The Ice Pilots

by Michael Vlessides

  “The historical stuff is pretty brief, I just wanted—”

  “I don’t wanna get into that,” he said. “Because then I have to sit down and do the whole thing. And then it’ll just look like a Max Ward book, eh? Now hopefully this book just covers you and Mikey and the Ice Pilots.”

  “Well, that’s most of it, but there is some stuff about you in it and how—”

  “Then all you gotta do is say that Buffalo Airways and I came together on May 13 of 1970. You don’t have to go into how I got it, why I got it, what I paid for it—all that bullshit.”

  “That’s pretty much all it is, Joe, just a little historical contex—”

  “So all you gotta do is say the company’s been here since 1970, operating DC-3s since the seventies, and kick-start into the Ice Pilots. Mikey can do the rest.”

  I started to talk again, but Joe would have none of it. He stopped pacing for a second (which was disarming enough) and looked right through me. “I can tell you and I aren’t gonna get along,” he growled.

  Yikes. I was stuck in a real-life version of Groundhog Day, the 1993 movie where Bill Murray is forced to live the same day over and over again for eternity. I knew, knew, that any second now Joe was going to say, “Book—what book?”

  As always, Mikey came to my rescue. “What about that Norseman flight?” he chimed in.

  A couple of hours later, the three of us reconnoitred at Mikey’s place. I showed up with sandwiches and Timbits in one last desperate attempt to win Joe’s favour, but as luck would have it, he’d already eaten.

  The Norseman bobbed serenely in the waters behind the house, unmistakable in mustard yellow with highlights of Buffalo green. My original fantasy had me and Joe taking off alone together, but he wanted none of it. Still trying to figure out exactly why he was taking me for a ride, he urged Mikey to join us, which he did. Luckily, Joe offered me the right seat in the cockpit; Mikey sat in the back.

  Though I only had the opportunity to fly in Joe’s Noorduyn Norseman once, the plane holds a special place in my heart given its rich history in Canadian bush flying. The first recorded flight of a Norseman was on November 14, 1935.

  Soon the plane was taxiing across Back Bay. The front of the plane sat so high in the water that it was almost impossible to see over the engine and propeller directly in front of us, but Joe guided the plane masterfully. A few minutes later he turned into position and gunned the engine; the Norseman immediately rode high in the water, its floats skimming lightly across the dark surface of Back Bay. Soon we were in the air, and Yellowknife receded beneath us.

  Though he’d done this tens of thousands of times before, Joe was all business behind the Norseman’s controls. His hands moved deftly from the yoke to the various switches, buttons, and levers peppered throughout the cockpit. The Norseman did her part too: she was graceful and elegant in the air, and showed no sign of her nearly seventy years. Comforted in the knowledge that I was in good hands, I sat back and enjoyed the ride.

  Joe circled around Back Bay and I could see the dichotomy of the city laid out beneath me. From here, a few hundred feet off the ground, it was easy to make out rustic and colourful Old Town, protruding like a jointed finger into the waters of Great Slave Lake. Farther south, the tall buildings of downtown eventually gave way to the sprawl of neighbourhoods to the west of the city’s core.

  Yet it was the water below that held my attention like a vise grip on this warm and breezy summer day. The many lakes that pepper the cityscape gleamed dark blue beneath us, the warm afternoon sun reflecting off their choppy surfaces. Frame Lake stood out proudly, in some places lined with trees and grass, in others interrupted by a massive, curving, and crevassed outcrop of charcoal-coloured rock. Among the many buildings that line its shore, the Northwest Territories Legislative Assembly is most distinctive; from above it looked like a huge silver-green alien craft waiting for the mother ship to land.

  The Norseman was loud—really loud—but with the headset on, the sound of the engine died away. Joe, Mikey, and I were able to talk to one another. Mostly, Joe ordered me not to touch any of the controls.

  For the next half-hour we flew south, over the waters of Great Slave Lake and past Dettah, an aboriginal settlement of about 250 people that sits across the finger of Yellowknife Bay from the city itself. And if I was expecting to see nothing but the wide expanse of black water in every direction, Great Slave Lake had other plans for me, at least this close to shore. A few hundred feet below us, the water was a hodgepodge of rocky islands. Despite their myriad shapes and sizes, the islands had one thing in common: all were covered in a combination of brown-grey rock and the green of stunted spruce trees. Around the islands, submerged rock cast colourful shadows under the water, from browns and tans to greens and blues.

  We weren’t the only ones with the idea of exploring the countryside that Saturday afternoon. In almost every direction I turned, boats plied the waters of the lake, leaving foggy fingers of white foam trailing behind. Their destinations eluded me for a while, but as Joe brought the Norseman ever lower, I realized where they were going. Scattered throughout the islands below were signs of occasional human inhabitance: a small cabin here, a canvas wall tent there. Many Yellowknifers are devout outdoorspeople, and those with boats build their camps on the islands in the waters around the city.

  Fittingly enough, our destination that afternoon was a fishing camp where one of Joe’s friends, Dean, spends time on the weekends. My fantasy of Joe taking me to the places that had shaped his life as a bush pilot had long since vanished, but I was grateful for any opportunity to get up in an airplane with Joe. Plus, meeting someone whom Joe calls a friend—not to mention seeing how Joe operates in a social setting—would be an opportunity I might never get again. In the end, I knew Joe didn’t have to do this for me. I imagined he didn’t want to, either. But he did it... and that says a hell of a lot about the man.

  Soon we put the plane down and were taxiing across the water, hoping Dean had seen us and was coming by boat to lead us to his camp. That’s when the unthinkable happened. A horrible shrieking noise filled the cabin and we could feel something grinding underneath us. The right side of the plane lifted up slightly, sending us all leaning toward the left. The right float of the Norseman had ground up against a flat, shallow rock.

  I looked at Mikey.

  Mikey looked back at me.

  Joe looked shocked. “Shit,” he muttered softly.

  We were stuck.

  If you’re thinking this kind of thing is a common occurrence, think again. Joe says it’s only the second time in his life he’s ever run aground with a float plane. The last time was in a Cessna 182 with his brother Ronnie. They tore the float right open.

  We were luckier today. Everything seemed intact, but that didn’t mean we were going anywhere soon. Joe snapped to attention, ordering Mikey and me out of the plane to inspect the damage. Mikey was out before the words were out of Joe’s mouth, though; he seems to have inherited his father’s ability to handle stressful situations.

  By the time I managed to squeeze myself through the plane’s tiny side door, Mikey was already standing on the float, assessing the damage. Joe was right behind me. Amazingly, the boss was not angry. He calmly examined the situation, then rubbed his weathered forehead as he decided the best course of action. While I entertained worst-case scenarios like swimming to the nearest fishing camp or diving into the icy water to push the plane free, Mikey spoke.

  “Maybe if we stand on the back of the floats it’ll raise the front of the plane enough to free us up,” he said.

  Seconds later, Mikey and I were doing just that, jumping up and down ever so slightly to coax the uncooperative float off the hidden rock shelf. Joe paced up and down the left float, considering his options.

  Nothing happened.

  Mikey and I kept hopping. Joe kept pacing.
Then, just when it seemed like we were going to become more acquainted with Great Slave Lake than any of us had originally bargained for, the aviation gods smiled upon us and sent a blast of cool wind across the lake. That gust, combined with our hopping, set the Norseman free. At the same time, Joe flagged down a passing boat (which turned out to be a friend of Dean’s who’d come to escort us to the camp).

  Soon the “rock incident” was a distant memory. Joe taxied the plane across the water, slowly following the escort boat to Dean’s camp. Mikey had replaced me in the right seat; he was looking for shallow rocks as Joe guided the plane through myriad channels between the innumerable small islands that characterize this part of Great Slave Lake. After about twenty minutes of taxiing, the boat disappeared through a narrow strait.

  That was enough for Joe: the passage was just too tight, too shallow, and too risky, so he turned around and headed for open water. He could visit Dean another time. Soon we were back up in the air, circling low over the rocky point of land that marks Dean’s camp. A group of people was down there, all looking up and waving at the Norseman. Joe McBryan waved back.

  After a brief tour over Yellowknife and the surrounding area, Joe brought the Norseman down on Back Bay and turned to me. “Is that what you wanted?” he asked.

  “It is, Joe. Thanks.”

  Rod was waiting for us as we came alongside the dock, ropes ready. I hopped out to lend a hand, but realized that I was intruding on a scene that was never mine in the first place. I watched as Joe, Mikey, and Rod chatted away, father and sons doing what too few of us do, whether it’s in Yellowknife or Yemen: pass the time with one another, relishing the simple joy of being together.

  For a moment, I was tempted to interrupt them and thank each in turn for the part he has played in helping this book come together. I even started taking a step or two toward the McBryans. Then I stopped, took in the scene one long last time, turned, and walked away.

  “You guys wanna go for a ride on the boat?” I heard Joe call out. I knew he wasn’t talking to me.

  I had a plane to catch.

  * * *

  The Midnight Sun Float Plane Fly-In

  Held every two years since 1995, Yellowknife’s Midnight Sun Float Plane Fly-In is a bush pilot’s dream come true. Hundreds of people and more than forty different types of planes descend on Old Town’s waterfront, providing an opportunity for old pilots, new pilots, and wannabe pilots to share their love of aviation.

  The pilots who descended on Yellowknife for the July 2011 version of the fly-in were treated to a few special events, Buffalo style. They not only got together for the Ice Pilots Jamboree (an evening of music, food, and stories from their favourite Ice Pilots characters), they also got a tour of the hangar and flew on a DC-3.

  You don’t have to be a northern bush pilot to enjoy the festivities at the fly-in. Over the years, planes from as far away as Hawaii and Tennessee have joined the party.

  * * *

  CF-SAN

  Joe’s Noorduyn Norseman (call letters CF-SAN) boasts a rich history, a litany of owners, and a restoration effort that saw the plane pulled from the scrap heap and knocked back into perfect flying shape once again, courtesy of Buffalo’s mechanics.

  The plane was registered to Saskatchewan Government Airways (the province’s first and only government-owned commercial airline) in 1947. There it flew thousands of kilometres of dedicated service before being damaged in a taxiing accident on June 16, 1960, at Île-à-la-Crosse, Saskatchewan. The plane was salvaged, repaired, and put back into service using parts from another Norseman (call letters CF-EZK). It was sold to Saskair in 1964.

  The Norseman was soon bought by Ontario Central Airlines, which operated it until the spring of 1971, when it began a circuitous route through several operators in Manitoba, Ontario, and the Northwest Territories. cf-san was damaged again in late 1981, when frost on its wings caused it to crash after takeoff from the airport in Fort Simpson, Northwest Territories.

  At that point, cf-san’s fate hung in the balance. The wreck was shipped to Calgary to be rebuilt, but was deemed beyond repair. So it sat until 1993, when it was donated to the Aero Space Museum of Calgary; Joe bought the wreck later that year. Using parts from Joe’s original Norseman (call letters CF-NVJ), which was damaged in the firefighting incident, CF-SAN was rebuilt and registered to Buffalo Airways. Joe flies the plane to this day.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  On August 20, 2011—shortly after I bade farewell to Yellowknife for the last time while writing this book—a Boeing 737 passenger aircraft operated by First Air crashed on approach to the airport in the tiny High Arctic hamlet of Resolute, one of Canada’s northernmost communities. It was foggy that day, but nothing worrisome enough to stop charter flight 6560, which originated in Yellowknife, from redirecting to another airstrip. Twelve of the fifteen people on board were killed.

  Little more than four weeks later—as I was putting the finishing touches on this manuscript—a Twin Otter float plane operated by Arctic Sunwest Charters crashed into an empty lot in the Old Town section of Yellowknife as it approached the company’s float plane base on Back Bay, not far from Mikey McBryan’s house. Returning from a trip to a mining exploration camp at Thor Lake (about one hundred kilometres east of Yellowknife), the plane plowed into a residential street, narrowly missing buildings on either side. The pilot and co-pilot were killed; all seven passengers survived. Nobody yet knows what caused the crash.

  Then, unbelievably, disaster struck a third time. On October 4, 2011, an Air Tindi Cessna 208B crashed between Yellowknife and Lutselk’e, a small community some 200 kilometres (125 miles) to the east of the capital. Two of the four people on board, including the pilot, were killed when the plane apparently hit the top of a hill about forty kilometres (twenty-five miles) from its destination.

  For me, the foray into the world of bush flying was an ephemeral one. Sure, there were times when I felt like I was living the life of a bush pilot, but I never really did. I tagged along, took people up on their offers of hospitality, flew in some amazing aircraft, told a story. But I never experienced the indescribable feeling of sitting behind the controls, looking onto a landscape of stark northern wilderness, and realizing that something terrible was about to happen. This book is dedicated to anyone who has ever found himself or herself in that position.

  If anything, those tragedies made my time in Yellowknife even more important to me. For as I look back, I realize that while the stories of people like Joe McBryan, Justin Simle, Carl Clouter, and Scotty Blue were only ever stories to me, they were white-knuckle real to them. The idea of Carl crash-landing a plane in the High Arctic sounded exciting to me, but he felt it. It’s an important distinction. Having to relive that kind of experience with someone you hardly know cannot be a comfortable undertaking, and I will be forever grateful to those who did. And so, the humble words in these pages are my long-winded way of saying thanks to all of those who let me share their lives, if only for a moment.

  Yet for all of those who opened their doors, their memories, and their hearts to me throughout 2011, none deserves more credit than Mikey McBryan. Rain or shine, day or night, –25° or +25°, Mikey was there to help me navigate the sometimes treacherous waters of Buffalo Airways. He took me in, answered thousands of questions about the most intimate details of his life, and never wavered in his commitment to this project... even when his dad was on the warpath. Without him, this book would not exist. I’ll miss the wings at Surly Bob’s.

  Then there’s Trena White, my confidante at D&M Publishers. Like Mikey, Trena entered my world as a voice on a phone. Over the course of 2011, she has evolved into so much more: friend, advisor, therapist, cheerleader, sounding board, and, of course, editor. If there is anything redeeming about the words in these pages, as much credit is due to her as it is to me.

  In the end, a book, like a plane, is the sum of its many
parts. This one is no different. So to all the people I am lucky enough to have love me, who put up with my crankiness, my distractedness, and my absence at some point during 2011, I thank you. My name may be on the cover, but the subtext of Ice Pilots is all yours.

  I don’t think that’s Star Wars.

  PHOTO CREDITS

  All photos © OMNI Film Productions Limited except the following:

  GWIR in Hay River © Sean Barry;

  Doris Lake ice strip© Sean Barry;

  Author in Hangar © Kate Walker;

  Wright Brothers courtesy Library of Congress (LC-DIG-ppprs-00626);

  Northern Lights © Busse/NWT Archives/N-1979-052-2131;

  Prospector © Krause/NWT Archives/N-1990-022-0197;

  Pond Inlet © Sean Barry;

  Curtiss-Commando Ad © Curtiss-Wright Corporation 2011;

  Commando C-46 © Curtiss-Wright Corporation 2011;

  Landscape between Resolute Bay, and Alert, Nunavut © Sean Barry;

  Ravens © Sean Barry;

  Dog Team © R. Knights/NWT Archives/N-1993-002-0223;

  Bush Pilot “Punch” Dickins courtesy William “Bill” Zuk/Wikimedia Commons;

  Wilfrid “Wop” May courtesy Royal Canadian Mounted Police;

  Norseman courtesy Brian Johannesson;

  Lorna deBlicquy from deBlicquy family archives;

  GWIR’s right engine © Sean Barry;

  Vintage vehicles © Sean Barry;

  Fireweed Licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported;

  Norseman © Sean Barry

  Copyright © 2012 Michael Vlessides

  Based on the television series Ice Pilots NWT produced by Omni Film Productions Limited

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the publisher or a licence from The Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency (Access Copyright). For a copyright licence, visit www.accesscopyright.ca or call toll free to 1-800-893-5777.