they must often fend for themselves in inhospitable environments where the penalty for a mistake can be death.Bush pilots have the highest mortality rate of any commercial pilots and bush flying consistently ranks in the top three of the world’s most dangerous professions, after commercial fishermen and loggers.
Erik soon came to understand that the special cachet bush pilots carried still existed among the remote, tight-knit communities of the North. Pilots were like freewheeling saviours buzzing in from afar to deliver precious supplies or to transport the ill to hospital. Part of a handful of high-status outsiders—including RCMP officers, doctors, nurses and teachers—pilots in the North were akin to dignitaries. Erik enjoyed his newfound stature, and by the end of his second northernsummer felt like he was finally building the experience and confidence needed to face the challenges of winter bush flying.
During freeze-up in late October 1981, while Simpson Air switched its planes’ landing gear from floats to skis, Erik flew south to visit his family. His trip to Surrey coincided with a special occasion—his father’s fiftieth birthday celebration. The night of the party, relatives and friends gathered at the Vogel home where the festivities carried on past midnight. It was not until the early hours of the morning, when the hosts were bidding their last guests goodbye, that events took a terrible turn. A family friend noticed that her convertible sports car was no longer parked in the driveway. Mortified, the Vogels had immediately contacted the police to report the car missing and called a cab to take her home.
Early the next morning someone banged on the door. Erik answered it to find a young police officer standing on the porch.
“Are you here about the stolen car?” Erik asked. The cop didn’t answer immediately and Erik recalls being taken aback by his expression. “He had a terrible look on his face.”
Erik remembers the officer then asking to speak to the parents of Reginald Vogel. Reginald was the given name of Brodie, Erik’s sixteen-year-old brother, but no one in the family
ever
called him that. Erik reluctantly climbed the stairs to his parents’ bedroom and knocked on their door. His mother’s reaction surprised him.
“I don’t want to talk with him,” she’d said. “Tell him to go away.”
A moment later Joan Vogel descended from the bedroom. Erik remembers hearing the officer stammer the words:
son
and
Reginald
. Erik’s mother yelled: “I don’t have a son named Reginald! His name is Brodie!”
The colour drained completely from the officer’s face and he shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to another. He tried again: “Your son … Reggie?”
By that time, Bill Vogel had appeared on the stairs, his face ghostly white.
Later that morning Erik accompanied his father to the morgue. By then they had learned that Brodie had borrowed the sports car to take his girlfriend home. Driving back along the highway from Vancouver, perhaps speeding to get home before the owner missed her vehicle, Brodie had slammed into a cement overpass.
“It was terrible,” is all Erik could say of the moment they pulled the sheet off his little brother’s body so that he and his father could identify the corpse.
Erik took a two-month leave after his brother’s death to help his parents cope with the loss. Something intangible had shifted inside him when he returned to his job with Simpson Air in January 1982. Though never a risk-taker, he began to be unnerved by the dangers of bush flying. The echo of his mother’s plea not to return to the North reverberated in his head: “Please. I can’t bear to lose another child.”
Meanwhile, Simpson Air was flourishing, expanding its reach north into the High Arctic. It purchased an old airline base 300 kilometres above the Arctic Circle in Cambridge Bay—an outpost on the southeast shore of Victoria Island servicing passenger and
Erik soon came to understand that the special cachet bush pilots carried still existed among the remote, tight-knit communities of the North. Pilots were like freewheeling saviours buzzing in from afar to deliver precious supplies or to transport the ill to hospital. Part of a handful of high-status outsiders—including RCMP officers, doctors, nurses and teachers—pilots in the North were akin to dignitaries. Erik enjoyed his newfound stature, and by the end of his second northernsummer felt like he was finally building the experience and confidence needed to face the challenges of winter bush flying.
During freeze-up in late October 1981, while Simpson Air switched its planes’ landing gear from floats to skis, Erik flew south to visit his family. His trip to Surrey coincided with a special occasion—his father’s fiftieth birthday celebration. The night of the party, relatives and friends gathered at the Vogel home where the festivities carried on past midnight. It was not until the early hours of the morning, when the hosts were bidding their last guests goodbye, that events took a terrible turn. A family friend noticed that her convertible sports car was no longer parked in the driveway. Mortified, the Vogels had immediately contacted the police to report the car missing and called a cab to take her home.
Early the next morning someone banged on the door. Erik answered it to find a young police officer standing on the porch.
“Are you here about the stolen car?” Erik asked. The cop didn’t answer immediately and Erik recalls being taken aback by his expression. “He had a terrible look on his face.”
Erik remembers the officer then asking to speak to the parents of Reginald Vogel. Reginald was the given name of Brodie, Erik’s sixteen-year-old brother, but no one in the family
ever
called him that. Erik reluctantly climbed the stairs to his parents’ bedroom and knocked on their door. His mother’s reaction surprised him.
“I don’t want to talk with him,” she’d said. “Tell him to go away.”
A moment later Joan Vogel descended from the bedroom. Erik remembers hearing the officer stammer the words:
son
and
Reginald
. Erik’s mother yelled: “I don’t have a son named Reginald! His name is Brodie!”
The colour drained completely from the officer’s face and he shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to another. He tried again: “Your son … Reggie?”
By that time, Bill Vogel had appeared on the stairs, his face ghostly white.
Later that morning Erik accompanied his father to the morgue. By then they had learned that Brodie had borrowed the sports car to take his girlfriend home. Driving back along the highway from Vancouver, perhaps speeding to get home before the owner missed her vehicle, Brodie had slammed into a cement overpass.
“It was terrible,” is all Erik could say of the moment they pulled the sheet off his little brother’s body so that he and his father could identify the corpse.
Erik took a two-month leave after his brother’s death to help his parents cope with the loss. Something intangible had shifted inside him when he returned to his job with Simpson Air in January 1982. Though never a risk-taker, he began to be unnerved by the dangers of bush flying. The echo of his mother’s plea not to return to the North reverberated in his head: “Please. I can’t bear to lose another child.”
Meanwhile, Simpson Air was flourishing, expanding its reach north into the High Arctic. It purchased an old airline base 300 kilometres above the Arctic Circle in Cambridge Bay—an outpost on the southeast shore of Victoria Island servicing passenger and
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