ODDS’N’SODS — Bogged down in the North

Several years ago, I was being flown in a Bell J2 helicopter on assignment to map a few scattered outcrops along the Manitoba-Ontario border.

The machine had been out of service for 10 days following the discovery of a slight cough in the engine. The cough would seem to have been short-lived, and an engineer pronounced the aircraft airworthy.

We had tried to gain access to the area several times previously, but our efforts had always been thwarted by one obstacle or another, including bad weather, lack of fuel, and darkness.

Flying in a westerly direction, we approached the border and I spied the low outcrop ridge we were seeking. I pointed to a small, open swale that looked suitable for landing when, suddenly, the aircraft began coughing, shaking and losing altitude. The white spruce trees on the ridge loomed up quickly and I braced my feet. The pilot remained cooly determined to get the machine down quickly and safely — we betrayed no signs of panic, just simple preparedness for the inevitable.

His piloting instincts proved strong. Taking advantage of intermittent surges of power, he employed autorotation and succeeded in landing us in the middle of the swale (which, we later learned, was the only landing site in a 2-mile radius). The area was large enough to accommodate two helicopters, though manoeuvring to land without getting our tail caught in the surrounding alders proved difficult.

Even though the helicopter was on floats, it hit hard. Dust that had accumulated in the cockpit swirled about us, obscuring visibility within the bubble. When it cleared, we found ourselves shaken but unhurt. The landing had been successful and, from what we could see, the machine suffered no visible damage.

The pilot shut off the engine, and I opened the door to step off the float on to the grass and sedge. Whereupon I immediately sank up to my waist in a floating bog. Crawling back on the float, I surveyed our surroundings and surmised that we would have to crawl on our bellies to reach solid ground.

Alas, the horseflies were almost the size of hummingbirds, and as ferocious as killer bees. Discretion suggested that our best strategy for the moment was to retreat to the bubble.

Our radio didn’t work and our emergency rations appeared to be about 10 years old. We had pencil flares, but neither of us had ever used one, and, moreover, we were not sure they would even work. It became apparent that we would have to conduct a test, the result of which was that the pilot blew off the tip of his thumb. This was promptly followed by a test of the first-aid kit.

In due course, we saw a Beech 18 heading north a few miles off, and, five hours later, we heard another plane. We fired a flare and recognized our Cessna 180, which was banking low over the edge of our swale and turning toward camp, to the east. We assumed we had been seen.

Eleven hours later, at 8:30 on the following morning, we were awakened by the familiar drone of a helicopter.

A Bell G4 carrying our resident engineer and another (from Ontario Hydro) settled in our little swale. I was soon transferred to one of those sandy beaches we all dream about but never see and, subsequently, was returned to camp.

Over the next two weeks, our helicopter was torn apart twice. The problem turned out to be a tiny chip lodged in the intake valve. It had the diameter of a pencil lead.

— The author, a consulting geologist, resides in Thunder Bay, Ont.