The Spirit of Aviation | www.eaa.org Vol.59 No.8 | August 2010

SportAviation | August 2010 | Vol.59 No.8 DC-!"

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Bu! alo Airways’ daily DC-3 passenger service—the last of its kind

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All Aboard!

ICE PILTHE

20!Sport Aviation!August 2010 PHOTOGRAPHY BY BRADY LANE

LOTSLIVING A DC!" LIFE

What would take me to Yellowknife, Northwest Territories, Canada? The last scheduled DC-3 passenger service on planet Earth, that’s what.

BY LAURAN PAINE JR.

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22!Sport Aviation!August 2010 PHOTOGRAPHY BY BRADY LANE

In 1970, Yellowknife was incorporated as the fi rst city in the Northwest Territories. It’s also the only city in the Northwest Territories. Yellowknife’s population is 20,000. The second larg-est town in the Northwest Territories is Hay River, population 3,600. So, the Northwest Territories is twice the size of Texas with a total population of 45,000. They would barely fi ll half of the Cowboys’ new football stadium in Dallas.

Into this mix, throw one Joe McBryan, aka Buffalo Joe, the founder and patriarch of Buffalo Airways, the only oper-ator of the aforementioned “last scheduled DC-3 passenger service on planet Earth.”

I traveled from Calgary to Edmonton to Yellowknife, the last leg via a Canadian North Boeing 737. Canadian North also serves Inuvik, Kugluktuk, Kugaaruk, Iqaluit, Qikiqtarjuaq, and some other places (those are just the towns I could spell from memory). The nice rental car lady who walked me out to my car was wear-ing shorts. It was 10:30 p.m.—still light—and -4°C (24.8°F). At 6:30 the next morning, while still in bed, I hear the unmistakable sound

of radial engines outside the window. I’m in the right place.The radio says, “Minus 1°C outside, light winds, chill factor

minus 4°C, fl urries this afternoon, tonight minus 10°C, and tomorrow a high of 0°C.” I top o! my belly with breakfast and am then ready to drive to Bu! alo Airways to meet the people there, knowing there will be much that is good.

I park in the gravel parking lot of a big ol’ hangar proclaim-ing itself, in large green letters, “Bu! alo Airways.” Getting out of the car, I spot two DC-3s parked outside at the other end of the hangar. Somehow they look ready—doors open, stairs in place, clean, and green.

When you think of Yellowknife, think -35°C (-31°F), 40-knot winds, and blowing snow, day after day after day. Yellowknife is just 318 miles south of the Arctic Circle. It derives its name from the hunting knives forged from naturally occurring copper used by the Dene (de-nay) people. Archaeological evidence dates the knives back thousands of years. Later, these knives were used to open the dynamite cases used in mining, since steel knives could cause a spark.

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I look for Mikey McBryan, general man-ager. Mikey is Bu! alo Joe’s son. I hear voices from an open classroom door and overhear the instructor saying, “Here it is, the fi rst week of May, and the ice is getting pretty bad, eh?” He isn’t talking about in-fl ight ice; he’s talking about pond and lake ice, and “bad” means it’s risky to land on this time of year. I later fi nd out it was an egress training class, where you learn how to get out of an airplane that has had to make a forced landing on water or ice.

I go back downstairs and head toward the door marked “Terminal.” Inside, there is a wooden prop hung high on the wall and a bunch of benches and chairs, all

green. My steel-trap mind fi gures this must be the terminal waiting area. Still no people. On the back wall there’s a hand-painted schedule of fl ights between Yellowknife and Hay River. “Monday through Friday, depart Yellowknife, 5:00 p.m., arrive Hay River, 5:45 p.m. Depart Hay River, 7:30 a.m., arrive Yellowknife, 8:15 a.m. Saturday, depart Yellowknife, 8:00 a.m., arrive Hay River, 8:45 a.m. Sunday, depart Hay River, 4:30 p.m., arrive Yellowknife, 5:15 p.m.” Pretty self-explanatory: fl y down in the evening; come back in the morning.

Then I meet Mikey, 27 years old, dressed in a Buffalo Airways sweat-shirt, walking around juggling five balls with one hand, cell phone in the other hand, answering one of the 45 phone calls he gets each day, calm and smiling in the face of it all. “C’mon, I’ll show ya around,” he says. We walk into the big hangar. Holy stimulus! A Lockheed Electra is prominent, cur-rently the only concession on the property toward turbine engines, and I think, a hedge for the day the avgas supply becomes a problem. In one

corner is a Canadair CL-215 water bomber, red and yellow, in vivid con-trast to the otherwise green motif. And there are some Barons—three, I think—Joe’s Cessna 185, and a customized 1951 Mercury automobile. Oh, and a Fleet Canuck is hanging from the ceil-ing. Mikey sees me looking at it and says, “I don’t know. Dad got it some-where. He never sells anything.”

While walking across the hangar fl oor, we run into Sophie, the 13-year-old hangar dog (that’s a breed, isn’t it?). Mikey says, “She’s got about 2,500 hours of DC-3 time. Knows the schedule. Meets the airplane. Figures somebody might feed her.”

Mikey starts talking of his father, “the legend.” Joe was born in Yellowknife in 1944. His father had a gold mine, so he lived “in the bush” until he was 8 or 9 years old. A Fairchild once crashed on a nearby lake, so Joe’s father brought it to shore, and it became Joe’s playhouse. They sent Joe to Edmonton to go to school, but the nuns called and com-plained, saying, “This boy can’t be taught. Every time an airplane fl ies over, he runs to the window and tells us what it is.” They brought Joe back to Yellowknife where he fi nished school, got his driver’s license, and then got his pilot’s certifi cate, becoming the fi rst in the family to fl y.

Joe started Bu! alo Airways in 1970 with one airplane. “I don’t think he really had a plan,” Mikey says. “Just sort of built it one airplane at a

time.” Forty years later, “one airplane at a time” has become many airplanes. How many DC-3s? “Thirteen, I think,” Mikey says. “Three here for passenger service, four for freight, and some up at Red Deer.” Now put two and two together: Joe lives in Hay River; Bu! alo Airways is in Yellowknife. After work, Joe fl ies the 5 p.m. departure from Yellowknife to Hay River, aka home. In the morning, Joe fl ies the 7:30 a.m. departure from Hay River to Yellowknife, aka work. He fl ies to and from work in a DC-3, and his customers buy the gas. Heck of a deal!

I ask about the name Bu! alo. Mikey explains, “One of Dad’s early fl ying jobs was counting bu! alo at Wood Bu! alo National Park.” And the green paint? That’s a little more complicated, or muddled. Mikey says, “My grandmother was very Irish, liked green. Dad says green is easier to see in the air and against the snow, and often says, ‘If I had it to do over again, I’d paint ’em green and orange.’” Sounds reasonable. But one of the pilots later tells me, “I ask Joe about the green color every year just to see if I get the same answer. I don’t.”

As for the McBryan/Bu! alo Airways genealogy, there’s Joe, the patriarch. There’s Mikey, the juggler, his brother Rob is director of maintenance; Joe’s daughter Kathy works for Bu! alo in

The “o! ce” of a Bu" alo Airways DC-3, complete with the company’s signature green color motif. The basics of operating a DC-3 haven’t changed much in its 75 years of service.

Hay River. Kathy’s son, Joe’s grandson, works for Bu! alo, too. Joe’s wife? Sharon can do most any job they have. Family reunions are, well, lively.

I didn’t get to meet Bu! alo Joe. He was weathered-out with freezing rain at another location during my stay, so I’ll just have to go with the legend, and I’m comfortable with that. I’ve met his fam-ily, and I’ve seen what he built, and both are good. I imagine him to be good, too.

Mikey walks me out to a DC-3, the one that’s going to be used for today’s evening departure. Passenger seats installed, it’s ready. I clomp up the fuse-lage, gawking all the while, make my way to the cockpit, and plop myself in the left front seat. It has been 40 years since I last fl ew a DC-3, but wow, does the feel ever come back! Mikey spots and summons a person up to the cockpit and introduces her. “This is Audrey. She’s a pilot.”

I ask Audrey where she’s from and about her fl ying background. She’s from

Quebec, has 220 hours, and heard Bu! alo might be hiring, so she called them. They said, “It’s hard work.” She said, “I can do it!” They said, “It’s cold.” She said, “I can do it!” They

said, “It’s an apprenticeship; you have to work your way up.” She said, “I can do it!” So they hired her. (Note to Audrey’s par-ents: You can be very proud of her.)

But if you’re worried about low-time pilots fl ying under such demanding con-ditions, rest easy: Audrey knew you don’t just come to Bu! alo Airways and become a pilot; you work your way up. First job? You’re what is called a “rampie.” Rampies do anything and everything they’re told to do, anytime, in any weather. It’s called Bu! alo Boot Camp. And, like a lot of boot camps, it’s not for everybody. “We have about a 95 percent turnover rate,” Mikey says casu-ally. “Some can do it. Some can’t. And you can’t tell who will and who won’t by talking to them.”

What kind of person survives Bu! alo Boot Camp? The kind you want with you in a foxhole; the kind you want on your wing when the bullets start fl ying; the kind you can count on when you need to count on someone. This climate

demands courage, character, and mental toughness. If you have it, you can fl y a DC-3 here. But only if you have it. It’s the uno" cial law of the land.

The pilots? Shaun, Ian, Andrew, Gordon, Graham, Justin, and others, most younger than 30 years old. “That way you don’t have to train backwards, get rid of old habits,” Mikey says. “The guys who fl ew these airplanes in World War II were in their 20s.” Which air-planes do they fl y: DC-3, C-46, DC-4, Electra? The ones they earn the honor to fl y. (The ‘money thing’ just never came up. These pilots are here because they want to be here.) Arnie is the chief pilot. Thirty-four thousand hours in the north, much of it on gravel, ice, snow, and water. When Arnie talks, people listen.

Mikey walks us into the parts room. What a gold mine! Generators, carbure-tors, gaskets, nuts and bolts, and you-name-it, all neatly organized. The guy at the desk, Ron, is a good guy and a bit of a character. He’s very proud of his parts room. I ask him about mainte-nance in general. He says, “We’re working on some of the planes most all the time. The DC-3, not so much. They just keep going and going.”

Mikey walks us to another building. Equipment and machinery. Lots of equipment and machinery. And a 1940 Ford, dusty but pristine. “Dad found it,” Mikey says. “Original paint and original upholstery.” (Don’t even think about it: Joe doesn’t sell stu! , remember?) And

It’s time to let you in on a little secret…though it’s not a secret in Canada. You all know the TV shows

American Choppers, Deadliest Catch, and more recently, Ice Road Truckers that are reality TV shows about real people doing real things. On the History Channel in Canada, the show is called Ice Pilots, and the stars are the folks at Bu! alo Airways. The show depicts the adventure in avi-ation, the very thing that

drew many of us into it. It depicts the challenges, the honor, and the purpose of aviation, and it beats any video game ever invented.

Ice Pilots is the No. 1 ranked specialty-channel TV show in Canada. More than 400,000 viewers watched the show’s debut. Omni Films in Victoria, British Columbia, fi lms the series, which also shows on Discovery Quest in England and National Geographic in Australia.

What do the people at Bu! alo think of the notori-ety? They’re bemused by it, but it doesn’t change who they are or what they do. They go out and do what they do: haul people and freight every day, dutifully and e" -ciently. Do they duke it out from time to time? Sure, things happen in the heat of battle, and, of course, the camera crews love it. But at the end of the day, Bu! alo Airways is still family.

24#Sport Aviation#August 2010

Audrey knew you don’t just come to Bu! alo Airways and become a pilot; you work your way up. First job? You’re what is called a “rampie.” Rampies do anything and everything they’re told to do, anytime, in any weather. It’s called Bu! alo Boot Camp.

PHOTOGRAPHY BY JOHN DRIFTMIER, OMNI FILM PRODUCTIONS LTD.

ICE PILOTS!

Buffalo Joe, the founder/patriarch of the last surviving DC-3 daily passenger service based in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories.

Top to bottom:

Wheel skis...sometimes a necessity on an arctic-bound DC-3.

It takes a lot of spare parts to keep a fl eet of aircraft operating.

It’s a limited schedule, but Bu! alo fl ies every day.

Graham sweeps ice o! the wing prior to departure.

Buffalo Joe, the founder/patriarch of the last surviving DC-3 daily passenger service based in Yellowknife, Northwest Territories.

www.eaa.org!25PHOTO BY ED ARAQUEL, OMNI FILM PRODUCTIONS LTD. & BRADY LANE

26!Sport Aviation!August 2010 PHOTOGRAPHY BY BRADY LANE

up on a shelf, way o! the fl oor, a ’69 Volkswagen convertible. Mikey again knows what we’re thinking and says, “That was my sister Kathy’s 16th birthday present.”

In the back room of the building, I hear pounding. That’s where we meet Dean, who’s pounding on an exhaust manifold. “C-46 exhaust manifold,” he says. “They don’t make ’em at the corner store any more. Gotta fi x ’em. They need this one tomorrow.” Imagine angles and compound curves and pounding fl at-stock steel into shape—exact shape—one hammer blow at a time, then welding the piece where it needs to go so you can have a C-46 exhaust mani-fold ready to go back to work…tomorrow. Dean’s work is an art form. As we walk out of his shop area, I hear him go back to pounding…and singing.

Bu! alo Airways is the last operator of scheduled DC-3 passenger service, but make no mistake, freight is its bread-and-butter. We meet Kelly in the freight o" ce. “They call me the Cargo Momma,” she says. “Couple weeks ago, we hauled 22 dogs and a couple mushers. And we once got to haul the

Stanley Cup. That was a big deal.” Around her, everywhere, are stacks of pallets and boxes. Kelly sees to it that they all go where they’re supposed to go. She brushes her hand over her very short hair and explains, “I shaved my head for the cancer thing. Arnie’s daughter has cancer, and she had to shave her head, so I shaved mine.” And Kelly is building a Harmon Rocket in her spare time.

It’s a little after 4 p.m. In the small ter-minal room, people are milling about, some sitting and some standing by the ticket counter. There is small talk of jobs and fam-ilies, and some “hi’s” and “how are ya’s.” Audrey tells me that one-third to one-half of the passengers are repeat customers. I see Canadian money being passed over the counter, but I don’t see any tickets or boarding passes being handed back. Instead, I see names being written or checked o! on a handwritten passenger manifest. Baggage and carry-ons are being placed in the back of a van.

Outside, rampies are loading freight, removing engine covers, and otherwise doing what has to be done to make the

airplane ready. It’s cold and windy. Inside, the ticket agent asks, “Everybody ready to go?” They all stand, step outside, and walk to the airplane. The ticket agent, Audrey, grabs a co! ee jug and walks out with them.

She and Graham then load the last of the bags. With that, Audrey becomes the fl ight attendant and Graham becomes the copilot. Justin, the captain, is up in the cockpit, where Joe would be ordinarily. Passengers choose their seats and fasten their seat belts. Justin gives a twirl of two fi ngers to the rampies outside and orchestrates the sequence of starter, prime, blade count, throttle, and mixture for the No. 2 engine.

Right then and there, you are trans-ported back in time: the sound, the rumble, the vibration, the history, the legacy. The feeling of a time gone by but, blessedly, still alive and well in Yellowknife today. With bags loaded and doors closed, Graham walks up the fuselage, by the passengers, and slides into the right seat, his appren-ticeship on track.

Justin and Graham commence the pro-fessional staccato that is an airline checklist.

Left: Justin prepares to fi re up the left engine.

Far Left Top: Engine covers are a must in the climate of the Northwest Territories.

Far Left Bottom: More cargo room is needed, so Justin helps remove empty seats. Part of the Bu! alo way of getting the job done.

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Challenge and response. Crisp and to the point; switches positioned where they need to be. Justin starts the other engine. While waiting for the oil temper-atures to warm, Graham glances out his window and says, “Man, I gotta clean those cowl fl aps before Joe gets back.”

Once temperatures are in the green, Justin adds a little power and the DC-3 eases out of its parking space and into scheduled service, once again, like it has for 70 years. The airplane softly rocks along, the radial engines loafing in comfortable idle, seemingly eager to reach the symphonic crescendo that is takeoff power.

We roll out onto the runway, and the engines come to full life, like they always have before. It’s not noise; it’s sound, beautiful sound. I hear, “Forty-six inches!” Then the tail comes up. The airplane gets light on its wheels. You don’t rotate-and-leap like a stupid jet-liner; in a DC-3, you lift o! . Positive rate, gear up, climb-power setting, 120 knots, gentle turn out of tra" c to on-course. This is fl ying as it was meant to be.

Cruise power is set at 28 inches and 2100 rpm. The airplane is loafi ng. You get the feeling it could fl y forever, and it just might. I’m having 40-year-old fl ash-backs. How can it be that long since I last fl ew this airplane? Landing on the beach at P-Y Do at low tide in Korea. Landing on the grass at Cheju Do. Island hopping across the Pacifi c from Korea to Hawaii. All to the very same sound I am listening to now. How is it that some things you never forget?

Forty-fi ve minutes to Hay River. Graham, the human autopilot, gets to fl y the straight-and-level portion of the fl ight. The passengers? Most are asleep. To them, the DC-3 is as matter-of-fact as the sun and the moon.

Justin radios Hay River operations with an ETA, passenger and freight info. He enters the airport tra" c pattern, fl ies it seamlessly while confi guring the air-plane, rolls out on fi nal, and touches down on the mains like a feather on new fallen snow. We taxi to the terminal and shut down the engines. The round-motor music stops—until tomorrow.

We get up early the next morning. Graham picks us up in a van full of boxes as the sun is just peeking over on another DC-3 day. In the terminal, I meet Kathy, Joe’s daughter. I tell her I saw her Volkswagen. She says, “Yeah, I gotta get that back one of these days. My family just outgrew it.” Passengers come up and drop o! their bags and carry-ons: suitcases, a couple tires, boxes with the word “baggage” written on them, and some sacks of something. Kathy says, “I actually got a kitchen sink once, so I can’t say ‘I’ve hauled everything but the kitchen sink’ anymore.”

The night before, a customer in Hay River called and said he had 10,000 pounds of freight he needed to ship.

Mikey said, “Fine. We’ll fl y a C-46 down early morning to pick it up.” Except today, the customer shows up with 14,000 pounds of cargo.

Now is when the Bu! alo Airways can-do camaraderie and spirit leaps into action. Load what freight you can on the C-46, then, let’s see: Seats for 28 passengers are installed in the DC-3, and we have 22 in the terminal. Okay, pull out three of the double seats and use that space for the overfl ow freight. Ready, set, go!

I had to wonder: When engineers drew the fi rst line on the drawing board for the DC-3 some 76 years ago, did they know what they were creating? How could they? Their design has transcended time.

How can an airplane be old if it’s still doing today what it was designed to do 75 years ago? Think of the world this wing has seen: I think of paratroopers inside this fuselage, with helmet, rifl e, and parachute, headed for Normandy. They heard the sound I’m hearing, but to them, it was muted by fear. They endured that fear so others could be free. A DC-3 transports you to a time you want to be in and stay in.

A power reduction jolts my random thoughts. Justin is beginning the descent for Yellowknife. Too soon, we land softly once again and amble to parking. Once again, Graham, Audrey, and the other rampies spring into action, doing what they do. But it’s not a sad moment because at 5 p.m., this airplane will meet the schedule once again. And again the next day. And the one after that. And I’m going to leave it at that. I simply do not want to think otherwise.

I see Graham walking across the ramp. I catch up to him and say, “Ya know, wherever you go in life, whatever you do, you will never regret what you’re doing right now.”

He says, “I know.”

Lauran Paine Jr., EAA 582274, fl ew the C-47 for

the US Air Force in Korea in 1970-71. He once

ferried one from Korea across the Pacifi c Ocean, island

hopping (Japan, Guam, Wake, Midway, Hawaii) using a

sextant and a compass. He counts his time in this classic

airplane as some of the most memorable of his aviation

career. To view a video of Bu" alo’s DC-3s in action as

well as a photo gallery, visit www.SportAviation.org.

When engineers drew the fi rst line on the drawing board for the DC-3 some 76 years ago, did they knowwhat they were creating?

Audrey, a pilot, is the fl ight attendant on this fl ight from Yellowknife to Hay River...it’s part of Bu! alo Boot Camp. Tomorrow she may be fl ying right seat.