Into the Abyss

by Carol Shaben

  Asking Kawa to look after the passengers so he could figure out how to de-ice the wings, Erik hurried to the terminal and minutes later returned with a broom. It wasn’t sophisticated, but if there was something he’d learned flying in the Arctic, it was to use the resources one had at hand. Standing in front of the wing, he banged the broom handle gently against its underside. The ice cracked and pieces broke away in sheets, smashing onto the tarmac like windowpanes. Erik heard a voice behind him remark, “Pretty ugly icing up there.”

  He turned to see a local circuit court judge who, along with his secretary, often flew from Peace River to Grande Prairie. Erik stammered something he hoped might reassure him, but the judge smiled good-humouredly, waving off Erik’s words. Northern Albertans were as hearty as the people he’d met in the Arctic, and almost as accustomed to bad weather. But Erik couldn’t afford to dismiss the icing. Within minutes of leaving Peace River, he could see a thin uneven bar of it reforming on the leading edge of his left wing. Perspiration blossomed under his moustache as Kawa called for clearance to ascend above the cloud. Flying in icing conditions without reliable de-icing equipment was dangerous, and by the time they began their descent into Grande Prairie, Erik was white knuckled, certain that the plane would stall at any moment. The reported conditions at the airport provided little encouragement: Ground fog. Weather 500 feet. Visibility one half mile. Erik was almost on top of the runway lights before he spied them dashing toward him. He pulled back on the yoke and the plane hit with a jolt. The rubber wheels screamed against the icy asphalt before the plane eventually shuddered to a stop.

  Erik was stiff with exhaustion. Wearily, he deplaned the passengers and with Kawa’s help, unloaded their luggage and put the aircraft to bed for the night. A wisp of something forgotten feathered the edge of his consciousness, but he was too weary to grasp it. He shouldered his flight bag and walked slowly through the midnight quiet to his truck. Tomorrow he would need to do this all over again and the weather promised to be the same if not worse.

  Late on the morning of Friday, October 19, 1984, Erik awoke to more snow and overcast skies. Moving sluggishly, he showered then dressed in his uniform of sorts—a white collared shirt, navy dress pants and a dark tie. He padded sluggishly into the tiny kitchen of his basement suite and opened the fridge. As usual, it was empty. On the countertop he spied the tin of his mom’s homemade chocolate chip cookies. Earlier that week, Erik’s parents, concerned for his well-being, had planned to visit him in Grande Prairie.

  “Don’t come,” he’d told them. “It’s crazy here. I’m flying every day and don’t know when I’ll have time to see you.”

  His parents had relented, but his mom had sent the tin of cookies. Now he opened it, stuffed one in his mouth and then wrapped up four more for later. He dropped them into his flight bag next to his logbook, pulled on his heavy parka and left the apartment.

  Snow continued to tumble steadily, as it had over the past three days. Whorls of flakes skittered across the windshield of his truck as he sped west along 100th Avenue toward the airport. As he exited the thoroughfare and drove north, the Wapiti Aviation hangar rose like the spine of an enormous whale surfacing from an ocean of white. The building was a large Quonset hut with a patchwork of mustard and white squares covering its long curve of roof. Sprawled down the length of it in big block letters was WAPITI.

  Erik first checked in with the weather office at the terminal. He’d hoped there would be a change in the forecast, but the SIGMET that had been issued over the past three days was still in effect. A SIGMET, or significant meteorological information, is an advisory that warns pilots of severe or hazardous weather conditions, including severe icing. Erik knew firsthand from last night’s flight just how significant that icing could be. It had the ability to reduce his plane’s aerodynamic efficiency, weigh it down and, in extreme cases—which Erik dared not even think about—cause a crash. He felt a familiar churning in his stomach. While the chances were slim that Wapiti would ground his flight, surely he’d have another set of hands in the cockpit today.

  Erik trudged across the snow to preflight his aircraft, the same one he’d captained the previous night. It was a Piper Navajo Chieftain, registration number C-GXUC, one of the planes that Transport Canada had recently grounded citing maintenance issues. Though C-GXUC was back in service, after last night’s problem with the wing de-icers Erik wasn’t sure he could trust it.

  The pilot who’d flown the a.m. sked was wrapping up his shift and gave him a rundown. Erik was already uneasy at the thought of flying into High Prairie and Fairview, and the pilot’s report didn’t help. The plow hadn’t been out that day and there was snow on the runway.

  “I barely made it off,” he said. Then the pilot dropped another bombshell. He had flown to Edmonton and back that morning with his plane feeling inexplicably overweight. It was only after he returned to Grande Prairie and checked the wing lockers that he discovered the propellers that Erik had forgotten to unload.

  That’s it, Erik thought. I’m toast.

  Erik fuelled the plane and taxied to the terminal, feeling like a man heading to the gallows. It was 4:30 p.m. and he knew his passengers would soon be arriving for check-in. He still needed to get a handle on the weather and file his flight plan. The latest aerodrome forecast for the region didn’t look good. Ceiling 1,000 ft broken, 2,000 ft overcast, occasional ceiling 800 ft broken, visibility 4 mi in light snow and fog. The conditions were marginal for visual flight and Erik might need to bust the minimums if he had passengers bound for High Prairie on his return.

  His thoughts in turmoil, Erik lingered in the weather office. He made a photocopy of the aerodrome forecasts, highlighted the key terminals with a yellow marker, and then filed his flight plan. He checked his watch and, with a start, realized his passengers would be waiting. When Erik arrived at the departure area, Dale was checking them in for him.

  “Where have you been?”

  Abashedly, Erik held up the forecasts and offered to take over, but Dale waved him away and Erik stood awkwardly by while Dale finished checking in the last of the Edmonton-bound passengers. Finally, his boss asked the question Erik had been dreading.

  “You good to go single pilot?”

  Erik felt the blood drain from his face.

  No, I’m not good to go single pilot, Erik wanted to say. I’m overwhelmed. And overworked. And exhausted. I need a second set of eyes in the cockpit. I need a plane I can trust. I’d like to overfly High Prairie tonight. I’d like not to be flying, period.

  Numbly, Erik nodded. He turned woodenly and started for the door. Dale called him back, gesturing toward the counter. Erik looked over to see the aircraft journey log lying on top of it. He must have left it behind in the dispatch office. Where was his head? Mumbling thanks to Dale for bringing it to the check-in counter, Erik picked up the forgotten documentation and walked outside to his plane.

  Dale Wells watched Erik’s Piper Navajo taxi down the runway and take off. The Navajo gained altitude heading south and Dale saw it disappear into a low bank of cloud. Then he turned and crossed the snow-swept expanse between the terminal and the Wapiti hangar, his boots slipping on the snow.

  It had been a long tough road since he and his dad had started the airline in 1971 after purchasing the assets of Liberty Airways, a Grande Prairie–based air charter and ambulance service with four planes. Dale, twenty-four and a licenced pilot, had convinced his dad that a robust market existed for a local airline, and that they could make a go of it.

  Since then his family had worked tirelessly to improve the business, and it was finally beginning to live up to the name he’d chosen. Wapiti is a First Nations word describing the North American elk, one of the largest and most majestic mammals to roam the continent. The father-son team soon added a flight school to their charter and air ambulance services. The school generated extra income and Dale loved teaching. His students were doctors, businesspeople, and eager youngsters filled with the same passion for fl
ight that he’d discovered in his youth. Dale relished his hours in the cockpit with his students and enjoyed hearing about their lives.

  In 1976 Dale applied for and received approval from Transport Canada to operate a point-to-point commercial passenger service between specific northern Alberta communities, namely Peace River, Grande Prairie, Grande Cache and Edmonton’s municipal airport. By 1977, Wapiti had expanded that service to include flights to Whitecourt, Hinton and Calgary.

  Dale’s professional authority had also grown. Transport Canada approved him to do pilot proficiency checks on their behalf, and soon after he’d begun conducting flight tests for private and multi-engine pilots. A stream of willing pilots knocked on his door, and he hired many of them. Cash flow had recently been good enough for Dale to purchase several new planes.

  Finally, Dale was beginning to achieve his dream of building a thriving commuter airline offering passenger flights to the under-serviced northern half of the province. Though demand for flights in and out of these sparsely populated towns was sometimes sporadic, Wapiti was able to stay profitable by operating what was known as a “unit toll air service.” This permitted the airline to overfly certain stops if business was poor and to vary the size of its aircraft depending on the passenger and cargo loads.

  Dale’s airline had also garnered robust support from the influential community and political leaders in northern Alberta who frequently had to travel to Edmonton—the seat of the provincial government—for business. Among his staunchest supporters were two prominent provincial politicians: Grant Notley and Larry Shaben. Notley, the fiery leader of the Alberta New Democratic Party, chaired a meeting on March 2, 1982, to discuss Wapiti’s proposal to begin flights to the smaller communities of Fairview, High Prairie and Slave Lake. By the end of that meeting the eighteen business and government leaders who attended unanimously agreed:

  that support be given to Wapiti Aviation, for the establishment of a regularly scheduled air service, whereby the Carrier could overfly localities in the event that there was no confirmed traffic and whereby the Carrier could use a different size aircraft, dependent upon the amount of confirmed traffic load.

  So enthusiastic were Wapiti’s supporters about not having to rely solely on Highway 2—a long and often treacherous two-lane artery connecting Edmonton with communities to the north—that they sent unsolicited letters to Canada’s Air Transport Commission supporting Wapiti’s proposal. One such letter came from Larry Shaben, Alberta’s Minister of Telephones and Utilities, who lived in High Prairie and travelled to the capital every week.

  Shaben wrote: “I feel that the schedule fee structure and service points as outlined by Wapiti Aviation Ltd. are very appropriate to the needs of Northern Albertans … I am in complete support of the entire concept.”

  Two months later, in May 1982, Wapiti received the go-ahead for scheduled air service between Grande Prairie and Edmonton’s municipal airport, and a year after that, to make stops in Fairview, Peace River, High Prairie and Slave Lake. Then, in August 1983, Transport Canada granted Wapiti approval to introduce daily passenger service between Edmonton and the booming oil town of Fort McMurray. When the service started up in September 1983, Wapiti featured one-way midday flights for $57—significantly less than the $70 being charged by its competitors, Pacific Western Airlines and Time Air. Wapiti Aviation had become a competitive force in Alberta’s airline industry.

  According to Dale, that’s when the trouble started. Recently Transport Canada had been singling out Wapiti for closer scrutiny, accusing the carrier of safety violations such as pushing the weather. How else was Dale supposed to get his planes into these rinky-dink airports when they didn’t have proper navigation aids? More than a year ago he had applied to get upgraded facilities and a controlled approach for the High Prairie airport, but Transport Canada was still dragging its heels. What was he supposed to do? If he encouraged his pilots to make the stop, Dale would get his knuckles rapped for pushing the weather. If he cancelled flights, he risked losing business.

  A few months ago, the situation had gone from bad to worse. Transport Canada had begun sending inspectors to secretly monitor several Wapiti flights as they came into Edmonton. Transport Canada was on the lookout for Wapiti pushing the weather and using one pilot instead of two. On top of that, the RCMP had written Dale a letter alleging violations of regulations according to “a licenced air carrier” or “a reliable confidential source.” Dale believed his competitors were behind these complaints and recently he had called Transport Canada and told them, “This nonsense has got to stop.”

  Instead, the situation had intensified. Three weeks earlier Transport Canada had grounded more than half of the company’s fleet, charging that Wapiti hadn’t done its 500- and 1000-hour service inspections. If you asked Dale, all of his aircraft were serviceable. Why should he take them out of commission if he didn’t have to? The move would cost him money and business and, as far as he was concerned, ultimately play into what his competitors and their friends at Transport Canada wanted: his company’s demise.

  Dale shuffled through a pile of papers on his desk. He knew influential politicians who’d advocated for Wapiti in the past and he was prepared to call on them if he had to. Dale looked through that night’s passenger log and nodded. Larry Shaben, a prominent Alberta Cabinet minister and one of his staunchest supporters, was a passenger on the flight from Edmonton to High Prairie.

  PART III

  And in the luck of night

  In secret places no other spied

  I went without my sight

  Without a light to guide

  Except the heart that lit me from inside

  “DARK NIGHT OF THE SOUL”

  BY SAINT JOHN OF THE CROSS

  THRESHOLD

  Seconds after Larry cupped his face to the cabin window to try and see the lights of High Prairie, the plane’s wings hit the trees. There was a long, ear-splitting grrrrrrrr, a monstrous rending of metal. Then, nothing.

  When Larry regained consciousness, the first thing he heard was the sound of a man yelling, swearing a blue streak of obscenities at the pilot. A searing sensation tore at his shins and a spike of pain pierced his tailbone. He was disoriented and upside down in total blackness.

  Larry’s mother had died at forty-nine, the same age he was now, and his father, four years after her. Larry had been in his twenties at the time and the loss of his parents had been devastating. He had since harboured the unspoken fear that he, too, would die young. It seemed this was clearly the moment.

  Frantically, he tried to move. Pain gripped his ribcage and he felt a band of material cutting into his thighs. He dimly realized that he was still strapped into his seat, suspended upside down. He fumbled for the buckle with his right hand, and pain lanced through his index finger. He switched hands, and after a moment of grappling, released the clip and tumbled downward. He landed on all fours. His shins burned as if on fire, and he could feel the warm ooze of blood soaking his dress pants. His mouth tasted metallic and when he ran his tongue over his front teeth, he felt a large gap where two were missing. Pain rippled along the left side of his face. Tentatively, he felt his swollen cheek and then, with a sickening sense of loss, his eyes. His glasses were gone. Without them, he was almost blind.

  Like a child, he began crawling along the cabin’s inverted ceiling, groping desperately for his glasses. Physical injury he could endure, but the thought of being sightless was unbearable. He clawed his way over stinging snow and sharp debris, advancing slowly through the blurry space in front of him. His hands pressed into the nap of something soft and he closed his fingers around it, trying to identify the familiar texture—his ultra-suede coat. He grabbed it and struggled awkwardly to his feet. Larry swept a hand over his left shoulder and felt the smooth fine fabric of his cotton dress shirt where the top of his suit jacket had been ripped away. Shaking, he wrestled unsteadily in the close confines of the cabin to pull on his overcoat. Then, holding out his arms, he adv
anced toward the flush of cool air in front of him. His eyes darted from side to side through the blackness as if, by some miracle, the ability to see without the thick glasses he had worn since he was a child would return. Instead he detected only dark, shapeless masses; whether seats, wreckage or bodies, he wasn’t sure. The moans of the injured surrounded him as he scuffled forward until his outstretched hands connected with the cabin wall. He skimmed them along it until they passed through an opening—a way out. Larry nearly fell through it, and lurching forward, his legs sank like stakes into the deep snow. It filled his rubber overshoes and he felt the icy bite of it against his ankles. Standing blindly in the inky blackness Larry felt—for the first time in his adult life—utterly helpless.

  When Erik saw the trees in front of his cockpit window, he screamed and threw his arms in front of his face. Without the restraining hold of his shoulder strap, his hands were the first part of his body to slam into the instrument panel, followed by his face. His chest was next; it struck the control column hard and a scorching heat ripped through his insides. He felt something smash into the back of his skull.

  When he tried to draw a breath, pain knifed through the right side of his chest. Panic swept over him. He lay unmoving, unable to comprehend what had happened. Numbly, he grasped that he was still strapped in his seat and fumbled for his lap belt. When it finally opened, he fell head first onto the ceiling of the cockpit. His shoulder hit hard and his chest exploded in pain. He lay curled in a fetal position, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. Time stopped. A warm pillow of blood began to pool beneath his head and he tasted the bitter, metallic tang of it in his mouth. One of his eyes was throbbing and filled with blood. But his ears told him everything. The soul-ripping cries of his passengers engulfed him—a suffocating cacophony reverberating in the close confines of the cabin.