by Carol Shaben
Erik was in the untenable position of trying to obey two masters. The first was Dale Wells, his boss at Wapiti Aviation. Erik felt pressured to get into his destinations even if it meant pushing the weather, though Dale never came right out and said it. Many bush pilots face direct pressure from management: “Do whatever’s required to get the job done, and if you have to bust the weather to land, don’t get caught.”
The second master was the Ministry of Transport, whose regulations stipulated that a visual approach wasn’t even legal on a night like tonight. In short, Erik needed to follow one set of rules without getting violated for breaking the other.
He felt like a condemned man. If he didn’t get in he could lose his job; if he did, he could lose his licence. Nervously, Erik shot another look at the man beside him.
The Piper Navajo’s flight path was Alpha 7, a low-level controlled airway passing just east of High Prairie. Erik’s plan was to stay on the airway, flying on instruments, until he was beyond the high terrain of Swan Hills. Then he’d alter course slightly west, transit into uncontrolled airspace near High Prairie and drop down to see if he could spot the airport.
Flying on instruments—also known as IFR or Instrument Flight Rules—is akin to flying blind to the world outside the cockpit windows. Much more complex than flying visually, it’s a skill vital to pilots who fly at night or in bad weather, requiring them to navigate solely by reference to cockpit instruments.
The land below was invisible, obscured beneath a blanket of cloud and darkness. Erik raised himself in his seat and looked for any sign of lights, but the earth was lost to him. He had been so preoccupied he’d paid little attention to the windshield. Now he noticed a delicate trace of rime blossoming along its edges. Ice was the last thing he needed. He continued to ascend, keeping a close eye on its slow advance. He reached his clearance altitude of 8,000 feet and the plane was still in cloud, rime closing like a lace curtain across the windshield. He turned on the landing lights to get a better look at the wings. A thin crust of ice had begun to layer their leading edges. He flipped the switch to check the de-icing boots and strained to see the movement of the de-icers, rubber membranes covering the wings that expand to break the ice. Nothing was happening. His palms were slick with sweat as he clutched the yoke. He needed to get above the cloud, and fast.
“Departure, 402,” Erik radioed Edmonton Departure Air Traffic Control. “Level eight requesting ten thousand.”
“Wapiti 402, cleared to ten thousand.”
Erik nosed the plane skyward and at 8500 feet it broke clear. He exhaled. Holding altitude, he turned his attention to what lay ahead.
First, he had to make up time. It was already 7:30 and he was due into High Prairie at 8:00. He throttled forward and increased his airspeed to 175 knots. Now he needed to acquire his bearing. Edmonton’s distance-measuring equipment extended only 120 kilometres from the airport. Without a distance readout, Erik was forced to use dead reckoning, a skill he’d learned but far from perfected as a bush pilot. He tuned his automatic direction finder to a ground transmitter near the town of Whitecourt, which was directly along his flight path to High Prairie. The automatic direction finder or ADF is a simple navigation tool that, when tuned to the radio frequency of a fixed ground beacon, causes a directional needle to swing toward the beacon. The pilot adjusts his heading so the needle points to the nose of the plane, indicating the aircraft is tracking directly toward the beacon. The problem with this rudimentary navigation system is that it doesn’t tell the pilot how far away the plane is from the beacon.
Typically, Erik would have used a second ADF to help him determine this distance by tuning it to a non-directional beacon located in the high ridge of rugged terrain further along his flight path to High Prairie. As his plane flew past that beacon, the needle on the second ADF would swing around 90 degrees and point off the wingtip, giving Erik a cross bearing or intersection point. Then, using dead reckoning—a complex series of calculations involving speed, elapsed time and course—he could figure out his distance from his destination.
Unfortunately, only one of the plane’s two ADFs was serviceable. That meant he would have to toggle his single working ADF back and forth between the frequencies of two different ground transmitters. The thought of doing this to determine his location, as well as dealing with everything else, all without the help of a co-pilot, made Erik stiff with apprehension.
After a moment he homed in on the Whitecourt beacon and adjusted his course so that the needle of his ADF swung to point toward the nose of the plane.
Good, Erik thought. At least he was heading in the right direction.
Time passed. His head ached from the pressure of pounding blood. Suddenly, he noticed the ADF needle had swung to point off his tail, indicating that he’d passed the Whitecourt beacon. Erik tuned the dial once more, this time to the frequency of the High Prairie beacon. Again, he adjusted his heading so the compass needle pointed toward the plane’s nose. Now he needed to home in on the Swan Hills beacon, approximately two-thirds of the distance to High Prairie.
Having flown the route fewer than a dozen times in clear weather, Erik was under the impression that the Swan Hills beacon was on the summit. That meant when the needle swung to point directly off his left wingtip he would be abeam of the high point of land on his flight path and could safely begin his descent into High Prairie.
In reality, however, the terrain didn’t drop off after the Swan Hills beacon, but continued to rise for 30 kilometres beyond it to the 4,000-foot summit of House Mountain. Only then did the land slope downward, though not steadily. Thirty-two kilometres southeast of the High Prairie airport the terrain rose again to the 2900-foot crest of a densely wooded hill.
Inside the cockpit, the loud hum of the engine vibrated in Erik’s ears. He was feeling utterly cut off from the world when a voice crackled in his headset.
“Wapiti 402, if you read Edmonton, contact Centre now, one three two decimal zero five.” He’d been on Edmonton Departure traffic frequency 119.5 and was now being asked to transfer over to 132.05—Edmonton Air Traffic Control Centre.
Erik adjusted his radio. “Wapiti 402.”
“Wapiti 402, good evening,” a voice said. “You’re radar identified … what’s your altitude now?”
“Eight five zero zero. We were given a block eight to ten,” Erik said. “Ah, sir, I don’t … I wasn’t told to go over to Centre.”
“You can remain on this frequency,” the voice told him.
Erik was thinking fast now that he had ATC on the radio. He needed to let them know his plans.
“It looks like we’re gonna have to go into High Prairie,” Erik said, “so I’ll be requesting a descent to MEA and then out of controlled airspace probably at 19:45, 50 sometime.”
The High Prairie airport lay within a mile-wide strip of uncontrolled airspace between two ATC-monitored flight paths: Alpha 7—the one Erik was on—and Bravo 3, a flight path to the west. That allowed Erik to exploit a loophole in the system. He’d requested a descent to MEA, or minimum en route altitude, in this case, 7,000 feet above sea level. However, once he’d passed Swan Hills he’d begin veering west out of controlled airspace. Then he’d drop down below that to see if he could get a visual on the High Prairie Airport. Air Traffic Control knew it wasn’t legal, but when it wasn’t in their controlled airspace they turned a blind eye.
Erik had first seen the technique—known among pilots as a bullshit approach—flying in the Arctic, but he wasn’t sure what his plan should be for High Prairie. He’d only flown into the town in poor weather on one other occasion, as a co-pilot on a route check a month after he’d joined Wapiti. On that flight, the plane had broken through the clouds 2000 feet above the airport. The thought of attempting such an approach tonight unnerved Erik, but he felt he had to try. If he couldn’t spot the runway, he’d climb back up and into controlled airspace. Then he’d reestablish radio contact with Edmonton ATC to let them know he’d overflown High Prairie,
and could carry on direct to Peace River.
“Wapiti 402, I check that you’ll be landing at High Prairie.”
Okay. But how low should he go before he bailed out on landing? He thought for a moment, and decided on 2800 feet. The High Prairie airport was at an altitude of 1974 feet. That would give Erik an 800-foot safety margin, as low as he dared go on a bullshit approach on a night like this. Erik worried that if the plane didn’t land, Dale would ask what altitude he had tried. Erik could then tell his boss he’d attempted at 800. Even Dale couldn’t fault him for that.
“Wapiti 402, you’re re-cleared present position direct High Prairie.”
“We check that,” Erik said. “The signal’s not too strong so I may not pick it up for awhile. I’ll just stay on the airway and after Swan Hills abeam looking for descent.”
“Wapiti 402. Roger.”
Erik had covered his bases. He scanned his instruments. His speed over ground was 189 knots, his altitude holding at 8500 feet. After a few moments, the needle of his ADF swung around and pointed off his left wing, indicating the plane had passed Swan Hills. Erik tuned the ADF back to High Prairie’s frequency and adjusted his course several degrees west until the needle was again pointing straight off the plane’s nose. Then he began to descend.
The Navajo reentered cloud at 8,000 feet, dropping steadily at 300 feet per minute. It was a rate Erik came up with after factoring in his time, distance, heading and rate of travel. He checked the windshield for ice. It was advancing once more along the margins, though not alarmingly. What he couldn’t see were the crusts of ice building on the leading edges of each wing. What he did not realize was that ice, his overloaded plane and an error in his dead reckoning calculations had put him at least 20 nautical miles, almost 40 kilometres, behind where he thought he was.
Erik watched the needle on his altimeter dial continue to whirl counterclockwise: 7,000 feet, 6,500, 6,000, and then 5,600—the minimum obstruction clearance altitude. He estimated he was now no more than ten minutes from the High Prairie airport. He’d hold at 5,600 until he passed over the airport’s beacon and his ADF needle swung behind him, indicating he’d flown over the runway. In aviation terms this is referred to as station passage. Then he’d circle down to 2800 feet to see if he could make an approach. He knew that the small snow-covered airstrip would be difficult if not impossible to see in this weather, but if he could get under the clouds and spot the runway, he’d be okay.
In the meantime, he decided to radio the airport to get an update on the weather. Luella Wood, the airport’s sole employee, was expected to be in contact around the time Wapiti flights were due to arrive. However, he couldn’t raise her on the radio and that distressed him. If Luella told him the cloud deck was below 800 feet, then he wouldn’t even attempt to land.
Suddenly, from the blackness below Erik saw a flash of orange flame—a flare pot from an oil well burn-off. For a few seconds it illuminated the trees below like a blowtorch. Though he couldn’t yet see the lights of the town, it seemed the cloud ceiling might be higher than forecast. The thought occurred to Erik that he might actually make it into High Prairie after all. He checked his watch: 7:55. According to his calculations he should be passing the High Prairie beacon any minute. I’ll just start creeping down, he thought.
Larry had been hoping they wouldn’t have to fly into Peace River and now it seemed he was getting his wish. The pilot had just told the passengers to turn off all cabin lights and to fasten their seat belts. It was dim inside except for the warm amber glow of the Fasten Seat Belt/No Smoking lights. Larry couldn’t wait to be home. His stomach growled and he longed for one of Alma’s hearty Lebanese meals. He was craving a cigarette and looking forward to lying down on the comfortable couch in their family room after dinner to watch TV. Often, he didn’t watch long before he fell asleep, and Alma would be gently shaking him awake, encouraging him to come upstairs to bed.
He felt the plane descending and checked his watch. Just after 8:00. Though they had departed late, it appeared they’d arrive pretty much on time. Larry had been one of the first passengers to board and had noted both the police officer standing alone outside the door and his prisoner already settled in the rear right-side window seat. Larry had shuffled up the narrow aisle and when he’d reached the front of the cabin, had laid a hand on the back of the co-pilot’s seat. Then he’d hesitated. Typically, this was where Larry liked to sit, enjoying the view and chatting with the pilot. Tonight, however, he hadn’t felt like talking, and simply wanted to put his head back and rest. He’d taken off his coat and slid into the seat directly behind the pilot. Gordon had taken the seat across the aisle from Larry. After a delay, Larry heard footsteps advancing hurriedly up the aisle and was surprised to see Grant Notley sweep past him and settle into the co-pilot’s seat. The leader of the New Democratic Party, Alberta’s official opposition, had planned to drive home to Fairview that afternoon with his wife, Sandra, but had instead remained in Edmonton for a meeting. He thought he’d have to stay overnight, but the meeting had wrapped up earlier than expected.
“I just got the call that Wapiti had room for me,” he told Larry.
He was happy for Grant. Larry wouldn’t wish the long drive north on anyone tonight, especially him. Two months ago on the highway home, he’d hit an elk. The collision had totalled his car and Grant had had to crawl through the shattered windshield to get free of the wreck.
“I am lucky to be alive,” Notley had said the next day.
As the plane continued its descent, Larry peered out the window. Flashing pulses from the wing lights punctuated the murky soup of night. He craned around the pilot’s seat to watch the altimeter steadily falling—4,300 feet one minute, 4,000 the next. Suddenly he heard something bang against the side of the plane—one reverberating clang then another.
“What was that?” he asked
“Ice,” the pilot replied, a note of alarm in his voice. “It must be coming off the propellers.”
Larry squinted into the night, and saw nothing but a thick veil of cloud. He heard the pilot speak into his headset: “Traffic advisory High Prairie, Wapiti four zero two is inbound from the southeast on descent.”
Larry looked at the altimeter once more: 3,000 feet. He knew the airport’s elevation was just under 2,000. They had to be close. He turned to the window and pressed his forehead against it, cupping his hands around his glasses to blot out the light from the instrument panel. His lenses were inches from the window as he strained to see the lights of home. Where were they?
Erik radioed High Prairie, but once again received no answer. Where the hell was Luella? He didn’t pause to consider that an error in his calculations had put him further back than he thought and that distance as well as the rising terrain he was rapidly approaching were obscuring radio transmission. He had other things on his mind. He’d been so preoccupied with his dead reckoning calculations that he’d paid scant attention to the windshield. It had become opaque and the world outside blurred behind a frosty film. He could hear ice breaking off the props and banging against the plane as if someone was hurling rocks at the fuselage.
Erik sucked at his moustache with his bottom lip.
Jesus, there must be a hell of a lot for it to be doing that, he thought. Still his exhausted brain didn’t register that that amount of ice would have slowed the plane’s speed, and that he was 20 nautical miles short of his destination. Instead, his concentration was focused on the task ahead. When he flew past the High Prairie non-directional beacon the needle of his ADF would swing behind him. At that point, he’d look for the airstrip and if he didn’t see it, he’d throttle the power back up and be gone. First, though, he had to pass the beacon.
The needle should swing any second now, Erik thought. It’s going to swing by. I’m right there. Why isn’t the needle swinging?
Then the thought occurred to him that he’d been fixated on getting into High Prairie. How the hell was he going to get off the runway if it was snowed over,
his plane was overweight and his wings iced up?
The Navajo was moving fast now, lashing through cloud, making up time. The power was right up and Erik was sweating. He glanced at the altimeter: 2850 feet.
Holy shit, he thought. I’m going to hit my 2800-foot minimum and the needle hasn’t swung yet. I’d better level out.
Erik started pulling back on the controls just as snow-covered treetops loomed, invisible behind his frosted windshield, in the blackness.
IMPACT
Wapiti Aviation Flight 402 hit the treetops 75 feet above ground at 175 nautical miles per hour. The plane screamed forward another 104 feet before its right wing slammed into a bank of trees. The trees sheared 8 feet from the wing and took off part of the plane’s right aileron. With the wing gone, the plane rolled to the right, crippled wing down, hitting a large clump of poplars. They clawed off another 30-inch piece of the right wing along with 18 inches of the vertical stabilizer. Banking sharply, the plane crossed an open swath of cutline, and then entered a second stand of trees, which tore off an engine cowling, the right-side fuselage windows and frames, and additional portions of the wings. Finally, at the end of a wreckage trail 538 feet long, the plane hit ground. By then it had rotated a full 90 degrees.
The fuselage plowed nose down through three feet of snow. Ground impact caused the final separation of engines, nacelles and remaining portions of the wings. Cold air gushed into the cabin, chased by snow and debris, which smashed through the damaged aircraft like a tsunami, snapping off seats in the plane’s mid section. Broken trees and airplane parts followed, slashing seats and shaving back the roof like the lid from a sardine can. The fuselage bounced and skidded another 146 feet, ripping metal from the plane’s right side. Cargo stowed in the obliterated nose cone broke loose, careening through the cabin and blowing out the rear of the aircraft where it was strewn along a wide wreckage path. The plane finally came to rest upside down 684 feet from where it had first hit the trees.
