True-life Adventures of Canada’s Bush Pilots
by Bill Zuk

Prologue

When Doctor Ronald Shemenski awoke, the pain was still there. Grimacing as he rose slowly from his bunk, he made up his mind; he couldn’t wait any longer.

In April 2001, Antarctica was plunged into the perpetual sub-zero darkness of the southern winter. The -60 degree Celsius winds had swirled around the Amundsen-Scott South Pole Station for days, imprisoning the 50 scientists and workers in the National Science Foundation research station in a tomb-like world.

Days earlier, Dr. Shemenski had passed a gallstone but was now suffering from a pancreatic inflammation. It was a potentially dangerous condition requiring lifesaving surgery. As the only doctor at the research station, he transmitted an ultrasound image by satellite to a medical centre in Denver, Colorado. Shemenski’s diagnosis was confirmed by staff stateside and they concurred that an evacuation was critical.

Distress calls to McMurdo, the nearest Antarctic base where giant Hercules transports could evacuate the doctor, disclosed the grim news that the freezing temperatures and darkness would prevent a rescue. In winter, the transports’ hydraulic fluid would congeal into a thick gel and electrical cables would snap in two.

A rescue mission had never been attempted at the height of an Antarctic winter, yet Sean Loutitt, an Alberta bush pilot working for Kenn Borek Air, thought he could make it. Flying a rugged twin-engined de Havilland Twin Otter, Loutitt with co-pilot Mark Cary and flight engineer Norm Wong flew out of Chile where he picked up Dr. Betty Carlisle, Shemenski’s replacement, staging from Rothera, the British base on Adelaide Island near the tip of western Antarctica.

When cautioned about his chances for success, Loutitt remarked, that like bush pilots before him, “We go into places no one has ever been before.”

Now published by James Lorimer & Sons, 2009.

More information on current research projects to come...

December 10, 1931, somewhere north of Little Grand Rapids

Stewart McRorie clenched at the controls of Fokker Universal “G-CAJD,” peering into an increasingly bleak sky in front of him. This was to have been a “milk run” for James A. Richardson’s Canadian Airways. Their cargo was food and supplies for the prospectors up at Island Lake in northern Manitoba where a gold strike had recently brought a flurry of activity. For the last few minutes, over the roar of the engine and fighting against the bitter wind in the open cockpit, pilot McRorie had been shouting back to his flight engineer, Neville “Slim” Forrest, that their prospects were looking exceedingly grim.

There were only two viable options in a line squall, push on and hope for the best or start looking for a landing site. As precious moments ticked by, McRorie made his decision. Descending in shallow dives from 2000 ft. to 200 ft., he could make out the icy shape of a lake directly ahead of him, still on his original compass heading. Seeing a bluish hue, McRorie judged the lake as solid.

McRorie later recalled in a 1981 interview, “ I wanted to land while I knew where I was.” He stretched his glide to “a long stretch on the lake on the northern, north-east side,” aiming for a spot 200 yards out and then taking it in “about 25 or 30 yards from the shore.”

Marking the time of landing as approximately “noon,” McRorie expertly touched down in his ski-equipped plane and cut “JD’s” throttle to idle. Slowly steering for the shoreline, the heavily-laden Fokker Universal suddenly began crashing through the thin upper layer of ice.

Scrambling out of the transport, McRorie and Forrest, abandoned the plane. For the first night, a lean-to had been fashioned on the side of the aircraft to protect Forrest, who had escaped the aircraft through the side cabin door and was drenching wet after plunging into the lake.

Two other Canadian Airways transports, much faster and newer Fokker “Super” Universals on the same cargo run were already in the air, setting off ahead of McRorie, trying to beat out the storm. Scanning the grey, violent storm, the duo knew that they could survive if they just kept their wits about them. Their best chance for rescue would be to wait out the storm and stay put; their companion planes just had to retrace McRorie’s flight path to locate the downed plane.

The pair made their way to shore next day to set up a campsite. They lit two fires on islands and kept them going during the daylight, hopping to draw attention to their plight. Even without modern aerial maps or other air navigation supports, bush pilots had made their reputation as rugged survivors who could get out of perilous situations. Many intrepid fliers had even packed snowshoes for the inevitable trudge back home.

After nearly using up their emergency rations and canned goods retrieved from the cargo hold, McRorie and Forrest were spotted by Tom Boulanger, a local fur trapper who had seen one of their campfires. Knowing that although overhead, the swirling storm and heavy overcast prevented aerial searchers from finding the downed aircraft, the group decided to set out for Little Grand Rapids, their starting-point on the fateful flight. Two days into their trek, McRorie and Forrest, accompanied by Boulanger and another native guide, made their way back to safety.

The abandoned Fokker Universal sat forlornly imbedded in the ice of Charron Lake until spring breakup in 1932 when it gracefully floated to the bottom, seemingly lost for all time in the remote northern Manitoba lake. Canadian Airways dutifully wrote the aircraft off their books shortly after.

July 4, 2005, in a survey vessel on Charron Lake

The five members of the search team peered into the monitor. The ghostly image was unmistakable, the lost Fokker Universal, G-CAJD, was resting on the bottom, 40 meters below the gently swaying boat. It was the realization of a quest that had spanned over seventy years.