Into the Abyss (9 page)

Jim had asked the Transport Canada official whether the pilot or the carrier would be held responsible if a pilot was pressured to bust the minimums and was caught. The inspector told him that it was the carrier’s responsibility to ensure its pilots knew the regulations. However, he also cautioned that
pilots who broke the rules, either knowingly or unknowingly, wouldn’t be completely absolved of blame.

Jim also warned Erik that even though a functioning autopilot was required for single-pilot IFR flights, the autopilots on some Wapiti
aircraft couldn’t be trusted. To prove his point, Jim
engaged the autopilot on his plane and it responded erratically.

Despite these weighty issues and the weather, Erik enjoyed his flight with Jim. The sky was overcast as they descended through snow and heavy fog, and the plane was only a few hundred feet off the ground before the runway appeared. Once on the tarmac, Erik helped unload luggage while Jim went to get a weather update and check on passengers for the flight back to Edmonton. When he returned, Erik knew from the look on his face that something was wrong.

“We’re fully booked,” Jim said.

“You’re bumping me?”
How the hell was he going to get back?

Jim was apologetic, telling Erik that another Wapiti pilot, Ed Seier, was flying to Edmonton later that afternoon, and Erik could catch a ride with him. Seier was tight with the bosses and the other pilots kept their complaints to themselves when he was around. Erik groaned. He had no doubt that Seier would mention his unauthorized side trip to the Wellses.

Mercifully, by the time Erik flew his own repaired plane back to Grande Prairie that night, Dale and Delbert had both gone home. The next day he was scheduled to begin another six-day run of flying, this time on the p.m. sked. Erik was certain he was about to become the latest member of the “89 Day Club,” what Wapiti pilots dubbed the company’s
practice of terminating pilots before their ninetieth day of employment to avoid having to provide two weeks’ notice and holiday pay. He lay in bed sick with worry until exhaustion overtook him and he eventually fell asleep.

A heavy weight of dread filled Erik as he arrived for work on Thursday—whether at the prospect of seeing Dale or flying, he couldn’t be sure. A high-pressure system had moved in and settled in a wide band stretching north from Montana through Edmonton and up to Fort Smith, which meant there would be no escaping the weather.

Tonight would be the first time he’d have to rely on his instruments to get into the uncontrolled airports in High Prairie and Fairview. The thought of trying to land in these conditions made Erik nervous. He believed that Dale would want him to take a shot at getting in, no matter the weather, and the best Erik could hope was that Dale would assign a co-pilot on the flight.

That is, if Erik still had a job.

As if the thought summoned the man, Dale entered the hangar.

“Kawa will be your co-pilot tonight,” he said. “And another thing …”

Erik held his breath, but instead of firing him, Dale asked Erik to pick up a set of propellers in Edmonton and bring them back that evening. Relief swept over him. Without waiting for Dale to say more, Erik hurried outside to prep his flight.

Erik was happy to have Andy Kawa with him. After landing in Edmonton at 6:20, the two pilots worked flat out to turn the flight around and get airborne within the allotted half-hour. Erik left Kawa to look after the passengers while he went in search of the props. When he returned Kawa had good news: there were no passengers bound for High Prairie or Fairview. Erik loaded the propellers into the plane’s wing lockers, boarded his passengers and prepared to depart.

The cloud ceiling had dropped to below 900 feet by the time the plane took off. The temperature hovered just below freezing, and heavy, sodden snowflakes clung to the windshield before the wipers pushed the slushy mess away. Erik gained altitude and was soon above the cloud and into clear air, where he remained until Peace River Air Traffic Control gave him clearance to begin his descent into the airport. The plane stumbled out of the cloud at 800 feet and when it landed, Erik was ten minutes behind schedule. As he deplaned, he discovered why. The leading edges of the wings were coated with thick, uneven crusts of ice. The sight of it shocked him. He hadn’t expected that level of icing to form in less than an hour. Erik climbed
back into the cockpit and flipped the switch for the wing de-icer boots, but nothing happened.

Asking Kawa to look after the passengers so he could figure out how to de-ice the wings, Erik hurried to the terminal and minutes later returned with a broom. It wasn’t sophisticated, but if there was something he’d learned flying in the Arctic, it was to use the resources one had at hand. Standing in front of the wing, he banged the broom handle gently against its underside. The ice cracked and pieces broke away in sheets, smashing onto the tarmac like windowpanes. Erik heard a voice behind him remark, “
Pretty ugly icing up there.”

He turned to see a local circuit court judge who, along with his secretary, often flew from Peace River to Grande Prairie. Erik stammered something he hoped might reassure him, but the judge smiled good-humouredly, waving off Erik’s words. Northern Albertans were as hearty as the people he’d met in the Arctic, and almost as accustomed to bad weather. But Erik couldn’t afford to dismiss the icing. Within minutes of leaving Peace River, he could see a thin uneven bar of it reforming on the leading edge of his left wing. Perspiration blossomed under his moustache as Kawa called for clearance to ascend above the cloud. Flying in icing conditions without reliable de-icing equipment was dangerous, and by the time they began their descent into Grande Prairie, Erik was white knuckled, certain that the plane would stall at any moment. The reported conditions at the airport provided little encouragement:
Ground fog. Weather 500 feet. Visibility one half mile
. Erik was almost on top of the runway lights before he spied them dashing toward him. He pulled back on the yoke and the plane hit with a jolt. The rubber wheels screamed against the icy asphalt before the plane eventually shuddered to a stop.

Erik was stiff with exhaustion. Wearily, he deplaned the passengers and with Kawa’s help, unloaded their luggage and put the aircraft to bed for the night. A wisp of something forgotten feathered the edge
of his consciousness, but he was too weary to grasp it. He shouldered his flight bag and walked slowly through the midnight quiet to his truck. Tomorrow he would need to do this all over again and the weather promised to be the same if not worse.

Late on the morning of Friday, October 19, 1984, Erik awoke to more snow and overcast skies. Moving sluggishly, he showered then dressed in his uniform of sorts—a white collared shirt, navy dress pants and a dark tie. He padded sluggishly into the tiny kitchen of his basement suite and opened the fridge. As usual, it was empty. On the countertop he spied the tin of his mom’s homemade chocolate chip cookies. Earlier that week, Erik’s parents, concerned for his well-being, had planned to visit him in Grande Prairie.

“Don’t come,” he’d told them. “It’s crazy here. I’m flying every day and don’t know when I’ll have time to see you.”

His parents had relented, but his mom had sent the tin of cookies. Now he opened it, stuffed one in his mouth and then wrapped up four more for later. He dropped them into his flight bag next to his logbook, pulled on his heavy parka and left the apartment.

Snow continued to tumble steadily, as it had over the past three days. Whorls of flakes skittered across the windshield of his truck as he sped west along 100th Avenue toward the airport. As he exited the thoroughfare and drove north, the Wapiti Aviation hangar rose like the spine of an enormous whale surfacing from an ocean of white. The building was a large Quonset hut with a patchwork of mustard and white squares covering its long curve of roof. Sprawled down the length of it in big block letters was WAPITI.

Erik first checked in with the weather office at the terminal. He’d hoped there would be a change in the forecast, but the SIGMET that had been issued over the past three days was still in effect. A SIGMET,
or significant meteorological information, is an advisory that warns pilots of severe or hazardous weather conditions, including severe icing. Erik knew firsthand from last night’s flight just how
significant
that icing could be. It had the ability to reduce his plane’s aerodynamic efficiency, weigh it down and, in extreme cases—which Erik dared not even think about—cause a crash. He felt a familiar churning in his stomach. While the chances were slim that Wapiti would ground his flight, surely he’d have another set of hands in the cockpit today.

Erik trudged across the snow to preflight his aircraft, the same one he’d captained the previous night. It was a Piper Navajo Chieftain, registration number C-GXUC, one of the planes that Transport Canada had recently grounded citing maintenance issues. Though C-GXUC was back in service, after last night’s problem with the wing de-icers Erik wasn’t sure he could trust it.

The pilot who’d flown the a.m. sked was wrapping up his shift and gave him a rundown. Erik was already uneasy at the thought of flying into High Prairie and Fairview, and the pilot’s report didn’t help. The plow hadn’t been out that day and there was snow on the runway.

“
I barely made it off,” he said. Then the pilot dropped another bombshell. He had flown to Edmonton and back that morning with his plane feeling inexplicably overweight. It was only after he returned to Grande Prairie and checked the wing lockers that he discovered the propellers that Erik had forgotten to unload.

That’s it
, Erik thought.
I’m toast
.

Erik fuelled the plane and taxied to the terminal, feeling like a man heading to the gallows. It was 4:30 p.m. and he knew his passengers would soon be arriving for check-in. He still needed to get a handle on the weather and file his flight plan. The latest aerodrome forecast for the region didn’t look good.
Ceiling 1,000 ft broken, 2,000 ft overcast, occasional ceiling 800 ft broken, visibility 4 mi in light snow and fog
.
The conditions were marginal for visual flight and Erik might need to bust the minimums if he had passengers bound for High Prairie on his return.

His thoughts in turmoil, Erik lingered in the weather office. He made a photocopy of the aerodrome forecasts, highlighted the key terminals with a yellow marker, and then filed his flight plan. He checked his watch and, with a start, realized his passengers would be waiting. When Erik arrived at the departure area, Dale was checking them in for him.

“Where have you been?”

Abashedly, Erik held up the forecasts and offered to take over, but Dale waved him away and Erik stood awkwardly by while Dale finished checking in the last of the Edmonton-bound passengers. Finally, his boss asked the question Erik had been dreading.

“You good to go single pilot?”

Erik felt the blood drain from his face.

No, I’m not good to go single pilot
, Erik wanted to say.
I’m overwhelmed. And overworked. And exhausted. I need a second set of eyes in the cockpit. I need a plane I can trust. I’d like to overfly High Prairie tonight. I’d like not to be flying, period
.

Numbly, Erik nodded. He turned woodenly and started for the door. Dale called him back, gesturing toward the counter. Erik looked over to see the aircraft journey log lying on top of it. He must have left it behind in the dispatch office.
Where was his head?
Mumbling thanks to Dale for bringing it to the check-in counter, Erik picked up the forgotten documentation and walked outside to his plane.

Dale Wells watched Erik’s Piper Navajo taxi down the runway and take off. The Navajo gained altitude heading south and Dale saw it disappear into a low bank of cloud. Then he turned and crossed the
snow-swept expanse between the terminal and the Wapiti hangar, his boots slipping on the snow.

It had been a long tough road since he and his dad had started the airline in 1971 after purchasing the assets of Liberty Airways, a Grande Prairie–based air charter and ambulance service with four planes. Dale, twenty-four and a licenced pilot, had convinced his dad that a robust market existed for a local airline, and that they could make a go of it.

Since then his family had worked tirelessly to improve the business, and it was finally beginning to live up to the name he’d chosen.
Wapiti
is a First Nations word describing the North American elk, one of the largest and most majestic mammals to roam the continent. The father-son team soon added a flight school to their charter and air ambulance services. The school generated extra income and Dale loved teaching. His students were doctors, businesspeople, and eager youngsters filled with the same passion for flight that he’d discovered in his youth. Dale relished his hours in the cockpit with his students and enjoyed hearing about their lives.

In 1976 Dale applied for and received approval from Transport Canada to operate a point-to-point commercial passenger service between specific northern Alberta communities, namely Peace River, Grande Prairie, Grande Cache and Edmonton’s municipal airport. By 1977, Wapiti had expanded that service to include flights to Whitecourt, Hinton and Calgary.

Dale’s professional authority had also grown. Transport Canada approved him to do pilot proficiency checks on their behalf, and soon after he’d begun conducting flight tests for private and multi-engine pilots. A stream of willing pilots knocked on his door, and he hired many of them. Cash flow had recently been good enough for Dale to purchase several new planes.

Finally, Dale was beginning to achieve his dream of building a
thriving commuter airline offering passenger flights to the under-serviced northern half of the province. Though demand for flights in and out of these sparsely populated towns was sometimes sporadic, Wapiti was able to stay profitable by operating what was known as a “unit toll air service.” This permitted the airline to overfly certain stops if business was poor and to vary the size of its aircraft depending on the passenger and cargo loads.