Canada Tungsten had commissioned the rapid aerial reconnaissance of 200 miles of access road that spanned the Yukon and the Northwest Territories in order to determine its schedule for winter freighting.
Bud Harbottle was the pilot of the Anson Mark V aircraft we were to fly, and Jack Crowhurst was the co-pilot. I would occupy the freight bay to film the stretches of road. We chose a marvelous day in late summer, a rare break in the weather for that region of the Yukon, and I wore casual work clothes and my old felt hat in order to relax and enjoy the day.
With twin engines roaring, we left the asphalt strip at Watson Lake and headed north, over the newly completed road, to Francis Lake. Bud maintained a low-level flight path so we could observe the road configuration and conditions closely.
Past Francis Lake, the road diverged into the rugged MacKenzie Mountains of the Northwest Territories and Bud twisted and turned as he adhered to the meagre tract in the mountain valleys.
I don’t recall when exactly my stomach started to complain, but the pace and quick motion of the plane kept me bound to my seat. I was thankful for my old felt hat, however, as the contents of my breakfast were soon deposited into it.
The flight became more furious as we crossed the tight, narrow pass over the McKenzie Mountains. My insides revolted some more and by noon my hat was brimming with the contents of my inner turmoil.
We finally settled at a peaceful flight level near the Flat River Valley, and I was able to regain both balance and composure. We soon swooped down upon the Flat River strip and I quietly and artfully hid my hat and its contents as I gingerly left the cabin of the plane. I informed Bud and Jack I would stay at the Flat Lakes camp and survey the road by car the next day. In no way would I impart the slightest sign of distress to my two rugged friends, nor would I suffer a return trip.
As I watched the plane rise gracefully from the field on its return trip to Watson Lake, I was grateful to have my feet planted on the turf of the strip. My return trip was tiring, needless to say, but I made it without my brown felt hat, duly laundered, ever leaving my head.
— The author, a retired mining engineer and regular contributor to this column, resides in Vancouver, B.C.
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