The Pier Shareware 6/The_Pier_Shareware_Number_6_(The_Pier_Exchange)_(1995).iso/021/maydy.zip/MAYDAY.DOC

Text File | 1994-11-11 | 22KB | 399 lines

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                              MAYDAY
                         - - - - - - - -



            A TRUE ADVENTURE IN THE CANADIAN SUB-ARCTIC




              COPYRIGHT 1987 JIM PRENTICE, BRANDON, CANADA



          On many occasions, during communications with fellow
     amateur radio operators around the world, I have heard
     conversations more interesting than the normal exchange of
     signal reports, equipment, location and so on. I write this
     because many other "Hams" have suggested it. This story,
     combines flying, fishing, amateur radio skills, and an
     emergency situation.
          It all began when two friends, and myself, decided to
     go on a fishing trip in Manitoba's far north.
          This was no ordinary trip.
          We lived in a small, isolated town, on the Nelson
     River, north of the 56th parallel, about 80 miles west of
     Hudson's Bay. Gillam owes it's existance to the rail line
     serving the sea port of Churchill, and to the massive hydro
     electric projects on the river. To some, this would be "the
     place" for fishing, but we wanted trout, big ones.
          Chuck and I, both pilots, decided a trip farther north
     in his Cessna 180 float plane would produce a good catch. We
     invited Dave as he and I had often talked of this dream
     trip. We planned the trip to coincide with the first weekend
     after the ice broke up in the northern lakes.
          In the predawn hours of Saturday, June 25, 1977, we
     pumped out the floats, gassed up, loaded the gear, checked
     the aircraft and; as dawn lit the northern skies, we climbed
     aboard.
          The fishing gear, survival kit, an extra 10 gallons of
     fuel, and our combined weight, was well within the weight
     limit of the aircraft. The floats rode deep in the water as
     we taxied from the dock.
          Chuck opened the throttle for takeoff and we leaned
     forward. Our shifted weight helped the aircraft achieve
     planing attitude. We sped across the lake, engine roaring,
     spray flying. The plane shook as it rode over the small
     waves.
          Suddenly the bumping stopped. We were airborne. Behind
     us a glistening spray fell away towards the spreading wake
     of our departure. A carpet of spruce, dotted with shimmering
     lakes lay all around us.
          Forty five minutes, and 80 miles later, we passed the
     tree line. From here north only a few scraggly trees would
     be found near lakes and rivers. We were over the tundra. The
     landscape consists of myriad lakes, rivers, muskeg bogs,
     scattered spruce trees and occasional eskers. These eskers
     are long, narrow, gravel ridges deposited by receding
     glaciers.
          Reading the map, I called out the names of the waters
     we passed over, the Limestone River, the Churchill, and
     Little Churchill; the Knife and North Knife rivers
     Shethanei Lake, Seal river, and Macleod Lake.
          Hundreds of smaller lakes and creeks passed below. Most
     are nameless. Some, with names like Pennycutaway,
     momentarily tickled the imagination. Two hours of flight
     brought us to Nejanilini Lake, northern terminus of the
     Wolverine River. At the mouth of the river, on the west
     shore, lies Caribou. A long abandoned Hudson Bay trading
     post, 260 miles north of Gillam. After a low level pass to
     check for rocks and floating logs, we line up for a landing.
     The smoothness of flight ends as the floats touch the
     wavelets, we vibrate like a high speed boat, slowing down as
     we near the delapidated dock. In an old shack we cache our
     extra fuel and gear in order to safely get in and out of a
     smaller lake, just a few miles south.
          On to the fish! Our first glimpse showed a glistening,
     deep green lake, a mile long and 1/8 mile wide, surrounded
     with stunted spruce trees. At the north end is a waterfall,
     8 feet high and 40 feet wide, white water tumbling over
     jumbled rocks.
          Chuck eased toward the surface and touched down gently.
     We taxied to the rocky shore and tied up to a clump of
     willow. A dozen Ptarmigan watch us arrive, their mottled
     feathers halfway between winter white and summer brown.
          This is it!...  I climbed out of the plane and over the
     rocks to the base of the falls. Casting a Golf Tee spinner
     into the seething water, I let the current pull it out. I
     started a slow retrieve.
           "Strike", I shouted.
          I couldn't believe it!... The first cast and I was in a
     battle. I had retrieved only about five feet of line when a
     large trout took the lure, nearly pulling the rod from my
     hands. The lined hummed as we fought pulled the other, a
     fantastic fight. For nearly 10 minutes we fought, straining
     the 14 pound line. Darting and diving one minute, jumping
     clear the next. A flash of silver over the dark water.
          At last the fish tired and I landed it on the rocks.
     The biggest trout I had ever caught. I was breathless, my
     heart raced, I was so excited I forgot about the stringer. I
     threw the fish up on the bank and prepared for another cast.
          Not to be outdone, Chuck and Dave got their hooks into
     the frothy water and there we were, 3 guys, 3 casts, 3 fish,
     simultaneously.  These weren't just average fish, but brook
     trout, at about 5 pounds each, plus Grayling and Lake Trout.
     We were in anglers heaven. Each cast seemed to magically
     bring in a beauty.
          Chuck decided to move.  We had been casting from a
     rocky point at the base of the falls. When a fish was hooked
     we had to back out of the way to avoid tangling lines,
     landing the fish downstream. To ease the congestion, Chuck
     fired up the Cessna and taxied around the white water below
     the falls. The willows prevented him casting from the rocks
     so he stood on the float and hooked trout after trout, only
     to lose them. We had niether net, nor gaff. As the fish came
     up onto the float either the line would break or the hook
     was thrown. Splash, another one lost.
          Meanwhile, just as I landed my second 25 pound lake
     trout, our luck started to change. First, the top half of
     Dave's new graphite rod came adrift during a cast, we
     watched it sail into the fast water, the added drag broke
     the line.
          If you have ever been in the Canadian bush in summer
     you have no doubt met our welcoming committee. A hungry
     horde of black flies, mosquitoes, sand flies and bull dogs.
     The bug repellant was in the plane. We convinced Chuck that
     we needed it.
          This started our second bit of bad luck....
          Chuck started the engine. An unseen current gripped the
     aircraft and pushed it out into the lake. Trying to elude
     its grasp he applied more power. With a sickening crunch, he
     struck a rock. At full throttle, even 235 horsepower
     wouldn't budge the plane. Dave and I sat, on a cold, rocky,
     bug infested shore; 260 miles from home, our transportation
     stuck on a rock 200 feet offshore. Our first thought was to
     get across the river.
          We went upstream about 3/4 of a mile, over and around
     the rocks, through clumps of willow, sometimes knee deep in
     muskeg, to where the river widened, fast but shallow. We
     studied the current, seeking a safe route.
          Being taller and heavier than Dave I went first. All
     went well until about halfway across, the cold, fast water
     was up to my waist, my foot slipped, down I went, head over
     heels, over and over, I spread eagled in an attempt to grab
     something. I struggled to get my head up for air. I tumbled
     about a hundred yards, I grabbed a large rock, and crawled
     to shallow water. Dave looked at me, grinning. Despite my
     warnings, he started in. A perfect repeat performance, arms
     and legs flailing in the rapids. He came out just as I had,
     our caps still on our heads.
          We hurried down to help Chuck but he warned us to stay
     back as the water was deep and fast. He feared we would be
     swept into the lake.
          Holding the mooring line from the right float, Chuck
     lowered himself into the water. He stood on the rocks, water
     to his waist, and heaved up on the float. It remained
     impaled on  the rock.

          Turning his back to the float, Chuck held the bottom
     spray rail and used the strength in his legs. The airplane
     tilted as he lifted, slowly the float slid clear.
          As the current pushed the plane downstream Chuck used
     the mooring line to pull himself aboard. Cold and dripping,
     he started the engine and picked us up.
          We taxied to the shallow end of the lake to check the
     damage.  The right float was badly damaged, two of the six
     compartments were holed, and a bulkhead buckled.
          We worked for three hours. Lifting and prying, building
     a cribwork of rocks and logs to get the float out of the
     water. Most of the water then drained out. We tried to seal
     the holes by stuffing them with pieces of lifejacket,
     lashing them down with heavy twine. We removed everything
     from the plane except survival rations and tried a
     takeoff... No go!
          We decided Chuck should try it alone. Backing the plane
     up into the shallows for as long a run as possible, he
     firewalled the throttle. We held our breath.
          Slowly the speed came up until he was on the step. The
     high speed planing attitude necessary to attain airspeed.
          As I watched, I shouted, "He's going to make it", my
     heart was pounding.
          The aircraft approached the far end of the lake where
     the rocky, fast moving, Wolverine River begins.
          The right wing lifted slightly, but the float wouldn't
     break loose. He lowered the right wing and lifted the left,
     the left float lifted clear of the water but the right one
     remained glued down.
          The next few seconds seemed like slow motion as we
     watched. We heard the engine die. Next a series of muffled,
     thumping sounds and lastly, a great bang. To our relief
     Chuck climbed out and stood on a float, then got down into
     the shallow water. The plane was high and dry on the rocks.
     He was OK, but what of the plane?
          But listen, he's started the engine! Whats happening?
     Is he going to try again?
           The Cessna 180 is a workhorse. First produced in the
     early '50s, it quickly became popular as a bushplane. On
     wheels, skis, or floats, it is capable of remarkable
     performance. With thirty percent of the flotation lost in
     one float plus the added drag of the lashed on patch. The
     lake was just too small.
          We walked a mile and a half, through bush, swamp and
     muskeg, carrying what gear we could, and one 25 pound trout.
     We looked over the damage and got the story.
          Chuck said," She came up on a plane pretty quick and at
     about 50 miles per hour I tried to pull the right float but
     she wouldn't come. The left one came out fine but she
     wouldn't fly. The end of the lake was coming up pretty fast
     so I pulled off the power and aborted the takeoff. I guess
     the bad float was full again. With the extra weight she took
     more time to slow down. I had a choice of a trip down the
     river, or onto the rocks, so I beached her. When I found out
     the bottoms of both floats were ripped wide open, I started
     the engine to power up the radios. I've just sent our first
     mayday call but got no answer. We'll try again later."
          Hearing this, Dave and I looked at each other glumly, I
     said, "What a hell of an ending for such a great trip!"
           We took stock of our supplies, built a fire, and tried
     to build a leanto. The scrawny trees provided very little
     building materials and our axe had been left in Gillam.
          Once we started to dry out, we gathered sticks and moss
     for an emergency signal fire. The cabin of the plane
     provided protection from the flies. Once the door was
     closed, a quick blast from a can of Raid disposed of our
     unwelcome friends on the inside while those on the outside
     buzzed at the windows.
          Dave had used 2 green plastic bags to make a head and
     body cover. When I teased him about his strange garb he
     replied, "I am allergic to fly bites! If I get too many, I
     go into convulsions!
          "We tried calling Mayday at thirty minute intervals for
     several hours hoping to contact a commercial flight on the
     polar route. Between calls our Emergency Locator Transmitter
     (ELT) was sending a continous signal.
          By now we were very tired. My recollection of time may
     not be very accurate but at around 8:30 p.m. we were trying
     to get comfortable enough to grab a couple of hours sleep.
     Chuck had sent a Mayday call just a few minutes before.
          As I tried to lay down, my head under the radio,
     between the rudder pedals, he said, "Give it another try
     Jim, before you relax".
          I picked up the microphone, switched the battery master
     switch on, turned on the VHF transceiver and began:
          "MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY,
          THIS IS CFIXJ, CFIXJ, CFIXJ
          CHARLE FOXTROT INDIA XRAY
          JULIET CFIXJ. WE ARE DOWN ON
          A LAKE AT POSITION 59 DEGREES
          20 MINUTES NORTH 97 DEGREES
          40 MINUTES WEST.OUR FLOATS
          ARE HOLED. CANNOT TAKEOFF.
          MAYDAY, MAYDAY,MAYDAY,
          CFIXJ, CHARLIE FOXTROT INDIA
          XRAY JULIET, OVER."...
          As the distress call soared through the ether, I
          reached to hang up the microphone.
          Then, to our amazement, I got a reply:
          CFIXJ, CFIXJ, CFIXJ THIS IS
          PANAM FLIGHT....
          (At this point my memory fails me as to which airlines
     I spoke to or in what sequence, I hope their Captains and
     crews will forgive me. Our greatest thanks to them all...God
     bless you...)
          WE HAVE YOUR LOCATION AS 59
          DEGREES 20 MINUTES NORTH BY
          97 DEGREES 40 MINUTES WEST.
          IS THAT CORRECT? OVER
          Grabbing the microphone I immediately replied,
          "PANAM THIS IS CFIXJ.
          POSITION IS CORRECT. BOY ARE
          WE GLAD TO HEAR YOU. OVER".
          I once received a distress call on a CB radio before I
     became an amateur, I have a letter of Commendation from the
     Canadian Forces, Pacific, stating that my action was
     instrumental in the rescue of a fishing vessel in the Queen
     Charlotte Islands. I was stationed in Manitoba at the time.
     I was more tense than I would have believed possible from
     handling an emergency message. That feeling came over me
     again, multiplied many times over when we got an answer that
     night on the Canadian tundra.....
          We talked to five or six Airliners that night.Finally,
     at about 9:30 p.m., we received a message that a helicopter
     was on it's way. The pilot estimated he was about 40 miles
     south of us. We were instructed to start a signal fire.
          We started the damndest blaze you ever saw,. Gasoline
     soaked kapok from the lifejackets, sticks, leaves, grass,
     anything we could find. We broke our fingernails clawing
     moss from the rocks. A dense white smoke billowed upward. We
     kept this up for over an hour.
          Meanwhile, convinced that our rescue was near at hand,
     we started packing. At Chuck's suggestion I took the
     Automatic direction finder (ADF) out of the plane but left
     the VHF radio for the last minute. He was afraid someone
     might strip the plane before it was salvaged.
          We figured they would send a Jet Ranger helicopter for
     us. At a cruise speed of 120 miles per hour, they should
     have been here at least 40 minutes earlier.
          The VHF was squawking so I jumped in and listened, I
     believe it was either KLM, or Air France, asking me to
     confirm our position as 5720 north by 9740 west. I couldn't
     believe it. After a correct read back on the original
     position they now had us 2 degrees farther south. At 60
     miles to the degree they were searching 120 miles too far
     south. No wonder the chopper hadn't arrived.
          I grabbed the Microphone and sent our correct position
     again. They replied:
          "WE ARE RECEIVING CARRIER
          ONLY. NO VOICE. PLEASE
          REPEAT. OVER."
          I tried again. Same result. When I removed the ADF I
     had apparently broken a wire in the audio circuitry. Now we
     were without communications... Or were we?
          I jumped into the pilot's seat, put the microphone on
     my knee and keyed the press to talk switch in the familiar
     stacatto of Morse Code:
          "SOS, SOS, SOS, DE CF IXJ
          CF IXJ CF IXJ HW CPY BK."
          Long hours of use were beginning to pay off. The
     airliner, apparently in contact with another aircraft said,
     "That guy sure knows his morse code, sounds like he is
     telling us something but none of us know Morse."
           My heart sank. What good is Morse if the guy can't
     copy at the other end?
          Having had a few contacts like that on Ham frequencies
     I decided to slow down, the normal procedure, and try again.
     The guy got the point. I assume he looked up the code
     printed on his flight manuals.
          At the tedious speed of about 1/2 word per minute,
     checking on each letter, he finally confirmed our location.
     He informed us that Air Sea Rescue would be out in the
     morning.
          Thankfully, summer nights are short in the north. The
     sun set after midnight, rising again at 3:30 a.m. on Sunday
     June 26.
          Unlike Chuck and Dave, I was unable to sleep. I sat in
     the pilots seat, catnapping.
          With the first rays of dawn I heard an aircraft.
     Looking out I could see it. About six or seven miles away,
     going east was a Canadian Forces Hercules. A four engine
     search and rescue aircraft from Edmonton, Alberta.  He was
     doing an electronic search, homing on our ELT.
          At about 4:00 a.m. he came right at us, I turned on the
     strobe lights, jumped out onto the float, lit a red railroad
     flare, and waved it like a madman. They flew right over us
     at treetop height.
          At my request they dropped some insect repellant and
     began a circular orbit around us.  A helicopter finally
     picked us up at about 8:00 AM.
          The machine had been chartered by an oil company to
     provide transport for some executives. It was obviously not
     a working machine as it was upholstered in leathers and
     velvets. For this reason the pilot would not allow us to
     take our "stinking fish". We had to leave them on the shore.
          Because of poor weather we had to land at the camp of a
     survey crew where we enjoyed hot food and coffee. The
     weather cleared at about 2:00 p.m. and the chopper took us
     to Churchill.
          On our arrival, I phoned my wife and told her the
     story. She was not aware of our problem as we were not due
     back until Sunday evening. She hired another pilot to fly my
     aircraft to Churchill for transportation home. We were
     tired, hungry, fishless, and bug bitten, but glad to be out
     of the bush.
          The plane has since been brought out of the bush and
     repaired. We made another journey to Nejanilini that fall,
     picked up the gear we left behind, and did some fishing. We
     didn't catch as many prize trout, but we sure enjoyed it.
          We have the best setup in the world: wild, rugged,
     beautiful country; hunting and fishing second to none. The
     airplanes, to get us in and out; and amateur radio, to while
     away the long winter nights and  get us out of trouble.

                                   the end