Duke Elegant writes: 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.

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 straightThe 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.

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.

I wrote this story after my third session of chemotherapy...and I was faced with nine more. Writing of my past enabled me to re-live some great times and became a sort of therapy for me.

Budworm Project1978

A surrealistic experience, the Budworm Project was one of the most exciting, well paid, dangerous projects one could participate in. Imagine thirty-five TBM Avengers scorching all over New Brunswick operating from camps that at times became cesspools of lies and tales of daring-

doo.

We sat around on our bunk beds in the rain, huddled about the diesel heater.... muddy floors…warm Moosehead beer ....and stories. There were Swiss, Hungarians, South Africans , New Zealanders, Aussies and Americans.

There was this large jolly chap from Montana who wore glasses over his contacts ....and he was the leader of Donkey Team. Ray was famous from last year’s adventure in that he came to the end of the spray line at Oromocto Lake and went into the steep turn over the glassy lake and boofed a wingtip...ker-ferkin'-splash he belly's her in.

Ray isn't much of a swimmer so he strikes out for shore.... get away from the plane because the US NAVY says a TBM stays afloat for two minutes...maybe... Well as the pointer planes circled overhead Ray was seen sinking ....didn't look like he would make it... till his feet touched and he stood up. He was only in four feet of water and the TBM sat there half dry... sh#t we laughed... Then Bill Demming decided to tell us of his first flight in the TBM. It's two thousand horsepower you know ... lots of torque on take off… tailwheel up and you get a big swing requiring huge amounts of right boot.

Bill:

”Weeell! Ah guess it was mah turn for take off after I had been briefed on how to start the beast. I went through the checklist by memory because the last I saw of the checklist it disappeared into the oily bowels of the big TBM... can't be reached.

The strip was short so I laid the power to her real quick, like, she veered to the left even after a little bit of power OOOps!... tailwheel was unlocked.I reached down and locked the tailwheel but I had to let go the throttle and the power bled back now the swing is the other way... shoulda tightened the throttle friction, I guess.

By now I took out a coupla cone markers and with full application of power I was hurtling to the other side of the runway... couple more cones maybe ...it was wild.....jeez! Not enough rudder trim.

So while I kept jamming the throttle forward, I cranked in some trim with the other hand while the stick thrashed around. I was busy like a one armed wall paper hanger with the crabs.

The end of the strip is coming fast... maybe abort.... maybe go...so I go and lift her off too early and the tail smacks down as she stalled and slammed back onto the runway.. ah jerks the throttle closed ..too late ....through the fence I went.......... THEN I LOST CONTROL OF THE AIRCRAFT!!!!!!!!!!” says Bill.

Man we laughed......

Often we get advice whether we ask for it or not ... often we get advice after the fact when the battle is over.

Here is one of those stories.

Mid Eighties...not many fires around except in the NW corner of Alberta. In fact, we left High Level under low cloud to bomb some fires around Steen River which was in a hot dry corner of the Province. We hated Steen airstrip because it consisted of some grass, some sand, a few holes and some horses darting around. They don't hear too many Douglas Invaders around there. Easy bombing out in the flat country, and four A26 Invaders contained the lightning strikes with ease. Orders were to return to High Level empty and hold.

NOW GET THIS!

A four thousand horsepower WW2 attack bomber, empty. A half hour to get to High Level, A HUGE ego, and a highway cleared on both sides just enough.....

I reckon I was slow cruising at 210 knots when I pulled up and half rolled her till I was pointing straight at the ground.... aligned with the highway. Speed builds up quick in the A26 and the controls get heavy so you have to tug lots to get her level, and the three hundred fifty knots bleeds off to 210.....below the tree line...she fits ...trust me.

HELL! The landscape just blurs by on the side but looking ahead is where the thrill is. OOOOhhhhHHHHHH! We were very familiar with this road as we often used it for navigation purposes when the vis was reduced by heavy smoke. There are no power lines all the way to High Level and hardly any traffic. My heart pumped with excitement.... we get big bucks for this. But something was wrong. The normal synchronic buzz of the powerful engines was gone. The props going out of sync was the first sign...then the trembling and a big yaw…nothing makes sense...I see the left engine shows a decrease in RPM....maybe failing...maybe I can save it so I pull back on the throttle. Looks like it is feathering...can't be. I haven't touched the feathering button. Then a big scream as the prop goes flat and the forward speed of the airplane makes it overspeed...BIGTIME!

The governor failed to catch it and might I hint that the noise of an overspeeding prop is incredible...and then another big shudder...I glance to the left at the engine...it seems coarser...why?

Then a whiff of smoke gets my attention. It came in through the wing root. Another YAW and BANG!! The engine fails and leaves me to deal with a windmilling propeller. The drag was fantastic...all of the trims cranked in never dealt with it so I rassled it hard over.

Up out of the trees only got me close to the cloud layer above me....I have a problem!

We were skilled in dealing with emergencies that often haunted us; after all, these were WW 2 attack bombers. We were schooled in the field. It doesn't help when an emergency ambushes you that is not in the manual, or hasn't happened to any mere mortal.

The United States Air force manual for the A26 states that you need 170 MPH on final with one windmilling if you intend to put the gear down.

Anyhow, I'm scorching down the highway low level scud running just above the highway.... all trims maxed out and still have to use most of the aileron into the disking prop. I didn't want to do much turning this close to the ground so I elected to approach and land straight in. The quartering 20 knot tailwind never helped neither.

I told the FSS of my intentions and streaked down final and thumped her on in a not so pretty fashion. I braked the Invader heavily and noticed out of the left side canopy that the prop was stopped.

"Well" thinks I, "no big deal...probably my third engine failure in a Twenty Six."

It's what happened three days later that pissed me off. The engineers had found that the left prop decided on it's own to go into feather and they showed me the feathering solenoid that had welded itself shut due to moisture therein. The solenoid then ran the feathering pump in and out of feather till it burned out. I had mistaken the reducing RPM for an engine failure and what convinced me most was the shuddering as the pump worked hard against cruise power. I am lucky it never caught fire but the paint on the pump had cooked off. The engine came out of feather and it oversped and blew up. OK? This had never happened to anybody before that we

knew over fifteen years.

So anyhow, we were coming out to base two days later in the crew van when Bhudda, the group manager, came up with the answer. "Why didn't you shut off the master switch thereby isol...."

That's about all he got out... I was on him like ugly on an ape. I had even found out later that I also would have had to shut off both generators. And then, without electrics, I would have to do a flapless landing, really nose high, no visibility, quartering tailwind, at 170MPH. I told him to scrub his nuts with a wire brush.

There are lots of times when things go for a sh#t and you are on your own. If you don't know what you are dealing with, it’s harder to come up with a solution and then take the appropriate action.

I guess I was mad at him because I had come up with the solution already.... after all here I was sitting here in the van.

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.

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

Bomber Moon

4AM Terrace, British Columbia CANADA.

The smell of five tons of pine mushrooms was not unpleasant…sort of musty...... made even mustier by the 100% humidity as the heavy rain beat mercilessly on the fuselage of the C117 (Super DC 3). The rain bounced on the tarmac as the retreating vehicles splashed away through the gate having entrusted their precious cargo to us.

These were the buyers, mostly Asians, who had been grading and packing today's crop. A mushroom picker could make $1500/ day combing the steep mountains for this Japanese delicacy.

We had been hand loading the crates for an hour and a half and now we had to herc strap them down ... a difficult task as we had bulked out and there was no room to move. We had a sort of tunnel remaining up the port side to get to the cockpit into which I slid.... hot... steamy ... sweaty.... and yet it was winter. It wasn't the 5AM deadline that made me tense because we were on schedule. ICE! ....A chill coursed through my blood ... then gone.

I heard the cargo door thump shut as I snapped the heavy military style harness into place while squirming for that elusive comfortable position. The rotating shaft of light atop the tower stabbed through the heavy wet night. Man, just look at the size of those raindrops... It's only four degrees Celsius outside.

ICE! Where will it be tonight, two thousand, four thousand?

"She'll be right mate," thinks I. "We'll punch up through it and cruise along bathed in the light of the bomber moon."

"Yeah! Right," grunts Rob... had he read my mind? I realized I was mumbling....

Punch up through it indeed. It was going to be a struggle coaxing the maxed out airplane to altitude... outbound on the localizer ... steep mountains on both sides. And blacker than the inside of a dog's guts. And a climb gradient to meet too. If we lost an engine, and that was happening with monotonous regularity lately, we'd have to turn back in a tight valley and "land in this sh#t" thinks I.

"And all loaded up with bloody ice too," says Rob. I'd been mumblin' again.

The engines of the C117 shook then rumbled into life after pissing the appropriate amount of fuel and oil onto the tarmac and while Rob jotted down our clearance I taxied the airplane with my nose pressed up against the glass as the wipers slapped uselessly back and forth, clearing the windshield of an area the size of a fanned out deck of cards. The engine run-up and pre take off checks were done slowly and deliberately as if we were buying just a little more time. "Delta Oscar Golf lining up for take off," Rob calmly spoke into the mike …but tense he was.

I used differential brakes and throttles to line up with the few stripes that were visible.... four or five stripes ... and darkness... and rain.

I thought of my recent ex ...and the kids... Why now you fool? ...Think ICE my friend. The briefing was by the book ....but were we listening?... we knew we were shooting from the hip from here on. The tailwheel is locked.

Slowly, full power, right rudder for the yaw and start forward pressure to get the tail up where maybe we can see better. See what?! Darkness and a few stripes. I skillfully used the curvature of the earth to get the beast airborne and with a gentle tug..."positive rate" "Gear up" We know there is a hill off the end of the runway in Terrace.

She growled her way up to two thousand... no ice...three thousand…none. Maybe we'll get lucky. Rain diminishing but now horizontal snow pierced the ice lights. Slushy. "Carb heat, Rob," but he was already there. We droned on heavily.

In a heartbeat there was ice everywhere except the heated windshield. It drooled back from the boots. We punched it off the wings but it was all over the nose, and inboard of the engines.....the prop spinners...under the wings... she sagged. It built up in weird castles behind the boots, like stall strips.

Sometimes you just gotta wonder....what the fuck am I doing here? Money? Oh, I almost forgot... I really wanted them little Nips to get their mushroom feed at sixty bucks a plate. That's what! ... Rob laughs.

She just isn't climbing... but I can't raise the nose because I don't want any more ice under the wings....sh#t!

A glow appeared... big, orange and round ...furry at first and then it exploded into clarity... a bomber moon.... peaceful...in a silvery bath of stars... we scooted along for a while... a few feet above the cottony silver bathed undercast....

AAAAAHHH! Life is good. The ice clinking and banging as it gave way. A warm cockpit and the rumbling orgasmic vibration of cruise power....grins all around.... cold sandwiches and coffee. Three hours to go.

We looked forward to the dawn and felt blessed and privileged that we could gaze thereupon.

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 unimaginedGoroka, 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.

I just looked in my logbook which shows a week of flying Cessna 182 Kilo Romeo Bravo carrying fish, shark meat and croc skins from Baimuru to the highlands and beyond to the North coast which was laced with sandy beaches and coral reefs, unlike the muddy Gulf of Papua region upon which Baimuru sat in the oppressive humidity.

I was twenty five and I had nineteen hundred hours. The mystery of the F27 coming close to me over the pass near Lake Kutubu was about to reveal itself.

I bummed a ride to Lae on the coast in the sixth seat of a Beech Baron. At the last minute, I crawled in through the baggage door. The four pax were Chimbus on their way to a Tribal Council meeting, most of which ended up with at least one of them leaking badly if they went by truck where they could carry weapons. The government flew them for free if they left weapons behind. Good plan.

Upon arrival I flashed up the Alfa Romeo and made my way to the Trans Australia Airline facility, nestled in trees a few blocks back from the beach. The crews lived in louvered Dongas which housed four, each with their own room and they shared a common bathroom. A pool surrounded by lustful tropical flowers was draped with gorgeous bronzed Air Hostesses, as they were called then. I watched them gather their things; the bar was coming alive......

Credence Clearwater Revival, Moody Blues ... the tunes were good in the early seventies.

I always wore my khaki army shirt that had holes where my wings once were pinned, holes where my rank was pinned... longish hair ...I meant to be set apart.

They were all airline types and little more structured than I. They flew Fokker F27s and DC3's. Most were on six month postings from Australia but the check/training pilots were here permanently with their families.

Charm was the viscous grease with which I oiled my social life. Sure, they had some tales. I, on the other hand, had my balls hanging out over the jungle, a fertile place for tales of daring do.

I was caught up in the slipstream of the dare.

Hmmmm. I gaze about the room, already forming into small groups. My Heidi is conspicuous by her absence.

Fatty Hawkins is already entertaining some new shiellas, from Australia. If they should let their guard down, the Duke will be on them. Heidi has a month to go before exhausting her posting and is about to return to Australia ...It is time to conduct interviews.

I slide between the two ... divide and conquer, I always say.

"Hey Fatty!" is my opening line, "was that you checking me out over the pass near Kutubu in the F27?"

I gaze left and downward , to the cleavage born out of a little bodice number, and right, to see two little puppies’ noses gently pressing through a short little cotton summer dress. But Fatty is agitated as he grabs my arm and spirits me to a quiet corner.

"While you were in the highlands this past week, Captain Seiko, that cheap little c*nt, he violated you." Fatty is mad. "…and Skinny was his F/O …and Skinny couldn't do any thing about it. We all tried hinting to you on HF …where the hell were you?"

I had missed all this …I was up the Angoram River in a motorized log canoe …we were looking for an Agiba, a skull rack.

"You see, Seiko was IFR and asked Madang Flight Service if they had any traffic for him. They said no so he squealed on you. "I have a C182 at fourteen thousand, hang on a shake and I'll veer left and get his registration" Fatty relates this story as he glances furtively to the other corner …and there he is, Capt Seiko, a check Captain who peddled cheap watches to his subordinates …and hogged the flying from his F/O's.

Hell! I was at fourteen thousand feet saving my arse climbing back to the highlands over some cumulous buildups.

The first urge is to bound across the room and grab the little prick by the throat ...I had to do this with aplomb and alacrity. I thinks ...and thinks ... it comes to me. I walk slowly towards Seiko... greeting people ... affirming my popularity ...Seiko is pontificating at some young sweaty F/O, fresh up from Australia. His eyes dart at me …ratlike. Cornered...

"Oh how you vex me so!" says I in a stuffy Elizabethan voice, smiling at those gathering around for the kill. "I fail to recall, sir, when it was that a briefing prior to any formation flying was conducted. It is required, you know, by law, sir." He is stultified. I smirk for I am an asshole. There is some giggling amid a few guffaws as he scurries away.

The paperwork was stopped...

A love affair was about to blossom.

You see I was with my girlfriend, Heidi, a lusciously endowed Germanic blonde hostie. We lazed on the beach at Surfers Paradise, and on a surfboard, I dazzled nobody …I was outdone by the expert youths of the day. I had a huge wad. Of cash that is.

At night, I showed her no mercy.

We walked into the well lit hangar right by the paint shop. It was love at first sight. There she sat ... the buxom little Aztec ... prop spinners protruding slightly upwards …and forward like ... well you know...

The masking tape was being removed and the new stripes were crisp and oil free for the short term. Our company name, CHIMBU TRADERS LTD was in small letters above the door.

I had bought her over the phone ...from her madam. She was an old Bush Pilot Airways plane and had been ridden hard and put away wet.

But I wiped her ... lots. I wiped the oozing lubricants from her skin ... and from the cracks.... But she had some cellulite …she wasn't perfect ... hail dimples ... She had been gone over by a good bush engineer as I had requested.

I paid the money. She was now my old whore in a new dress.

We flew north from Sydney along the beaches of New South Wales and into Queensland, my home state. It was a threesome …VH-BPW, Heidi ...and I. The light bumpy air made her tits jiggle so.

Up along the Barrier Reefs sparkling like fire opals and emeralds …over the hundreds of miles of cattle country …the endless sugar cane fields and still North along the jungle draped coast... and across the straight between Thursday Island and Daru, on the Southern Coast of Papua New Guinea.

Now, the rugged and wild beauty did offer solace ... I had two throaty Lycomings taking me back to a country that quickened the pulse, throbbing to the danger.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

Fred was an executive with Mother's Choice Chickens. Mother's Choice used to be Australia's #1 supplier of chooks. (Chickens)

They were now #3.

Scientists in the US had engineered a chook that ate less and grew fat at twice the rate of normal chooks. Australia had VERY strict quarantine laws … I had run out of mutts to smuggle ... so now it was to be eggs?

I asked Fred how competing companies had got eggs in from the US.

"Same way we plan to do it" says he. "If we don't do it we are sunk."

I sensed an opportunity to get a free trip to OZ. "I want to see the plant" say I, "just to be sure."

They flew me to Sydney and put me up in Kings Cross at a fine hotel with an expense account. I toured the factory and was convinced that I was their man although it was hard to drag me away

from the floozies I had stabled. Hard I rode....Hard!

Back in New Guinea, I had a plan to formulate. I had to set up fuel caches, come up with a dummy flight plan and fly low ... bloody low ... to get into Northern Australia and land at an abandoned WW2 airstrip. You could not fly anywhere in New Guinea without full radio reporting on HF so I had all my fake calls rehearsed.

The coast of Australia is very well patrolled to catch Asian fishermen, bird smugglers taking thousands of parrots offshore, and they had military reasons to patrol. They used Nomads and the chief pilot was none other than my cousin Billy. He knew of my mercenary lifestyle and had heard of Bravo Papa Woof, dog charters.

It was risky. The eggs had a mere seventeen days to get from the USA to incubators in Oz. Mother's choice bought a high speed offshore cruiser to be skippered by a friend of mine and after the "job" he was to keep the boat.

He was to go from New Caledonia to Rennel Island, where I was to land on the grassy strip and fill the Aztec up with chook eggs.

I went down to Guadalcanal in the Aztec with a large wad of cash and played the role of a rich dude cruising WW2 battlefields. My biggest mistake was getting hooked with a hostie who wanted to come along for a ride.... a babe too...had to turn her down.

I got a coded telegram....it was time. I flew across the ocean to tiny Rennel Island where I got mobbed by the local children from the Catholic mission....and a priest asking "What are you doing here?" I left and flew out over the ocean looking for the boat that should be half a day out. No boat. I flew back to Guadalcanal and phoned Fred. Apparently the boat lost an engine out of Noumea and they returned and threw the eggs at a cliff face muttering "One thousand, two thousand…" That was the price per egg so far.

I got to relax in Guadalcanal until another whole shipment was arranged. I got a change of hostie every night as I lay about the pool. I also came up with a bullsh*t story for the priest that we were going to populate another island with great chooks and could he get help with the loading. So when the boat arrived, the priest and his boys packed the load for me so I dropped a wad for their trouble and fled.

I flew four hours to my fuel stash at Baimuru all the while muttering on the radio that I was in the circuit at Karimui and off to Chimbu. I fuelled at this unbelievable place, the subject of another chapter. It was monsoon season so low flying was the norm. But there seemed to be unusual Nomad traffic in the North. I heard it on HF. Gadzooks! My cousin was on to me, thinks I. I had to somehow cross the strait at Thursday Island and pretend I was going somewhere else. I hoped they weren't staked out at Iron Range, my abandoned airstrip where a Cessna 414 awaited me... flown by another out of work ex Army Pilot.

I approached the straits...low...it rained hard. Sure enough, a Nomad was slowly loitering. I had to think fast. I went up into the green CB and the rain pounded ....deafening...the plane leaked and shook like crazy in the turbulence....I gunned her using valuable fuel... I didn't have any on the mainland... I had to get back to Daru in New Guinea.

I timed it so I flew in cloud above the Nomad and then I broke cloud and headed back to New Guinea...180 degree turn. He saw me and gave chase. He thought I was smuggling stuff North to New Guinea. As soon as he was on my tail I upped her into the sh*t and rain and did another 180 heading back to OZ. I flew in the thunderous green murk till I felt out of his vis range and I broke cloud again.

On to Iron Range where my mate nervously awaited... he didn't have a reason to be on an

abandoned strip in a 414 now full of chook eggs. I was empty now and took off for Daru where I landed on fumes. I filled the tanks and took on 1500lbs of lobster tails and flew it to Goroka and made another coupla grand.

The old Aztec's engines were tired, the gear kept drooping and she needed care. It stunk of croc skins, fish, shark meat and calf sh*t. Independence was looming and it didn't look good for whites. The Feds were onto me. I had a huge wad of cash and an airline ticket around the world. Often while I lay on a hot tropical beach, I would fantasize about Green evergreens, snow capped mountains, canoes, log cabins. So off to Canada I went.

I probably was not mentioned in the financial reports for my role in saving Mother's Choice Chickens but... I was rewarded handsomely.

I had learned the Rules of Business very quickly in New Guinea.

1. Winner takes all 2. Every man for himself. 3. Spend big when you have heaps...

So I did ....and I learned how to deal the Jack from the back of the pack. But there were times that bought you down to earth ... and back in time.

The biggest event of the year was the Goroka Sing Sing. They came by the thousands, some walking for a week from remote villages. It was a four day walk up to 8000 feet just to cross the Daulo Pass. It was a four hour drive to cross, and, as my log book shows, a thirteen minute flight from Goroka to Kundiwa. They came to compete for the prize, a herd of cattle. It was an event that drummed into your soul ...never to be forgotten.

We whiteys were outnumbered one hundred to one. We did not fear these people for the most part as they could hardly unite to overthrow the government because the seven hundred tribes were small and didn't like each other.

They took up to a day to prepare ... spectacular Bird of Paradise headdresses. The Whagi wigmen adorned in their human hair anvil-shaped wigs and carved bone nose pieces... the Asaro mud men, in their oversize, white mud helmets and pasted with a mixture of white ash and mud ... and the Kuku Kukus ... they were small bark cloaked warriors ... the most feared of all.

All the women struggled about with heavy loads in their Bilum bags on their swayed backs, supported by the forehead. Loads of kids, sweet potatoes and pigs to trade, or eat on the road to the show.

And what a show it was. We sat in the makeshift bleachers with the local constabulary close at hand. They were there not to protect us ... they were scared.

Shrill postmen's whistles gather a tribe for their turn for the dance past the judges ... amid shouts and chants of excitement. They shuffled into lines of maybe ten and held the long bamboo poles to keep the lines spaced. Ten rows ... all identically adorned and painted in their tribal markings. The drumming started, the war chants sent the shiver up my spine ... a warm shiver.

They approach, pounding the snakeskin kundu drums ... earth trembling as they drive their feet into the ground when orchestrated to do so. Dust rising, except where the patches of blood red betel nut had been spat ... like blood ... everywhere. With the unison of a choir their voices rise up to a crescendo then down to imitate the drumbeats ... pounding ... a hundred warriors only feet away …spears , bows and arrows ... I can smell them now … not unpleasant ... a pig grease and smoke mixture. Two pounding steps

forward, one back ...they are in a trance ... so am I.

Then came the Kainantu's and the Bena Benas and the tribe from Bhundi and Marawaka ... and the Chimbus...

We lived a luxurious lifestyle; lobsters, fish, and fresh produce, mostly free. Exotic cars and a change of girlfriend every six months as the flight attendants rotated through the New Guinea adventure. Often we would get ten or so flighties to deadhead to Goroka from Lae and float down the Bena Bena river on rafts made of lashed inner tubes, through the villages, to a BBQ already set up by our house boys downstream at the waterfall.

OOOOH! How moist they got.

I witnessed tribal fights and marriage feasts where 200 pigs were slaughtered with glee. Trips up to Angoram where people lived in grass houses perched on stilts out over the river...

Once we chartered a DC3 and filled 'er up with hosties and a jazz band and went to a plantation ball …the band entertained us enroute.

But a dark political cloud loomed on the horizon. They were to be given independence and ALL companies had to have "native participation". The red necks called the natives rock apes which I found to be offensive. If I was to have a partner, he was to be my "branch manager". The feds were closing in on me too ... it was time to flee.

I will never forget the day of my departure …to South Africa …or Canada …somewhere where flying was still an adventure.

I drove a friends Land Rover to the airport. Coming the other way, pedaling fast on his bike was my houseboy, Bin. As soon as he saw it was me, he bailed from the bike leaving it to crash into the market. He wailed and cried. I quickly took off my watch and gave it to him. I would miss him dearly. He had taught the language to me.

I settled into my seat on the F27 after a hearty send-off from my friends. Next to me was a Bena Bena girl. She wore a Meri dress and I saw her blue tribal markings fanning back from her eyes to her tight curly hairline. I waved at my friends, then turned to her.

"Yupella go long bigpella harp long balus long Port Moresby?" I had asked if she was going to Port Moresby on this plane. I waited for her Pidgin reply.

"No, actually," she said in well bred perfect English, "I am going to Melbourne, back to Monash University." She flashed a large pearly smile to diffuse my indiscretion. We chatted excitedly as Meg Taylor informed me of her intention, to become a lawyer.

Years later her picture appeared on the cover of National Geographic, playing polo. She was New Guinea's first woman lawyer. And later yet, I was flying a Turbo Beaver for a logging company in Canada that was to get a visit from New Guinea's US Ambassador... Meg Taylor.

I left that land astern, The Country Where They Turned Back Time.

We were inbound to the mine. Upstream that is. The mighty Iskut River has been laid to rest for the winter, cloaked in its shroud of snow and ice. Icy water flowed in her veins beneath.... she was still a dangerous viper.

We had aboard sixteen hundred gallons of stinking diesel fuel to feed the mine's thirst of 4500 gallons per day. This was the return trip from Wrangell, Alaska , where we had flown the three huge bags of gold concentrate with a total weight of ten thousand pounds. The C117's two Wright

1820's growled away in unison, as we scooted along beneath a grey overcast.

Past the confluence of the Stikine and the Iskut Rivers we flew. Directly East now ...into the teeth of the wind. "Delta Oscar Golf... Hoodoo 1500 feet inbound" reports Rob as we both look left, up the steep draw ... to the HOODOO Glacier. The descending cold air from the glacier t-boned us with turbulence.

Around the corner, flying slightly East South East now we see the narrow gap through which we must fly in order to see the strip at Bronson Creek which appears suddenly to our right. We are not at the gap yet. We are searching the river... racing quickly through our check list in order to do so. I crowd the south bank. Visibility out of a Super DC3 is poor unless you bank the generous wing and engine cowl downward, but then the sheer mountains on the other shore stare you down. I bank away just as I caught a glimpse.

It is easier to see the wreckage in the spring when the yellow and green metal lies awash in gravel. But today the cold East wind bares the remains ... already at the gap now and the wide gravel strip appears to Starboard ... Rob looks up the strip for any taxiing traffic ...checks completed with a quiet reverence ...into the widening bowl for the 270 degree turn to final. Gross weight ... slightly high on purpose … even though a perfect approach to an uphill sloped runway looks high...Lots of power on ... not too much though, I don't want to rely a whole lot on power, some of which can vanish when you need it. Height is easy to get rid of in a loaded freighter ... but you don't want to set up a sink rate.

"V Ref plus ten" I have time to sync the props ...may as well make it perfect." V Ref plus five" calls Rob. Touchdown any second ... she squats softly onto the big oleos as the soft big tires touch the gravel with a slight check forward to keep the tail proudly poised...Eighty knots … there are shapes in the snowbank ... out of the corner of my eye... to the left. Snow covered blobs. five or six . I am not counting now as I slowly lower the tail and slow without use of brakes, uphill, engines idling up to the pumpout station. I exchange my fox fur lined gloves for the stinking diesel pair ... I ponder for a moment.

Donny never had a chance. The burning engine had already fallen off when the skilled Captain bellied the DC4 onto the gravel bar in flames. A mile or two short. He wasn't quite at the gap yet and then a viscous right bank would have been required to line up with the suddenly appearing runway. He made a decision and saved his crew.

The brave Captain was missing, presumed drowned. Donny couldn't swim. The crew crossed the cold river and survived.

Back to work. Have to unload the fuel, load three big frozen 3000 lb bags of gold concentrate bound for Wrangell, Alaska and do it all over again. It was the demise of the DC4 that had brought us here, to a place of rare, spectacular beauty that was rarely appreciated as it was usually lashed by rains in the fall and cloaked in heavy snow in the winter. On a clear day, Johnny Mountain stood like a sentinel above all with its beard of driven snow wisping off the top, driven by the constant winter winds.

We were new at the mine. We had completed a couple of trips but we certainly weren’t broken in yet. The miners and administrators were a tight bunch so friendships would be hard won. I had to deal with the management of the Snip gold mine and we felt somewhat unwelcome as we hashed out an agreement and signed up.

It sounded so simple. Each trip was to fly three concentrate bags, each weighing 3000 pounds, to Wrangell, Alaska, and either return with groceries or diesel fuel.

I quickly phoned HQ and told the Operations Manager of our contract and to have the Chief Pilot

hire two more Captains. I knew that I would soon train Rob as a Captain but I would have to hog a lot of the initial flying as I felt I was a rookie here. I wasn't comfortable myself yet. Maybe that’s how I got to 18,000 hours.

There was a procedure in place at the mine and we chose to conform as it had taken years and many accidents to cement them in place. Pushed back from the strip and behind the snowbank were remains of a DC4, DC3, Bristol Freighter, Beech 18, a single Otter, and more.

We were REALLY paying attention. To Dave Menzies that is. He was partner in and Captain of the Bristol Freighter. Hawkair - they were a competing company with years of seniority ahead of us.

They had been here for years and had seen it all. He explained the procedures in Wrangel Alaska, customs, loading, circuit procedures, and most of all, radio reporting points.

This man and Donny, the Bristol engineer, quickly gained our respects. They weren't going to spoon feed us however. After all, we were all there for the Gold.

There was plenty of flying to go around. Days were short in the middle of winter so the backlog of con bags grew rapidly. Over two thousand bags to go... two airplanes carrying three bags each ... months for us. Now throw in some sh*t weather and lots of breakdowns.

Just when you thought things couldn't get worse ... they do.

It was like living in an aviation biosphere. A remote mining camp, but a camp it was not. More on this later. There were no roads. Aviation was its life link.

If you braved the biting, stinging wind and the driven snow you could walk down the side of the airstrip, past the crashed hulks to a temporary hangar that housed a hovercraft. It was built in my home town in Australia.

Four huge turbo diesels propelled this Banshee wailing behemoth at a great rate of knots downstream to a drop off point down by the power station at the confluence of the Stikine and the Iskut. 30 bags at a time... wow! ...nothing could compete with it. Nothing.

It scared the living sh*t out of any animal that dared live within its aural range of terror. I think it was the Native community who finally were rewarded by its withdrawal from active duty. It sure was an impressive beast. But there it sat, idled in its own hangar, and cloaked in politics.

When we had first arrived they showed us to our quarters. There were four beds in shacks with a bathroom ...that is all. Diesel heated....by the sweat of yer own balls.... flown in all day.

You were a "contractor" ...... second class. We were in no union. The miners had their own room with phone and internet connection. And access to a library, pool room and a bar in a chalet ... a huge rock fireplace ... a French lady bartender..... They were clean, well behaved and self policed. Well paid too.

The dining room was a thing of beauty... the walls of which were adorned with the most exquisite airborne photographs known to mankind. By Captain Grant Webb. Killed in action, Bronson creek... a DC3.... on his last flight; he was heading home. It is rumoured that his last words were, "Watch this!"

Even the more senior of the contractors, Hawkair, did not enjoy the privilege of the single rooms in the main building.

We were knee deep in snow around the huts, most of the time. Early darkness, cold brutal wind

and exhaustion drove us into these huts to collapse onto the bunk and regain enough energy to reach under the cot for the Scotch bottle. Not much had to be said to recount how tough it had been that day. Frustration was the order of the day. Whining? Never.

Our new wing covers didn't fit properly and flapped wildly all night. The Herman Nelson crapped out. Runups weren't going well, no oil pressure on the gauge. Burned out winch. Snow. Wind. Frozen levers. We had brought this old girl from down South where the climate was moist and now it was twenty below.

The owner of the company was there at the beginning. Mike was his name. The dimensions of his cranium qualified him to be the Germanic man he was. Stubborn, tough, brilliant with his hands … and mind too.

Then we met our future engineer. He was already in the camp. He was on the DC4 that crashed and had made it to shore along with the co-pilot, Dan. His eyes were too close together and he drank too much. He had lots of DC3 and DC4 experience and immediately started solving some of our problems. We learned lots from him as in the case of the oil pressure gauges. The oil was too cold and thick to make its way up to the gauge through a thin line. The gauge was unhooked and thin hydraulic oil was injected therein. Never had a problem with that again. He hung about with the Bristol crew most of the time. He was seen at closing time every night clutching three rum n'cokes ... pig-eyed.

We hadn't flown for days. Heavy snow. We would shower and trudge to the mess hall. Huge, clean, cozy ... and the best food imaginable… then to the Chalet, with its huge fireplace and a cute lady bar manager. The miners were very well behaved and policed themselves. There was always an underlying tension in the bar between our crew and the Bristol guys. But generally respectful of each other ... yes ...they had lots of talent …so did we. Generally we remained in groups.

It was the very weather that kept us grounded that made maintenance a brutally painful task. We had no choice. Captains did not lounge about the mess hall. There was always something to do. Often during the day, especially if the wind died a little, we would drive down the road parallel to the runway, down hill to the Iskut. To the windsock....

Rock solid ...40 knots …barely a flicker …its open gaping mouth facing up the Iskut... up to the plateau upon which was the airstrip at Bob Quinn Lake, 2000 feet above sea level. The cold East winds up on the plateau all gathered together and sped up as they squeezed themselves into the steep sided, narrowing Iskut on their rush to the sea to meet the savage warm wet blasts of the Pacific.... freezing rain downstream. Turbulence... The truck trembled in the blast.

"Did you see that?" it had dropped a little …maybe five knots. We were too eager. Chill out... I could see that you had to have whiskers to fly here.

The outline of another truck appears in the driven snow ... they sit and watch the windsock too. It still doesn't move. It is the Bristol crew... hunched over their coffees. They too want to aviate. But we drive back up to the ever humming camp.

There was an ingenious device for use by all that made engine maintenance cozier, called a nose hangar. It was built by a bloke named Speers, he later went on to be a Westjet Captain …he flew DC4 back then.

With corrugated iron bolted onto an angle iron frame it could be wheeled up to and surround an engine and even provide a catwalk. A curtain then zipped up and a Herman Nelson could be plugged in for comfy warmth. It got to be a favourite meeting place, like a secret society ...cozy.

Mike had designed and built a tray system with rollers and a huge winch to lug the 3000 lb bags

up the hill of the Super DC3. We were eager to try it. And the diesel tank system too ... all plumbed, waiting for the inaugural flight. And we were to be tested, yet ,too.

We wandered about, checking breakers for all the heaters plugged in ...around batteries, oil tanks and the cylinders. The huge Bristol was all rugged up too. Wing and tail covers were a beast to remove and put on in a wind.

They wandered aimlessly too...the Bristol Crew. It had been a week now. No let up. The cooks would now start quizzing us as to the likelihood of a grocery trip ... running low, they say. The miners quizzed us on the likelihood of a trip. They were running short of explosives. Crew change day approached for the miners. Now things get interesting and tense. The miners want to go home, really bad. I understand how they feel, its been a long shift.

The weather is hopeless.....people wandering the camp start looking upwards ... at nothing ...just leaden skies. If a rare blue hole above scurried by someone would run into the mess exclaiming, "Through to the blue ... it’s opening up!"

It didn't. Even if we did take off, Wrangel was pooched ... freezing rain, thirty knot crosswind. A mere sixty mile trip could subject you to thirty below temperature at departure, through a cauldron of turbulence, warming temperatures, freezing rain, slush, snow pellets, and fog, only to do the reverse and take off in rain and fly a wet airplane into thirty below again. Yet we wanted to fly.

It was customary, if there was a chance of flying, to arise before dawn, chow down and get the snow and wing covers off… a brutally uncomfortable and wet job, all the while wishful thinking. The dark night slipped away, but alas, we were imprisoned now by a heavy, wet fog. We then struggled to put the massive wing covers back on to prevent that killer ice from sneaking back on.

We wandered aimlessly about.... peering upward.... as did the Bristol crew. Crew change was late … the three Beech 1900s couldn't make it... we were WOXOF. Tense miners who want to go home ... "Whadya think?" was the question we were bombarded with, as they too wandered about.

Finally the cry went up, "Through to the blue!" as huge blue holes appeared above the camp. We knew the Beechcraft were on the way, to auger down through the hole. The arriving crews were not as elated as those embarking for the trip home. One Beech 1900 stood alone, and carried few people. It had a load though ... strongboxes...

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.

While I compose another literary symphony please enjoy a post that was made by a very good friend from my past.

I recently visited him last year on a visit to Australia.

We were graduates of the Scheyville Officer Training Unit in the Australian Army.

treefrog wrote:

Got a call from a thousand years ago. On the phone was someone with a phony Yank accent saying he was Duke Elegant (not his real name!) just visiting Australia and wanted to meet up. Naturally he invited himself for an indefinite period.

Two great days of talking - never let a good story be ruined by facts - and he headed off to the outback for Xmas. The bane of authority, collector of women with extreme cantilever structures and legend in his own lunchtime has mellowed a lot.

If you weren't in charge of him you could not help but like him. He pointed out this forum and going through it, now he heads off to continue with his personal battles, I want to confirm the PNG/Australian stuff is 100% "based on fact" as they say in the movies.

I first met him at Officer Training School back in 67 and for some reason (maybe most of us were heading for flying training although the Army wanted us to be grunts) we were part of a small group who are mates to this day. He was always "in the **CENSORED**" but extremely popular with the staff and other cadets - because he took the heat off us. I think he had a regular reserved position on the 0500 punishment parades every morning.

He was caught red handed in the cadet’s mess one evening up on a table doing an impersonation of the distinctive characteristics of the colonel who unbeknown to him was standing off to the side. Anyhow, as he says of his unbelievable luck "If it was raining arseholes I would be hit with a c--t" and the colonel invited him to partner his daughter who was visiting for a dance.

The next morning he was at the colonel's house seeing the daughter off back to university.

Colonel: "I chose him to partner you because he dresses so well." Daughter: "And so quickly too."

Duke stayed out of the colonel's way for the rest of the course.

Shortly after the sad period of Barry Mayhew's death so well related by Duke, there was a huge summer ball at the officer’s mess at RAAF Point Cook. State Governor, mayor, admirals and generals were invited. Duke brought a girl who, if she fell flat on her face would look like a Piper Cub on Tundra tires. Anyhow, the lesser mortals stuffed down the back of the room got sick of foxtrots and waltzes and pooled together to bribe the band (against strict instructions from the base commander) to play some "proper" 60's music.

I seem to recall it was during a Stones number that Duke and the watermelon girl were swinging wildly when he lost his grip and she flew through the air, crashed into the band, displacing the drummer and his gear into a heap over the back of the stage.

Much to the horror of the Governor's wife and delight of the Second Lieutenants, our heroine's low-cut dress had exceeded VNE and I think inspired the band (when they finally got sorted out)

to launch into "Great Balls of Fire". All six Army Officers, five of them completely innocent, were banned from the Air Force mess for 3 months - thanks mate!

If anyone is interested there are lots more stories - particularly in PNG, Duke might not like to relate himself.

When I had decided to move on from my twenty year career as a fire bomber pilot, I had the distinct pleasure of flying electro-magnetic survey missions in a Casa 212 for a company based in Ottawa, Ontario.

Whenever I was required to fly to company HQ in Ottawa, I would use Westjet as they operated out of Abbotsford, a mere thirty minutes away from my home. This necessitated a change of aircraft in Calgary.

On one trip I had a need to visit the comfort station. I wheeled my suitcase to the second stall as the first was occupied and then with a lot of clumping and banging I managed to include my suitcase while I performed my daily ablutions.

I heard a voice from the next stall, "Hi. How are you?"

Well I am not the type to talk to strangers, especially seated on a toilet at the airport, but, rather embarrassingly, I answered, "Well, not so bad I guess." And the stranger says "What are you up to?"

Talk about a dumb question. I was really starting to think this was a little weird so I said "Like you I guess I'm catching an airplane."

The stranger says "Look honey! I'll call you back, some arseh*le in the next stall is answering every question I ask you."

He He He He He He

The Aviators Soul

Through my pain, I see something. I can rub the window and remove the dust. Through this time blurred pane I see a past laced with adventure and fate. I feel the drumbeats of my soul. I know I share this soul with others.

Jim Tallis was a great pilot and an even better friend. It was fun to see Jim get mad. His face would get as red as a baboon's arse but usually broke into a smile when he realized we were torquing him up.

I had hired him once when I imported an F27, upon which he had lots of experience. He professionally massaged the program to success. I respected him. Jim was a Convair captain when he died.

I happened to be in Nanaimo at the time of his funeral but I was on a deadline to fly a C117 Super DC Three to Ontario FULLY laden with eight hours of fuel and tons of spares. The new owner was with us so I told him I had to go to a funeral that was important to me but a better idea invaded my mind, one that seemed to be more appropriate.

I phoned the preacher and learned that the chapel was by the waterfront in Nanaimo and suggested to him that I do a flyby over the chapel. How does one get the timing right on this one? The preacher thought it was a great idea, and we hatched a rough plan. I had told him I needed to do a thorough run-up and I hoped I could get the timing right ... by guessing....

There were Kelowna Flightcraft people down from Kelowna, lots of his local friends and relatives and staff from the airport.

We tried to determine the appropriate time for start and warm-up....which could take a while. So start we did... and run-up. We told Flight Service our intentions and rolled for take off ... and yes! ... we needed the curvature of the earth to get off. We retracted the wheels to save the perimeter fence and lumbered down the inlet... HEAVY. I stayed low at about six hundred feet over the water, around Yellow Point and onwards to the chapel by the sea. Timing? Who knows.

Only the preacher and his wife knew we were coming.

The preacher spoke in a comforting tone in the strange silence of the chapel. The minister's wife went to the rear by the big wooden doors that she left cracked slightly open. The preacher revisited Jim's career and related Jim's favourite times and aeroplanes, one of which was the DC3.

Only the preacher's wife heard us coming and signaled her husband. He talked of journeys; especially the one Jim was on now.... some people claimed later that they heard a far off recognizable throaty rumble ... and a moving, approaching vibration.

He nodded to his wife who threw open the doors ... "and his life involved many journeys...none so important as his journey now..." The rumbling roar was louder now ... six hundred feet (legal over the water)...people were taken aback ... I roared overhead ... and peeled up and on my way to Winnipeg. There wasn't a dry eye in the place. "And Jim," said the preacher," that was Captain Duke Elegant... for you, my friend."

They left the doors open for a while till I faded off into the Eastern sky.

I had pulled it off. There were at least ten messages on my cell mailbox when I landed in Medicine Hat with a catastrophic engine failure. At least the engine didn't grenade till I got through the Rockies. Life goes on.

I know how lucky I am to have touched the soul of Aviation. There is, in aviation, a perfect mix of adventure, camaraderie, with a pinch of sorcery. A few stories ago, I had the honourable pleasure of flying the perfect send-off for a fallen aviator Jimmy Tallis, who I respected so much. This was flown in the C117.

Read the following tale and share in the magic.

We were four A26 fire-bombers based in Alberta. It could have been a very boring small farming community, but over the years, we made friends with some farmers who let us use the fields for one of our pilots who built and flew model airplanes. One night in the pub after quaffing numerous jugs of Golden Throat Charmers, we convinced Butch to let us shoot at his wildly jinking model P40 with our recently built spud guns. It was hilarious, and the farmer's families would all show up for this event. Those friendships grew over the years so we were deeply saddened when an old timer was killed in a tractor accident.

The funeral was on a sunny day but we were on yellow alert so I arranged with the Forest Service that we could attend, but we would stay at the back of the church, and in fact I was outside with a cell phone. The dispatcher had the number so in the event of a fire dispatch, we were ready to roll and wouldn't disturb the service. The old timer's daughter worked for forestry and her boss Ken Yakima was to give the eulogy.

Wouldn't you know it? Five minutes into the service the dispatcher calls ... fire 150NM north... co-ordinates ... blah blah blah. I signaled to the crew and we snuck out un-noticed and piled into the

van.

Brakes on and all clear ...Boost pumps high. I cranked the starter, mixture full rich. I counted nine blades then mags on ... she jerks and shudders as a few of the eighteen cylinders kick in …and she settles into an orgasmic Harley like rumble as she smoothes out.

I taxied to the pits for my retardant load prior to runup, which is done slowly and deliberately ... trust me.

I lined the '26 up for a take off to the West. The fire was to the North, which required a right turn … but then I had a feeling that I had really wanted to be at George's funeral, so maybe I'll pay a visit.... a few miles South. I was first off and I would probably overtake the bird-dog anyway, so I had some time ... all at $175 per hour too.

Maybe 500 feet... maybe six ...I was legal coz I was within safe gliding distance to a landing area. Also I was doing three hundred knots ...Anyhow; I scorched over the church then turned north to the fire.

We fought the fire all afternoon and upon return we were treated to a fine meal by forestry while we did our paperwork. It was then I learned that Butch Foster, who took off number four, had independently decided to do the same thing as I had done and he, too, had scorched over the funeral.

Then we got a visit from Ken Yakima, the senior forestry guy who had given the eulogy.... Ken was glassy eyed ... He said that it was uncanny ... and beautiful what had happened that day. During the eulogy he told how we bomber guys loved old George and, just as he made an apology to the congregation on our behalf that we were not in attendance, I roared overhead. And just as he finished his speech, Butch roared overhead … he said you could not EVER have arranged that. Aviation showed her soul one more time.......

I am dealing with a little pain right now. The forecast shows pain ahead.

Just like when we were back out over the Atlantic in the C117 with one engine out and unable to feather and the other at METO power just to ease the rate of descent, I made a decision to not use full power on the good engine until I was in ground effect (over the ocean) so that I had one engine at least to smooth out the ditching in huge seas. I won't use pain killers until I need them the most. Right now, a baggy of Happy Grass smoothes things out just fine.

Major Kidby posted the following story about me on avcanada.

treefrog wrote:

On reflection I think I will just relate a few more Duke Elegant tales to give those who do not know him (I think a vast number of members have his I.D. by now) a bit of a background from a third party.

As I mentioned earlier he has mellowed considerably in the 40 odd years I have known him but there is still an 18 year old trapped inside his 58 year old body! I don't think it would be fair to tamper with his great outlook on life by stealing stories which form part of his package.

Just a couple more Duke Elegant observations:

Still at RAAF Point Cook learning to fly. One night a senior RAAF Officer noticed Duke studying the flora with a young lady in the magnificent gardens of the Officers Mess. Early next morning all the Army Officers were summoned to the briefing room not completely unaware of the subject in

hand.

Now, finding a tiny minded cretin in the senior ranks of the Army is not difficult but in the Air Force it is compulsory. The Chief of Staff, a Group Captain, strode into the room with a black scowl on his face.

The boys could see the humour of the situation but kept a straight face.

"Now I am as broad-minded as anyone", lied the Group Captain, "and do not wish to comment on the personal habits of a fellow officer - as distasteful as they may be.'

"But I will not condone such activities taking place on an AIR FORCE BLANKET!"

The room broke up and, leaving a bunch of uncouth gorillas posing as Army officers rolling in their chairs with tears running down their faces, the Group Captain stormed from the room.

Further ridiculous mass punishment, which backfired on the Air Force in a humorous (for us) manner naturally followed.

After Duke's minor difference of opinion with the Army he and I arrived in New Guinea at the same time. He was initially driving his little C182 - basic VFR panel, no oxygen or any fancy stuff – around, while I was pushing Pilatus Porters with the 183 Recce Squadron.

Within a short time Duke was legend. I remember flying between Port Moresby and Lae one afternoon (a bad time to fly in PNG) and heard a TAA F-27, in the pre-radar days, call on the radio to the controller that they had just passed a C-182 at 16,000.

"Alpha Bravo Charlie have the F-27 in sight"

"Alpha Bravo Charlie what are you doing at 16,000?"

"Alpha Bravo Charlie descending from 18,000"

Final bit on the Duke concerns his beloved Aztec. Everything is in the eye of the beholder but I think even a new Aztec had a face only a mother could love and Duke's machine was far from new.

Perhaps I was spoilt by having gleaming aircraft maintained by the taxpayer but I remember this crappy brown bucket of bolts with prop leading edges like a cross-cut saw.

Duke is like a father with a daughter who could defeat the whole Dallas Cowboys defensive team single handed - just by falling on them- encouraging her to take up ballet. Love is blind.

The truth about that plane probably lays somewhere in the middle. Whatever, it carried him through plenty of adventures and whenever his stories fill an hour at some bar I am proud to say he is a mate of mine.

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!

Well I spent the last four days over on Vancouver Island visiting my grandkids with whom I cherish every minute.

A friend flew me over in his six banger Cessna 172 on a nice, smooth, sunny day. Skies through which I had aviated in King Airs and Navajo's in all sorts of sh*tty weather, under stress and usually behind schedule. I loved it though.

I found myself coaching my friend but it is always well received.

The secondary purpose of my mission was to do the bottom of my forty foot cutter named Baka. I accomplished this by sailing her onto the tide grid at high tide which, wouldn't you know it, was at 0100 hours. I secured her to the pilings and waited for the tide to go out. We pressure washed her clean and off to the paint shop I go.

I was driving along thinking "HHMMmm. Those egg-heads at the cancer clinic said I was supposed to croak this summer sometime…what will I do? Man! I have some decisions to make...Thoughts raced through my mind. Decisions...I had to put some order into these thoughts.

I wheeled into the parking lot and went to the counter to ask for some anti-fouling bottom paint. I told her the brand name.

"Do you want one year or two year paint, the latter being more expensive?" she purred at me. I'd already made my decision.

"I'll take the two year, my sweet." I proudly postulated.

1994

I had left my last job as Operations Manager of a company that I had started on behalf of a successful logging road contractor. Before I left I had been given a generous bonus which made it harder to resign.

She was worth it. Besides being pretty, she had a house on the lake with a boatshed and dock.

I had been offered a job with a helicopter logging company that entailed establishing a fixed wing division with a corporate turboprop. Often the helicopters were as far away as Alaska and South to Montana on fire fighting duties, so crew changes were challenging to say the least, let alone keeping up with spare parts and supplies to the hill crew.

In this, I was schooled and skilled. I had gained immeasurable experience running a charter company that was mainly tied to the logging industry. We had King Airs, Navajos and a Caravan on amphibious floats.

So I started looking around for a King Air which meant I had to be around the office lots. The office was located down by their sawmill, which was right on the inlet into which logbooms are towed and secured.

It was ruled by Attilla The Hen.

She was the Operations Manager. Her rule was both vicious and brutally efficient. On her, nothing worked. I tried oily charm, humour and even hard work occasionally.

But the friendly Bell 222 company pilot made the surroundings pleasant and occasionally I got to fly with him and get some stick time.

The company also had a Cessna 206 on amphibious floats split shifted by two pilots; the Gambler and a wannabe porn star called Chuck.

Attilla fell for it ... I made my presence obnoxious to her ... and she hissed "Go learn to fly the C206 ... or something..."

I planned to just ride with the Gambler and get to know my way around so I would recognize the scenery from fifty feet, as was pretty well ops normal in these here parts, especially now in winter.

My plan included dual instruction from the porn star as he was the best around but some how he was out of favour with Attilla the Hen... hmmmmmm ... I wonder ... does it have anything to do with the Cruella doll hanging by the neck from the compass?

So the plan was simple. The Gambler was to take of from the City airport and land at the sawmill dock which was only three minutes away, and pick me up for a trip "on the outside".... of Vancouver Island that is.

I sauntered down to the dock having just got off the phone that the Gambler had just taken off

from the airport and indeed I could already see him. I walked across the cedar smelling bark mulch in a misty rain. I neared the dock and saw that a small tugboat approached towing a single boom... no problem. There he is downwind already ... against the steep, dark green mountain backdrop... so clear ... so clear I can even see his wheels. My warm parka does nothing to ward off the inner chill deep within.

I reach for my cellphone, pulse quickening. Frantically I stab at the numbers ... Gambler! Pick it up for crise-sake ... you phoned me while taxiing so I know it's on... Base leg. Heart pounding now ...I run towards the dock ... waving ... Gambler is looking at the tug that is towing a log boom ... yep ... I'm clear he thinks.

The wheels kiss ... then dig in with a splashy thump… a half second later the nose wheels slam into the water, four momentary rooster tails, then in a watery blinding flash it upends onto its back with a loud hollow thump....resting now on the upturned floats ... wheels protruding defiantly upwards.

I am already halfway to the office and shouted for an ambulance, RCMP and a rescue boat, but I see that the tug has unhitched the boom and steaming towards the floatplane.... Still no Gambler ...the tug crew is looking too … I near the waters edge... and I see him ...bobbing with the waves ... he's OK.

Well it turns out that there is a lesson here, and that is that the Gambler DID indeed put the gear lever in the up position after take off, but because of a worn out limit switch that would not shut off the hydraulic pump, it had been the practice for the last few days to shut it off by pulling the circuit breaker. Except that someone had forgotten to reset it. A three minute flight? No checks ... Oh well. If you have to do that while awaiting parts, then the circuit breaker should be flagged and the item put on the checklist. But who reads checklists eh? The Gambler never flew again and went back to his trailer in Vegas.So anyhow, we float her, upside down and in a not so dignified manner closer to shore and pull her up by the prop hub, ever so slowly so as to let the tons of water slowly drain from the wings, tail and floats.

So I got to thinking. We are presently chartering King Airs and then float planes to get the crew and equipment to the helicopter hangar barge, so why not one plane does all?

A Turbo Beaver on amphibious floats. So I got the nod from Attilla and indeed I found one owned by the Ontario government. It was that "Baby's First Dump" yellow colour and the maintenance was exemplarity. So I flew out to St. Paul Minnesota, the home of Whipline Floats, with a check. I checked in to a motel for a week or so in order to learn how to operate the floats in salt water and to get some experience on type before going back across North America to British Columbia. After all, I only had five hours on floats as part of a bogus float rating.

I enjoyed watching my steed mount those floats and I wandered about. Out on the tarmac I saw an all white Pilatus Porter with a crudely taped N number so I wandered up to the leather jacketed pilot who was engrossed in his clip board. He was supposed to be doing some certification flights prior to these brand new airplanes going on floats.

"I've got some time on these” I mumbled to get his attention.

And get it I did. He hurried away and fetched Bob Whiplinger himself, who quickly asked me to go for an hours flying with the test pilot for insurance reasons, and besides, he was having trouble figuring power settings on approach. Even though I explained that I hadn't LOTS of experience (100 hours or so) and that was twenty years ago, they persisted. So I climbed into the left seat and the pilot checked the herc straps on the box in the back and climbed aboard.

Most things were familiar ... the awkward shelf, uncomfortable throttle position, legs wide apart on the pedals, comfortable stick position... I started and taxied out and I was doing checks when I reached up for the rotating flap lever while saying "watch your head" but it wasn't there. Wow! Electric flaps.

I purposefully did a steep take off and she flew wonderfully at slow speeds. After some steep turns I returned for landing with a fifteen hundred foot downwind just to show off, and I turned as soon as the threshold went by and started disking ... "Sit on yer hands" says I as the airplane entered "plummet" mode. The high whine even snarled more as I disked her some more and increased the plummet rate... I poled her around onto a short final and chickened out by applying a little power to flare and she squatted on just a few stripes down the runway... then full reverse as she does her little squirm as airflow is sucked in the wrong direction past the rudder. I did a few circuits with him and went to the bar. We were in fine form, a mob of lying, drunken bullsh*tters when the pilot comes in after his flights. He exclaims to all, "Wow! Bob, what an airplane ... you should see what it can do … and at 300 pounds over gross weight and at aft C of G too!"

I was dumbfounded.... I thought it was empty. The box in the back looked so small. YEAH! Full of lead ingots.

Anyhow, it seems that it also had a Dash28 up front in place of the old Dash20 that I had flown in the Australian Army.

St Paul Minnesota is not the prettiest of places in late winter and the chocolate coloured Mississippi does nothing to enhance its beauty but it sure is a fun river to brush up on one's float flying skills. After the company test pilot had flown the appropriate testing flights and a few adjustments were made I got him to give me a checkout.

He gave me forty five minutes of his time and told me to "learn" on my cross continent flight back to British Columbia. So armed with the maps, a compass and a credit card I headed West across the plains states and got to know my steed.

Bathed in sunshine I flew. Free of any airway or tower. If the airport had a tower, I never went there. Navigating was a breeze as railroads snaked their way from town to town and large watercourses fattened out into lakes and I did alight thereupon.

Into South Dakota now ... and flatter ... and not so adorned with features to the mighty Oahe Reservoir. There too, I did alight, and floated around while having a lunch but more importantly, to take pictures of myself. AAAhhhh! The solitude. I lay on the comfortable flat topped float and bagged a few rays while I re-evaluated the haste with which I was expected to carry out this mission. ZZZZZzzz

I awoke ... the silence was deafening. I have a plan, thinks I, and I decided to make the next leg up into the mountains while the weather was good and worry about the rest of the trip tomorrow. I chose a small town called Hot Springs which was south of the bustling Rapid City SD. Nestled by a large reservoir, it was about 3200 feet above sea level, so I landed at the airport on wheels which was very easy. However, on downwind, some words of advice were recalled. Always ask yourself, "Where am I landing, where are my wheels?" Cat Driver told me that. It sounds simple, but you have to think about it. Checklists aren’t enough.

Next day I skirted around the Edgemont MOA and flew towards the rising ground across the state line into Wyoming. I wanted to find a spot on the North Platte River where I could land ... just to say I'd done it and so I did ... at Glendo. Wow! The old dash twenty sure was sucking wind on take off at 5000 feet above sea level.

And westward ... even higher yet. Casper Wyoming is 5300 feet ASL. I cruised above the high, rolling hills amazed at the private strips on cattle ranches and the spectacular surroundings. Always something to see.

By the time I got to the menacing 13,000 foot mountains west of Riverton they were draped in a crown of thorns , big black bags of thunder and lightning.... and it’s late winter. I had to waste my westing and fly straight north to Billings when I really wanted to go to Jackson Hole, but couldn’t find a way up through the ten thousand foot pass. More to follow.

By flying north and paralleling the massive mountain chain I only postponed the inevitable, and I had to bust through sooner or later, so I flew by Bozeman and Butte all of which are 5000 feet or above, very impressive, especially in a float plane. The lazy, relaxed flight over the high plains states was long forgotten in the turbulent, thumping, wallowing fight through some of the most impressive mountain scenery on the planet. I'd abandoned my desire to touch down on waterways that were laced with skittering winds dancing hitherto as any lake was at the mercy of the hammering downdrafts.

Until Coeur D’Alene, Idaho. I'd busted out of the mountains through the Mullins Pass and the country widens out to the south into the fruit growing Eden which is a basin containing Wenachie, Yakima and Walla Walla. But Coeur D'Alene Lake was still breasted my brown hills and at the north end of the lake I burst upon the town just as a blue sky brightened my arrival. It was so beautiful that I didn't want to land. The floats hissed onto the azure lake as I kept her in the sweet spot with deft, maestro-like manipulating of power and in a wide arcing turn on the step I aimed towards the terminal and let her settle, awash, like a curtsy in front of the Queen.

Today we fly to San Francisco for the maiden voyage of the 54 foot sailing yacht Hyperlas. Our mission is to deliver her to her berth in Point Roberts on the Canadian border. The voyage should be around a thousand nautical miles, maybe ten days... maybe...

We five crew are all offshore veterans but the weather at this time of year is unpredictable and we are bucking the Pacific Current that will rob us of over one knot. We must also stand two hundred miles offshore to avoid the Columbia River outflow and coastal weather.

We met a couple of days ago and our chef, Johnny O, compiled a menu fit for a Royal cruise. I, however, am on a natural uncooked food regimen as part of my cancer battle so I planned for a big bag of trail mix, dates and nuts with some fresh fruit and veggies occasionally. I suggested that they buy trail mix for five because things can easily go for ratsh*t if we get pounded by a storm or two and the "cock o vin with sauteed mushrooms" gets splattered on the polished teak and original artworks on this $1.2 million dollar palace.

I am taking two Patrick O Brien novels, "Master and Commander" and "Port Captain" so the nautical flavour and inspiration should be ever-present. The last sea voyage I completed was San Diego to Hawaii on a mere 32 foot cutter. On that voyage I read The Right Stuff and soon thereafter was to meet Chuck Yeager personally in Australia.

Also, I am the only non-gazillionaire on board.

I hope once again to immerse myself in the universe, alone, in the cockpit, on watch as the star scene pinwheels around the North Star Polaris. But I am ready for battle against the cruel angry sea that has shown me her fangs before. I look forward to sharing a few sea yarns with my aviator brethren upon my return.

SOMETIMES IT'S TOUGH BEING A DUKE

I cast my eye upon her. I felt a stir in my loins. This fifty four foot sailing yacht sure was sleek. Sleek and panther-like... much like myself.

Skipper Dave had parted with $1.4 million Canadian in order to procure her. She was now his slave. Skipper Dave, Johnny O, Harry, Larry, and the Duke. It doesn't get much better than this.

We cheerfully provisioned her in San Francisco and readied her for the Northward slog up one of the most treacherous coasts on earth... from California to Canada via Oregon and Washington State. We feared for the early summer Northerlies into which we must sail. The other door to hell was the South Westerlies that whipped hard against the Columbia River outflow. These, hopefully, had retreated for the year only to awaken next fall to stare down the south bound mariners.

We cast off on a sunny day and purred along at eight knots out from Oakland into San Francisco Bay, navigating by the GPS moving map with all buoys clearly marked. A few points off the port bow towered the Golden Gate Bridge under which we must steam. And steam we did right into a hornet's nest ... fifty racing sailboats hard tacking to weather with no mind for a transitting ocean bound yacht. With deft manipulation of the helm I stroked her through this nest only to be pounded by steep, short white cappers through which she plunged with her fine bow as she carried most of her beam aft in a saucy fashion.

She trembled with excitement as I plunged her. Chin thrust high, I took the seas head-on. On the balls of my feet I danced and swayed to her motions ... Aaaah! Admiral Nelson sprung to mind ... and Russell Crowe ... and the Duke.

I crouched over the radar on this fine sunny day but it was devoid of dangerous targets that I would have to demonstrate superior skills in order to avoid.

I glanced at my shoes, a sporty pair of Polo Sports by Ralph Lauren. The first lady of the Hyperlas had shopped for these; after all, the rest of the crew had them. I had caged my trusty old brothel creepers below.

Skipper Dave efficiently deployed the mainsail in order to steady this galloping maiden.... she moaned and rolled over to a comfortable heel and she plunged on.

Morale was high, excitement peaked. I gripped the sternrail with clammy paws. I heaved and spewed ... spewed last nights sixty dollar sushi dinner back to the deep. My Polo Sports streaked with viscous slime.

I stared, glassy eyed, into this lumpy green hell. I growled and retched in despair and I cursed this black hearted, heaving, pox ridden harlot that tried to buck me off with her corkscrewing writhing gyrations. I was a frothing, bug eyed fool.

Fifty feet away, up in the bow was the chain locker. If I could make my way there, I would wrap myself in chain and step over the side. How do I lift two hundred feet of chain? Maybe if I unshackle Skipper Dave's six hundred dollar anchor ...

"Them that dies will be the lucky ones" ... that Blackbeard the Pirate phrase meant something to me now.

I looked towards the cockpit where three gallant sailors chatted merrily. Oh how I despise them.

Then Skipper Dave says, "Hey Duke! The good news about all that vomiting and spewing is that it sure saves wear and tear on yer ars*hole." They laughed heartily ... and I attempted a grin.

Well anyhow, the rest of the sailing adventure went quite smoothly once my sea-legs returned. We basically motor sailed the whole way and twice had dolphins play in the bow wave and two of us got to see a large whale slapping the ocean with its pectoral fin.

We rounded Cape Flattery into Juan de Fuca Straits over calm seas and blue skies. A classy dinner, served upon the teak table in the cockpit, was enjoyed by all. Five days, it took. A memorable experience, I must say.I would like to share a story that still catches my imagination to this day.

Was it just a coincidence?

The following picture should explain to you true aviators why I stayed on the A26 for twenty years. I am honoured to have flown this beautiful aircraft in the twilight years of its service. It is indeed, an end of an era.

Please also note the nose art that was painted on Tanker 26 by Eric Ebert, a very close friend with whom I spent four summers in Alberta and the Yukon. I also had the pleasure of hiring him and training him to captain the Super DC3 (C117). Eric was a very talented person and an exceptional pilot. He was cerebral and had passed second year medical school with honours, only to chuck it in and return to do what he had a passion for.

We welcomed him back. Over many jugs of frothy intelligence we finally agreed as to the content of the artwork. Eric spent weeks making stencils and doing it right. And the art that arose from those inspired frothy encounters was a saucy lass sitting on a fire hose (which is not quite finished) and with a come hither look that would stir anybody's loins. I was between wives at the time and found his artwork so alluring.

Eric was tragically lost in the crash of an Electra L188 fire bomber last summer. He was the First Officer, soon to be made Captain.

So anyhow, that winter I hook up with a lady that I had known for twenty years or more and before you could say "pre-nup" she became Mrs. Elegant. Eric Ebert had never met Kathy when he did the art. Kat came to Alberta for a visit and Eric was in the Yukon so we posed Kat in a motel room in Fort Mac and we intended to send him a picture of my new missus. He had even got the shoes right!!! So somehow, I think we're all connected. What a nice way to remember a friend, eh?

I miss ya buddy.

As recently as a few days ago, just when I was all bummed out, a post appeared on the avcanada.ca website. I was all bummed out because of something stalking me. Like I said in my first post a few years ago ..." a creature devoid of form".........

Pain - that's what I am dealing with right now. The morphine pills remain in the cabinet... I will need them some day. Not right now. Nope.

Two Guinness and a reefer. So far, so good.

We were told we were in the top 1% of youth ... and we knew it. This post was an elixir of inspiration as I recount these heady days. This, my friends, was an egofest of the highest magnitude.

There was a time when I was at the top of my game.

From my cheery office at the Chilliwack airport I rode herd over a couple of King Airs, two hard working Navajos, two Cessna C177s that served as ab-initio trainers, rental aircraft, and light duty charter aircraft. Our Cessna Caravan on amphibious floats was based up the coast and was the final link into the floating logging camps that we serviced.

Some camps like Kimsquit and Taleomy River had short, challenging gravel strips, into which we flew both King Airs and Navajos. Kimsquit was 2000 feet long according to the Flight Supplement but it at least had an uphill slope to arrest a charging, fully loaded King Air.

We had high flotation landing gear on the King Airs and this was invaluable on these rough strips.

The technique was that as soon as the wheels touched, full reverse was actioned slowly to affirm directional control then eased out so that at 60 knots flight idle was selected and the props pulled into feather on the run, still going slightly uphill to come to rest at the top of the hump with hardly a touch of the brakes and props slapping around harmlessly. This way we could coast downhill slowly on startup and turn back 180 degrees for take off.

Yep! Crew change day. Logging equipment operators, fallers, drivers, scalers, road builders, cooks, tools, spare parts, chain saws, personal gea, food and so on..... They'd all spill out of the airplane and amble along the stony road up to the mess where top quality food was scoffed, a sort of bonus to the job.

Sometimes, hard, brutal flying at only hundreds of feet, in the rain, was required. Low level in the grey crap, hugging the steep shoreline of the fjords and inlets, flanked by steep, unseen, menacing mountains. They threw down boiling, turbulent winds that scattered on the rough inlet waters. And wet snow, freezing rain to be thrown into the cauldron.

On other days, direct flights in the clear blue at sixteen thousand descending down over ice fields and glaciers and streaking over mini paradises of azure lakes and down amongst the not so menacing mountains that now shed their obscurity. This was one of those days.

Lunch in the mess on crew change day was always a boisterous affair as incoming crew told tales of their days at home and the weary outgoing crew became buoyed with enthusiasm for their coming days off.

Aviators were generally very popular as they made this event happen. Well, most of the time anyhow. Weather delays were commonplace and many a day was spent pacing the Flight Service station with other skunked pilots ... Terry Shields of Kwatna Timber, Paul from Nechance Logging, Pierre from PASCO and Bella Coola pilots from Wilderness... they were a very capable bunch... we have a common enemy .... summer fog or vicious inlet winds that often blew the wind measuring equipment over.

But not today. The outgoing crew eagerly awaits us at the airplane, ever so willing to help load so they got home one minute sooner. Now it's time to pay attention.

Headset on ... to muffle the excitied chattering in the cabin. A couple of deep breaths ...just to go into aviation mode. Engines start. Take off checks complete even though we are facing away from our intended runway.

We rest on the hump. Brakes release as the prop levers are moved out of feather to full fine and as the props grab enough air she slowly moves off the hump, slightly downhill now. When ahead of the gravel and rocks the right engine is brought up towards full power, turning the aircraft in as wide an arc as possible, careful to keep it moving, always ahead of the rocks.... now the inner engine is brought up, gathering the right power lever in the process and full power is applied just as the airplane is aligned with the take off run and we accelerate slowly up hill, over the hump and hurtle down the strip towards the inlet with the wing tips only feet away from the willows… willows from which a bear or a deer could, and often did, amble.

Time to assess all possible emergencies is denied me.

The book does not quite address the required take off speed for these conditions.

Let’s see ......

I estimate that I am at gross weight ... but then again , those hockey bags look bigger that 60 lbs ... some even smell of huge salmon. Gravel and rocks ... full power is not obtained here until hundreds of yards down the runway... uphill for a ways then downhill ... the wind appears to be blowing above the trees but gusty below..

I feel the familiar tug of the sandy patch on the right main but we are through now...

She knows when to fly ... I have unlocked that secret through experiment that is now called experience. She obeys me, like the loyal Beech that she is. So I reward her by tucking her wheels away as we leave the Kimsquit strip astern with room to spare.