had done a bit
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of instrument flight, and Gord had a rating. All I was
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doing was holding altitude and course.
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I didn't have much choice. After our trip, I was
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asked to explain what it was like to fly the arctic in
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winter.
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The only way I can summarize the flight is like
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this: Assume you are standing at the center of the 50
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yard line of a football stadium. The sky, the
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sidelines, and the seating area are all painted sky
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blue. The playing field is all snow white, and you are
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1/4 inch high. That is what it is like to fly VFR in
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the winter Arctic.
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There is absolutely nothing to relate to. The
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horizon is obscured by ice fog, the sky above is clear
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blue. The land below is a continuous stretch of
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featureless white snow.
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During the flight to Gjoa Haven, I was curious.
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Would we see any Musk Ox, or Caribou? I kept looking
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over the side, hoping to see some wildlife.
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Between looking for animals, and flying the twin,
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I began to get a bit queasy. I asked Gord to take
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control as I swung the yoke over to his side.
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"I noticed you were getting erratic about 20
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minutes ago." he said. "I thought I would leave it to
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you for a while."
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I think that was the greatest compliment I have
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ever received on my flying. Here we were, about to
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cross the arctic circle, and Gord is waiting to see if
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I could handle it.
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I must admit, if I had been alone, the results
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would have been disastrous. I had vertigo so bad I
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wasn't sure if we were right side up.
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Gord took control and continued the flight. I
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concentrated on the artificial horizon, trying to
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reestablish a reference point for my equilibrium. There
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was no use looking out the window, there was nothing
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but ice, snow, and blue sky.
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I relaxed for an hour, at first concentrating on
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the gyro horizon, reestablishing where "up" was. I read
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Gord's book for a while, then did some dead reckoning
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computations to estimate our location. We were about
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one hour out of Gjoa Haven when I resumed control of
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the airplane.
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At last we began to receive the faint signal from
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the Gjoa Haven beacon. We were within a few degrees of
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our proper course. We had been flying by dead reckoning
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for an hour. The beacon at Baker Lake only serving us
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long enough to establish our drift corrections.
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Our calculations indicated we should soon see King
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William Island, on which Gjoa Haven is located.
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The view was the same in all directions, I asked
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Gord to take over control, I wanted to take some
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pictures.
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I tried to focus the camera, there was nothing to
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focus on except the wingtip. I set the lens at infinity
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and took shots straight ahead, downward, and to either
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side.
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Again I found myself looking for wildlife, to no
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avail.
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Have you ever asked a person where they were going
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and had them reply: "Nowhere"?
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Now I knew where "nowhere" was. There is no sense
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of movement, the unbroken expanse of ice and snow
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stretches to all horizons. I felt as though I was
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hanging on a string. The slight oscillations of the
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aircraft, and the reading on the airspeed indicator,
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had to be coupled to the drone of the engines to
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believe we were moving.
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The only time I could actually see anything below
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was when we flew along the coast of Hudson's Bay. The
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tidal action of the bay waters caused ridges in the ice
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along the shore.
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I was scanning the white nothingness in front of
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us. Straining to find the tiny hamlet. At last I saw
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some black specks, slightly to our left, about 10 miles
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distant. Gordon agreed.
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Throttling back, he began the descent. The landing
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strip is located about a mile from the village. I
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searched for the airport, nothing but black spots, a
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sharp contrast after five hours of pure white.
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Suddenly, Gord applied power and pulled up into a
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climb. "That's not Gjoa Haven," he shouted.
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He was right. I could see now that we had been set
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up for a straight in approach to a pile of rocks on the
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west end of the island. Gjoa Haven was a few miles
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farther on. If I had not spotted the rocks, Gord would
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have continued the approach to the beacon.
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Our fuel stop at Baker Lake had been incredibly
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cold. The wind gave a chill factor equivalent to nearly
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100 degrees below zero. I dreaded the thought of
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leaving the aircraft again. We were now 350 miles
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farther north, it would be even colder.
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I was pleasantly surprised. It was 15 degrees
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warmer, and the winds were calm. A balmy twenty five
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degrees below zero, Fahrenheit.
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We hitched a ride to the village in an old truck.
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The buildings seemed to be scattered at random around
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what appeared to be the shoreline.
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Sled dogs were tied up everywhere. Their incessant
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barking followed us as we walked to the school. The law
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of the land requires the dogs to be tied at all times.
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A dog on the loose may be shot on sight. I could see
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part of the reason.
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Most of the houses had boxes of Caribou meat
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sitting outside. The hides of the animals were draped
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over railings. The dogs seemed vicious. If they were
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loose, I assure you, I would not walk the village
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unarmed. I have no doubt they would devour all the meat
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in sight. The thought of a fight between these large,
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muscular, animals raises thoughts of the jungle.
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We had lunch in a crude, sectioned off portion of
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what appeared to be an old warehouse. The homecooked
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meal, though plain, was excellent.
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We walked over to the school, the subject of
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Gordon's contract.
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It is a new building, several classrooms and a
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gymnasium. The latter could have been in a modern
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school in a major city. The floor is sprung in the
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modern way, in that it gives underfoot, then springs
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back.
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The classrooms are equally bright and cheery,
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equipped with all modern conveniences and teaching
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aids.
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The school is built on stilts, several feet above
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the ground. The purpose is to prevent the heat of the
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building penetrating the soil, thus melting the
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permafrost. Once the permanent frost melted, the
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building would lose its solid foundation. It would sink
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into the deep moss of the tundra.
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We inspected the battery of ten furnaces, seven of
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them designed to heat the school in even the severest
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arctic conditions. Four of these could keep the
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building reasonably warm, three were backup systems.
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Having unloaded and delivered the needed supplies
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and equipment, the aircraft was ready for the trip
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home.
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On our return flight, we duplicated the fuel stop
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at Baker lake. Gordon went over to the Meteorological
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office to check the weather. I was left to fuel the
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aircraft.
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No full service here. If you want fuel, pump it
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yourself!
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The fuel "office" is a long narrow building which
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was, at one time, a mobile home. There is no heat, and
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the doors do not close.
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I dragged the heavy hose to the aircraft,
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connected the grounding wire, and began the refueling.
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I was wearing a heavy skidoo suit and a down filled
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parka. The hood was pulled up and the "schnorkel" was
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pulled out in front of my face. I wore heavy wool mitts
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encased in leather shells.
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The wind was out of the north at 25 MPH. the
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temperature was minus 35 degrees Fahrenheit.
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The Beech has 4 fuel tanks, 2 per wing. It seemed
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to take hours to fill each tank. The wind cut through
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my clothing. First my feet began to get cold, then my
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knees. I had to open the "schnorkel" hood in order to
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peer into the tank. The wind felt like a hot knife on
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my face. I turned away for relief.
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At that moment, the tank over flowed. The
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supercold fuel ran off the wing, onto my leg. The pain
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was excruciating. My mitts were soaked with the stuff.
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I should have quit and ran to shelter.
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I continued the process, topping up each of the
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four tanks. I pulled the hose back to the fuel shed,
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leaving just enough room to taxi the aircraft.
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By now my feet, legs, and hands were numb. My face
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burned from the vicious wind. I ran to the fueling
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office, expecting some heat.
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The door was partially open, blocked by a
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snowdrift. I shouldered the door. My 220 pounds forced
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it open. Entering the building, I found the snowdrift
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extended nearly 20 feet inside, tapering to nothing
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from it's initial depth of nearly three feet.
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It was cold in the building, but I was out of the
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mankilling wind. I stamped my feet and swung my arms, I
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had to get some circulation going. Removing my mitts, I
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unzipped my parka and snow suit, placing my hands in my
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armpits.
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I was still doing my dance routine when Gordon
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returned.
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"I'll start the engines and get the heat on, then
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you come out." He shouted, above the howl of the wind.
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The Beechcraft has a fuel burning heater in the
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nose compartment. I had complained on the way up that
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it was too warm. I certainly felt different now.
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I had my boots and mitts off, soaking up the heat
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as Gord taxied for departure. As he turned onto the
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runway I turned to him, saying, "Now I know why you
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brought me along."
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He laughed and replied, "Sure. I'm getting too old
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for that nonsense."
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An hour out of Baker Lake I was again at the
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controls. I wanted something to do to take my mind from
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the pain of chilblains.
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Once again we were in the area between beacons. We
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had left Baker Lkae behind and could not yet hear
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Churchill on the ADF.
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An inner sense seemed to tell me we were off
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course. The directional gyro seemed to be indicating a
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turn. I tried to correct it. Suddenly, I realized the
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gyro was precessing! I used the turn and bank, along
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with the gyro horizon, to return to straight and level
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flight.
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Gord, slumbering in the left seat, woke with a
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start. "What's up?" He asked.
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I was trying to reset the instrument. "We lost the
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gyro," I replied. "It just started to precess, I'm off
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course, and still nothing on the ADF."
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I was getting nervous! We were midway between the
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only two airports! No ADF, no VOR, and now no gyro. Map
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reading was out of the question. No identifiable
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terrain.
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Gordon took his note book from his map case. He
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did a computation based on our last known Latitude, the
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time in GMT, added a number and multiplied.
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"Fly straight into the sun!" he commanded.
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I did as I was told, holding a steady course
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straight at the fiery globe.
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Gord reached over and reset the D.G. The error had
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been nearly 100 degrees.
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"Now resume your original heading, we should be
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very close." He stowed the book and began scanning the
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frequencies on the ADF.
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I thought about his procedure, it made sense.
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Later I asked him for the formula, it might come in
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handy to me some day.
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We flew on in silence. I concentrated on the
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instruments, while Gord alternated between dead
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reckoning and the ADF.
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At last we began to receive the Churchill beacon.
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Weak and varying at first, it slowly increased until we
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had a dependable reading. We were less than three
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degrees off course. The formula had worked!
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We landed in Churchill, fueled, and had coffee
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from the vending machine. After a stretch, and a visit
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to the men's room, we continued our journey.
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We were, of course, below the tree line in a few
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moments. This definite line, the sudden transition from
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no trees to a solid spruce forest is always a welcome
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sight.
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I was back in my own element now. In the company
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helicopter, and in my Cessna, I had flown more than a
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thousand hours in this region. At last I had a
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reference besides the instruments. I relaxed.
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Soon we could see the flashing strobe lights on
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the smelter stack towering 500 feet above the mill at
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Thompson. Beyond the flashing strobes we soon saw the
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lights of Snow Lake. Minutes later, the smelter stack
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of Flin Flon appeared off our right wing.
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I tuned the VOR receiver to The Pas. The welcome
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Morse identifier "Y Q D" welcomed us. Gordon gave no
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indication of assuming control for the landing. He
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normally handled this part of the flying.
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I throttled back and adjusted pitch for a gradual
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descent, straight in to the long concrete runway. We
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touched down, with a thud, and taxied in.
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We normally operated from the short gravel strip
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at the flying club beside Grace Lake. We had departed
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from here as we were at maximum gross weight and needed
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the extra runway.
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Gordon gave me the keys to the truck, which I
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drove the 20 miles to town. He flew the Beech.
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It had been a great trip. A real memorable
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experience.
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You can imagine my response when he asked me to
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accompany him on another trip.
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This time is was in warmer conditions. We left
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The Pas on the warm, sunny morning of September 17th,
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1982.
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We retraced our route of the previous winter. The
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snow had not yet arrived. It was a completely different
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trip. Once north of the tree line, the hundreds of
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thousands of small lakes and ponds were evident.
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Looking behind, I could see the sun reflect from their
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surfaces. There seemed to be more water than land. I
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could fly visually, enjoying the scenery, bleak as it
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was.
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Gordon had successfully bid on a contract for the
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new air terminal at Baker Lake. The structure I had
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used for shelter the previous winter was being
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replaced.
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It seemed someone had kept the names and changed
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the location. The contrast between seasons was
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incredible.
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Lakes, rivers, and trails across the tundra. Some
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of these trails were over 100 years old. The more
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recent tracks of vehicles scarred the surface.
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The mosses of the tundra, having such a short
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growth period each summer, take decades to repair the
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damage caused by the passage of one vehicle. The tracks
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below, stretching to the horizon could have been 50
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years old. Or, they could have been made yesterday.
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Occasional rocky outcrops and scattered willow bushes
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broke the monotony of the scene.
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Four hours from The Pas we were on approach to
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Baker Lake. Now I could see the lake. On our previous
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trip it had been undiscernible from the surrounding
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landscape. It had appeared as a large flat, snow
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covered plain.
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Now it was a beautiful lake, wind blown waves
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sparkled in the noon day sun.
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As we taxied to the terminal site, Gordon spoke,
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"I want you to take a walk, take your camera, and walk
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the town. The beach area extends for about a mile. I
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won't tell you what to look for. Just have a look
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around. I'll be busy here for about two hours."
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I hitched a ride into the village, about 2 miles
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distant.
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The houses seemed to be scattered haphazardly
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about. Behind most homes were old refrigerators,
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stoves, and washing machines.
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I laughed aloud, "Who said you couldn't sell an
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icebox to an Eskimo."
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The Iglu Hotel is a modern structure. It's high
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peaked roof, and rounded rafters are similar to a
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Quonset hut, except higher and sharper. A small
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convenience store is located off the hotel lobby.
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Eskimo children are waiting in line for slices of
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Pizza, warming in the microwave. They each clutch
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several twenty dollar bills.
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Beside the hotel is a pile of talc, or soapstone
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as it is known. The rock is flown in from Quebec for
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the natives to fashion into "authentic carvings." Very
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few of the carvings sold in the south are made from
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local material, it is of an inferior grade. I made a
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mental note to take a piece home with me. I would like
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to try my wood carving skills on soapstone.
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Walking through the village I arrived at the
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lakeshore. The natives had divided the waterfront in a
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system that allows each person about 20 feet for his
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equipment. Boats, canoes, motors, snow machines and
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caribou hides lay scattered along the gravel shore.
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Gordon had once mentioned the waste incurred in
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the Arctic. Now, even seeing it, I couldn't believe it.
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I stood at one point and studied the surroundings.
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Like a tracker of the old west I could read the story.
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A fisherman had hit a rock. The lower section of
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the 9.9 horse power Mercury had been damaged. The
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bottom end of the motor was disassembled. The wrenches,
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sockets, and ratchet used to tear down the motor were
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still there. Rusting on the beach. Beside the pile of
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pieces was a boat with a new motor on the transom.
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Obviously, it was easier to get a new outboard, than to
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fix the old one.
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This was just the beginning of my educational
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tour. There were dozens of similar sights.
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Outboards, snowmachines, and fishing nets littered
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the entire beach. Damaged boats and canoes were pulled
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away from the water, making room for their successors.
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High powered rifles; Winchesters, Remingtons, and old
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Mausers lay in the boats and on the rocks. Oil cans,
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fuel drums, and fish boxes at every step.
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|
Above the water line sat a huge front end loader,
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one of the large tires was flat. A dump truck sits atop
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a ridge of gravel. Toward the end of the beach are
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thousands of empty steel drums.
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I stepped around the bow of an old freighter
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canoe, its twenty foot length had hidden a treasure.
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On an old wooden sawhorse hung two antique
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outboard motors. I had seen similar models in museums
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and boat shows. An old Evinrude single cylinder, its
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cast fuel tank crusted with the corrosion of many idle
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years. The second one was unfamiliar. It's shape
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|
similar to the Evinrude with a different tank
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arrangement. These motors had to be at least 40 years
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old. I wondered if I could find the owners and take
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them with me.
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I happened upon a strange machine, it had a
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gasoline engine, a hydraulic pump, and a series of
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|
hydraulic cylinders. The cylinders were connected to a
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|
type of flat ram, and two large pointed contraptions.
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The shape of the latter reminded me of the steel broad
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|
head arrow points used for big game hunting.
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Gord later explained the purpose of the machine.
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There are steel drums stacked in many places
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|
throughout the arctic. The numbers may well run into
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|
the millions. They have been brought in by exploration
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crews, bush pilots, and the military.
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|
The construction of the DEW line radar system
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|
required tremendous amounts of fuel and other liquids.
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|
The barrels remain.
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|
A project to salvage the barrels was proposed.
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|
Funded by a government grant, this machine was
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|
designed, built, and moved north.
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|
The idea was to salvage the steel. A barrel was
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|
placed in the machine. The large arrowheads were forced
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|
into each end, producing X-shaped cuts. Next the
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|
machine lowered a table like ram, flattening the barrel
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to a fraction of it's size.
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|
There is a fortune in salvageable steel in the
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|
Arctic. I said "is" because it is still there.
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|
Pilots, refuelling from barrels, normally adjust
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|
the pump to leave several inches of fuel behind. This
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|
reduces the possibility of fuel contamination from
|
|
dirt, water, or rust. As a result, nearly all the drums
|
|
have liquid in them; avgas, motor oil, kerosene,
|
|
antifreeze, diesel fuel, alcohol, and more. Any
|
|
conceivable liquid that could be shipped in barrels can
|
|
likely be found in these repositories. This was the
|
|
problem that spelled the end of the project.
|
|
Environmentalists, seeing the streams of fuel and
|
|
chemicals running into the sea, stopped the process.
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|
The salvage crews thought of emptying partial
|
|
barrels into selected drums to avoid spillage. Too
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|
labour intensive.
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|
They thought of pumping the residuals into a ship,
|
|
anchored offshore. The various liquids were worthless,
|
|
possibly dangerous if mixed. The ship didn't have
|
|
enough tanks to keep them separate.
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|
Result? The drums are still there, rusting away.
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|
Eventually they will begin to leak. When they do, they
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|
will be too fragile to move... Hundreds of thousands
|
|
of gallons of hazardous waste will flow into our arctic
|
|
seas, causing untold damage to our marine and wildlife.
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|
I asked Gord about the great pile of curved steel
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|
plates I had seen near the beach. He told me another
|
|
little known story.
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|
Apparently, the territorial government decided to
|
|
install a huge fuel tank to eliminate the use of
|
|
barrels. Fuel oil would be pumped ashore from tankers
|
|
during the annual resupply trips.
|
|
The contract was let. The tank was prefabricated
|
|
in Quebec. It was shipped down the St.Lawrence River,
|
|
up the Atlantic coast, into Hudson's Bay, and upriver
|
|
to Baker Lake.
|
|
By the time it arrived, the territorial building
|
|
code had been changed. The tank no longer met the
|
|
requirements of the code! There it sits, just as it was
|
|
unloaded.
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|
I had three rolls of 35MM film with me. I exposed
|
|
all of it, 105 pictures. I still did not capture
|
|
everything there was to see. I marvelled at the waste.
|
|
As a taxpayer I was angry. Millions upon millions of
|
|
dollars, wasted.
|
|
I was told of a government decision to replace all
|
|
the oil burning furnaces. They merely required
|
|
servicing, or minor repairs.
|
|
Stories of misuse by government officials are
|
|
legion. Someday the media will do an expose'. Perhaps
|
|
this story will trigger some action.
|
|
I returned to the airport. We were to remain for
|
|
two more days. I helped the crew with plumbing and
|
|
heating work, learning a bit about the vacuum sanitary
|
|
system.
|
|
Treatment of fresh water, and disposal of waste is
|
|
a major problem. In order to reduce the load on the
|
|
facilities, the amount of water used is reduced
|
|
drastically by the use of a vacuum system.
|
|
You can imagine my surprise when, after using a
|
|
toilet, I heard a roar like freight train. The sewage
|
|
system uses the force of a vacuum instead of water to
|
|
carry away waste.
|
|
The main storage tank was located at one end of
|
|
the hotel, our room was at the opposite end. A vacuum
|
|
is maintained in the tank by the use of pumps. The
|
|
toilets resemble those found in railroad cars. When the
|
|
valve is tripped, there is a great roar as the contents
|
|
of the bowl are sucked downward and along a pipe. I
|
|
swear I could hear the contents of the bowl smack
|
|
against the inside of the distant tank. It may be
|
|
efficient, but it sure is noisy.
|
|
This is the type of technology one would expect to
|
|
find on a space station. But then, the arctic is about
|
|
as close as you can get to outer space with out leaving
|
|
the ground.
|
|
I had hoped to spend a day fishing but the high
|
|
winds created hazardous conditions on the lake. The
|
|
Arctic Char will have to wait until my next trip.
|
|
September 19, 1982, 9:00 AM. Airborne again,
|
|
flight planned to The Pas. We would be 4.2 hours
|
|
enroute.
|
|
From 10,000 feet, the tundra stretched to the
|
|
horizon in all directions. The mottled brown and green
|
|
speckled with reflections of sunlight from millions of
|
|
lakes and ponds. A sight witnessed by too few
|
|
Canadians.
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|
THE END
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