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Facing Up Sometimes we have to question who we really are.
'Gotcha' Be careful. Don't let your guard down.
Home
Where
the roses never fade.
Second Chance Never give up.
A Wild Ride
A
turbulent tale of friendship found. (This story
was published in Pilot's magazine
August 2005)
Rankin Flight
A story of adventure in
A Bucketful of Noise Ah, sweet youth. How did we ever make it to adulthood?
The
Chicken Express
Churchill
Daze at their best. (This story won an Honorable
Mention in the Spring 2003 Larry Turner Awards, and
was published in the Fall 2003 edition of the "Grist Mill".)
High Anxiety
What
is it about a woman that can bring a man to his knees?
Hot Pursuit
Fast
paced action in the dark of night.
The Actor
A
bit of a devious twist to "Second Chance"
The little
green and white Tri-Pacer moved quickly along the black asphalt strip. It hesitated
momentarily before it climbed freely away from the airport. I was airborne
again, and felt the familiar feeling of exhilaration that always accompanied
liftoff. Bill was sitting beside me in
the left seat of his airplane, but I was doing the flying today. As the
altimeter came up on 8000 feet above sea level, I pulled back on the throttle,
setting the RPM to 2300, and adjusted the trim tabs of the small high winged
airplane to ease the pressure on the control column. Before leaving the
Looking to the
west over the mountains, I could see some large buildups of heavy black
clouds. "Looks like a squall line
approaching," I said to Bill.
"I
wouldn't worry about it," he replied. "We'll be sittin'
on the ground in Springbank before that ever gets
near us."
I hoped he was
right. The clouds looked pretty ominous to me.
"What a
life." Bill's voice seemed to smile as he settled back in his seat for the
short fifty-five minute flight ahead of us. "How much better than this can
it get?"
He was in his
element here in his little airplane. For him this was about as good as it could
get. He didn't even seem to notice the rank odor of freshly skinned animal
pelts coming from the back seat. I did though. My nostrils were stinging and I
was having trouble breathing. Bill, or "Trapper Bill", as he was
known, was sitting back, totally relaxed.
He had earned his nickname a few years back when he had been working as
an Electronics Technician at the
"You'd
better take it Bill. I can't concentrate on anything with the stink in
here." It was pretty bad. I couldn't stop my eyes from watering.
"No
problem. It just smells like money to me."
Bill reached up and reset the trim tabs to exactly where I had set them
earlier. He now had the airplane.
This story is
about Bill. I suppose it's about me too, but I only play a supporting role. I
was forty-eight when it took place. Even though I had always worked hard at
trying to maintain a trim and youthful appearance, I knew I was losing the
battle. My glasses had recently been upgraded to bifocals, and it seemed like
every day a few more gray hairs presented themselves on my temples. My wife
told me the gray was distinguished looking. Wives say things like that.
I first met
Bill several years ago when I was transferred into his section at the
Bill was a
character you couldn't forget. His attitude to life was imprinted on his
face. He was craggy-faced, with deep
furrows running across his high forehead. His thinning gray hair was greased
straight back, making his face seem even thinner than it was. Bill didn't look at you. He glared. Large
bushy eyebrows shadowed his dark eyes. His aquiline nose jutted out like a rock
outcropping guarding the crevasse of his mouth that seemed to be frozen in a
constant scowl. He was a rebel, a free spirit. He didn't exactly challenge
authority. He just refused to acknowledge it. Most people, including his bosses
at work, ignored him when they could because they didn't know how to deal with
him. It was easier to just let him do
his thing, and that was fine by Bill.
For the longest
time we went about our business without too much to say to each other. He knew that I didn't agree with his some of
his work habits, but I kept my frustrations to myself. He was about fifteen
years older than I was, and I respected that. After a few months he began to
warm up a little. Maybe it was when he realized I was a rather private person
myself, and wasn't a threat to him.
Maybe it was because I was also a pilot, and loved to fly. I don't
exactly know, but it made my life easier.
Bill had a
small plane, a Tri-Pacer. We often went flying together. He was most at peace
when he was flying. It was as if he had
escaped everything that was dark, and everything that was wrong with his world.
He was a different man up there, and one I enjoyed being with. It only lasted until we landed though. At that point he would immediately revert to
the unyielding, obstinate old grouch that everybody loved to hate.
When he
retired, after 35 years on the job, only a handful of his co-workers came to
his luncheon. I was elected to say a few words because I had been his partner,
and seemed to get along with him better than the others. When I finished, he
thanked me. He smiled at those who had gathered, picked up his gold watch or
whatever was wrapped up in that box, said goodbye, and walked away.
Now, here we
were, nine years later, sitting in his smelly airplane. I hadn't seen Bill
again until a few days ago when I had literally run into him in downtown
"What the
hell's your hurry, young fella?" he asked, as I
bent over to help him up.
I recognized
the voice immediately. "Bill, what are you doing here?"
I was happy to
see him, and he was obviously just as happy to see me. We went into the hotel
restaurant for coffee, and sat there for a couple of hours. He must have needed
someone to talk to, because he told me more about himself that day than he had
in all the time we'd worked together back in
"You can
fly the plane, and you'll get to see some great country at the same time."
That was enough
for me. "I'd love to see your
operation," I said.
It was quite a
weekend. We flew to
We checked
several traps that day, and had already set up camp for the night when the rain
started. We had just got the fire going,
and were cooking some supper when the drizzle turned to driving rain. It drenched our new fire sending us into our
tent wet, chilled, and hungry. We cracked a can of beans, and ate them cold
before climbing in to our sleeping bags for the night.
It wasn't much
better the next morning. Everything was
sopping wet. We couldn't get a fire going, so we ate cold cereal. Saturday was a pretty good day. We managed to check most of the remaining
traps, and were starting to get a pretty good load of dead animals in the back
of the truck. With only a few more traps to check the next morning, we were
able to make camp early that evening. The skies had cleared so we cooked steaks
and beans over the fire. I didn't ask Bill what kind of meat we were
eating. I didn't really want to know. Whatever it was, it tasted great.
According to
Bill we only had a medium load going back.
Of the forty-seven traps that he maintained, sixteen of them had
returned an animal. There were eleven
beaver skins, and five muskrat pelts in the two garbage bags in the back
seat. The animals had been skinned that
morning, and the pelts were still wet.
Even with the garbage bags to contain them, there was no way the smell
of the smell of blood and guts could be camouflaged.
I guess a
person can get used to anything. Bill was flying the plane, and I was enjoying
the scenery. I soon found that I was able to relax a bit and forget about the
raw smell coming from the back seat. The angry looking black clouds to the west
of us were getting closer now, and the ride was getting a little bumpier. We
were still in clear skies, though. In the distance off to the southeast I could
see the city of
Then, without
any warning, all hell broke loose. BANG!
BANG!
"What
the!" Bill looked down at the instrument panel.
An invisible
force yanked me towards the cabin roof. My seatbelt was the only thing that
kept me from banging in to it. I looked over at Bill. His seatbelt had not been
tight, and his head was pressed against the roof fabric. The peak of his ball
cap was pushed down over his eyes. He
reached up and pulled the cap off his face. His eyes were wild. He looked
totally confused. I looked past him outside the cabin and then back to the instrument
panel. Our wings were level. We appeared
to be in level flight, but the altimeter needle was unwinding like a windmill,
and the Rate-Of-Climb indicator showed that we were dropping at twenty five
hundred feet per minute. At that rate
we'd hit the ground in less than two minutes.
I reached over
and pulled his seatbelt tighter. This brought him back down into his seat. Bill
reached for the throttle, slammed it forward to the stops, and hauled the
steering column back. Perspiration beads
had formed on his forehead, but he was focused again on what was happening
around him. Our altitude was now less than 6000 feet, only 2700 feet above the
ground. Even with full power on we were sinking fast. Bill looked at me
inquisitively.
"I don't
know. I can't figure it out either," I said. I couldn't think of anything
we could do to stop us from crashing into the hills below that were coming up
fast.
Suddenly
WHAM! Both of us were pushed down in
our seats. It was as if the airplane had been attached to a giant bungee cord
in the sky that had come to the end of its tether, and was now flinging us back
up. The airplane immediately began
climbing at 1500, then 2000 feet per minute, all the time with the wings
level. As I watched the altimeter needle
wind up, I saw that we were passing through 8000 feet, then 9,000. Bill tightened his seatbelt, pulled back on
the throttles, and pushed forward on the steering column to try to lower the
nose. It had absolutely no effect. We
were rocketing skyward, totally out of control.
And then
as
quickly as it had started we were out of it.
As the altimeter needle passed 12,000 feet, the aircraft suddenly
stopped climbing. It hung in the air for
a moment, and then started to descend again.
This time the descent was more gradual. Bill pulled back on the steering
column and applied normal throttle. The airplane was flying level again.
"Whew,
what a wild ride," Bill said, looking out at the ground that was now
almost two miles below.
I didn't know
what to think. Both of my hands were
grasping the little handle above and to the right of my head. I had been holding on for dear life, and my
knuckles were as white as new fallen snow.
At first Bill
was disoriented, and didn't quite know where we were. It wasn't long though, before he began to recognize
familiar landmarks and pinpoint our location.
In the last few minutes, since the unexpected roller coaster ride had
begun, we had veered off course by over ten miles. He pointed out
Bill began a
slowly descending turn to his right, and added
throttle to his little bird. We were at 11,000 feet in a block of airspace that
we shouldn't be in, and he knew he had to get out of there as soon as possible.
"I think
we just met a mountain CAT," he remarked. "Pretty
big one too."
I must have
looked confused, so he went on, "What I mean by CAT is Clear Air
Turbulence. Sometimes around the
mountains it can be pretty wild, especially if there's weather in
"
He had just
started his explanation when the radio came to life.
"Unidentified
aircraft, nine miles north-east of
"No
way," he shook his head. "Don't answer. I don't need the grief. I'll be doing paperwork for a week."
"Unidentified
aircraft, nine miles north east, you are in controlled airspace. Please squawk code 2100 on your
transponder."
"That's a
laugh," he said at me. "I
don't have a transponder." He turned
the radio volume lower.
"Unidentified
aircraft, nine miles northeast," I could still faintly hear a voice coming
through on the speaker. "We have
you on a westerly track. You have traffic
at nine thousand feet at
Bill wasn't
listening. He was intent on getting out
of there as fast as he could.
"Unidentified
aircraft, eight miles north east, you are in controlled airspace." The Air Traffic Controller in the
"Bill,
we'd better answer this guy," I said. "It's nobody's fault we ended
up here."
"Forget it, I'm not talkin' to
anyone."
"Unidentified
aircraft, eight miles northeast." The controller was shouting at us now.
"You have traffic at nine thousand feet at
"Air
I was getting
panicky now. I knew what was going on.
So did Bill, but he refused to acknowledge it. Both
airplanes were at 9000 feet. I quickly looked around outside the cabin. I
couldn't see the other plane, but I also knew I wouldn't until it was too
late.
"Bill,
talk to the guy! There's an Air
Bill seemed oblivious to the panic in my
voice. He stared straight ahead. We had
just passed through 9000 feet and were still descending.
"We'll
soon be out of here," he said to me calmly. "Relax."
WHAM!
It happened again!
This time a
huge shadow enveloped the cockpit, accompanied by the loud roaring noise of jet
engines. Our little airplane was flipped violently upside down and then back
upright again. Both of us were hanging in our seat belts for a moment, and were
then slammed back down into our seats. The little airplane's nose was pointing
up at about a 60-degree angle, but I could feel us descending. Why couldn't I
see anything? Everything was black. I soon realized the reason for this. A
leaky garbage bag full of animal skins had come to rest on my shoulders and
chest. It was blocking my vision. I
shoved it into the back, and looked out the side window in time to see the tail
end of a giant Airbus moving away from us.
It had obviously just missed us, and we were now suffering the results
of its wing vortices.
"Bill,"
I yelled. "Bill, have you got
it?"
"I don't
know
I think so," he answered.
He pushed the steering
column fully forward to try to get our nose down. When he did this the airplane
immediately fell off on its right wing and began a rotation around it with its
nose still high in the air.
"We're
stalled. I think we're in a flat spin," Bill said. I've got to get the nose down."
He moved the
throttles fully forward to add power to the airplane, while keeping full
forward pressure on the column. Nothing
happened. The nose stayed right where it was. The airplane was falling out of
the sky in a right-handed flat spin with its nose in the air. I looked at the
altimeter just as its needle passed through 7000 feet. The ground was less than 4000 feet
below.
"Okay,
this could be trouble," Let's try somethin'
else." His voice remained calm and cool.
He pulled the
throttle back to idle, let go of the steering column, and pushed down his left
rudder pedal all the way. Almost immediately the spinning stopped, and the
airplane straightened out. At that point
he quickly took his foot off the rudder. The nose was still pointed up and we
were still falling out of the sky, but at least the airplane was no longer
spinning. As the altimeter needle passed
through 6000 feet, Bill did something I'll never forget. It went against anything that I'd ever been
taught, or even heard of. He reached down to the flap lever and put out two
notches of flap, applied full throttle to the engine, and pulled the steering
column back right into his lap.
"Pull back
as hard as you can on the column and don't let go 'til I tell you," he
yelled to me over the roar of the engine.
What happened
next was a blur. I grabbed the column, which was already pulled all the way
back, and held on to it for dear life. I remember the airplane going fully
vertical with its nose straight up. I
remember hanging by my seat belt for a few seconds as the airplane went over
the top upside down, and then heading straight down in a power dive. I vaguely
remember Bill bringing in the flaps, and pulling back on the throttles. At some
point I remember him telling me to release the steering column. And then
unbelievingly
we were flying straight and level, and Bill was setting up the
airplane for normal flight.
"How's
that for a little excitement? " he said,
chuckling. "I wonder how many people have done a full front to back flip
in a Tri-Pacer?"
At first I was
speechless. I couldn't believe what he'd done. Eventually I found my voice.
"Bill, that was
amazing. I think what you just did is
impossible. We should both be dead right now."
"Yup, I think
maybe we were pretty lucky." He had a sheepish grin on his face.
I looked out at
the ground below us. The altimeter read 4000 feet, which meant that we were
only 700 feet above the ground. Bill brought the airplane back up to 5000 feet, and we settled in for what was left of our short
flight.
I could still
hear the
When they
replied, giving us a normal landing clearance I assumed they didn't know that
After getting
cleaned up in the control tower washroom, we called upstairs on the phone and
sat down to wait. Bill did all the
talking when the tower man came down. At
first the guy was really excited, talking like he was going to throw the book
at us. Bill just played innocent.
"What are
you talkin' about," Bill asked aggressively? "I don't know anything about a near
miss. We encountered some turbulence on
the way home, and got thrown around a bit. We ended up a little east of where
we should have been, but that's it."
"Didn't
you hear the
"Nope,
didn't hear anyone,
but I know why. When I tried
to call you for a landing clearance I realized I had no radios. The breaker had popped. Musta happened with the turbulence."
The tower man
looked exasperatingly at me.
"Don't ask
me," I said. "I'm just the
passenger."
He went on to
tell us that we had entered the Calgary Control Zone without authorization. We
had nearly collided with a commercial jet approaching
We had a quick
coffee in the cafeteria, and I gathered up my stuff. We said good-bye with a
promise to keep in contact, and I headed home to
The other thing
that hadn't changed is that life was never dull when you were around
"Trapper Bill". I'll tell you one thing. "He sure had got my
MOJO running that weekend.
Back To Top
Rankin Flight
"Is this
it?" I thought. "Is this what it's like at the end?" I had
always assumed I'd be afraid, excited, or upset, but I wasn't. I was so involved in what was going on around
me I had no time to consider that I may never see my family or friends
again. Maybe I would when we hit the
water. It would be over fast, anyway. We
wouldn't last very long in the icy waters of
Everything had
happened so quickly. How had a flight
that had started so routinely turned into this nightmare?
I removed my
mittens, pulled my Government Identification Card out of my pocket, and used it
to scrape the frost off the inside of my side window. After clearing a spot, I pulled up my parka
hood, and pressed my face as close to the window as I could. Hooding my eyes to
peer outside, I saw snow dancing and swirling off the end of the knifelike beam
of the landing light. Beyond that, there
was nothing but the blackness of this starless November night. I certainly hadn't bargained for this kind of
excitement when I had joined the Public Service with Transport
I was
thirty-one when I made this major career change. After spending thirteen years in the rigid,
stand-tall world of the Canadian Armed Forces, I was enjoying being a civilian
again. I was also enjoying the relaxed northern lifestyle where just about
everyone wore a beard and their hair too long.
My hair was longer now than I'd ever worn it, and my trimmed beard was
beginning to show silver strands laced amongst the brown.
I stretched my
legs as best I could. Huddled into the front right seat of the small
twin-engine Aztec aircraft, even the slight movement of changing the position
of my legs offered some relief. There
were three of us in the six available seats of the airplane. Jim, the pilot sat
to my left. Ed, my co-worker sat directly behind me. All of us were wearing our parkas and heavy
arctic mittens in an effort to keep warm.
The other seats behind and beside Ed were stuffed to the ceiling with
electronic test equipment, parts, and tools.
The baggage compartment behind the seats, was
separated from the passenger cabin by a thin plastic wall. It was full of more
parts, a couple of frozen Arctic Char, and our suitcases.
"Climb!"
I yelled. "We're almost in the
water!"
Jim reacted
immediately, pushing the dual throttle levers
forward. The engines responded with a
roaring surge of power, and the aircraft stopped descending. It leveled out for
a moment, and then laboriously began climbing again. Pretty soon the water was no longer visible,
and Jim pulled the throttle levers back a bit.
There wasn't much left. The
levers were about 95 percent to the wall by then.
This was the
second time we had descended to the 100-foot level, and the second time that
Jim had advanced the throttles to gain more altitude. Things weren't happening as we had hoped they
would. The temperature hadn't warmed up
as we had descended, and with all the ice on the wings, the aircraft was barely
flying. The dim red lights of the
instrument panel highlighted the concern on Jim's face as he adjusted the
elevator trim for these new power settings.
I turned and
looked at Ed. He was several years
younger than I was, just two years out of technical college. Underneath his bushy red beard, his face was
as pale as the snow outside. His eyes
were closed, but I knew he wasn't sleeping.
His lips were quivering and his right eye was twitching. Maybe he was
praying.
It was
November, and it was already full-blown winter in the
We were two of several electronics
technicians based in Churchill whose job included the maintenance and repair of
the many government electronic navigation and communications systems located up
the West Coast of
The airplane
was a charter out of
We had taken
off from the snow-packed runway of
The sky was
clear for the first half hour of the flight.
As we reached our cruising altitude of 10,000 feet, we could see the
vast frozen arctic tundra of
Jim switched
frequencies on his VHF radio and pushed the microphone button. "Rankin Flight
Services, this is PA-23, CF-WAG. We are 50 miles east of Chesterfield
Inlet at 10,000 feet on an IFR flight plan from
The Radio
Operator responded, his voice coming over the cabin speaker. "Roger WAG.
Jim thanked
him, and turned to us. "OK guys,
you heard him. We're now about thirty
minutes north of Rankin Inlet. The
weather is starting to close in. We can
land at Chesterfield Inlet and wait it out if you want, or we can carry on.
It's up to you."
The two of us
thought about it for a few seconds, and agreed that we should give Rankin a
try.
"Okay,"
Jim said, as he switched channels on his VHF radio. He called the
"Let's get
this bird down below the freezing level."
Jim pulled back on the throttles, and adjusted the elevator trim tabs to
nose the aircraft down into a slow descent.
The farther we
descended, the thicker and heavier the clouds became. It was snowing now. By the time we leveled
out at 8000 feet, we were flying in zero visibility conditions. It was dark outside, and snow was pelting the
windshield furiously. I reached over and
moved the tuning knob of the ADF receiver to the Rankin Inlet radio beacon's
frequency. The ADF receiver's job was to
decode a ground radio beacon's signal and provide direction, in this case the
direction to the Rankin Inlet beacon.
All Jim had to do was keep the ADF needle on the instrument panel
directly in line with the nose of the aircraft and we would home in to the
When I dialed
in the Rankin frequency, I was surprised to see that the needle on the panel
was wandering aimlessly. I turned up the
audio so we could hear Rankin's Morse code identifier. We could only hear a
background hiss. I double-checked the
charts, thinking that perhaps I had made a mistake on the channel selection,
but the charts confirmed that I had been right.
At that point I dialed in the Chesterfield Inlet Beacon. The speaker beat out the Morse code
"YCS," and the needle swung immediately to our
"The
Rankin beacon doesn't appear to be working." I said.
"Leave the
dial where it is," Jim responded. "Hopefully it's just the weather
and we'll pick it up as we get closer."
"What was
that?" Ed remarked from the back
seat. "What's that noise?"
Thousands of
little shards of ice were flying off the left propeller, shattering on the side
of the fuselage.
"Ice,"
Jim said. "Look at the
wings." The leading edges of the
wings had a thin coating of ice on them.
Another icy
shower hit the right side of the fuselage.
I noticed that the altimeter needle had started a slow counterclockwise
rotation.
"Are we
descending again?" I asked Jim.
"
We're descending, but not on purpose," he replied. "We're losing altitude because of ice
buildup on the wings."
Jim edged the
throttles forward. The needle stopped its rotation. "That should do it," he said. "We'll make up for the loss of the
wing's lift with more power. On second
thought, let's keep descending. It
should be warmer as we get lower." Jim pulled back on the throttles. The
altimeter needle again started rotating counterclockwise as the aircraft
descended.
He picked up
the microphone and advised
"Roger
WAG,"
"That's a
laugh," Ed exclaimed from the back. "We are the technical staff from
Churchill."
"Good luck
with the ice," the
"Don't we
have deicing equipment on this aircraft?"
Ed asked. "Can't you just
turn on the deicers?"
"All we've
got are hot props," Jim replied, "and they're turned on. That's why you hear the ice hitting the sides
of the aircraft. It's melting off the
props. This model of the Aztec doesn't
have deicing boots or thermal deicing on the wings."
"Great,"
Ed said excitedly. "Why are you
flying an aircraft in this country with no deicing equipment? Why doesn't your
VOR receiver work? Why isn't the NDB receiver working? What the Hell's the
matter with you?"
"Cool down
Ed," I turned to him and said. I
was just as frustrated, but at this point, I didn't think we should be getting
Jim upset as well. "Try and figure out why we're not picking up the Rankin
beacon."
As we reached
the 4000-foot level, we could see that the ice had built up even more on the
wings. The windshield was also now
covered with ice. The defrosters had stopped working. A thin film of frost now
coated the inside of the windows as a result of our heavy breathing in the
cabin. Even the instruments in the front
panel had started to fog up. Jim reset
the trim and power settings to stop our descent. The aircraft leveled out.
I had turned to
Ed and was discussing the Rankin beacon, when Ed's eyes moved, looking past me
toward the instrument panel. "We're
descending again," he said.
I turned back
to see that the altimeter's needle had started moving again. We were down to
3500 feet. More ice was hitting the
sides of the aircraft. It was getting even colder in the cockpit. I had never
taken my parka off, and now I put my large fleece mittens on. Ed did the same.
Jim leaned over to adjust the throttles again, and then changed his mind.
"Heater
inlets must be plugged," he said.
"I'm going to keep descending for a while. It's got to warm up pretty soon. We've got to
get rid of this ice."
I turned up the
volume again on the ADF receiver. This
time we could faintly hear Rankin beacon's Morse code identifier
"YRT" on the speakers, but the needle still drifted aimlessly in
circles We had to be in range of it by now. Based on
the charts, and the direction we'd been flying, we should have been only a few
miles from Rankin.
"So why
aren't we getting any directional information?" Ed asked, more to himself than anyone else.
"I can hear it, so it's on."
"Look at
this," I exclaimed, as I rubbed the frost off the airspeed indicator. It was reading zero instead of the 180 knots
it had been reading a few moments ago.
"What's going on now?"
"The Pitot Tube on the wing must be covered in ice," Jim
responded. "The airspeed indicator
system relies on the flow of air against the Pitot's
head to indicate airspeed. It's a
pressure differential thing. I'll
explain it to you sometime, but until it unplugs we'll have no indication of
how fast we're moving. I hope you both
said your prayers this morning, because we're in a little bit of trouble."
"No
deicers on that either, I suppose," Ed said disgustedly, shrinking back
into his seat.
It was pitch black outside, but
the cockpit windows were white with the snow and frost that now covered
them. Between this and the reduced
lights of the frosted instrument panel, an eerie glow was cast throughout the
cockpit. We were flying blind with no
visual reference over the ice filled waters of
Coming back to
reality, I heard Jim talking to
"Never
mind the altimeter," Jim answered.
"See if you can scrape the frost off your side window. Let me know
when you can see the water. I'll try to
keep us at least 100 feet above it."
Jim turned on the landing light hoping it would help me spot the water
before we hit it.
I scraped my window as clear as
I could get it, and pressed my face to it.
I then pulled my parka hood over my head to block out any ambient light
as I peered out into the blackness of the night. It was still snowing. The combination of the
speed we were moving, the driving snow, and the brightness of the landing light
was hypnotic.
I felt Ed brush
my back and looked back into the cabin. He had leaned forward using his mittens
to continually wipe the instrument panel and keep it clear of frost.
"Keep
looking outside!" Jim's voice was a little higher than it had been before.
"I need to know where the water is."
"OK,"
I said. "Sorry." I hooded my eyes again, and looked out. Almost
immediately I could see the water "There it is. I'd say we're about
100 feet above it."
Jim moved the
throttles forward. The engine increased its RPM. The water began to
disappear. We must have been climbing,
but it was hard to tell.
"Hey,
we've got the beacon!" Ed said loudly, "Look, we've got a lock."
The needle of the ADF meter was pointing to the
Jim put the
aircraft into a left bank, held it there until the needle was pointing directly
ahead, and then straightened it out. I looked out again. The water was right
there. We couldn't have been more than fifty feet above it.
"Climb,"
I yelled. "We're almost in the
water."
Jim reached
over immediately and pushed the throttles forward. There wasn't much throttle
left. The engines revved higher, and we
started to climb again. The water
gradually receded. It was no longer visible, but we all knew it wasn't very far
below.
"I' don't
know what our airspeed is, but I'm putting out some flap," Jim said. "Hopefully we're not moving too fast to
damage them."
Seeing the
confused look on our faces, Jim explained that the flaps would provide us with
more wing area, and some extra lift to make up for what we had lost as a result
of the ice buildup. The problem was that
if we were moving too fast when he put them out, they might rip right off. He
reached down and pulled the flap lever up to the twenty-five degree mark. The
aircraft slowed down immediately, and its nose came up.
"Looks
like they're going to hold," he said, as he readjusted the elevator trim.
"I can see
the water again," I said, as I looked out my window. "We're down to
100 feet. Wait,
we're over rocks now. We're back over land."
It seemed as if
the rocks were only a few feet below us as we skidded by. Almost immediately the rocks became brilliant
lights, and the town of
Jim pushed the throttles fully
forward. There was nothing left
now. If we came down again, there had
better be a runway under us.
Ed was almost
on top of Jim, leaning over his seat furiously scraping the side window so Jim
could see out. The
"I just
realized where we were." Jim said excitedly, as he pushed the control
column forward again. "
We were homing on the beacon, and were about to hit its antenna. It's a good thing I saw the church. Good work Ed."
We were still
in a left turn. The engines were screaming.
Jim held the turn for a few seconds, and then gradually reduced it to a
gentle left bank. He changed the
frequency of the VHF radio, and keyed his microphone three times in quick
succession. At that point the runway
lights, which were controlled by a radio activated lighting system, came
on. The lights were very bright out
Jim's side window. For the first time in what seemed like several hours, I
thought we might just get out of this. We went by the end of the runway, Jim
coaxing the aircraft through another 180-degree turn back to the field. He put out another notch of flap, reached
down to lower the landing gear, and then stopped. He brought his hand back up.
"I think
we'll stall this baby if I put the wheels down," he said. "Wherever this thing comes down, it's
going to do it on its belly."
Jim couldn't
see anything out the front windshield, but by now, with Ed's scraping, he had a
pretty good view out his side window. I knew that Jim had landed at this
airport many times. I was hoping that he knew the airport well enough that the
side view would let him know where he was on the approach.
From the right-hand window, I
watched the rocks below the approach path glide by. A few airplanes had hit these rocks over the
years. The results had always been deadly.
The hamlet was off to the right, and as we flew along. We were only a
few feet above the ground, and its lights flickered on and off as the buildings
disappeared and then reappeared from behind the snowdrifts and rocks.
Suddenly
we
stopped flying. The aircraft bucked
twice, and its nose sunk rapidly. The
wings had stalled. They wouldn't fly anymore.
There was nothing left to do but hit the ground.
Jim reached
over and pulled the throttles all the way back.
He was in the process of turning off the fuel and the ignition when we
hit the ground. All three of our heads
hit the fabric roof of the cabin as our upper bodies were thrown forward. We
were jerked back immediately by our seat belts.
There was a loud bang. The aircraft bounced, and fell again. Another bang. Lesser this time as we bounced again. We hit the ground
again. This time we didn't bounce. We started sliding. The sound of rock and
gravel scraping of the bottom of the aircraft on the rock and gravel was
deafening. Through the frosted windows I could see huge sparks shooting out
beside and behind us. The snow was
flying by us in great plumes, and we could smell the heat that was being
generated by the scraping of metal on rock.
Suddenly
it
was quiet
deathly quiet
not a sound.
We had stopped.
And then there
was noise. All three of us were talking at the same time. The smell of heat was
all around us.
"Let's get
out of here fast," Jim said.
"Lets go, let's go, "Ed yelled.
Jim tried his
door, but it was either damaged or frozen shut.
The only other door was the passenger door on my side. It was up to me
to get it open so we could get out.
I threw open my
door. I was desperately trying to get out but couldn't seem to move. "I can't move," I yelled.
Ed was pushing
against the back of my seat so hard with his legs that I thought I was going to
be crushed, seat and all, into the front panel. Jim reached over and hit my
seat belt release. The combination of
the belt coming off, and Ed's pushing catapulted me out of the plane onto the
right wing. I jumped off the wing into a
two-foot snowdrift. I lay there, totally immobile and
watched the other two do the same thing. They landed beside me.
We pulled
ourselves up and looked at the snow falling from the dark winter sky. We could
hear the quiet. The only sound came from our heavy breathing. The next sounds
were grateful sighs, as we all stood against a snowdrift relieving ourselves.
It might have been the cold, or the shock reaction to what had happened, or
both, but our bodies were shaking, and our teeth were chattering. We walked over to the aircraft. It was
amazing. It lay there sideways on the
threshold of the runway, left wing down. The propellers were bent, and there
was a big dent on the front bottom of the fuselage. There was at least four inches of ice all
over the wings. The tail plane resembled an ice-covered crucifix embedded in
the snow. It was truly a wonder that
with that much ice it had been able to fly at all. It was even more of a wonder that we had managed
to fly past the rocks to the cleared area in front of the runway before we had
hit the ground.
Within moments,
out of the blackness, several people and vehicles began arriving from the
hamlet. The ski-doos
had led the way, and the track vehicles had followed. Our aircraft had startled these people when
it had flown over the town at less than 100 feet with its engines roaring. They knew someone was in trouble. Several of
them had immediately headed out to the airport, not knowing what they would
find when they got there.
After ensuring
that everyone was out of the aircraft, they helped the three of us load our
suitcases into one of the track vehicles. We were taken directly to the nursing
station. The nurse checked us over, and except for stiff necks and frost bitten
toes, declared us healthy enough to leave. Ed and I walked over to the hotel to
check in. Jim went off with some people from his company to get the aircraft
off the runway.
Unbelievably,
it was only
After dinner we
borrowed a couple of ski-doos from the hotel manager
and went out to the Non Directional Beacon site. We soon discovered why we
hadn't been able to get its radio signal. The door to the antenna-tuning unit
had blown off, and it had filled with snow.
Most of the power that was going to the antenna was being reflected right
back down.
By the time we
got back to the hotel, Jim was there. He told us that his company had made
bookings for us to get back to Churchill on the next morning's scheduled
flight. Our gear was sitting in the small terminal building at the airport.
We had a few
drinks that night, and Jim didn't buy any of them. It had been an amazing flight. We knew how
fortunate we were to be sitting in front of a roaring fire enjoying a glass of
rum. Jim had done an outstanding job of keeping that airplane flying. It was
truly 'seat of the pants' flying at its best.
That weekend in
Churchill my wife and I had several of our friends over for dinner to help us
enjoy the Arctic Char I had brought back.
At one point, after savoring a rather juicy piece of Char, I stood up
and held my wineglass high. As the
conversation quieted, I asked everyone to join me in a toast:
"A drink to toast our arctic char. Its meat is pink and sweet.
A
drink to how we got it here, through snow and cloud and sleet.
And
here's to Jim and those like him who fly the arctic dome.
Although,
sometimes they scare us some, they always get us home."
And we all took a drink.
Hot Pursuit
Jesse's tires
squealed as the car made a ninety-degree turn from the dusty gravel country
road, grabbing the black pavement of
Jesse had
celebrated his twenty-eighth birthday the week before. He was starting to feel
like an old man. Driving fast helped though.
It made him feel younger.
"God,"
he thought, "where does the time go? It seemed like just yesterday he
was in high school, living at home, and enjoying the good life. He reached up with his right hand, brushing
his long brown hair out of his eyes. He needed to be sharp tonight.
Now that he was
on the blacktop, he pressed his right foot a little harder on the gas pedal.
The car leapt forward, and the dotted white line transformed into a blurred
solid ribbon. He was driving with the car's headlights off, but his night
vision was tuned in. He could see the road ahead as well as if his lights had
been on. Glancing at the speedometer on the dimmed dashboard, he watched the
needle edge past 100 M.P.H. Smiling, he looked to his right. His brother, Brett
was in the passenger's seat. He was staring intently at the dark road ahead.
Brett felt
Jesse's stare, and turned to him saying, "Let's do it. Let's get it on. I
'm feelin' good."
Jesse laughed.
"You're goin' to feel better yet young fella. We'll be flyin' pretty
soon."
Brett swiveled
his head, looking out the back window. The whites of his wide-open eyes looked
like two flashlights in the darkened car.
He swiped at his forehead with the cuff of his sweater, wiping off the
beads of sweat that had formed there. "I can still see 'em. They're back a bit, but they're staying with us."
Jesse glanced
into the rear view mirror. He caught a glimpse of the red and blue flashing
lights of three police cruisers about a half a mile behind them. The cruisers
were starting to gain on them now. Sometimes they were in line and sometimes
they were two abreast, but they were gaining.
Instinctively,
his foot stepped even harder on the gas pedal. His right hand moved to his
side, where he felt the familiar cool metal of the Colt 38 Special sitting on
the seat beside him. The powerful engine under the hood responded with a
deep-throated roar, slinging the car even faster down the thin black strip of
pavement into the dark night.
"Yahoo!
What a way to make a living!" Jesse shouted enthusiastically.
Brett peered
intently through the windshield. It had started to rain. Jesse turned on the
wipers. For a moment they were blinded by the grease and mud from the road that
had mixed on the windshield with the fresh rain. The windshield washer soon
cleared the worst of it and they were better able to see the road again. It was
It had been a
long night. First the marijuana had been packaged, and then loaded into
waterproof bags. Then it had been put into the trunk of the car back at the
farmhouse. There had been ten guys at the house tonight. Everybody had a job to
do. The car was carrying over five hundred pounds of marijuana. Enough to make a lot of people happy, and a few people rich.
"OK Brett,
we're coming up to our little rendezvous point. It's about a mile ahead. Are
you ready?"
Brett leaned
over into the back seat. He came back up grasping a short-barreled shotgun with
a molded wooden stock. He inserted a couple of slug loads, put on his gloves,
and turned to Jessie, "The Lord hates a coward big brother. Let's make it
happen."
Jesse pressed
the pedal all the way to the floor. The engine roared even louder and the car
leapt forward as if it had been standing still. They were flying low now,
leaving the cruisers in a cloud of wet mist and blue exhaust behind them.
Within thirty
seconds they came up on the taillights of a car ahead of them. Jesse slowed
only briefly, and then swerved to the left. He applied just enough brake to
remain just slightly behind and to the left of the car. In a flash, Brett
pointed the shotgun out his open side window, and fired at the left rear tire
of the car.
The car's rear
tire blew into a thousand pieces. Jesse applied more brake, and pulled back
behind the crippled car. He saw its brake lights come on as it careened to the
left, hitting the guardrail beside the highway. It then bounced back to the
right, and slid sideways, coming to a stop on the right shoulder of the road.
Before the
out-of-control car had even come to a full stop, Jesse and Brett had pulled up
beside and just behind it. They were instantly out of their car, crouched
behind their doors with pistols pointed at the passenger compartment of the
crippled vehicle.
"THIS IS
THE POLICE!" Brett shouted. "NOBODY MOVE! KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE WE
CAN SEE THEM!"
At that point,
three cruisers with their sirens wailing, and lights flashing in the rain,
roared up. They skidded to a halt beside, and in front of the stricken vehicle.
Two bulletproof vested police officers jumped out of each cruiser and
surrounded the car. Their arms were raised, holding guns aimed at the passenger
compartment.
A bullhorn
screamed at the car, telling the passengers to get out of their vehicle with
their hands up. Two very surprised people slowly emerged with their hands in
the air. The policemen quickly moved in, cuffed them, and moved them off. They
both looked somewhat confused. They had no idea what had happened to them, and
how quickly it had all happened.
"Good job
boys. That was a great piece of driving Jesse, and a great moving shot
Brett." The sergeant walked over to where Brett was putting the shotgun
into the back seat of the car. Enthusiastically, he clapped him on the back.
"Looks like you boys have justified us buying this hot machine. These guys
never knew what hit 'em. They had no idea we were
tailing them, and still don't know where you came from. I love it when a plan
comes together."
Jesse looked
back at the car they had been chasing. A couple of uniformed officers were
removing several bags of pot from its trunk. The police had been secretly
watching the little house in the woods for over a month. They felt that they
had all the evidence they needed to prove that it was a thriving drug
production and distribution operation. Every night during the stakeout, several
people had been videotaped coming and going from the house. The Chief had
decided earlier that day that it had gone on long enough. It was time to close
the operation down. Jesse and Brett, along with six other undercover officers,
had watched the drug smugglers load up the car and leave. They had used their
night binoculars. Jesse moved out a short ways behind them and picked up the
tail on
"Another one for the good guys," Jesse smiled proudly at Brett as they got back into the car. "Let's go get a cup of java."
Back to Top
A Bucketful of
Noise
It was as
though a giant crevasse in the sky had split open, creating an avalanche of
fast-moving ice and snow. A screaming wind came at us with a fury. It
sandblasted the snow into tiny fragments and flung them at us in whirling
swirls, blocking our nostrils and taking our breath away. I opened my eyes as
best I could, and looked over at Pete. His eyes were closed too, forced that
way by the snow-caked ridges that had built up around them. Like myself, he was in a crouch with his arms outstretched
clutching the rear bumper of the moving car.
This wasn't
nearly as much fun as it was supposed to have been. As we slid along behind, I
thought of how perfect a plan it had seemed to be when my buddies and I had
devised it in the warmth and comfort of my basement bedroom the day before.
I was just a
gangly kid growing up on the south
"You're imaginin' things," Carl said dryly. "If you don't
want to hit Old Man Simon's place anymore, where are we goin'
to get our gas?"
Carl was,
without question, my best friend and confidante. We had known each other the
longest, and trusted each other the most. Like me, he was a couple of inches
short of six feet, but because he was so thin, he looked taller. His long brown
hair fell onto his forehead, and he was always swiping at it to move it out of
his eyes. Sometimes we called him
'Sleepy' because of his large dark-rimmed glasses that made his eyes appear to
be closed most of the time. He didn't like being called that, which made
teasing him even better. My mother really liked Carl. She figured that our
friendship was probably the best thing that had ever happened to me. She
obviously didn't know him like I did.
Pete just shook
his head. "Look man, I haven't got all the answers. All I know is that Mr.
Simons was over at our place last night to see my dad. He was complaining about
his poor gas mileage. He kept looking over, staring right at me."
Pete was a
short and wiry with jet-black hair and deep-set eyes. He was born in
"He's
right Carl," I agreed. "He gave me a funny look the other day too. I
think he's onto us. Maybe we can find somebody else."
"No
way," Jim argued, "You guys all know that the Simons' place is the
only one around here that's dark enough for our purposes. We've looked all over
the place. The streetlights are too bright everywhere else."
Jim was
physically the biggest of all of us. He seemed to possess a superior knowledge
of just about everything. He thought so anyway. He did have a lot of ideas,
though, and was often able to spark our imaginations enough to convince us to
join him in carrying them out.
"So what
are we goin' to do then?" repeated Carl.
"We sure can't afford to buy gas."
That stopped us
cold. Carl's comment had really hit home. There was nothing more to say. We
were faced with the first crisis of our young criminal lives. For the last
several months, in the wee hours of each Saturday morning, we had taken turns
commandeering our father's cars to go joyriding. Getting the cars had been
easy. As it turned out, getting gas for the cars had been even easier. Poor Mr. Simons. He must have been pulling out the few
remaining hairs he had in his head trying to figure out where all his gas was
going. Once a week for over three months, we had quietly snuck up his darkened
driveway and siphoned off a two and one-half gallon bucketful of gas from his
car. It looked like this was over now, and maybe the end of our good times.
The quiet of
the room was amplified by the gloomy looks we cast at each other. Jim was rubbing
his chin and staring at the ceiling. Suddenly his face broke into a smile.
"I've got
it," he exclaimed, jumping up from the bed. "Man, I just had an
inspiration. I know how we can get some gas, and have some fun at the same
time."
We were 'all
ears', as we sat there waiting for Jim to explain his plan. He had been
teaching us how to drive on our Saturday morning excursions. He was the one who
had come up with the idea of liberating our father's cars. He had also come up
with the idea of hitting Old Man Simons for the gas. It was only fitting that
he should come up with the answer to our problem.
"Listen,"
he went on, "you know that new housing development up past the bowling
alley? There's quite a few people living up there now, and guess what? They haven't
put any streetlights in yet. What if we were to drive through there, real slow
like
?"
A noise at the
top of the stairs interrupted him. My mother was on her way down with a tray of
soft drinks for us. The room was dead quiet as she opened the door and came
into my room. She wanted to stay and talk for a while, but after we thanked her
for the third time, she got the idea and went back upstairs. Jim continued,
telling us the rest of his plan. When he finished, we all got our chance to
'put our two cents in'. Soon we had devised what we thought to be a foolproof
scheme. We spent the rest of the afternoon there, sitting around, joking, and
planning our forthcoming adventure. Before I knew it, Mom was calling me for
supper.
After supper,
we all met at 'Gaston's', a small restaurant where we spent most of our free
time hanging around. We drank soft drinks, and amused ourselves playing the
pinball machines for a while. We were so keyed up, however, our everyday
pastimes seemed rather dull to us that evening. It started snowing as we were
walking home around
What a
wonderful dream I was having. The broiling sun had forced me to strip down to
my shorts. I was standing in the shade of a giant palm tree on a sandy beach of
a tropical island. I closed my eyes for a moment. When I opened them I realized
that I'd been surrounded by a bevy of beautiful island maidens wearing nothing
more than flimsy grass skirts around their slim waists. One of the girls,
swaying gracefully to the faint beat of a drum, stepped into the circle, her
toes curling into the hot, white sand. She moved towards me, and leaned
forward, her arms extended. She put one caressing hand onto my bare shoulder. I
was quivering in anticipation. She looked me in the eye, smiled, bent over in
front of me to pick up a handful of soft sand, and proceeded to throw snow in
my face.
I woke up
immediately. As I opened my eyes, I saw Carl's grinning face framed in the open
basement window above me, and the major portion of a large snowdrift covering
my pillow.
"Come
on," he whispered. "It's
I was still
half-asleep as I got dressed, and managed to put my pants on backwards the
first time I tried. Carl kept bugging me about the bucket. I made my way
groggily out of my room and across the basement to get it. I groped my way
through the dark until I had reached the furnace. There, I moved my sister's
bicycle slightly so I could get around it. At that point, the bicycle stand
collapsed, sending both the bicycle and myself crashing into the side of the
furnace. Loud reverberations of clashing metal were echoed throughout the
house. My heart stopped beating. I lay there, frozen to the spot, not daring to
move until I knew if I had disturbed anyone upstairs.
"What's
going on down there?"
"Nothing
dad, just going to the bathroom." Why hadn't I got the
bucket earlier?
Carefully, I
moved in behind the furnace, feeling around in the dark to try and find the
bucket. That's when I remembered. The plastic bucket was upstairs. Mom had been
using it that afternoon to wash floors. The only bucket behind the furnace was
the large metal one. By this time Carl had lost all patience. He had climbed in
the window to see what was keeping me. When I told him about the bucket, and
how my dad was awake upstairs, a look of exasperation came over his face.
"It's you
that we should call 'Sleepy'," he whispered disgustingly.
"I guess
we'll just have to use the metal one," I mumbled apologetically.
Jim had his
father's car this week. He and Pete were waiting for us around the corner. When
Carl and I got in, he checked that we had everything, and then drove off.
Quite a bit of snow had fallen
since
I could hardly
see Pete, even though he was only a few feet away from me. Sliding along behind
the car was supposed to be the fun part of the plan, but it wasn't. Maybe Pete
and I shouldn't have been so quick to volunteer for this role. We were freezing
our butts off. Jim and Carl were nice and warm inside the car.
The plan was
for Jim to drive very slowly down the dark streets of the new development.
Carl, sitting on the passenger's side with the door partially open, would hold
the bucket and hose. They would keep their eyes peeled for a likely prospect.
When they found one Jim would slow right down. Carl's job was to then quietly
place the bucket and hose on the road directly in front of he driveway that
contained our victim's car. At the same time Pete and I were to let go of the
rear bumper and pick up the bucket and hose. While we were siphoning the gas,
they would drive around the block, and come back to pick us up. Hopefully, we
would be finished when they got back, and we could leave as quickly and quietly
as we had come.
We had been
moving for about five minutes and were halfway down a second street. Pete and I
were having a difficult time holding on. The snow was so deep it was up over
the top of my boots. It was shooting up my pant legs making my legs numb from
the knees down. Jim was driving faster than he was supposed to,
and our legs kept flying out behind us. We were being dragged, not towed.
Suddenly we were thrown up against the back of the car as Jim applied full
brakes and slid to a stop.
Thinking back
now, it must have been the sudden stop that began the calamitous chain of
events that followed. When the car slowed, if you remember, Carl was supposed
to lean out his door and gently place the bucket and hose on the road where we
would pick them up. What happened was that when Jim slammed on the brakes, Carl
panicked, threw open the door and heaved the bucket and hose out, screaming at
Jim to get the car moving again. The metal bucket soared through the air,
landed on top of our victim's car, and rolled noisily to the driveway. What an
ungodly noise it made on that lonely street in the black of night. Bedroom
lights began coming on around us, dogs started barking, and silhouettes of
sleepy people came to their bedroom windows, peering out to see what the racket
was.
What they saw
was two figures in the middle of their street, covered in snow, carrying a bucket
and hose in their hands.
Needless to
say, we didn't get our gas that night. I dropped the bucket where I stood, and
ran for all I was worth. Pete was right beside me. Running wasn't easy with our
frozen legs, but we finally managed to reach the car. We piled into the back
seat. Jim tried to get out of there as fast as he could, but the more gas he
gave the car, the more he spun the wheels.
Finally he got
it moving, and we escaped onto the main road. Nobody said anything for the
first few minutes, but pretty soon we were all talking at once, blaming each
other for screwing up. Then Carl started laughing. He was trying to describe
the calamity on the road behind them as they had driven away after heaving the
bucket out, but was laughing so hard he was having trouble talking. Pete and I
couldn't see the humor in it at first, but the more we warmed up, the funnier
it got. Before long we were all laughing so hard we were crying.
We headed over
to our favorite all-night restaurant for coffee. By the time we got there all
was forgiven. We'd have to either refine our plan or come up with a better one
for next week.
It was
Back to Top
The Chicken
Express
When polar
bears share your back yard, and beluga whales cavort in the river just beyond,
how far do you think you would go to get up close and dirty to a chicken? You
might be surprised; especially if it's a
The year was 1975, and my family and I were living in
Churchill sits at the end of the rail line on the west
coast of
This story is about my friend Larry. There are other players, but without him there
wouldn't really be a story. Larry arrived in Churchill shortly after I did, and
when he did, he brought his small airplane with him so he could get out and
explore the area. I loved to fly too, and over the next two years we made many
trips together, exploring the small inlets and coves up the coast of
Occasionally we would fly south to Thompson to hone our
cross-country and map reading skills. It
was after returning home on a Friday evening in May from one of our Thompson
trips that the idea of the 'Chicken Express' was first considered.
Larry and his wife Lynn were having a few people over
that night. Lynn had asked him to bring back some Kentucky Fried Chicken, and we had brought home three buckets. As it turned
out, she could have served T-Bone steaks with all the trimmings that evening
and it wouldnt have gone over nearly as well as the chicken did. Twelve of us
made short work of it, and as advertised, it was 'Finger Licking Good'.
"Let
me know the next time you're going to Thompson," Ian said to Larry. "You can pick me up a bucket or
two." Ian and Linda had come to Churchill several months after Larry and I
had arrived. He was our supervisor, but
he was also a good friend.
"Hey, if you're bringing back chicken, we'd like
some too," Bill chimed in. Katy and
I love the stuff." Bill was the Station Manager for the regional airline
that served Churchill. He was a good guy to know, and fit right in with our
group.
"Whoa
people!" Larry held his hands up in
the air. I'm happy to give you my time,
but airplane fuel costs money. If you
want to pay for my gas
"
Everyone immediately started throwing cash onto the
table. Larry had his first order. Twenty buckets for the following Friday
night.
The 'Chicken Express' was born.
It was supposed to be for friends only, but pretty soon
word got out, and Larry started getting requests from people in town he didn't
even know. For the next few months he
tried to accommodate a growing list of customers, and soon realized he had
stumbled onto a gold mine. People would
pay whatever he asked for the stuff, and he couldn't make enough trips to meet
the demand. The money was pouring in, and at one point he even considered
quitting his job and buying a bigger and better airplane.
Like most things, however, it
was too good to be true, and it wasn't long before it all started to fall
apart. Because the townspeople thought he was running a full-fledged K.F.C.
delivery service, they treated it accordingly. They didn't realize that Larry
had a full time job at the airport, and if, for whatever reason the plane
didn't go, or go often enough, they would telephone his home complaining about
the poor service. By the end of July it
was totally out of hand and, under serious pressure from
The 'Chicken Express' was dead, or so it seemed. "So much for budding entrepreneurship."
--------------------------------------------------------------
The planning for the big
fishing trip started at work one day in August as we were enjoying our morning
coffee in the
"Ok Boys," Ian said. "
We've been talking about this for months. When are we going to go? My
neighbor has been telling me about this great place called
"So how do we get there?" Tom asked. "Is
it a fly-in lake?" Tom was our gentleman farmer from southern
"Nope,"
Ian said. "It's on the rail line
between here and Thompson. We get there by train. They'll stop the train, let
us off, and then pick us up again whenever we flag them down."
That was all we needed.
Everyone added their two cents, and the trip was on.
Over the next few days, each of us made arrangements to be off work on the Labour Day long-weekend. Everyone