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