From the air , our camp , consisting of five tents and an outhouse adorned with the tradional half moon peephole , looked rather inviting as it was perched high on a bank overlooking a river , a green rushing glacial torrent still carving away at its winter mantle of ice that often tore off large chunks that revealed an icy beautiful blue tinge therein.
The snow was mostly gone except for large patches in the shade of the hills where a few caribou would lay in the heat of the day. While still waiting for the nod from HQ to start flying , we were often entertained by a mother fox on the other side of the river who taught her young to catch rodents and she tossed them into the air as they playfully romped in the snow.
A lone wolf , shabilly shedding his winter coat , visited dailly , keeping his distance as did we. Walking was difficult on the rocky tundra and frustrating too as the misplaced rocks rolled underfoot and we quickly named them the devil's marbles. Dailly we were warmed by the low arctic sun but often a piercing icy wind had us holed up in the tents that trembled and the diesel stove moaned in protest.
We waited and we wandered about. ... waiting for the puzzle palace in Ottawa to make up their minds as to which settings to use on our equipment. We ate well and slept and read until it was time to eat again. We understood , however , that the decisions being made in Ottawa were of the utmost importance ... it was diamonds we were looking for ..... we waited. The conditions were ripe for sinking morale , probably the biggest danger in a situation such as this with months to go .
One day , Jerzy , Eric and I wandered down to the huge junk pile left over from the cold war days when this was an advanced radar site hooked directly to Cheyenne Mountain. The junk pile would be as big as a football field and comprised discarded building supplies , office chairs , windows , doors all damaged somewhat. Electrical transformers , wiring , spools , searchlights , a junkies dream. We burrowed our way to the middle and declared that this was to be the site of the Baffin Island Yacht Club and we marked our trail out and scurried out to the aircraft to retrieve our hidden booty of vodka and rum.
We were busy for days as we made a floor from pallets , a skylight from searchlight lenses , a bar made from a huge electrical panel and in electrical tape , a sign "members Only". We took turns at being the Comodore and the honour of sitting in the only chair we had. We could see out to all points of the compass but the entrance was impossible to find. Over the bar there was a huge guage that read Full/Empty ... we had no idea what it was for but we laughed till we dropped foaming from the mouth , fortified with the evil drink.
The All terrain vehicles buzzed about but our whereabouts remained a mystery to the camp members. We slowly conducted interviews based on trust and our membership swelled to five. Morale was at a peak when the word came down to fly which we did with renewed enthusiam. We owed Jerzy for life because you must remember that the operators had been stripped of their flying incentive pay and we replaced that incentive with companionship and vodka.
Eric and I were both new Captains but he had a lot more time survey flying than I and it showed. We would compete in a friendly fashion but his accuracy was remarkable. The high morale translated into very accurate data even though we flew two trips per day of four hours each as we alternated Captains seats. We dragged that contraption up steep escarpments , allowing of course for the two trailing birds on their respective cables, and then we would plunge down towards the azure lakes and brown meadows dotted with caribou.
The call from the operator "End of the line" would far too often occur half way up a steep hill or in the face of an icy cliff where we had to execute a timed , co-ordinated tear drop turn to intercept the next line a mere two hundred metres over. This had to be done within fifty metres but we strived for ten metres. Skill , patience , a good lookout , pre planning , cunning , trust in your crew ... all had to be orchestrated for every turn ... never a cross word ... never any whining.
At the end of the day , when the data was downloaded by the processors we could see our track , every turn , every deviation from altitude and general accuracy. We were proud , and , after supper , we would retire to the Yacht Club.
Our engineer did very well to keep the aircraft in good trim considering the dusty conditions and the refuelling from barrells that the huge engines emptied by the dozens dailly. HQ was stunned as to the rapidity with which we pounded off the kilometres and soon more fuel was to be flown in on a chartered Hawker 748 , a true workhorse in the North and flown by some of the best and most professional crews in aviation.
It arrived on a day when we were timed out anyway and its arrival on that dusty , gusty strip was an event in itself. Bouyed by high spirits we played "hop the barrells" as they came hurtling down the barrell ramp
Up and down the line we flew. Day after day.
And so it was on the barrens.
We flew the contract in half the time predicted by the puzzle palace in Ottawa and we were rewarded handsomely down south in Yellowknife later on.
I must say that the lessons learned were profound. Once egos are set aside and that effort is put into morale it embraces the notion that we are all in this together. So a mission that was turned down by other crews became quite an adventure for a lucky band of brothers.