A few hours ago....

"Well Duke... (that's not my real name) the news is not good," said the doc. "The cancer...it's back. Your CEA count is up and...." I only half listened. "Mass on your liver...something in your abdomen... blah blah blah"
A chill, like a rapier, shot up my spine... a big chill... the information he gave was only the clarity of dreams. My wife and I never even looked at each other. She had been through it once with me already. The chemo, the puking, diarrhea, needles, hair all over the house, nausea and fear. Like some creature devoid of form, the big "C" was stalking me.

Fear you say....from an old Aviator?


The Big Chill

Thursday, November the 28th.

The call came as usual on this date every year...from a young co-pilot.

"Happy Lobster Day!" and then we laughed and recalled that fateful day five years ago out over the Atlantic.

The plan sounded simple...we were to base the C117(Super DC3) in Yarmouth Nova Scotia in order to fly live lobsters to New York prior to shipment to Japan. I had already done a couple of trips but now with B Check Authority I was to line indoctrinate a new Captain and co-pilot. A flawless day, although cold, made flight planning easy except for the forty knot headwind. We had plenty of fuel and nine thousand pounds onboard. We climbed to ten thousand or so on this bright blue day and I settled into the nav chair to think up some relevant questions for the Captain, a steely eyed ex Voodoo pilot named Les. He was all excited about his new GPS with the VNAV function. In the right seat was Slaz, a strong and jovial young chap bursting with keen-ness.

The Captain toyed with his GPS and, as we approached what I had figured out to be the PNR (Point of No Return), I asked him, "Where would you go now in the event of an engine failure?"

He correctly stated he would return to Yarmouth due to the headwind, based upon his GPS info. "Aha!" says I. "You cannot give me an ETA UNTIL you turn around and use your new groundspeed read-out." He knew I was right and promised to learn the PNR formula.

Then....BANG!... a backfire. "Which engine?" I blurted out. We hadn't caught it.

Then...BANG!... again...I saw the gauge flicker...the left engine. I scrambled over the load of squeaking live cargo and, in horror, saw oil trailing from the cowling. I ran forward only to have Les inform me that we had a chip light.

A chill crept up my spine... Down below the spindrift streaked off the waves...I found out later from the Coast Guard that the seas were thirty feet.

"Do you mind if I assume command of the flight?” I respectfully asked Les...after all I had three engine failures in this airplane before.

Without an answer he moved to the right seat and Slaz stood between us. Les immediately called a Mayday to Boston in order to clear the airspace below as we were going down as we completed the shutdown procedure....except the engine wouldn't feather. With all trims maxed out and full aileron it was difficult to control the airplane and indeed we couldn't hold altitude.

The feather button was in and lit and yet the prop turned...it took a while to figure out... prop turning… feather pump running... Gadzooks! We must have broken the crankshaft...Yes! That’s it. The RPM read zero...won't feather...never. All the oil is gone....windmilling...the drag is tremendous....down to 100 knots… Slaz taps me on the shoulder and points to the feather button...still running...no oil...fire danger.

Yep! The co-pilot had saved our lives for sure so I pulled the button out manually (so he DID pay attention in ground school). Les in steely eyed fashion informs me we won't make it to any shore according to VNAV.

"Upgrade the Mayday "says I...whatever the hell that meant.

Down to eight thousand...next we see a DC10 circling us...Boston had diverted him from his trip to Germany to at least get a visual on us...EASY...we were at the leading edge of the oil slick.

Imagine what those pax thought with their noses pressed up against the glass.

A Coast Guard Falcon 20 appeared and scorched around us and the DC10 went on his way...we never did talk to him, but we were given a discreet frequency to talk to the Falcon.

I was busy flying the plane when Slaz asked if he should start throwing cargo out and this permission was quickly granted but he had to use the emergency exit window as we could not open the huge cargo door in flight. The cockpit was a busy place. Les monitoring the good engine, updating me on where we would ditch...but he was oh so cool. "Is your airplane falling apart?" the Falcon asked as they saw stuff hitting the tail...it was boxes of lobsters slamming into the stabilizer.

"What can you do for me?" I asked. "We will drop you a life raft" was the answer. I struggled with the controls...200fpm down was the best I could do. I looked at the mountainous seas..."It will blow away in this wind and besides, we have a problem with ditching" says I. "I need a helicopter"

I looked down into the icy cauldron ... I couldn't show the fear that welled inside me.
They dispatched one from an Air Force Base near Cape Cod. That is why I decided to continue straight ahead in order to close the distance as soon as possible even though Boston was closer. Four thousand....Slaz worked feverously in back and we could hear the boxes hitting the tail...the airplane shuddered with every hit. I chilled ... I thought the thumps were the good engine letting go.
We had METO power on the good engine and as we descended, Les was pulling back on the power to maintain METO...we were still descending..."Want more power?" he asked.

It was the hardest decision in my aviation career. "No" say I, "I want to save that engine till ground effect, maybe get to shore that way."

The seas were huge (the Coast Guard told us next day the seas were thirty feet).
Two thousand...

"Go back and get Slaz" says I "I want to brief on the ditching. Slaz arrives..."Half the cargo gone” he says breathlessly, eyes as big as dogs balls. I come up with a plan to get out the top hatch and tie ourselves together with the hamburger door escape rope. That way we are all in the same spot for pickup ... we would only last minutes in the cold Atlantic.
While I was briefing, Les yells, "We are leveling, Weeeeha! We’re gonna make it." At the same time Slaz points ahead to the beach on Cape Cod. "Tell Boston we'll put her on the beach" says I. I knew at this point we weren’t licked. But when we get to the beach, a vote was taken. That's right ... a vote. We were confident we could make the now visible airport at Provincetown.

I stayed high on final purpose ... Les ran through the checklist... but he looked up as he said "High. Aren't we a little high?"

I knew it was VERY easy to lose height, especially with a windmilling prop, and even waited longer for the landing gear call. A high rate of descent had to be arrested as we approached the threshold, upon which I greased her on ... right on the button of the short runway (for a loaded C117, that is). On rollout my legs were like jelly as I tried to keep it straight.

We could not taxi the wounded beast so we shut down on the runway as about four Hummer rescue vehicles wobbled up to us on half inflated tires. This puzzled us but soon learned that the rescue people were advised by Boston that we would be landing on the beach so they deflated their tires somewhat to make travel over the sand dunes more effective... so we literally threw handfuls of lobsters at them while we laughed with forced jocularity.

Les was the official Captain so he was burdened with the paperwork , of which there was plenty , especially since we had landed at an airport other than the one named on the IFR flight plan. Immigration too...and the company so that they may get a charter aircraft for the remaining four thousand pounds...and Transport Canada...and the FAA.

After Slaz and I had taken pictures with our heads in the gaping hole in the tailplane and the massive oil slick, we walked amongst the dunes ... and reflected.

Would we have done it any differently? Nope.

The C117 on the ground in Provincetown: just another landing in the Duke’s logbook.

Spring 1983

I had overstayed my visit to Australia but was still confident to get a seat on the Budworm Program. I needed the money as my many wives had shared in the booty from previous adventures. It was a six week project and big bucks. Spray pilots, some Swiss, Americans, Czechs, Poles, Aussies and South Africans to name a few. Frenchmen, too. They all came to fly the TBM Avenger, a 2000HP US Navy torpedo bomber. We sprayed the whole forest of New Brunswick in formations of three at about fifty feet. In the past there had been about thirty TBMs on the job, spread out on bases with usually nine on each base.

The turns at the end of the spray line were like mini air shows and dangerous. Imagine pulling 17,000lbs around at 2 G's...that made the slipstream 34,000lbs....enter it and you were a smoking hole in the bush.

I was number two to a tall, hawk faced, and old ex F104 Starfighter pilot who had an ego as big as his balls. Number three was Farrell and he was not happy with the maintenance. None of us were…hell...at a hundred bucks a trip...go for it.
We were spraying in the hills to the North and Farrell’s plane was running rough. If one guy went back we all went back.

"Shut up…quit whining" it was hinted to him. A hundred bucks.

But he had had enough and quit, leaving his plane sitting on the ramp. Frank and I were elated as we could do faster turns with two airplanes and make good dough. The competition was brutal. When finished a spray line we would look over our shoulders for the other team, also calling off line and, without any calls, just push it up to METO. First team midfield on the carrier break had the right of way. We always competed for the last load of the day. We had to quit spraying around 9AM when the ground heated up. It was not uncommon to duke it out in the mess shack after flying.

4AM

They say the darkest hour is right before the dawn. We would arise, not from sleep but from passing out from too many warm Moosehead beers and war stories. A coffee helped a little but then we went to the flight line in the dark, flashlights stabbing the dark as we did half-hearted walk-arounds.

Then...there is NOTHING...I say…NOTHING more horny than nine Avengers running up in the dark…18,000 horsepower growling...orange flames licking the dawn, then turning blue as they warmed up. The first team would move into the pits to await the dawn, when the C172 pointer planes would take of and go to the block. We had two pointers per team. They navigated for us online and we simply lined them up as we were busy at 50 feet flying formation.

DAWN

We launch. Frank lines up with his 625 US gallons of poison and roars off, vortices trailing from the slots at the wingtips. He banks right and I am powering up already, full power...49"...52" if you need it through the gate...tail up six inches and a slight tug and she breaks free. Frank banks back for the joinup. Gear up... First power reduction...first power reduction...Holy Mackerel!! Throttle is jammed... Accelerating...I go scorching by Frank. "Slow down" he yells. "Can't…throttle's stuck" says I. 200kts... I turn on downwind... 250Kts. I look at the Dunphy Airstrip...3000 feet. No Way!

"Go to Chatham" growls Frank calmly..."050 degrees roughly." I set a rough course...I can't remember what the final speed was because I was focused on the cylinder head temp along with the oil temp that had already hit redline. I trimmed nose down and left all the right rudder trim in... Getting hot in here.

The big chill...it ran up my spine.

"Climb up and jump" suggested another pilot. “I see some smoke."
I looked at the 'chute...US Navy 1952...it read on the tag...think I'll stay here.
I stayed low...if it caught fire I wanted to ditch...the landscape was flat but flashing by in a blur.

The US Navy manual says you can use full power for two minutes...in wartime that is. It's now about five minutes. I'm on my own. She's screaming...was that a puff of smoke? I could see the base off in the distance. Frank had already looked up the frequency for me...I called.

"Chatham Tower Zebra Two inbound...I have a problem."
"Say your position" says the controller.
"Desperate!" says I, "Crossing a power line NE bound" is all I knew.
"What is your plan?"...they have every right to know...but I didn't have one.
"Left base 250knots plus" I blurt out. I don't know what he said. I wasn't listening.
I noticed a helicopter hovering at the other end of the runway. I roll onto base...miles out.

250 KTS ON FINAL

The long runway sure was coming up fast. I had to decide where to cut the mixture. What happens WHEN I cut the mixture? This hadn't been done before. I see smoke on both sides of the cockpit...puffs. WOW! Look at all those fighter jets lined up, canopies open.

NOW! I pulled the mixture.... a tongue of yellow flame appeared momentarily.
Two thousand horsepower to zero...I wasn't prepared for what happened next. Remember, I had a whole bunch of rudder trim cranked in to counteract 2000 HP worth of torque. With a violent yaw, my helmet banged the side canopy...hard. My body slammed forward into my harness as the prop hissed loudly on its way to fine. She dived as the tremendous drag took effect. Gadzooks!! It was all those trims cranked in that took over.

The silence was deafening. The airplane was askew but I sawed on the rudder to keep her straight
The prop was disking…lots of drag so I had to push hard on the stick...airspeed decreasing RAPIDLY...full forward...

I'm gonna be short...SHEEEE-It!
I reach for the mixture...worth a try…slam it forward...

ZERO HORSEPOWER TO 2000 HORSEPOWER! In a heartbeat! I wasn't prepared for what happened next. The noise… incredible. With a violent yaw the other way, my helmet bangs other side of canopy. YAW...you’ve never seen anything like it...Flames along with a whole side of the cockpit. She pitches up then BAMM! She came apart...GRIIIIND! The prop stops just as I flare over the numbers...NO LIE!
I had flared high and she came down hard. I had 650US gallons of poison onboard. Even though I had MILES of runway ahead I tried jamming the brakes but my rubbery legs wouldn't work so it kept barreling down the runway. Fire trucks abreast...It stopped…the clicking sound could be heard over the noise of the approaching helicopter...it was cooling down.

I grabbed my helmet and stepped out onto the wing just as everybody showed up, even a photographer. Well you all know how shy I am around cameras and microphones.

A van load of excited young fighter pilots came and took me to the mess for coffee. They laughed and laughed…they had seen nothing like it in their lives. They joked that I was seen on radar...coming in low...and FAST. Was I some sort of target? Was this part of the NATO exercise that was in progress? Were they being attacked?

Oh well.... I guessed that my season was on hold because another engine would have to be retrieved from the dump. A few days at least.

The Duke: mounting the TBM that would take him for a wild ride to Chatham.

Well that was it for a few days...or so I thought.

I thought of Frank, last seen flying slowly around my plane at the Air force base when I was getting out onto the wing and then droning off in the direction of Dunphy. He had tried valiantly to keep up. He would be pissed off because it was not procedure to fly a one plane mission.

They flew me back to Dunphy in a Bell206 and I got to retrace my flight path over trees, small lakes and meadows. I had decided to retain my load of chemical, remember. I got out of the helicopter with my helmet bag and maps poked into my flight suit, to be greeted by most of the base personnel. And Frank: in my freekin' face, gesturing wildly towards Farrell's plane sitting beside his still loaded TBM (remember the one that was running rough over the hills?).

It was still cool enough to spray.

Another hundred bucks...let’s go.

Just Curious wrote:

As all this was transpiring, a half dozen air cadets had shown up to start the summer.

As they sat out on a picnic bench beside the hangar, I gave them the flying is inherently safe speech, you know the one: checklists, appropriate clothing, practice of emergency drills until they get routine, and statistically likely nothing will ever go wrong.

It was a beautiful afternoon; the 416 squadron guys were pretty much stood down for the day, and dead quiet. Just as the droning from my speech is about to lull the kids off to sleep, the crash Klaxon starts to wail, the fire trucks roll, and the base rescue guys flash up the helicopter. Big honkin' TBM goes down the runway, still at flying speed seemingly forever... down this two mile long runway, and stops just before the highway (well, paved road, we're talking New Brunswick here!).

Got the kids attention!

The machine sat on the EPA ramp for quite a while. As the season wound down someone from FPL came up and started pulling jugs for the flight out. As it happens, METO power takes quite a bit out of engines that only run six weeks a year. Got a nice ash-tray out of that one. A piston you could stash a dozen big Cubans in.

Subsequently the kids were really aces when it came time for reviewing emergencies, so Duke, 22 years later, thanks for keeping them on their toes.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Duke Elegant replied:

Yeah! I was army. And it reminds me of something...

My tales have attracted people here who were there.

Can you believe this?

Three years ago.

As a clinching touch in the courtship of my wife I took her back to Australia. We got off the plane and bought a car within a few hours and got the hell out of the big city, Sydney...it was the millennium...year 2000. We drove to a small town called Tarree. I wanted my wife to share in something important in my life.

1966. The Vietnam war was in progress and Australia , unknown to many , had the draft in progress. Six of us had been chosen from the Officer Training School of the Army to march down the streets of Tarree alongside the body of a young officer (drafted) on top of a gun carriage (105mm Howitzer). We held our swords in salute and slow marched solemnly beside the coffin which was draped in the Australian Flag. We went to the gravesite and fired a salute. He had been killed in Vietnam at the Battle of Long Tan.

We went back to the school and studied the Battle of Long Tan in which Sharpe was killed. In a rubber plantation...twelve survived out of his platoon of thirty.
"Study it" they said.....”You young fellows are next." We were all trained platoon commanders. Then my application to be a pilot came through....whew!!!!

Well about two months ago, the missus and I were watching the History Channel on TV. "Battle of Long Tan" Oh man... I couldn't believe it…a picture of Sharpe just before he got it between the eyes right in the midst of battle. My wife was there with me to experience this.... and relive it.


 

Honour is a Man’s Gift to Himself

In the eighties, there were four of us in A26's and we had taken off from Manning, Alberta for a leisurely base change to High Level, less than an hour away. There was Bhudda (Tanker 8) the base manager, Turbo in Tanker 13, Mr. Magoo (Tanker 36), and me in Tanker 14. I had an engineer riding with me and he promptly went to sleep as the warm sun bathed us through the plexiglass canopy. The synchronic vibration from the rumbling, powerful engines seeped into your soul. We had all leveled off at the same altitude and were in sight of each other. I could see the Peace River to my right and three bombers to my left. We droned on.

Magoo’s bomber was slowly making it's way toward me so I kept an eye out and waited for his call. Maybe he wanted to formate, take some pictures... maybe not. No call...but I watched.

He was exactly at my altitude and now I could see his helmet clearly thru the canopy ...looking down at a map. I shook Kirk awake and pointed to my left. His eyes went as big as dog's balls. We had no intercom. I dove gently and let Magoo roar overhead maybe fifty feet away.... as I incredulously stared up at the oily bottom of his bomber.

We turned our heads and watched him fly to our right. He must have seen the Peace to his right and realized he was too far East and banked left ......RIGHT TOWARD US AGAIN. The first thing he saw was my A26 and he dived sharply away. Kirk simply shook his head.... and went back to sleep.

Magoo must have poured on the coals because we didn't see him again till we landed. I taxied for fuel and shut down.

We sat on the wing and waited for the truck that refueled three other bombers. I said to Kirk, "Listen Mate! We know that was stupid of Magoo but I would like us to keep our mouths shut because he is getting old and Bhudda has been trying to get rid of him for some time... this would do him in."

"No worries," says Kirk, "I agree"

The gooper (young fella who pumps the retardant into the bombers during a fire flap) comes running over to tell us there is an important meeting and I should attend, so Kirk said he would refuel for me. So I amble over to the briefing room. That alone pissed Bhudda off and that was my sport. I have always had a healthy disrespect for authority.

Bhudda drew himself up to full height and, pompously droning on.... "It has been reported to me," he says looking straight at me. I knew nothing. He seemed to think he had me...on something... " that a very serious safety violation ha..."

Those are the few words he got out when the spring went off in my arse that rocketed me out of my chair, finger already pointing… I knew what was coming.

"Enough!! Nobody moves nobody gets hurt" I bellowed as I strode to the door and in my Army voice, "invited" Kirk to join us. I spun around, "Nothing more till he gets here!" Bhudda looked as if somebody had kicked him in the nuts and stood there with mouth agape.

Kirk arrived. "Tell this group here what happened about thirty minutes ago" I demanded. He related the story calmly, and soft-spoken. You see, Magoo had rushed to town to squeal on me and get some brownie points. He had thought that it was I that had come close to him.

"More importantly," says I, "Kirk, what did I say on the wing"

Again, he explained how I had tried to protect Magoo. I glanced at Magoo and saw a 66 year old man with tears in his eyes... he had realized his fuck up. I strode outside and was on my own when I was approached by Magoo. He apologized...  and asked for forgiveness.

A simple "yes" was a good investment in a long friendship that survives to this day.

The Duke (and Kirk?) cruising along in Tanker 14.

I am bumping this up as I have been away for a few days. Upon my return, my piece O sh#t Windows XP won't load its own Explorer browser.... Bill Gates is piece o sh#t too. More stories coming if I get it up tonight.... That didn't come out right.


………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
This next piece was written after a particularly bad round of chemotherapy where I ended up in the hospital, in emergency in fact. There were no beds available so I lay on a gurney all night surrounded by the moans of people less fortunate than I.

I worked hard that night to divert my thoughts
 

DB Cooper – the Hijacker

In 1975/76 we used to fly nine Grumman Avengers across Canada from BC to New Brunswick to spray for the budworm infestation. WOW! What fun. Nine Avengers, in three groups of three... can you imagine the trouble we got into across Canada. My engineer flew in the back seat and his stuff was stowed in the belly, including his target shooting .22. We had parachutes upon which we sat as part of our seat... and boy! ...after four hours they felt as if they were full of deer antlers.

That same year was the year that a D.B. Cooper had hijacked a 727, grabbed about a million in cash, got the crew to lower the rear door and parachuted to earth somewhere over Oregon if memory serves me correctly. He was never located, nor the booty.

Well, we got to New Brunswick and Conair had a rental vehicle for us and we unloaded our gear and got ready for spraying....by the way... we carried 650US gallons of insecticide... heavy, to say the least. But the bugs hadn't crawled out yet so we had some time off. "Let's go to Calais, Maine, and get sh#t faced".... so we did.... or so we thought.

Six of us crammed into the Buick and pulled up to the US border. We were all competing for loudmouth of the month so the US customs were not impressed.

"Open your trunk!" grunts this gun toting Immigration Nazi but we knew no fear... we hadn't done anything.

Well, it turns out that my engineer had his chute in the trunk along with his rifle. He was not with us. They were looking for D.B. Cooper. They were sure they had him... or us... didn't matter.

Up against the wall we went till the FBI showed up.

We did talk (babble) our way out of it and as an interesting side-note to this I believe that 727's were modified so that the door could not be deployed in flight.

They call it the D.B Cooper switch... could someone elaborate on this?
I wrote this after chemo # 7, a wretched abyss of misery. I had five more to go.

The point this tale is that, upon reflection, some of the most exciting and inspired moments of my flying career occurred when I flew little planes, like in this case a C182 and an old Aztec.

It's where aviation can take you ... that's what matters.

I have always been immune to job shortages because I am a contract pilot and I have a free enterprise spirit. It helps to be REALLY good too!

It is aviation that took me to spectacular places on earth hitherto unimagined.


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Goroka, New Guinea. Before independence.

Goroka was a garden of Eden. At 5000 feet we escaped the torrid, humid, tropical coastal weather. Ferns, flowers, fruit, vines, coffee all grew in abundance. Half the tribal people still wore arse-grass skirts , bones in the nose , painted faces and carrying an impressive stock of weapons.

Coffee. That was our business at the time. We were Chimbu Traders. Our coffee trucks scoured the southern highlands buying coffee but roads were scarce.

There were no roads to Karimui which was carved into the side of a dormant volcano and was therefore incredibly fertile. Their coffee was the best. There was a Seventh Day Adventist mission there and they traded with the natives in a not so honourable fashion. We set up a trade store where we would fly cargo in ...like rice, flour, axes, flashlights, cigarettes and lots of canned tuna.

I would lumber off Goroka in the old Aztec, heavily laden with cargo and climb up to make it out of the valley. The trip was spectacular ... deep sloped gorges, thunderous waterfalls, waterfalls that never reached the ground thousands of feet below, lush green jungle and huge trees. We would go down deep into a gorge to find a vine suspension bridge strung impossibly across a thunderous jungle river.

Upon landing a crowd would gather and a "boy line" selected to carry the cargo to the trade store. Peter Worley, our trade store manager, would do a stock check, grab the loot and come up to the airport where the villagers would have all bought their coffee beans for us to buy. We would weigh it and a few natives would bag it and pile it to be flown out on backloads. I learned their language fast and had a special bond with the people there. It was impossible to leave without the plane being stuffed with avocados, papaya, mangoes and veggies.....simple gifts...from them.

It was a leper colony, but the hereditary type where it is not contagious and it ate away the extremities of the body and healed as it went.

There was this one old dude who had no legs, just stumps. In full tribal dress with his splendid head-dress including Bird of Paradise feathers and a bone in his nose, he would pound down the mountain on his knuckles with a tube of bamboo across his back. It was usually skunky and we would keep it separate and throw it away later.

But I always gave him his 50 cents. He would hold out his hand and some of his fingers were gone. Just as he reached I would pull away. He couldn't hop with just one fist so with two fists he would pound after me. The crowd shrieked with delight. Again, the hand went out, I would go in a circle, behind him and he would awkwardly attempt to spin around as I held out the 50 cents.... I teased him more.... they laughed. If I put the money on his hand it would often roll off.....

Maybe twenty minutes this went on. When we were done he would babble at me with huge tears of joy in his eyes ... grateful tears ... I had made him King for A Day anyway.

I was heading for Baimuru, on the South coast of Papua New Guinea. I was out of Goroka, in the highlands. Goroka was paradise for sure.... The Bena Bena River ran close by as it meandered down the valley which itself was 5000 feet above sea level.
Even the airport was beautiful as the wild tropical highland flowers bathed us in a sweet scent. Ninety percent of the population still wore traditional dress ... arse grass skirts, bone in the nose and carrying spears and bows. Strange arrows though.... no flights on the shaft... But holy mackerel, they sure went straight.

Baimuru, on the other hand, lacked the beauty but certainly had a perverse charm. More on that later.

I fly out of the valley towards Karimui, an airstrip carved into the side of a volcano ... very familiar to me ...I buy coffee there and stock the trade store.

The mountain range ahead jags up to ten thousand feet so I stoke the Cessna 182 and get a measly nineteen inches of boost... I have to make it through the pass.
The load is light ....some fresh bread and veggies for the owners of the "hotel." Fresh bread ...sure smells nice... I rip into the bag and feast.

The weather is always nice here ...up until two PM every day that is ...and then the massive cumulous clouds boil upwards... up to fifty thousand... the passes become clogged and you are pooched.

AAAAHHH! The warm sun in the cockpit... fresh air vent howling... fresh bread.
Through the pass and the thick jungle slopes plummet down onto the jewel of Papua...Lake Kutubu... a plateau a couple of thousand feet above sea level. Then jagged limestone pinnacles stab upward through the jungle... menacing sight.
The Continental drones away... Thank God!

Descending now towards the flat South coast.

Sh#t! An overcast ahead ... better duck under. I wander off heading as I dodge rags hanging in the last of the hills. Low, I fly now... sometimes heavy rain... looks lighter over there, so I go over there. Three, maybe four hundred feet...forty five minutes to go, over a green impenetrable canopy. Any rivers that would be an aid to navigation are overgrown with canopy ... nothing... I am alone.

There are natives down there ... somewhere.
They would be running through the jungle, scuffing up their feet ...killing supper.
Crocodiles everywhere down there…in the many swamps buzzing with mosquitoes.
The wild beauty offers little solace.... the Continental drones on.....

Around a few more heavy rain showers...sometimes East...sometimes West.
I am heading for a dot on the coast ...poor vis...nose pressed up against the glass. Anxious ... that's what I am. Up ahead ... the coast... whew! I have the coast.

Upon arrival at the coast, there is no Baimuru. Do I turn left or right... back over the swamps, did I favour left of course ...or right...Dunno!

I turn right and fly East.... searching.

Decision time... fuel …how much? Fifteen minutes East means retracing flightpath and then maybe fifteen minutes West. Thirty minutes more to what? A maybe ...maybe Baimuru ... maybe not.

A cold chill in the hot, steamy cockpit. I look down at my chances in the swampy, croc infested jungle.

I will never make this mistake again.

On future flights, I swear I will make a POSITIVE ERROR and intentionally fly either too far East, or too far West ...it doesn't matter. At least when I get to the coast I will know which way to turn.

POSITIVE ERROR!

But then you young'uns have GPS ... and they never fail. The Continental droned on.

I found Baimuru, luckily... on the fourth sweep... back and forth.

Now the adventure really starts.

The airstrip at Baimuru had a bog at one end, then a hump and a bog at the other end. I had to taxi to the only dry part on the road connecting the airstrip to the hotel ....on the banks of the river. The airplane couldn't be parked under a tree, they were too low ... a steamy green carpet ... hot ...oppressive.

Yet I was always happy to land there.

I had just flown one and a half hours over some of the most inhospitable landscape on the planet ... in a Cessna 182. And it was downhill. Goroka was a mile above sea level, then up through the cloud choked pass at ten thousand feet then cruise descending to Lake Kutubu and down onto the flat, tangled delta jungle. Here the rivers slithered out from under the jungle canopy and fattened out into wide meandering rivers teaming with fish, snakes and crocodiles. Reddish brown in colour, these rivers met the coast in a sea of mud.

They came by the hundreds. An oily black sea of natives squealing as they ran towards the airplane ... and the prop stopped just in time. Hundreds of pearly white smiles as wide as the Baimuru river against the black background …wide eyed …clear eyed.

Even so, half were sick. Malaria, dysentery, beriberi. Thin, hobbling...most running. Their tight, curly hair formed orbs around the happy faces.

The Kindam approached. Kindam, in their language meant crab. He was a white chap. He was a survivor of polio and his left hand was clawlike and he walked sideways with a limp. The only other white person was Mutt and they were partners in the hotel on the muddy banks of the Baimuru. But the people never came ....not one. Ever.

A few of the picininnis were light colored so obviously Mutt and the crab enjoyed some horizontal refreshment.

These were sick but peaceful people. Only two rivers over is the mighty Fly River system. Only two years prior to my being here, cannibalism was against the law. It was these Fly River tribesmen that had eaten Rockefeller, the rich American adventurer.

From a distance, the hotel looked inviting. Palm trees, lots of green grass ...and upriver, the grass huts. It seemed like a Bogart movie.

We walk closer, kids jostling for a chance to see the sky God who flew the Balus. There were no windows. The holes for the windows were all different sizes. It was hand built using cement and chicken wire then drowned in white paint. The plastering job on the outside looked like it was done by a drunk, one armed painter with the crabs. It did meet the approval of the spiders, bats and snakes.

We went into the crab's office …or living quarters …or workshop …what ever it was …it fulfilled many roles.

The porters laid down the fresh bread and veggies I had brought and were shooed away by Mutt shouting "Raus…Raus"

"Fred should be here with the barge in the morning." I was told. I shivered in the sweaty stinking heat. "Sh#t!" thinks I. I hope they don't ask me to stay.

"Crikey! That means you'll be staying the night" offers Mutt. He motioned to the slab attached to the wall upon which was a World War One mattress covered with a mystery substance …that moved!

"Fred says he has heaps of Barramundi for you …heaps. And skins too." They were excited as to the prospect of a healthy commission.

I explained that the croc skins would have to wait. I couldn't have them onboard with the fish. I had made that mistake before. But the cooks at the high end Bird of Paradise Hotel, tucked away in the highlands, had passed off my fish as some sort of croc wafted Barra Delight.

The crab had already dragged his bum leg off in the direction towards the grass huts in order to procure tonight’s entertainment. It did not look good.

A vignette played in my mind ...The Crab, Mutt and I, lathered in sweat, writhing and pounding away with three emaciated jungle princesses to the tune of their only eight track ...another nightmare.

My khaki shirt hung heavily with sweat as we negotiated the terms of a refrigeration storage fee for the tons of fish that would be stored here and then shuttled to the highland resorts until their freezers were full and then I had to scheme a load of something else.

Luckily, this time I had about four loads of croc skins to be flown to the North coast of New Guinea. Here's how it works.

Fred, an unknown Swiss weirdo had a barge with four big outboards that plied the delta area for fish, crabs and crocs. He towed three punts behind, each with an outboard, that were used after dark for croc hunting. Three in a boat they would go along the banks with a huge spotlight ... into the darkest of dark you can imagine.

The eyes light up like two flashlights ... but you don't have a clue how big it is. On the south coast, there is a size limit and I think it was thirty inches across the tender belly …armour to armour. On the North coast, there was no limit. Perfect for a businessman like myself.

How did you know how big he is? You don't …they all look the same in the sights.
Fred caught Barrimundi fish in his nets. He would get really pissed off when a sawshark would get caught in the net and the beast thrashed about with the huge saw and ruined his net. He would bring them close to the surface and shoot them with a .303 rifle and cast them adrift. Later, I experimented with selling the shark meat to the native fish shops that were identified by the swirling balls of flies.
On landing in Goroka, the ATC would often say, "Clear to land, flies are moderate today."

I excused myself from the negotiations to clear my mind. Flee ...I have to flee. I walked to the bank of the river surrounded by thirty coy, giggling children all dashing hitherto.

I couldn't believe the good fortune that burst upon my predicament.... I looked downstream, towards the sea that, in the distance, shimmered in the dank humidity. I walked past the posts upon which the huge sawsharks were bled prior to filleting. If this wasn't done correctly the product stunk of ammonia and spoiled any other cargo aboard. A pile of croc skins soaked in formaldehyde and some were salted and rolled up ready for the Asian buyers on the North Coast.

Through the shimmering heat I saw a shape rounding the point ... couldn't be! Gadzooks! It was ... it was Fred on the barge and he was a day early. I immediately started playing stupid games with the kids ... I was outta here!

But wait ... my mind flashed back to the 10,000 foot pass ... It was after 1400hrs. The cumulous would be starting to plug all the holes ... you could usually watch the tops boiling upwards into the blue. Then at 1600hrs, the 50,000 foot monsters would drop their guts in tropical downpours. We were usually breasted up to the bar at this point as flying was usually over for the day.

I had to weigh the safety issue. If I got to the pass late and I had to come back, it would be dark. Black is black in the tropics and Baimuru was hard enough to find in the daytime.
I made the safest choice ... I would go flying ... the alternative was frightening.... jungle princesses, the Crab, Mutt ... I wasn't prepared to pay that price. I'll take on the weather.

It took an hour for the barge to motor upstream and soon it docked with an accompanying merriment hitherto unimagined. The nine boys on the barge waved frantically at their equally boisterous family ashore.

A tall, gaunt scary figure towered and glowered over all around ... Fred. Dressed in jungle fatigues, thick heavily rimmed glasses and army boots, he barked orders in pidgin, a language that I still can speak today. He said nothing to me. He never did.
The Crab came down and we inspected the hold. Four thousand pounds of whole Barramundi, and maybe four loads of croc skins; a week's flying, at least. A full load (delete "load" .. insert "overload" ) was quickly portered to the Cessna parked on the track and packed in with a tribesman holding up the tail till I climbed in. The nearest weigh scales were in Port Morsbey, two hundred miles away... Oh well! I hurriedly started the engine with one hand whilst holding the door open to try to deflect some air. I taxied through the mud, still holding the door as I fiddled with the HF to pass my flight plan to Port Moresby. It was full radio reporting in this country …you didn't take off till you had contact and passed a plan. The HF crackled an acknowledgement. I taxied to the bog, closed the door and opened the throttle. Bloody hot! Sweating …eyes stinging... the aircraft went nowhere …nearly down to the axles. I sawed back and forth on the elevator to lighten the nosewheel ....and it inched forward ... roaring …lurching. It inched out of the bog and by the time I arrived at the hump I had a good five knots. I dragged this measly five knots to the top and slowly accelerated downhill …towards the other bog. HOT! Steamy! I sweated. The fresh air vent (delete "fresh" insert "stink") ….well it moaned and sucked and rattled …it did bugger all. A final tug just before the bog and it sagged into the air ...and went nowhere …the rough stinking air swatted me forever down. "Wow!" Thinks I. "Am I now at the pinnacle of my three year old aviation career?"

It was now uphill, all the way.

Lake Kutubu, the jewel of New Guinea was visible ahead. It was backdropped by a menacing black giant with a green tinge indicating heavy rain. I could see through the Eastern fringe …so I flew there. Below, the thick, tangled jungle went by far too slowly.

I thinks ...things should start to get interesting ... right about now. Crack!!!! Lightning ...turbulence ...the airplane bucks and wallows …the vent hissing, then sucking. I am flying into rising ground.

We were well schooled at low level flying in the Army, so I angle off the slope so I am not at ninety degrees …so I can fall off …I have somewhere to go. I struggle up …around another limestone pinnacle.... up to five thousand ... mountains ahead ... five thousand to go. The Continental drones on.

I look at the throttle …it's in against the panel. Kilo Romeo Bravo, my trusty but hard ridden Cessna 182, spent most of her life with the knob all the way in …nineteen inches …not a lot to claw one's way up to ten thousand.

I see the pass …ahead and higher. The dark green bags of thunder are rolling down each side ... maybe I need ten minutes …will it be to late? What then? The Continental drones on...

Drat!! I'm overdue on my HF half hourly position report. The HF chatters and screeches with static …sunspot activity thinks I ...I hear Indonesian voices too. The border is only a hundred miles or so.

I am outside the two minute grace period.

I even think I hear screaming people... Hell! This is a lonely place.

A break in the screaming and static …so I blurt out my position with an ETA Goroka …an hour away yet …yet the Continental drones on... and on...

I decide to abandon the pass …it's choked …on the bottom jaw …green jungle …on the top ... heavy green/black bags of water. I circle up through a hole …I now need thirteen thousand, my eyes darting always to the Horizon Indicator. Back outside the walls of the vortex seem closer now circling tighter… Hate that …rate of climb thereby diminishes.... poof! In and out of cloud now ... at least the screaming stopped …wierd.

Up to the blue hole.

Conjour up a pleasant thought …I must. Because I don't like this. I am alone …the Continental...

I think of one week ago.

If the Continental had quit anytime over the last year, I would be dead. A forced landing in this environment was terminal.

My partner and I owned this small company, Chimbu Traders and we knew it was time to move up to an Aztec. We had found one in Paradise.

There was a Garden of Eden called Aiyura. Neat as a pin, an orderly mission station. It had a perfectly mown grass strip. They had about four planes and the Aztec was too small for them. Forty thousand dollars ...with a spare engine too. Turbocharged too!

They were the Sumner Institute of Linguistics and their mission was to translate the seven hundred tribal languages into English and vice versa. Their vegetable gardens were a thing of beauty as was their small coffee plantation.

We had the cash. "Come pick it up Tuesday" smiles the amiable chief pilot, Doug Hunt from Canada. I had also agreed to give back the registration to them …after all it was VH-SIL

I smile as I fantasize …turbos ...my God!
Two engines …YEEEEHAAA! The Continental droned upwards. I pop out the top into the blue and cruise to Goroka. Ah! The glory...

Over there …what's that airplane I see …an F27 looks like ...it comes closer ...closer …then peels away. He is IFR to Goroka.
I could see faces pressed up against the glass ...could be a friend, Captain Skinny Hawkins …or Fatty Hawkins …who knows … nothing was said. I was at fourteen thousand ....this would come back to haunt me.

I landed uphill at Goroka and quickly got taxi clearance back down to Bena Bena plantation where the cargo would be unloaded and put into our walk in freezer... Whew! Hot work.

I jumped eagerly into the Toyota four-by and went to hoist a few "Golden Throat Charmers" with my mates ...at the Bird of Paradise Hotel. They were ashen faced .. all with a hollow look as I burst upon the scene ready to babble out my tales of Daring Do.

The silence was deafening...

They were mostly pilots, some coffee buyers, a plantation owner or two. There was a stewardess too ...Heidi, my German girlfriend.

She had big tits.

She was here for the special event …to pick up my Aztec on Tuesday.... We were to go down to Aiyura and complete the deal and fly her back to Goroka.

Nobody moved ... some stared into their drinks. A plane had gone in. But who? This was happening with monotonous regularity lately…my mind raced through my mental inventory of pilots... The Chief Pilot from Territory Airlines approached... Brian McCook was uncharacteristically dignified.

"It's bad Duke...." he paused ...".VH-SIL went in today ... all seven onboard ..."
I didn't need to know who the pilot was ...Doug Hunt, the Canadian.

An icy chill shot up my spine.
The boys started to talk softly ...
It was with horror, that I let the story soak in.

"Most of us heard it Duke, on the HF, all over New Guinea. SIL was at ten thousand, climbing out over Nadzab, the wing caught fire ...Doug tried frantically to get to ground before the wing burned off... His call on HF was backgrounded by the natives screaming in the back... the wing burned off."

People screaming ... HF ...back at the pass ... I had heard a nightmare. Quite a few years later, I was on the other side of the world, wasting my day away at my home airport in Canada. Next to me was a young airline first officer that was in the process of leaving aviation. I told him of the story about what I'd heard on the HF radio and the crash of the Aztec that I'd so wantonly coveted.

He asked me to stay put and went home and returned with his church news letter. It told of a Christian aircraft engineer that had sought solace in the church so that he could live with his terrible mistake when, a long time ago in a foreign land, he had only hand tightened the fuel injector nozzles (or a fitting, I don't remember) during a maintenance check.

It is also sad that faulty design was apparent in that the turbochargers on a C model Aztec are at the bottom of the engine where any small fuel leak can lead to a fire. Turbochargers are better placed atop the engine as is today's practice.

I hope the engineer has since healed the gaping wound in his soul. I know the church was there for him all the way.

I forgave him many years ago.
 

March 1972

I cruised high above the mouth of the Fly River and above Kikori too. I could see north, maybe a hundred miles or so, to the awesome spine of this rugged, but luscious country. I could just see the white speck of the Baimuru Hotel, conjuring up scenes in my mind, like a Bogart movie ... Casablanca …African Queen ...the Crab and Mutt.

Behind me, in Australia was a career that I had left at the altar. Uniforms, rules, checklists; overnights in the same place for the thirtieth time this year...how many times would I have to sit in the right seat? Brisbane-Sydney-Melbourne... Melbourne-Sydney-Brisbane... and so on... and so on. In the right seat … looking left to a bored guy I didn't really like ... and then twenty years later ... in the left seat looking right to a boring guy I didn't really like....

I didn't want to look ahead twenty years as I had done in the Army. As a young, well schooled, and skilled Lieutenant, I walked into the Officers mess at lunch time. There at the bar were grumpy old Majors hunched over their drinks, all sharing bulbous scotch soaked red noses …expressionless ... they didn't like we youngin's...

Not for me ... I had to satisfy the hunger in my soul.

The smooth, throbbing Lycomings took me to the heart and very soul of this mysterious land ... The Land Where They Turned Back Time.

Behind my left wing now, was Kikori. I had been there with Maurie Young, a mercenary Canadian art dealer and procurer for a museum in New York… or anybody else ... whoever had the dough.

Instead of me waiting in the village for his canoe flotilla to return bearing heaps of artifacts, he invited me along in the long thin hollowed log canoe to which was attached a long shafted Seagull outboard.

These canoes only had a slit in which to put your feet, one behind the other ... they rolled easily and required balance.

Up river we sped ... wakeless ... slicing through the muddy brown Kikori river …up to a village rumoured to have an Agiba , a skull rack... painted and decorated skulls on a series of posts in ascending order, depending on the importance of these slain enemies the bodies of whom would have been eaten. Maurie and I were hunkered down for balance and I got an urge to stand up like our helmsmen. I wobbled drunkenly to my feet and stood at last, the stale dank air against my sweating face.
We came around a bend in the river.....

I gasped at the sight...

Also rounding the bend and speeding downriver was a war canoe.... the paddlers stabbing at the water to a menacing war chant ... all in perfect unison ... they were all feathered and painted up with spears and bows across their backs ... they stood upright ... a question of balance. They too, saw a sight. A crazy white man standing in the forward part of the canoe... arms stretched outwards like wings ... they faltered... and looked... only to be barked at by the coxswain ... and they returned to the rhythmic chants. It was from their village that Maurie tried to buy their Agiba. These people frightened me... the elders held out on the Agiba but I got to see it. Maurie filled the freighter canoe with purchased artifacts and we sped downstream back to the Cessna 182.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

The Aztec provided the vibrating synchronic buzz. Heidi gazed out of the starboard window and I gazed at her softly heaving bosom ... I felt a stir in my loins....

Maybe an hour out of Goroka ... abeam Karimui, where we had a trade store, and where I had made the legless man dance ....flying higher and more effortlessly than I had in the Cessna ... to Paradise. The Bird of Paradise, that is, the pub. In this Shrine of Aviation, bullsh*t was the intellectual mainstay of the era. But I had a new whore and I was proud.

The next two years of flying were spectacular ... dipping down into the mouth of the extinct volcano on Lab Lab island, flying down a chain of islands, strung like pearls, down to the Solomons ... and Guadalcanal, a scene from World War II where we explored wreckages of Hellcats, Corsairs, zeros and half-submerged landing craft, peppered with bullet holes.

Wow! A TBM Avenger ...one day I would fly one of these.

Heidi had returned to Australia leaving me in despair. Well ... not for long...

I smuggled dogs, chicken eggs, and of course, croc skins. The dog smuggling had earned a new nickname for the old Aztec, Bravo Papa Woof. Most of the hosties at the mess knew of my deeds, I told them so. I traded tales of daring do for passionate interludes.

But one day, I saw a vision. I had been summoned to the airport by the Operations Manager of Territory Airlines, and, says he "You won't believe what you will see."

She strolled the lawn at the terminal ... in a silky dress flowing like a watercolour in the rain … but you could see through it …just enough. And a flower in her hair ... a backpack ... and a smile. The cautious but gathering crowd of natives could see through the dress too ... and I sensed danger ... she had to be saved ... and Gadzooks!!! …the Duke was for once in the right place at the right time.

"You can't stay here." says I, as I dare to touch this flowering Goddess on the arm to lead her away to my Land Rover. "Where are you from?" I ask ... gulping as I catch a glimpse of a nipple perched at the end of a shapely little brown ski-jump shaped breast... "The Year of The Cat" she whispers ... a brown leg escaping through a slit in the Thai-dyed hippie dress, as she glides into the Land Rover.

"Come with me, child." says the Duke. I sit here with a picture of Baby Jane in my hands. Baby Jane ... at least I had revealed her name. I had learned some of her language too, like "far out" and "coool."

I did not, however, find out the location of the planet from which she came.

The picture shows us at the summit of the Daulo Pass, a very dangerous place to be, but this flower child was oblivious to the stares of the Chimbu warriors. She waved flowers at them all with a large dimpled smile that would make a strong man lose his mind.

She may have been a "toad licker" from Kuranda. They were a group of hippies that discovered that by licking the poisonous glands on the back of a toad, interplanetary travel became possible, and cheap too.

Here comes the missus ... gotta cover me tracks ... and hide the picture ... drives her nuts.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………....
I was in Paradise.

Everybody had tons of loot.... and loot they did. We all drove tax free Alpha Romeos, Mercedes and all imports. Plantation life ... there’s nothing like it. I had a houseboy who called me Masta even when I begged him not to. If you didn't have a houseboy you couldn't get through your front gate.... “Masta... me like wok. Me Catholic." Perhaps twenty boys every day, wanting work. Six bucks a week.... you got tea in bed, laundry and a clean house for that.

And the flying...divine and dangerous. We lived at five thousand ASL and flew to strips as high as eight thousand... spectacular gorges and waterfalls that never reached the ground.

We were rich. Coffee was at a high price due to the frost in Brazil. We would fly to a place like Karimui, a strip carved on the side of a volcano. It was a leper colony but the type where it was not contagious. There was only one white guy there and he was a patrol officer, i.e. Judge, lawyer, doctor, administrator etc. armed too and had some barefoot native constables.

We would walk fifteen minutes through the jungle to the trade store with the boys carrying the cargo where we would do a stock check then take the cash to the airport. There, the natives would have bought their coffee for us to buy and fly out, heavily laden with a cash crop and bags of loot.

We had upgraded to an old Aztec VH-BPW. I was king sh*t and I dressed the part. Khaki duds and shirt and elastic sided Aussie riding boots.

I flew to Lae for maintenance and went to the flying club. New Guinea was a pilot’s heaven.... hardly any roads and lots of airstrips; Cessna 402's, Barons, Twotters, 206's, Islanders and 185's. The airline guys had fun too, flying F27's VFR into uphill strips at six thousand feet ASL. And me in my scabby old Aztec.

So I got invited to the TAA Airline mess where stewardesses, called hosties back then, were housed in little tropical bungalows with a pool and a bar. I traded tales of daring do for some tropical romping in Paradise. We rode hard back in those days... at full gallop!

I flew lobsters, croc skins, artifacts, calves, coffee, trade goods and people on wild adventures. Once we chartered a DC3, put a jazz band aboard and took a pod of hosties to the Kar Kar Ball on a coffee plantation on a tropical isle. Lots of loot, fast cars, babes and oft painful penicillin shots.

One day I was approached by a bloke called "Fred".
"Do you do 'jobs'? " he asked... I sensed adventure.
"Well maybe" says I, "What is the cargo?"
"Can't say" says he.
"**** off" says I.

"I heard you're the bloke who did the dog charters." He had me dead to rights. Indeed I had. You see, independence was coming, so a lot of whites were planning to leave. Usually they had pet dogs and these weren't allowed into Australia until they had served six months quarantine in another country...expensive eh? (You see Australia was rabies free). And is little Fluffy going to remember you after six months in England?

So I would wait till about six expatriates got six sleeping mutts together and I would fly low across the straits to Cape York where another C402 awaited the awakening cargo. I had one awake from his induced sleep and he started to howl as I gave a false position report on HF so all New Guinea heard it. In the mess, I couldn't keep my mouth shut as I told these tales and my plane became known as Bravo Papa Woof. People were rich and paid big bucks.

So Fred knew I was imaginative.

We parried back and forth and I held my ground. I had to know what the cargo was and that was that. No drugs...NO BLOODY WAY!
After a pause he said, "Chicken eggs."
I howled as I walked away.
"Wait!" he said as he followed, "I'll prove it"
He told me an amazing story.
I WAS IN!
 

PURE GOLD!

Wrangel was still crapped out so we watched the Beechcraft depart. Then we got the word. She's a GO. Covers off, Herman Nelson heaters roaring, chords being rolled up, the 966 loader bringing the con bags for loading. Walkarounds, fuel samples, Herc straps, the winch grinding away, slowly hauling the heavy load up hill for tie down ... and ... CRACK! … a fitting lets go and the tray with its 3000 lb bag slides downhill on its icy pallet skids and slams into the bag only recently placed in the lobby. Otherwise it would have smashed into the rear bulkhead.....and I'd have been kicking horseturds down the road. We untangle the mess with pallet jacks and come alongs and eventually tie down all three bags. The Bristol was long gone leaving us to eat the dust of their departure.

The Wrights rumble into life and reach temps quickly thanks to the heaters and Hermans. I align the airplane with the runway, pointing down to the Iskut where soon I would slam into the wind at 90 degrees …I hoped to have 110 knots by then ...and I should be climbing.
The tailwheel is locked so I push the throttles up, really not needing to correct for torque ... I was in no hurry as the airplane accelerated downhill very comfortably. Past the wrecks, and I tug her up into a climb right over the hovercraft shack ... already banking right. And carving a path around the inside of the bowl edged by steep mountains... runway always in sight to my left ... just in case......

The battering wind down at the Iskut had let us off lightly. Past the strip and Westbound through the gap; we flew at last. The synchronic buzz warmed the soul.

Then the heater quit. If one generator fails, the heater automatically shuts down. It gets cold fast. It is not my well being that is foremost on my mind. Wrangell is cold and raining and blowing. I need a defroster. It’s fifteen below now.

These are the longest sixty mile flights in history.
Past the pummeling winds from the Hoodoo to the low visibility, ragged mist hanging in the trees as the air warms, and gets wetter as the Stikine River joins us from the North. Lower we fly.

The valley has widened somewhat as we turn left around the old power station and right again toward the sea. The wind has spread out ... smoother now. The cargo straps have loosened and Rob clambers back to snug them prior to the confusing wind at the mouth of the now conjoined rivers. I am relieved at the rapidly warming cockpit ... but it chills me. Freezing rain appearing on the prop spinners, windshield and wings. The engines throb beautifully.

"Can you see the ridge on your side?" I question Rob, as I stare left to see the ridge protruding across our path on my side.

"Not yet." was his terse reply. The visibility got worse, right at the wrong time. Menzies had warned me about this place ... squeezed by two low ridges appearing out of nowhere ... rarely do you get to fly over them. The frozen windshield didn't help either.

The bar had been our simulator, and beer was the golden viscous lubricator that was the common denominator between two crews from opposing commercial operators.
In detail, Menzies walked us through the sixty mile trip and left no confusion in our minds. But confused we usually became, when Menzies related one of his tales as a submariner …he was a brilliant storyteller.

But now in the darkening cockpit, darkened by rain …sleet …fog... Dave's words. So far it is exactly as the experienced aviator had us believe. We report our position at the required checkpoints but it is Wrangell Airport that we seek on the radio. We hardly see the ridges as we rumble by to the delta. Usually we can climb up from our 200 feet altitude here only to be greeted by a raging cauldron of lumpy air.

The airplane bucks, the wind driving her spurs into the flanks …the bags loosen ...I wrestle with the controls. Wrangell reports a fifty degree crosswind ... twenty knots. And it's coming from Summer Strait so over the mountains it will tumble. The big airplane is askew on final …lurching ... bucking. Into the wind… the wheel chirps loudly ...quick as I can ...the other …and pin it. Pin it hard and saw at the rudder pedals to keep straight in the gusts, and lots of downwind brakes too. In fact, the brakes were cherry red. Not good. Next... paperwork.

The customs guys in Wrangell were a decent bunch and there was a trust built up between the Snip Mine people and the US government. It was a trust that not one of our pilots was willing to barter. Generally, loading and unloading went smoothly, that is until we rookies showed up.

Roller trays with a 3000 lb load going sideways, leaking vents on our diesel tanks and that overheated brake ...these problems paled in comparison to the worsening weather.

Because our diesel tank leaked it was not feasible to carry fuel so we got to hand-bomb about eight thousand pounds of groceries needed desperately by the cooking staff. We sweat as we slip on the stinking diesel spilled on the floor... uphill, four tons we strap down. We take on fuel for about four trips and resort to furious weight and balance calculations. Refueling is a hazardous task atop a trembling wing blasted with wet Pacific air.

The Bristol has gone ... we must hurry. The right brake sticks a little but seems to be less effective on take off ... just when I need it to counteract the hammering crosswind from the left. The heavily laden beast is pinned on with forward control column pressure. Tail level, she fights me ... wanting to turn her snout into the wind, where she would be more comfortable. The dark, wet runway determines our required track, the bitch fights me but I get my way …tracking the centerline ... dead straight. I tug slightly and she unsticks …and gets her way as I let her nose swing into the wind as we claw our way to fifteen hundred feet.

Through horizontal rain we fly toward the mouth of the Stikine and our bout with turbulence which shakes the cargo down under ever loosening straps. Rob lurches from side to side trying to tighten the Herc straps. I need him up front …lower I fly … now the soft sleet slips by ... shrouding the two protruding ridges through which I must aviate. I need Rob up here, to peer into the lowering visibility, to follow our progress on the map, to operate the GPS that I stab at repeatedly, missing the buttons in the rough air. He has to do our landing calculations, finish the weight and balance, and fill out the logbook from the last trip.... after all he was too busy in Wrangell.

And return, he does, laden with Snickers bars, fresh peaches and smoked oysters. Perhaps five hundred feet now but our speed over the ground slows as we encounter the cold moaning winds from up on the plateau. We stuff food into our hungry mouths, missing the hole more often than not in the turbulence, as we rumble by the ridges with not a lot of room. A left turn, then a right takes us up the Iskut, leaving the Stikine coursing northward. Snow showers now but some blue holes above.

Colder. No heater... chilly, the moisture from our sweat now driving into the body, and anywhere that there was wetness ... now frost ... then ice. Inside the airplane that is.

Rob calls camp at Hoodoo, the glacier now visible atop the steep draw ... spectacular! And the fish camp ... through the narrows where we catch our first glimpse of the strip upon which we must alight. What a trip, sixty miles each way.

We laboriously unload the cargo. The Cat966 loader appears at the lobby ... with a bag of concentrate on the forks.

"The Bristol crew think they can get three more trips in" he says. We are veterans now.

The engineer ambled about, rolling up chords, clinking about in his tool box, generally doing things he had all day to do.

Rob and I wrestled the three huge bags uphill on their trolleys with an overheated winch and strapped them down. We were sweating in the chilly air and our breaths fogged the windshield. We probably only had one generator so the defroster was not an option. The weak brake troubled me.

Sure it had been getting worse over the last four months as it countered crosswinds in Masset and Sandspit from where we hauled live crabs to Vancouver. But it sure was bad at the wrong time.

I heard the doors thump shut and Rob locked the handle but out my window I could see Piggy the Engineer heading for the mess hall. He walked right by the wheel that was only half rebuilt. It hadn't been touched all day.

The Bristol was long gone. He had his diesel fuel pumped out quickly and with three con bags took off for Wrangell just ahead of the huge cloud of snow and dirt with its engines performing flawlessly.

On our return trip we were to bring back a full load of groceries ... a back-breaking nightmare.

We rumbled down the Iskut, past Hoodoo, past the confluence with The Stikine and through the squeezing ridges. We had heard the Bristol call here.... low level ... at The Shakes.

The bags shook down and the straps loosened as we thumped through the turbulence as we hit the warm coastal air ... only to land with full on but ineffective right brake.

Once again, it didn't take the Bristol Freighter very long to pump in the diesel and roar off Eastbound as Rob and I humped five tons of groceries up the hill …some with the winch, some by hand.

The inflight meal as we flew Eastward into the cold, biting air, was smoked oysters, as we tore into a few boxes to find the crackers. We were on the bleeding edge of technology.

The Bristol was off on her third trip when I landed. The uphill strip precluded the use of brakes but I knew, when I turned at the top, that I was licked.

The brakes were pooched. Piggy ambled by conveniently after we had unloaded the groceries. I couldn't even finish telling him of our difficulty when he started blubbering excitedly about today’s decision by the mine management to bring in a DC4 from Alaska under a temporary Operating Certificate. It was to arrive before dark.

The wind had died down somewhat and the weather improved just as my airplane was not flyable any more. The Bristol did a final trip and was buttoned up, wing covers on and plugged with heaters. Things were going well for them and they eagerly awaited the arrival of the DC4. They knew the crew from previous contracts.

Piggy babbled on about how they required his services and that from now on he was to collect two paychecks, one from us and one from the DC4 company. His eyes seemed even closer together than before. M3 engineers were scarce and he knew it.

I had to stop the left jab that was on its way to the side of his snout with a planned follow-up right overhand clubbing punch to the ear. Instead, I stared into his tiny raisin-like eyes. I had to think fast. And I did.

I already knew that this pig-eyed sack of useless primordial cells was lazy and for the moment very cocky. He'd squealed with delight at the thought of bigger US dollars from the DC4... and how can you work for two opposing companies anyway?

And he certainly was untroubled by anything so inconvenient as a scruple.

I glanced at the half finished wheel assembly... and at my wounded airplane. I thought with intensity. .... and like a flash.

My mind raced back a month or two when I remember something Suzy Secretary said to me. She was a loyal secretary to our company ... and me. She would often give me shelter from the storm...

"These contract employees have to pay their own Workers Compensation payments" she purred, as I feigned interest in the topic whilst marveling at her form.

In place of the left jab I postulated to the slacker, "I phoned Suzie when I was in Wrangell and it seems we have a problem with your WCB payments which opened up a can of worms with the tax department and all this crap with your ex wife ... blah... blah... blah... blah."

He went slackjawed as his receding chin dropped into his sunken chest. He folded his hand to the master. I knew nothing of which I had spoken.... all bluff... and more...

"You will sign out all work till I find a replacement" I bargained from a newfound position of strength. Everybody’s attention was diverted by the arrival of the DC4 from Alaska. Piggy's trotters were a blur as he ran off squealing to his next employer. The crew were a mixed bunch with a young blond hero type of guy as the captain and a copilot somewhat older and a swamper called Cowboy Jim. The Bristol crew took them off in the direction of the bar followed by my porcine engineer darting excitedly behind them.

Rob and I were alone ... a busted winch, burned out brake, no left generator, no heater.... we looked at each other ... lots of heart ... lots of guts.

The deal was, we do the work, Piggy signs it out. There was the wheel. We saw why he abandoned the project. The multiple discs were warped and the brake blocks were hanging up, just like the brakes on the airplane now. Rob came up with a solution and we struggled long into the night … in the cold clear night, soon to be cloaked in a dense fog. Rob ground the castellations on the discs with a small grinder so that the blocks were not held up, a temporary fix, but skillfully done. The merriment from the chalet was of no comfort to us.

It's hard to explain what drives you. Late at night, at least we were in a heated shack, tired after a hard days flying, and determined - determined not to fail.
Not ever a cross word between us and yet we would often vent at the injustices that besieged us.... we had a common enemy. We learned how to lockwire the finished wheel by running out into the brutal night with a flashlight and returning with a mental picture that Rob skillfully put into practice.

We now had to wrestle this giant wheel out to the airplane through the snow.... grunting ... it flops over ...AAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!

GGGGRRRRRRR!!!!!! F*ck this! F*ck that!!!!

Cold it was ... a still biting cold. Our problems had just begun. The aircraft was perched very precariously on jacks. This would not have been possible had the wind been blowing a mere three knots or so. We were lucky. No wind.

A fog had enveloped us and the cold snow now chirped and squeaked when walked upon. The lights under which we laboured barely escaped a few yards or more. An eerie glow surrounded us.

It took two of us to stand the wheel up to the axle, but the jack leaked allowing the airplane to sag and settle slowly. We failed to time the shove ... time after time we struggled ... it took such effort to control the frustrated outbursts ... making sure we did not aim our vehemence at each other.

Comradeship was sacred at this point. And loyalty to each other was one thing we could count on. The chalet should be closing anytime now. It's late ... after midnight. Cold ... bloody cold.

Sometimes, bouts of inappropriate laughter had us collapsing in heaps on the snow as we referred to "the romance of aviation" or the fact we had reached the pinnacle of our careers.

"If only we had someone to work the jack." Rob said wishfully. We were alone. There were some who wanted us to fail. We gather the last of our strength for one last effort.

The camp hummed in the background, somewhere over there in the thick fog.

A squeak ... was that a footstep? ...and another. Somebody was carefully feeling their way towards us ...a shape ... devoid of form ... cloaked. We stared silently waiting for this creature to reveal its identity. It was Cowboy Jim.

"Ahm here to help you boys" drawled Cowboy Jim. "Why! Ah just can't believe what the fat fella was saying up in the bar." he continued.

"Which fat fellow?" I asked. I already knew the answer.

"The one whose eyes seem too close together, he always has three rum and cokes in front of him, he's pig eyed by now" explains Jim slowly. We have a match, thinks I.

Jim told us how the engineer laughed at our efforts and laughed at the faulty jack and told everybody what a piece of crap these planes were, and how he was to pocket lots of dough with two paychecks coming in.

"They'll NEVER get those brakes done, let alone get the wheel on." the fat one had grunted and he guffawed at our expense.

"I'm here to help." said the Cowboy, and help he did. We easily slid the wheel onto the axle and everything was lockwired accordingly, and the airplane was lowered safely to the ground. Whew! Now all we had to do was replace the winch and look at the heater.

At 4am we decided to get some sleep so we could arise before dawn to get the airplane ready for a trip tomorrow ... when the fog lifts. So we crashed into our bunks and only seconds later the alarm rang at six.

I had a pilot's breakfast ... A coffee and a piss followed by a donut and a dump. The fog hung even heavier as we made our way to the strip and we finished our work.

It was hard to tell when dawn arrived. A lighter glow maybe. All three crews left the wing covers on until it was certain we were going to do a trip. My plan was to taxi up and down the runway to seat the brake in by using power against brake.

Air and ground crew scurried about preparing their aircraft, and waiting, coffees in hand. Loadermen sat in their warm mounts as did the graderman after he had groomed the strip.

We removed all the heaters and with the help of the Herman Nelson got both engines running and sat while warmth seeped into their innards and oil. We left the wing covers on.

Lots of people were watching as we proudly taxied out to test our rebuilt brake system prior to it being signed out by the porcine poofter. We disappeared into the fog as we taxied downhill, stabbing at the brakes. We couldn't go too fast as the end of the runway was not easily discernable and we did not want to end up in the Iskut.
Uphill was a different matter. I needed more power so I moved the throttles forward ...and then some more. We were not paying attention.

Witnesses said later that the huge beast loomed out of the fog in a huge batlike fashion, engines roaring, as the wing covers filled with air puffing them up atop the wing like huge biceps …bungees snapping ... more air under the cover as they bulged, taut and full of wind with a madman at the controls stabbing at the brakes making it lurch this way and that.

I came to a lurching stop and surveyed what looked like wounded people who I determined later were rolling in the snow laughing at this madness. I was not amused. But I was an idiot.

I came out of hiding and went looking for the engineer. He was to sign out the work on the wheel ... or a call was to be made to WCB or the tax department. The bluff worked. He must have had a guilty conscience. I didn't have any dirt on him at all. He inspected the work including the perfect lock wire job and signed it off.
I called our hangar in Victoria and advised them of the urgency to find an M3 engineer and they were hard to find, especially one willing to work in a camp for weeks at a time. And this was radial engine territory, a fast dying breed of tough engineers. The fog persisted.

And when the fog lifted, the weather in Wrangell turned on us.... cheating us out of our livelihood and cheating the mine out of diesel and groceries. A week this went on. We avoided some people, mixed with others. Stories had worn thin. Groups formed ... people talked in low tones ... politics crept in like a tumor... rumours.
I heard that the mine wanted to extend the temporary Operating certificate for the American DC4. I had another C117 coming out of maintenance in Victoria ... so why would I allow this? I could bring it up to work.

We had tried to get work in Alaska and were laughed off the claim by the Americans.
More rumours.... The mine would have to bring in the Southern Air Transport Hercules as the inventory of bags reached twenty five hundred. Fuel was running short. Days were shorter. They had run out of explosives. I got a visit from the dispatcher.

I was informed that as soon as the weather cleared, the DC4 and the Bristol would do Wrangell trips as their diesel tanks were installed and ours were removed so we got the laborious job hauling groceries. But there were two semi trailer loads of explosives at Bob Quinn Lake and it was our job to fly it all to camp. All of it. It was only thirty miles away, but the weather to the East was somewhat better. What an adventure that turned out to be.
I lay on the bunk propped up against a pillow, feet crossed, boots on. The small two bunk contractor's cabin was not trembling now as it had through the night as swirling blasts of cold air came up the strip from the Iskut and swished amongst the huge trees near the frozen creek.

This rare demon wind had done one thing for sure in cleaning the air of low snow clouds and ragged wisps with only a milky sky above. Clearing rapidly to the East ... towards Bob Quinn Lake airstrip, two thousand feet higher, and thirty miles upriver... up the frozen Iskut, flanked by several seven thousand foot peaks.

As Rob, my co-pilot, dressed, I explained my position about crew duties. I wanted to give him more take off and landings but felt I was still feeling my own way, and we always seemed to be on the edge. It made me feel better when he laughed it off ... "Hell man, I'm still learning my right seat job."

It was to be his lucky day as we were to fly to Bob Quinn empty, a very rare event and a perfect opportunity for a full hands-on leg for Rob to fly. I had never been there before so I had the chance to survey the scene and come up with escape routes in the event of rapidly closing weather, a far too frequent event in this area. My gloved finger traced the river on the chart… past McClymont Creek, and Forrest Kerr. I mentioned to Rob that I had left instructions with the First Aid bloke in Bronson ... he was puzzled. I stayed silent on the matter.

The milky sky and the snow covered flats made the strip difficult to locate at first but appeared by the highway that went hundreds of miles south to Smithers. The trucks sat waiting after a long trip from the South.

As we taxied toward the dozed out parking area, we tried to determine which way was downhill for take off. Rather, it seemed that it was uphill, both ways.

We winched the shrink wrapped pallets uphill and herc strapped them down and filled in the gaps with individual boxes of explosives that are humped up by hand. During this process we talk as we labour.

"We have five tons of dynamite on board. I don't know what it takes to set this sh*t off but here we are strapping it close to the temperamental heaters under the floor that are fired with high octane aviation fuel. MMMM fired by igniters. Don't think so mate! ... it’s gonna be a cold flight back." says I.

We had lots of fuel on board as we could only refuel in Wrangell. The first three flights were uneventful, if not very satisfying, as we ran the engines at reduced power on the descent down to Bronson Creek. We can only do one more flight as the weather in Wrangell is down.

Upon return to Bob Quinn we load a few pallets and I notice the size of the boxes changes. They are now smaller and lighter. I question the driver who casually informs me that those fifty boxes are caps. Blasting caps! Sh*t!! The very devices with which to anger the dynamite god, and KA-F*CKIN-BOOM I'm the first Aussie on the moon. Darkness stalked us.

"I don't want to take caps and explosives on the same flight" I implore him.

"You’ll need this bulkhead" he says as he hands us up a four by four sheet of three quarter inch plywood.

"Use it to separate the two, everybody else does." he matter of factly exclaims.

"Besides," he informs me, "We can't sleep in our truck, we would have to go all the way to Smithers and return here tomorrow, maybe, IF you can get in. We have already made one fruitless trip and you guys never made it yesterday. We are nearly broke now over this contract." I started bleating like a sheep but quickly re-gained composure.

The cargo door thumped shut as I slid behind the frozen yoke. The sky was darkening. A 31,000lb grenade to be flown to the mine and its savage appetite for GOLD.

They blasted their way into Johnny Mountain. There was gold alright, flown out in its purest form by a Beech 1900. Ingots. In its dirtlike form, we flew the bulky bags in exchange for GOLD. Were we bargaining away our safety for GOLD? I wanted the gold and I got it. And somehow the gold isn't all.

Rob settled into his frozen position. We tried not to aim a breath near the frozen windshield.... there would be no heater. The pressure of the mission was building.

"By the way," quizzes Rob, "what instructions did you give the First Aid guy this morning?"

I turned to look at him, slowly, so the gravity of what I had to say seeped into him. I paused.

"I told them that in the event of a crash, I want them to look through the wreckage and retrieve the nine inch d*ck and put it in my box so I could be identified."

We exploded into a laughing fit ...and took off.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….I will take a break from further tales , of which there are many more to come , to indulge in a little reality.

Three years ago.....

I lay on the couch at the Flight Service Station in Mayo, Yukon Territories. I still had my flight suit on as we were on Red Alert whereby we were poised for action. There was a large fire only minutes away. I did not want to fly. I knew something was wrong with my guts. I knew it was not ulcers as I had been initially diagnosed. It was not Beaver Fever as I was now diagnosed. The pain became unbearable.

The bird dog officer came with good news: we were to return to Dawson City and stand down as a fleet of helicopters were on the fire line. I clambered up the ladder of the A26 and fired up both engines in haste, followed by a scrambling take off ... I wanted to go to the small medical clinic in Dawson City ASAP so I left the power at METO and scorched across the blurred landscape at 260 knots indicated. The clinic sent me immediately to Whitehorse where I sought help, but there was only one surgeon there, and he was busy. Fortunately, he did see me, and I discovered how lucky I was. He was an Australian who was temporarily relieving the local surgeon, and he saw me after hours. He admitted me immediately for explorative surgery but when I awoke and was clear of the morphine he gave me the bad news. He had removed a tumour from my colon that was clearly cancerous, but he said he was amazed that I had survived so long, and that I would not have lasted a week as there was four litres of stuff backed up behind the tumour.

Recovery was very painful but his visits showed him to be a pleasant and compassionate man who had clearly saved my life. He was an athletic, 52 year old good looking man and was a favourite amongst the staff. He returned to his home down south as I was released from Whitehorse hospital and shipped south to my home in Chilliwack, where I recovered over the next six months, only to be subjected to the chemical nightmare of chemotherapy for six months. It was a miracle that the cancer seemed to be beaten and I returned to flying with the help of Transport Canada who gave me a restricted Airline Transport License and Fugro Airborne Surveys, who I flew for in the off season. Fugro was both compassionate and generous and had sent me to one of the most respected flight surgeons, Dr Takahashi of Ottawa. His gentle encouragement was a beacon of hope.

I now have a lifetime loyalty to Fugro and that was put to the test in Yellowknife on my way back from Baffin Island a year later. As I wandered through the hangar at Buffalo Airways I was approached my Buffalo Joe, who offered me an immediate job as Captain of a fire-bombing DC4, but loyalty won out. I stuck with Fugro for half the money. Joe was even appreciative of that. Honour is a man's gift to himself.

A very close friend, Brian, from the Yukon, phoned me one day and was emotional as he told me to check my e-mail. The attachment was an obituary of Dr Frank Timmermans, an Australian surgeon previously from Whitehorse. He had died of a brain tumour. And this man had saved my life.

I'm sorry folks ... I have to collect my thoughts ... back soon..... Dr. Timmermans was one of the most productive, profound, adventurous and compassionate jewels of mankind. He had sailed around the world and had stopped in Africa to work with people with AIDS. He than went to India to work with people with leprosy and then on to Canada where he went up to the Northern villages to help the native population with myriads of afflictions. He settled in Whitehorse and as I say, became a popular hard working surgeon. Can you fellow aviators see where my inspiration comes from? I am blessed.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
I have been somewhat tardy in writing lately mainly due to a daunting event regarding my upcoming date with infinity.

The oncologist sat across the table from me at the Surrey Cancer Clinic and told me his version on my situation.

He told me I was going to die. Pain management is the next thing for me, he says. With movements devoid of flourish and with a professional monotone, he explained with the use of graphs and statistics that the general population survived this long if you did this... blah blah blah....this long if you did that....blah blah blah... I spied the weakness in his argument right there: I pounced!!

"How dare you include me in the "general population!" says I ... he laughed. So anyhow, we disagree on when this event is forecast to occur. I told him I will continue to buy green bananas.
 

The Duke and some of his mates: posing during a break in their adventures.

So it turns out that my mates tinpis and treefrog knew each other from Papua New Guinea and posted these stories about the Pilatus Porter.

tinpis wrote:

Treefrog, I think we coulda worked together if you were moonlighting on Porters (PNG PNH?)in Lae humpin coffee bags??

Keep the words coming Duke emi gutpela stori tru


----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
treefrog replied:

Tinpis,
Yes I did a bit of moonlighting on the ****** Porters. Bit rough around the edges but they were a lot lighter than the Army ones without all the radio gear, wing hardpoints etc.

They were also lighter because they didn't have pilot’s doors. As you probably experienced you would sit in the seat while they stacked coffee bags to the roof behind you. Totally impossible to get out if you pranged.

Because the bags were a bit big to go right to the roof at the back there was about a foot of space - enough to squeeze two full fare paying passengers prostrate on top of the bags. Because they were jammed against the roof I always thought it was a good thing because they steadied the unsecured bags.

Remember going into a strip and Duke Elegant was just leaving. He had been taking advantage of the dumped drums of army Avgas (the Bell 47 helicopters had a range of about 300 yards) which were all over PNG. It was not a bad thing and most of the operators used the fuel either scratching on the drum who took it or calling the army later. They would eventually get a bill.

We often put Avgas in the Porters from these dumps and it made absolutely no difference to temperatures or performance in the PT-6. I think the manufacturer says 50 hours Avgas use in an engine life - we did a lot more than that before the factory instructions came out.

Having every man and his dog use the dumps (some companies also had dumps) allowed the fuel to be turned over. The Air Force Caribous- a great mob (nobody else in the air force would work in an iron lung) used to wander around topping the dumps up.

No theft after a few people were killed in a village putting Avgas in a lantern thinking it was jet fuel. Very often the rubber seal rings were gone from the drums as the women found them an essential fashion accessory to wear on their wrists - lots of wasted time doing water checks.

Anyhow, Tinpis and Duke you know all this stuff.

duke, hope you got home Ok!

 

The Duke with Tanker 26, bearing nose art masterfully painted by Eric Ebert.

C-GJGQ

She sits there, all forlorn and devoid of soul... her wings spread wide and as ready as they could ever be.

But alas! She would never fly again. She is settled down to the axles in the soft ground, all alone, outside the aviation museum in Victoria B.C. I see the captain's window is left wide open to the weather. It is empty. The window does not frame a face, the face of the last man to fly her ...me.

Her bulbous gear doors look like her bloomers have slipped down to her ankles as the deflated oleos allow her to squat in the mud.... her tailfeathers overgrown by tangled blackberries.

A retired old "queen of the skies" you may ask ...sadly ...no.

She is an ugly old bird whose carcass has been pecked clean by her sisters ... the three other not so glamorous members of the flock as they struggled for survival by robbing her of body parts until her will was gone and her inventory empty. She is a bag of bones.

But did they steal her soul?

Allow me to share with you, her final flight. It sure was interesting. May she RIP.

I was General Manager of Skyfreighters at the time and we had an operating certificate, a flock of four Super DC3s, crews trained and already flying live seafood runs as far away as Alaska.

We had been given notice by Transport Canada that our facilities in Nanaimo, which suited us fine, were not conducive to good maintenance as certain checks had to be done indoors. We were at their mercy so a part of a hangar was leased and the move was a masterpiece of precision, especially since everything we owned fitted into the three flyable airplanes that I ferried for twenty minutes to Victoria.

Sadly, JGQ was left behind to languish in the long grass, only to be visited by the occasional engineer who "borrowed" parts from her, but the promises of replacement were never kept. This occurred as C-GDIK and C-GDOG plundered the seafood industry up and down the West Coast.

I sailed my forty foot sailboat to Sidney and moored her at a beautiful dock only minutes from the hangar. I lived aboard her in this paradise and spent spare time crabbing for Dungeness crabs, sailing and eating like royalty. I had a purty little gal, Suzy Secretary, who I plundered mercilessly.

But government regulations entangled us as we tried to shoe horn WW2 aircraft into modern times, regulations and paperwork. The head Transport Inspector wasn't a bad bloke but one of his diminutive young underlings was appointed as our principal inspector. This comic book like character was quick, darting, and a dick head.

One day he had come bounding up the steps (down which five minutes later I would threaten to throw him) to my office in the hangar. We were aghast at his performance as he ranted that it was his job to shut us down and we were to constantly battle to avoid this.

Like Foghorn Leghorn I bellowed at this retreating creature, who, upon return to his office, got another tirade from his boss who I had phoned.

But we were under notice to remove JGQ from the Nanaimo airport so a steady procession appeared in reverse as borrowed engines and parts came up from Victoria to resurrect this pile of guts and feathers.

Actually, engine changes on the R4D-8 (Super DC3) were very fast as Douglas had a QEC (quick engine change) system that allowed two off and two on in a day. It was the rigging, leaks and missing parts that always delayed a ferry flight. For this we needed a ferry permit.

We neared completion when I was horrified to learn that the head Transport bloke was on holidays and the permit would have to be coaxed out of the clammy paws of Inspector Dick Head whose realization of power was inversely proportional to his diminutive stature... and seize upon the moment he did.......

I had to cover all bases ... I had to find that one little thing that this old harlot could use to kill me. So with a light fuel load we pressurized the fuel system looking for and fixing leaks. The hydraulic system leaked badly but I had decided to go wheels down and locked because the gear had not been swung for two years and some of the flight was over water and I wanted the option of being able to suck up the landing gear in the event of an engine failure. To touch the water with wheels down is fatal as the cockpit slams into the water ahead of ten tons of metal.


Our communications package consisted of a hand held radio and a cell phone. Instruments? Well... I only needed an airspeed indicator for flight but I insisted on ALL engine gauges so I had to make a fast flight to Victoria in the Baron. A light rain was falling as I landed back in Nanaimo and I saw the engineers tidying her up and lockwiring everything that needed it while Inspector Dick Head sat in his car pretending to rummage in his brief case. The engineers seemed to be smiling ... and waiting for something to happen. I did not disappoint them.

I had wandered over to the big aluminum beast when I spied something amiss. There they were ... sticking out like dog's balls... the gear pins IN ... flagged and everything. They were RED. So was the bull in me. I flung those pins at the government car but they fell short. But I kept coming, frothing vehemence. The window went up. "Is that sweat on his lip, or snot?" thinks I.

He had made a poor decision to attempt to override me. He must have been confused when I respectfully asked for my ferry permit. Now he wanted to "inspect" the airplane. It didn't take him long to see the hole where the stall speed lever was, something we had forgotten to tape over ... but he blurts out.... "You have to have a stall speed indicator" he gleefully blubbers on ...."and... and…"

I know you are playing for time, thinks I. He is off at 3:30. I know you don't have to have a stall horn but he can stretch this out.... think fast.... I look at the Baron. I may have to speed to Victoria ... I may but the engineer who walked me to the plane had a screwdriver and quickly removed the one on the Baron with nary a chance it would fit the curvature. He took it nonetheless and was installed on the DC3... heh! Heh! Heh! ...upside down.....it did fit the curve that way.

It was enough to fool a fool. But, permit in hand it is time to aviate...


………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Well it seems that I must be one of the luckiest guys alive. I really needed to finish the story I started about old JGQ, the derelict C117 Super DC3 and its final ferry flight.

For the last week I have drifted in and out of bouts of pain that the morphine fails to arrest completely but I promise I will finish the tale.

But I must share something with you all.

I am indeed the luckiest guy alive. As far as my health status goes, I now have a chip light. Yes, the big C is overtaking my innards but as it states in the checklist, you do not shut down the engine on account of a chip light and you proceed to destination while monitoring all other gauges.

Today was a good day. A young pilot insisted he buy me a beer so off to the pub we go only to run into people that were concerned that they haven't seen me for a while.

Friends.... wow! What a resource. I am truly blessed. I am talking about all types of friends. It is amazing. Some of the rougher/tougher blokes can show clear emotions, some touching me, some hugging and some glassy eyed. But all had the same message.

So over ambles my mate Teddy. I guess a whole bunch of my other mates from the past came up with a plan and Teddy was the messenger. They want to have a pre-funeral pissup in a hall with a band and everything, some thinking this would be macabre and spooky but the general consensus was that I could handle it.

I sure can.

It seems that my friends want to say stuff now, not while I am in the box with my arms crossed and a blank look on my face. It doesn't get any better than that, does it?

It was tough to drag my arse off the couch given that my bowels are bound up tighter that a bull's arse in fly season but it was an offer that I couldn't refuse ... a call from my young friend Mark. He more or less insisted that he was coming up in his Yak to pick me up and fly to Arlington Washington for the air show, where it was promised that many of my friends would be, and there was lots of good flying to enjoy.

I had flown his Yak before and had caressed this lithe beauty into some smooth aeros and so I settled into the familiar back seat for the thirty minute trip that took me to the Mecca of aviation. You see people at their best at these events and even the customs clearance was both friendly and enjoyable.

We parked in the warbird section next to the Mustang, two Grumman Wildcats, T28’s, T6 Texans, 2 L39 jets, Beech 18's, more Yaks, numerous ultralights, homebuilts, and restored classics ... hundreds of motor homes, tents, and thousands of people with some camped for a week or more.

We then made our way to Camp Sea Bee, a group of outlaw aviators and performers on the fringe. They are the true Rat Pack in the aviation world and yet were always visited by the top performers and aviators and even some aviation loving Transport Canada inspectors on their own time.

They had circled the wagons way off in the far corner but failed to be invisible to the lawmen whose visits became more frequent as the week rolled on. And sure enough, there were many of my friends at this den of iniquity where the overwhelming presence of His Immenseness, Jerry Janes, presided. The party was in full swing with a background of tumbling Sukhois and Yaks, snarling ballets of John Mazurecks T6, Mustangs and all manner of antics, but I was most impressed with the gasoline powered margarita machine that produced two gallons a minute. I was soon to become one of its victims. The mix of morphine and margaritas felled me like an ox after a brief period of laughs and tales of daring-do, so I rested in one of the motor homes, only to be awakened later by some bagpipe music that tempted me to rejoin the melee...

The grandson of His Immenseness, at the tender age of fifteen or so, was the piper and his younger brother was playing the kettle drum with much flourish and were joined by a young sixteen year old princess with enormous talent. They played with such beauty and finesse that even the oft harassed neighbors couldn't resist to come and enjoy this pleasurable example of youth. I had a bad case of the shakes and couldn't stand up so I settled into a chair with the lovely Donna comforting me. Bud Granley, probably the best living airshow performer (he does a snap roll just after take off in a T6 that defies logic) wrapped my old bag of bones in his jacket as we enjoyed the pipes. I shook like an old radial engine with a bad mag and three plugs oiled up.

Bud wanders off to the pipers ... I sense something going on ...a quick glance at grandpa Jerry ... he is in on it too.

Bud speaks as the crowd hushes. He draws attention to our friends and fallen aviators and suggests we should never forget them and I am touched. But then, "…and to them we pay tribute, but also we should pay tribute to those amongst us who will soon pass on ... (a powerful pause) ...and this is now dedicated to Duke Elegant." First one piper ... Amazing Grace ... the haunting, powerful wailing of the pipes... and then the second piper kicks in.

My cancer, the pain, the shakes ... all displaced by a joy hitherto unimagined... hands on by bony, wasted shoulders ... Bud, Mark, Paul, Donna. And a glance at Big Jerry so proud of his grandkids ... this beauty awash in tears of joy.

And all I could say was "It seems like everything is OK."


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Well it is official now.

The "pre funeral pissup" is 25th July at the Transwest Helicopter hangar in Chilliwack and starts early afternoon with a roast pig, BBQ salmon and a band later. So far there are 150 people and all aviators are welcome. My family, including grandchildren and daughter from Montreal, will be here for the afternoon festivities. I sure have weird friends eh?


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The job in Peace River Alberta had gone quite smoothly considering I was a new Captain on the Casa 212 and the flat terrain of Alberta made it easy to master the art of EM survey flying, which was very different from straight Magnetometer flying I had been doing up on James Bay (Attawapaskat) in a Caravan.

We waited for Eric, my co-captain, who was also a brand new captain, and we had attended the same course in Ottawa. Eric had had some trouble on the course, mainly due to his native tongue, French, but we all spent extra time helping him think in English for the standard operating procedures in a two crew environment. Some of us got together after hours in the cockpit of the Casa in the hangar and went through procedures over and over until he was more comfortable. He was a very pleasant chap, and we saw the value in this small investment. We had heard that he was a very good pilot. I, too, asked help of a young first officer, Chris, in matters that I did not fully understand.

This next mission was daunting, to say the least, especially for two rookies. Two other captains had turned down the job because it was way up north above the Arctic Circle and was a tent camp on the barrens of Baffin Island. The engineer was a rookie too, a Greek immigrant called Stathi Popadoppagoppabobbopolis or something. He had been making arrangements to fly south and then the long way around by airlines in order to fly in comfort and arrive on Baffin on the HS748 charter which bore our spares and supplies. I vetoed this by assuming the role of benevolent dictator and informed Ottawa that he was to fly with us. That's the way it is, I informed him after phoning many layers over even his boss's head.... and besides ... I was a Duke.

We launched for Yellowknife, North West Territories, where we needed a hangar for preventative maintenance since we were bare-assed to the elements for the next few months. This was also the departure point for some very long legs over very barren territory with very few alternate airports. So the Frenchman, the Greek, and the Aussie took off on an adventure of a lifetime.

The Casa 212 is a chubby little speedster powered by two Dash 10 Garretts of a thousand horsepower each. Designed as a Spanish military troop carrier and cargo aeroplane, it is ideal for the electro-magnetic survey role by virtue of its large interior that can accommodate small military vehicles easily loaded by a hydraulic ramp. By adding twin booms protruding from the nose and a large box section boom jutting from the tail, a six strand loop of heavy cables are strung around the whole aircraft (laid horizontally and steadied by arrows that resemble missiles) that pound a million or so millivolts of power into the ground. Once airborne, two "birds" that resemble cruise missiles are let out by their respective winches to trail behind and measure magnetic anomalies produced by ore bodies and oil and gas pockets. It has a surprisingly comfortable and well laid out cockpit that is a blessing when flying long missions close to the ground for hours on end. But no longer a speedster, it is more of a contraption with banks of electronics and AC/DC converters in back, including an operators station.

So with the birds winched up against the ramp door, loaded with spares, personal gear, tool boxes, and survival gear, we droned off to Yellowknife at a blistering 140 knots. We are to meet our Polish operator Jerzy on site and the time in Yellowknife is spent on maintenance and visits with many friends flying Buffalo Joe's DC4's, C46 Curtis Commandos, and DC3's. Yellowknife is a Mecca of bush aviation and Buffalo Joe immediately offered me a job as DC4 captain, but Fugro Airborne Surveys had stuck with me during my first battle with cancer, and my loyalty to them was resolute. This loyalty today is paying off many times over. The company had rewarded us with a large stash of beer and whiskey for the job well done in Peace River, and this would be very welcome in a tent camp for sure.

Flight planning for the next leg was complicated by the summer Arctic sea fog that blanketed the northern route via Gjoa Haven so we had and Cambridge Bay, no choice but to take the Baker Lake and Hall Beach route that involved nearly four hour legs with very distant alternates so a window of opportunity was sought where there were no headwinds.

We droned high above the barrens that became devoid of trees but replaced by rugged eskers that looked as if they had been scratched into the Canadian Shield by the almighty when he was in an angry mood ... they all ran in the same direction and offered little solace in the event of an emergency landing. The famous Baker Lake caribou migration herds were too far North for our viewing and we were instead rewarded by the nothingness of Baker Lake, where we landed with bare reserves for refueling. The leg to Hall Beach, an Eskimo village on the shores of the still iced up Artic Ocean, was mostly in or above cloud. Icing was our enemy as ice would quickly form on the loop causing it to hump thereby giving a ten minute warning prior to plummeting to earth with the glide angle of a greased crowbar. This village seemed friendly enough and relatively clean but we elected to push on to Dewer Lakes on Baffin Island, which was a DEW line radar site, and our home for the coming months.
Very rugged, rocky mountains loomed on all points of the compass.

Upon arrival we noticed the automatic radar site high up on the hill, a well prepared gravel runway and our teeny camp on the banks of a frozen river. We hadn't seen a tree since Yellowknife. Some caribou wandered the strip but soon dispersed with the shrieking whine of the Garrets, and we parked on the cleared ramp in a cloud of dust. Two all terrain vehicles greeted us, one driven by the data processor and the other by Jerzy, the operator, and these were our only means of transportation, which was OK since there was nowhere to go anyway.

With gear piled high we made our way to the camp over rocks, all the same size, all the wrong size ... even walking was a chore over these devil's marbles.

Enroute, Dave the data processor told me with some foreboding that I won't believe the BHP Australia female geophysicist that was on site. He chuckled and grinned and shook his head often.

The Arctic wind with no warning ambushed us and with the dusk approaching, a shiver enveloped me as we approached camp.

And then I saw her.


Duke's Pissup


Hey Everyone!

I will attempt to re-cap the events of the pissup for the Duke as best I can. While I am not the story teller that he is, for sure, I’ll do my best to paint the picture of Sunday for you. Would have done this yesterday but it was a little foggy here!

The shindig on Sunday was awesome! It was a beautiful day – clear sky, slight breeze, warm temperatures, loads and loads of friends and family, a very fat pig on a spit, heaps of Chilliwack corn, and plenty of grog.

The Duke arrived in grand style in his private limo-of-the-day (a shiny ambulance organized by another good friend!) complete with his own private nurse (another good friend!) standing by. He had managed to convince the doctors that he really needed to be holding court this day and they agreed to give him the day pass! Of course! And so, complete with all the plumbing, as Treefrog previously noted, he arrived as planned to a standing ovation! I must also mention that he was wearing the strangest socks……. I believe he called them his ‘sex socks’......not sure what that means???

A very good friend arranged to have the Cadillac of motor homes available for him to rest in occasionally as well and his daughter Meghan affixed – very appropriately – a giant gold star on the door with his name on it!

One of our local bands – Ernie Britton and the boys - came out to play some pretty great music as well and another friend – Patsy - sang a couple of songs just for Duke. One being Amazing Grace and there was not a dry eye anywhere! She sang it so beautifully and with the Duke were his daughters on either side of him, and the grandkids nearby as well.

I’m still not sure of the identity of the pilots, but there were a few, who put on a show of some really great formations and fly-overs. They also performed the missing man formation….. There were lots of speeches; the Duke also had a few words to say.

I will try to get a statement from the Duke himself and post it. He stayed a very long time and is tired but he loved every minute of it! It was a very emotional day and one that I will not forget.

I hope to get a few of Duke’s own words here soon. Thanks to everyone who helped make it an unbelievable day for Duke. It was really special for him and his family.

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I am back.

I arrived at home today, more details later. I gotta spin up my gyros.

The first story I wrote on this forum was about the lobster tossing adventure that happened out over the Atlantic with a failed engine that would not feather because of the broken crankshaft.

After the party, which was the most profound event that I have EVER attended, it was like the second engine failed, and my health plummeted because the colostomy bag failed to operate and it was pretty much Bye-Bye Duke as I went through indescribable pain in a morphine crazy nightmare. I had taken a look at the door.

With such amazing skill and professionalism they again got me going. You will NEVER understand the admiration I have for the nursing staff, doctors and surgeons.

And your kind, supportive encouragement gave me strength.

I am the luckiest guy alive

Sorry, I had another setback. But I will finish my stories tomorrow.

Duke


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My thread had slipped to page six so I assume you had all thought I'd croaked.

Back on page four is the Baffin Island story, this being the continuation thereof.

She had shed her thick woolen arctic geologist work clothes and was freshly bathed ... oh how she did glide into the main tent, catlike and she did enormous justice to the track suit she so graciously filled. For a moment, I had impure thoughts. Her face was that of a classical beauty framed by wet auburn hair not yet dried. Her soft, cultured Australian accent was like sweet music to the ear. I swear she could have even turned a Taliban away from goat sex. She introduced herself as Margo but we called her Queenie.

Once the all terrain vehicles had transferred our gear from the aircraft to the tents, the terms of the contract and the safety briefing was conducted. The first item on the agenda was to advise us that normal BHP policy was for a dry camp. We were all aghast as we had our hard earned booty (a handsome reward for the last job well done) stashed and it was to be surrendered. We pleaded on this issue and came to a compromise, since I assured her that we would not violate any agreement that was forthcoming, and a very pleasant deal was struck whereby we were allowed to drink the beer in the mess tent only (which we shared with the camp boss and the cook). The whiskey was displayed in a prominent place there to remain untouched until the contract end. All was OK.

Except that, once again, I drew the Jack from the back of the pack. A smelly garbage bag in the garbage can in the back of the aircraft sat atop our real booty of vodka and rum.

The contract had been scheduled for earlier in the year so now the weather swung from biting arctic winds to hot, dry spells punctuated by confusing snow pellets, flakes and gusts. Morale was in danger of plummeting as many technical adjustments were being made and particularly frustrated Jerzy, the top technical man, who was also the airborne operator, and they had all recently been stripped of their flying incentive pay so he was in his rights to fly one trip per day which would prolong our sentence in these barrens. He was constantly having to change the settings on the huge DC/DC converter back and forth with different megahertz settings. I cunningly came up with a solution to this morale problem which I will relate shortly. Then our airborne equipment had to be calibrated involving many short flights up and down the runway at 200, 300, 400, five hundred feet and so on... This remote gravel strip was a DEW line military site and therefore not available to the public, and in fact, our company paid $5000/day for the use thereof.

Eager to fly, Eric and I flashed up the screaming beast and with a call to Arctic radio began our monotonous flights. I scanned the rugged, steep, mountainous, savage, terrain to the south, where we were to fly our grid at a mere few hundred feet, coaxing the drag ridden contraption up steep hills and plunging down towards azure half frozen lakes or savage rushing torrents of blue/green runoff, all the while trying to keep the two trailing missiles clear of the ground.

I had just returned my attention to the cockpit when at the same time Eric pointed and screamed "DIVE" and with heart stopping disbelief a Cessna 185 missed us by merely fifty feet or less.

He too, was saved by a mere particle of time. Here, in the big empty sky of the arctic, we came within feet of losing our lives.

More to follow…