research vessels travelling the Northwest Passage. The company offered Erik a captain’s position on their six-seat twin-engine Piper Aztec, their sole plane stationed in the community at the time. Logging pilot-in-command hours on a multi-engine aircraft was gold to a rookie pilot, so Erik migrated further north to the frozen forehead of the continent.
The High Arctic during winter is one of the harshest environments on the planet. Darkness drapes the days and blizzards frequently strafe the landscape, erasing the margin between earth and sky. With no visual reference to the land or guiding hand from air trafficcontrollers, Erik had to rely on his fledgling dead reckoning skills. Flying was often perilous and he had several close calls to prove it. One occurred during an emergency medical evacuation or medivac to Gjoa Haven, a tiny Inuit community 370 kilometres east of Cambridge Bay. Erik was to pick up a pregnant fourteen-year-old in distress and transport her more than 1,000 kilometres south to the hospital in Yellowknife. Ted Grant, Simpson Air’s co-owner, came along as co-pilot. A long-time northern RCMP officer, Grant had recently quit the force to turn his part-time passion for flying into a second career. Though he’d held a pilot’s licence for years, Grant had just acquired his IFR rating and was relatively inexperienced flying on instruments.
Erik had a terrible cold the night of the medivac, his sinus pain unbearable as the plane carrying him, Grant, the patient, and a nurse ascended out of Gjoa Haven. Rather than climbing to 10,000 feet, Erik elected to give his aching sinuses a break by flying at 7,000, though it would make it more difficult to pick up signals from any en route ground beacons. With seven hours of fuel on board, Erik filed a flight plan directly to Yellowknife, just under five hours away over barren terrain with few navigational aids. When the plane reached altitude, he contacted the nearby Distant Early Warning radar station for help with his bearing, and then set a course southwest.
“I’ll take over this leg,” Grant offered, urging Erik to go to sleep. Knowing he’d have to fly another charter later that night, Erik didn’t argue. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes for what seemed like only a minute. When he opened them, Grant had an IFR chart spread in front of him and told Erik that he hadn’t picked up the en route navigational beacon at Contwoyto Lake. Erik was instantly wide awake.
It was ink black outside and snow buffeted the cockpit windows. Terror gripped Erik and he immediately thought of Martin Hartwell.Hartwell was a Canadian bush pilot who, several years earlier, had flown a medivac from Cambridge Bay to Yellowknife carrying a nurse and two patients: a pregnant Inuit woman and a twelve-year-old Inuit boy with appendicitis. The plane left during a fierce storm, became lost, and smashed into a hillside, instantly killing the pregnant woman and the nurse. Hartwell broke both of his legs in the crash, but he and the Inuit boy, David Pisurayak Kootook, survived. For weeks the two huddled near the wreckage, enduring brutally cold temperatures. The boy gathered wood and built a fire. He kept Hartwell and himself alive by cutting pieces of flesh off the nurse’s body for food. It took thirty-one days before rescue teams found them. Hartwell was alive, but the Inuit boy who had cared for him had died the day before.
Erik’s insides turned liquid as he took the controls and flew blindly into the night. His eyes moved frantically across his cockpit instruments, but they offered little comfort. He had no choice but to keep flying, though he had no idea of what lay ahead. It was only by sheer luck that Erik eventually picked up the signal from the Yellowknife navigational beacon more than 150 kilometres away. By the time Erik landed he felt totally spent. Refusing to fly the second charter, he checked himself into a Yellowknife hotel room for the night.
Erik had
The High Arctic during winter is one of the harshest environments on the planet. Darkness drapes the days and blizzards frequently strafe the landscape, erasing the margin between earth and sky. With no visual reference to the land or guiding hand from air trafficcontrollers, Erik had to rely on his fledgling dead reckoning skills. Flying was often perilous and he had several close calls to prove it. One occurred during an emergency medical evacuation or medivac to Gjoa Haven, a tiny Inuit community 370 kilometres east of Cambridge Bay. Erik was to pick up a pregnant fourteen-year-old in distress and transport her more than 1,000 kilometres south to the hospital in Yellowknife. Ted Grant, Simpson Air’s co-owner, came along as co-pilot. A long-time northern RCMP officer, Grant had recently quit the force to turn his part-time passion for flying into a second career. Though he’d held a pilot’s licence for years, Grant had just acquired his IFR rating and was relatively inexperienced flying on instruments.
Erik had a terrible cold the night of the medivac, his sinus pain unbearable as the plane carrying him, Grant, the patient, and a nurse ascended out of Gjoa Haven. Rather than climbing to 10,000 feet, Erik elected to give his aching sinuses a break by flying at 7,000, though it would make it more difficult to pick up signals from any en route ground beacons. With seven hours of fuel on board, Erik filed a flight plan directly to Yellowknife, just under five hours away over barren terrain with few navigational aids. When the plane reached altitude, he contacted the nearby Distant Early Warning radar station for help with his bearing, and then set a course southwest.
“I’ll take over this leg,” Grant offered, urging Erik to go to sleep. Knowing he’d have to fly another charter later that night, Erik didn’t argue. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes for what seemed like only a minute. When he opened them, Grant had an IFR chart spread in front of him and told Erik that he hadn’t picked up the en route navigational beacon at Contwoyto Lake. Erik was instantly wide awake.
It was ink black outside and snow buffeted the cockpit windows. Terror gripped Erik and he immediately thought of Martin Hartwell.Hartwell was a Canadian bush pilot who, several years earlier, had flown a medivac from Cambridge Bay to Yellowknife carrying a nurse and two patients: a pregnant Inuit woman and a twelve-year-old Inuit boy with appendicitis. The plane left during a fierce storm, became lost, and smashed into a hillside, instantly killing the pregnant woman and the nurse. Hartwell broke both of his legs in the crash, but he and the Inuit boy, David Pisurayak Kootook, survived. For weeks the two huddled near the wreckage, enduring brutally cold temperatures. The boy gathered wood and built a fire. He kept Hartwell and himself alive by cutting pieces of flesh off the nurse’s body for food. It took thirty-one days before rescue teams found them. Hartwell was alive, but the Inuit boy who had cared for him had died the day before.
Erik’s insides turned liquid as he took the controls and flew blindly into the night. His eyes moved frantically across his cockpit instruments, but they offered little comfort. He had no choice but to keep flying, though he had no idea of what lay ahead. It was only by sheer luck that Erik eventually picked up the signal from the Yellowknife navigational beacon more than 150 kilometres away. By the time Erik landed he felt totally spent. Refusing to fly the second charter, he checked himself into a Yellowknife hotel room for the night.
Erik had
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