MAYDAY

                                       

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                              MAYDAY

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            A TRUE ADVENTURE IN THE CANADIAN SUB-ARCTIC

              COPYRIGHT 1987 JIM PRENTICE, BRANDON, CANADA

          On many occasions, during communications with fellow

     amateur radio operators around the world, I have heard

     conversations more interesting than the normal exchange of

     signal reports, equipment, location and so on. I write this

     because many other "Hams" have suggested it. This story,

     combines flying, fishing, amateur radio skills, and an

     emergency situation.

          It all began when two friends, and myself, decided to

     go on a fishing trip in Manitoba's far north.

          This was no ordinary trip.

          We lived in a small, isolated town, on the Nelson

     River, north of the 56th parallel, about 80 miles west of

     Hudson's Bay. Gillam owes it's existance to the rail line

     serving the sea port of Churchill, and to the massive hydro

     electric projects on the river. To some, this would be "the

     place" for fishing, but we wanted trout, big ones.

          Chuck and I, both pilots, decided a trip farther north

     in his Cessna 180 float plane would produce a good catch. We

     invited Dave as he and I had often talked of this dream

     trip. We planned the trip to coincide with the first weekend

     after the ice broke up in the northern lakes.

          In the predawn hours of Saturday, June 25, 1977, we

     pumped out the floats, gassed up, loaded the gear, checked

     the aircraft and; as dawn lit the northern skies, we climbed

     aboard.

          The fishing gear, survival kit, an extra 10 gallons of

     fuel, and our combined weight, was well within the weight

     limit of the aircraft. The floats rode deep in the water as

     we taxied from the dock.

          Chuck opened the throttle for takeoff and we leaned

     forward. Our shifted weight helped the aircraft achieve

     planing attitude. We sped across the lake, engine roaring,

     spray flying. The plane shook as it rode over the small

     waves.

          Suddenly the bumping stopped. We were airborne. Behind

     us a glistening spray fell away towards the spreading wake

     of our departure. A carpet of spruce, dotted with shimmering

     lakes lay all around us.

          Forty five minutes, and 80 miles later, we passed the

     tree line. From here north only a few scraggly trees would

     be found near lakes and rivers. We were over the tundra. The

     landscape consists of myriad lakes, rivers, muskeg bogs,

     scattered spruce trees and occasional eskers. These eskers

     are long, narrow, gravel ridges deposited by receding

     glaciers.

          Reading the map, I called out the names of the waters

     we passed over, the Limestone River, the Churchill, and

     Little Churchill; the Knife and North Knife rivers

     Shethanei Lake, Seal river, and Macleod Lake.

          Hundreds of smaller lakes and creeks passed below. Most

     are nameless. Some, with names like Pennycutaway,

     momentarily tickled the imagination. Two hours of flight

     brought us to Nejanilini Lake, northern terminus of the

     Wolverine River. At the mouth of the river, on the west

     shore, lies Caribou. A long abandoned Hudson Bay trading

     post, 260 miles north of Gillam. After a low level pass to

     check for rocks and floating logs, we line up for a landing.

     The smoothness of flight ends as the floats touch the

     wavelets, we vibrate like a high speed boat, slowing down as

     we near the delapidated dock. In an old shack we cache our

     extra fuel and gear in order to safely get in and out of a

     smaller lake, just a few miles south.

          On to the fish! Our first glimpse showed a glistening,

     deep green lake, a mile long and 1/8 mile wide, surrounded

     with stunted spruce trees. At the north end is a waterfall,

     8 feet high and 40 feet wide, white water tumbling over

     jumbled rocks.

          Chuck eased toward the surface and touched down gently.

     We taxied to the rocky shore and tied up to a clump of

     willow. A dozen Ptarmigan watch us arrive, their mottled

     feathers halfway between winter white and summer brown.

          This is it!...  I climbed out of the plane and over the

     rocks to the base of the falls. Casting a Golf Tee spinner

     into the seething water, I let the current pull it out. I

     started a slow retrieve.

           "Strike", I shouted.

          I couldn't believe it!... The first cast and I was in a

     battle. I had retrieved only about five feet of line when a

     large trout took the lure, nearly pulling the rod from my

     hands. The lined hummed as we fought pulled the other, a

     fantastic fight. For nearly 10 minutes we fought, straining

     the 14 pound line. Darting and diving one minute, jumping

     clear the next. A flash of silver over the dark water.

          At last the fish tired and I landed it on the rocks.

     The biggest trout I had ever caught. I was breathless, my

     heart raced, I was so excited I forgot about the stringer. I

     threw the fish up on the bank and prepared for another cast.

          Not to be outdone, Chuck and Dave got their hooks into

     the frothy water and there we were, 3 guys, 3 casts, 3 fish,

     simultaneously.  These weren't just average fish, but brook

     trout, at about 5 pounds each, plus Grayling and Lake Trout.

     We were in anglers heaven. Each cast seemed to magically

     bring in a beauty.

          Chuck decided to move.  We had been casting from a

     rocky point at the base of the falls. When a fish was hooked

     we had to back out of the way to avoid tangling lines,

     landing the fish downstream. To ease the congestion, Chuck

     fired up the Cessna and taxied around the white water below

     the falls. The willows prevented him casting from the rocks

     so he stood on the float and hooked trout after trout, only

     to lose them. We had niether net, nor gaff. As the fish came

     up onto the float either the line would break or the hook

     was thrown. Splash, another one lost.

          Meanwhile, just as I landed my second 25 pound lake

     trout, our luck started to change. First, the top half of

     Dave's new graphite rod came adrift during a cast, we

     watched it sail into the fast water, the added drag broke

     the line.

          If you have ever been in the Canadian bush in summer

     you have no doubt met our welcoming committee. A hungry

     horde of black flies, mosquitoes, sand flies and bull dogs.

     The bug repellant was in the plane. We convinced Chuck that

     we needed it.

          This started our second bit of bad luck....

          Chuck started the engine. An unseen current gripped the

     aircraft and pushed it out into the lake. Trying to elude

     its grasp he applied more power. With a sickening crunch, he

     struck a rock. At full throttle, even 235 horsepower

     wouldn't budge the plane. Dave and I sat, on a cold, rocky,

     bug infested shore; 260 miles from home, our transportation

     stuck on a rock 200 feet offshore. Our first thought was to

     get across the river.

          We went upstream about 3/4 of a mile, over and around

     the rocks, through clumps of willow, sometimes knee deep in

     muskeg, to where the river widened, fast but shallow. We

     studied the current, seeking a safe route.

          Being taller and heavier than Dave I went first. All

     went well until about halfway across, the cold, fast water

     was up to my waist, my foot slipped, down I went, head over

     heels, over and over, I spread eagled in an attempt to grab

     something. I struggled to get my head up for air. I tumbled

     about a hundred yards, I grabbed a large rock, and crawled

     to shallow water. Dave looked at me, grinning. Despite my

     warnings, he started in. A perfect repeat performance, arms

     and legs flailing in the rapids. He came out just as I had,

     our caps still on our heads.

          We hurried down to help Chuck but he warned us to stay

     back as the water was deep and fast. He feared we would be

     swept into the lake.

          Holding the mooring line from the right float, Chuck

     lowered himself into the water. He stood on the rocks, water

     to his waist, and heaved up on the float. It remained

     impaled on  the rock.

          Turning his back to the float, Chuck held the bottom

     spray rail and used the strength in his legs. The airplane

     tilted as he lifted, slowly the float slid clear.

          As the current pushed the plane downstream Chuck used

     the mooring line to pull himself aboard. Cold and dripping,

     he started the engine and picked us up.

          We taxied to the shallow end of the lake to check the

     damage.  The right float was badly damaged, two of the six

     compartments were holed, and a bulkhead buckled.

          We worked for three hours. Lifting and prying, building

     a cribwork of rocks and logs to get the float out of the

     water. Most of the water then drained out. We tried to seal

     the holes by stuffing them with pieces of lifejacket,

     lashing them down with heavy twine. We removed everything

     from the plane except survival rations and tried a

     takeoff... No go!

          We decided Chuck should try it alone. Backing the plane

     up into the shallows for as long a run as possible, he

     firewalled the throttle. We held our breath.

          Slowly the speed came up until he was on the step. The

     high speed planing attitude necessary to attain airspeed.

          As I watched, I shouted, "He's going to make it", my

     heart was pounding.

          The aircraft approached the far end of the lake where

     the rocky, fast moving, Wolverine River begins.

          The right wing lifted slightly, but the float wouldn't

     break loose. He lowered the right wing and lifted the left,

     the left float lifted clear of the water but the right one

     remained glued down.

          The next few seconds seemed like slow motion as we

     watched. We heard the engine die. Next a series of muffled,

     thumping sounds and lastly, a great bang. To our relief

     Chuck climbed out and stood on a float, then got down into

     the shallow water. The plane was high and dry on the rocks.

     He was OK, but what of the plane?

          But listen, he's started the engine! Whats happening?

     Is he going to try again?

           The Cessna 180 is a workhorse. First produced in the

     early '50s, it quickly became popular as a bushplane. On

     wheels, skis, or floats, it is capable of remarkable

     performance. With thirty percent of the flotation lost in

     one float plus the added drag of the lashed on patch. The

     lake was just too small.

          We walked a mile and a half, through bush, swamp and

     muskeg, carrying what gear we could, and one 25 pound trout.

     We looked over the damage and got the story.

          Chuck said," She came up on a plane pretty quick and at

     about 50 miles per hour I tried to pull the right float but

     she wouldn't come. The left one came out fine but she

     wouldn't fly. The end of the lake was coming up pretty fast

     so I pulled off the power and aborted the takeoff. I guess

     the bad float was full again. With the extra weight she took

     more time to slow down. I had a choice of a trip down the

     river, or onto the rocks, so I beached her. When I found out

     the bottoms of both floats were ripped wide open, I started

     the engine to power up the radios. I've just sent our first

     mayday call but got no answer. We'll try again later."

          Hearing this, Dave and I looked at each other glumly, I

     said, "What a hell of an ending for such a great trip!"

           We took stock of our supplies, built a fire, and tried

     to build a leanto. The scrawny trees provided very little

     building materials and our axe had been left in Gillam.

          Once we started to dry out, we gathered sticks and moss

     for an emergency signal fire. The cabin of the plane

     provided protection from the flies. Once the door was

     closed, a quick blast from a can of Raid disposed of our

     unwelcome friends on the inside while those on the outside

     buzzed at the windows.

          Dave had used 2 green plastic bags to make a head and

     body cover. When I teased him about his strange garb he

     replied, "I am allergic to fly bites! If I get too many, I

     go into convulsions!

          "We tried calling Mayday at thirty minute intervals for

     several hours hoping to contact a commercial flight on the

     polar route. Between calls our Emergency Locator Transmitter

     (ELT) was sending a continous signal.

          By now we were very tired. My recollection of time may

     not be very accurate but at around 8:30 p.m. we were trying

     to get comfortable enough to grab a couple of hours sleep.

     Chuck had sent a Mayday call just a few minutes before.

          As I tried to lay down, my head under the radio,

     between the rudder pedals, he said, "Give it another try

     Jim, before you relax".

          I picked up the microphone, switched the battery master

     switch on, turned on the VHF transceiver and began:

          "MAYDAY, MAYDAY, MAYDAY,

          THIS IS CFIXJ, CFIXJ, CFIXJ

          CHARLE FOXTROT INDIA XRAY

          JULIET CFIXJ. WE ARE DOWN ON

          A LAKE AT POSITION 59 DEGREES

          20 MINUTES NORTH 97 DEGREES

          40 MINUTES WEST.OUR FLOATS

          ARE HOLED. CANNOT TAKEOFF.

          MAYDAY, MAYDAY,MAYDAY,

          CFIXJ, CHARLIE FOXTROT INDIA

          XRAY JULIET, OVER."...

          As the distress call soared through the ether, I

          reached to hang up the microphone.

          Then, to our amazement, I got a reply:

          CFIXJ, CFIXJ, CFIXJ THIS IS

          PANAM FLIGHT....

          (At this point my memory fails me as to which airlines

     I spoke to or in what sequence, I hope their Captains and

     crews will forgive me. Our greatest thanks to them all...God

     bless you...)

          WE HAVE YOUR LOCATION AS 59

          DEGREES 20 MINUTES NORTH BY

          97 DEGREES 40 MINUTES WEST.

          IS THAT CORRECT? OVER

          Grabbing the microphone I immediately replied,

          "PANAM THIS IS CFIXJ.

          POSITION IS CORRECT. BOY ARE

          WE GLAD TO HEAR YOU. OVER".

          I once received a distress call on a CB radio before I

     became an amateur, I have a letter of Commendation from the

     Canadian Forces, Pacific, stating that my action was

     instrumental in the rescue of a fishing vessel in the Queen

     Charlotte Islands. I was stationed in Manitoba at the time.

     I was more tense than I would have believed possible from

     handling an emergency message. That feeling came over me

     again, multiplied many times over when we got an answer that

     night on the Canadian tundra.....

          We talked to five or six Airliners that night.Finally,

     at about 9:30 p.m., we received a message that a helicopter

     was on it's way. The pilot estimated he was about 40 miles

     south of us. We were instructed to start a signal fire.

          We started the damndest blaze you ever saw,. Gasoline

     soaked kapok from the lifejackets, sticks, leaves, grass,

     anything we could find. We broke our fingernails clawing

     moss from the rocks. A dense white smoke billowed upward. We

     kept this up for over an hour.

          Meanwhile, convinced that our rescue was near at hand,

     we started packing. At Chuck's suggestion I took the

     Automatic direction finder (ADF) out of the plane but left

     the VHF radio for the last minute. He was afraid someone

     might strip the plane before it was salvaged.

          We figured they would send a Jet Ranger helicopter for

     us. At a cruise speed of 120 miles per hour, they should

     have been here at least 40 minutes earlier.

          The VHF was squawking so I jumped in and listened, I

     believe it was either KLM, or Air France, asking me to

     confirm our position as 5720 north by 9740 west. I couldn't

     believe it. After a correct read back on the original

     position they now had us 2 degrees farther south. At 60

     miles to the degree they were searching 120 miles too far

     south. No wonder the chopper hadn't arrived.

          I grabbed the Microphone and sent our correct position

     again. They replied:

          "WE ARE RECEIVING CARRIER

          ONLY. NO VOICE. PLEASE

          REPEAT. OVER."

          I tried again. Same result. When I removed the ADF I

     had apparently broken a wire in the audio circuitry. Now we

     were without communications... Or were we?

          I jumped into the pilot's seat, put the microphone on

     my knee and keyed the press to talk switch in the familiar

     stacatto of Morse Code:

          "SOS, SOS, SOS, DE CF IXJ

          CF IXJ CF IXJ HW CPY BK."

          Long hours of use were beginning to pay off. The

     airliner, apparently in contact with another aircraft said,

     "That guy sure knows his morse code, sounds like he is

     telling us something but none of us know Morse."

           My heart sank. What good is Morse if the guy can't

     copy at the other end?

          Having had a few contacts like that on Ham frequencies

     I decided to slow down, the normal procedure, and try again.

     The guy got the point. I assume he looked up the code

     printed on his flight manuals.

          At the tedious speed of about 1/2 word per minute,

     checking on each letter, he finally confirmed our location.

     He informed us that Air Sea Rescue would be out in the

     morning.

          Thankfully, summer nights are short in the north. The

     sun set after midnight, rising again at 3:30 a.m. on Sunday

     June 26.

          Unlike Chuck and Dave, I was unable to sleep. I sat in

     the pilots seat, catnapping.

          With the first rays of dawn I heard an aircraft.

     Looking out I could see it. About six or seven miles away,

     going east was a Canadian Forces Hercules. A four engine

     search and rescue aircraft from Edmonton, Alberta.  He was

     doing an electronic search, homing on our ELT.

          At about 4:00 a.m. he came right at us, I turned on the

     strobe lights, jumped out onto the float, lit a red railroad

     flare, and waved it like a madman. They flew right over us

     at treetop height.

          At my request they dropped some insect repellant and

     began a circular orbit around us.  A helicopter finally

     picked us up at about 8:00 AM.

          The machine had been chartered by an oil company to

     provide transport for some executives. It was obviously not

     a working machine as it was upholstered in leathers and

     velvets. For this reason the pilot would not allow us to

     take our "stinking fish". We had to leave them on the shore.

          Because of poor weather we had to land at the camp of a

     survey crew where we enjoyed hot food and coffee. The

     weather cleared at about 2:00 p.m. and the chopper took us

     to Churchill.

          On our arrival, I phoned my wife and told her the

     story. She was not aware of our problem as we were not due

     back until Sunday evening. She hired another pilot to fly my

     aircraft to Churchill for transportation home. We were

     tired, hungry, fishless, and bug bitten, but glad to be out

     of the bush.

          The plane has since been brought out of the bush and

     repaired. We made another journey to Nejanilini that fall,

     picked up the gear we left behind, and did some fishing. We

     didn't catch as many prize trout, but we sure enjoyed it.

          We have the best setup in the world: wild, rugged,

     beautiful country; hunting and fishing second to none. The

     airplanes, to get us in and out; and amateur radio, to while

     away the long winter nights and  get us out of trouble.

                                   the end