Read Online Into the Abyss by Carol Shaben - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Carol Shaben
Ads: Link
that Ted Grant had given him permission for Lee-Ann to accompany him and the engineer to Cambridge Bay.
“We’ll see about that,” Jones said. He headed toward the hangar and disappeared inside, only to return moments later.
“Get out of my plane,” Jones told Erik. “You’re done.”
Erik didn’t argue. The truth was, he
was
done. The risks hadsimply become too great. With hundreds of hours of flight time under his belt, Erik figured he’d have little trouble finding a job at another airline. He figured wrong. He wouldn’t fly again until two years later, when word came to him that a small northern Alberta airline called Wapiti Aviation was looking for pilots.
WAPITI
E rik was ecstatic to sign on with Wapiti Aviation on August 30, 1984. Dale Wells, its thirty-six-year-old chief pilot, maintenance engineer and flight instructor, seemed competent and straightforward, and Erik quickly grew to know Dale’s dad, Delbert, the company president and director of operations, and Dale’s mother. The Wells family even hosted Erik in their home for a couple of nights until he found a place to live. Erik recalled the pilot proficiency check that Dale gave him in his first week as one of the most thorough he’d ever received. He’d been impressed.
By September 6, Erik had completed his route check and been assigned captain on a twin-engine ten-seat Piper Navajo. But the challenges of flying with Wapiti Aviation far exceeded anything he’d faced in the Arctic, testing the bounds of his abilities. In comparison to flying in the far north, where the skies were uncontrolled and pilots crossing Canada’s vast expanses had room to manoeuvre, Wapiti’s passenger flights between Grande Prairie and Edmonton were complex. In short order, Erik had to learn approach procedures for six different airports, the locations and workings of eighteen navigational beacons, and thenuances of the weather and terrain in between. The airline maintained a fleet of fourteen single- and twin-engine commuter airplanes flying a loop of tightly timed stops to small communities in northern Alberta. Erik flew two to four flights a day, six days a week. When he wasn’t flying, he was on call for medivacs.
During one of his first flights, he’d connected by VHF radio with a former bush pilot he’d met four years earlier when they’d both worked in the Arctic. Shortly into the chat, the pilot asked Erik to switch over to a private frequency, then asked, “What the hell are you doing at Wapiti?”
Erik told him that he’d been desperate for work. He’d applied to dozens of airlines, but no one was hiring. When he’d learned about Wapiti, he’d been driving a transit bus for the handicapped in the Vancouver bedroom community of Surrey.
“That company’s bad news,” the pilot told him. “Get out of there.”
Soon after that exchange, Erik had a second chance encounter with another former Arctic bush pilot. Erik had just landed his plane in Edmonton and was waiting to be refuelled. The fuel truck finally arrived and a tall, familiar-looking man in a rampie’s jumpsuit got out. Erik’s eyes widened. It was Duncan Bell.
Erik had heard nothing of Bell since the pilot had crashed his plane. The two men shook hands awkwardly. There was no light banter, no
Hey, Enrico!
Erik had wanted to ask him what had happened on the day he crashed. He still couldn’t understand how Bell could have made such a careless mistake, but considering how the tables had turned for the two pilots, Erik said nothing.
The meeting with Bell reinforced Erik’s feeling that he was lucky to be aloft, even if there were rumblings about Wapiti. September unfurled mild and clear, the landscape aglow with vivid fall colours—brilliant reds and oranges against enormous blue prairie sky. In the fields, combine harvesters worked overtime and from above Erikwatched them moving like small bugs across the prairie, consuming golden oceans of wheat and depositing neat bales like
“We’ll see about that,” Jones said. He headed toward the hangar and disappeared inside, only to return moments later.
“Get out of my plane,” Jones told Erik. “You’re done.”
Erik didn’t argue. The truth was, he
was
done. The risks hadsimply become too great. With hundreds of hours of flight time under his belt, Erik figured he’d have little trouble finding a job at another airline. He figured wrong. He wouldn’t fly again until two years later, when word came to him that a small northern Alberta airline called Wapiti Aviation was looking for pilots.
WAPITI
E rik was ecstatic to sign on with Wapiti Aviation on August 30, 1984. Dale Wells, its thirty-six-year-old chief pilot, maintenance engineer and flight instructor, seemed competent and straightforward, and Erik quickly grew to know Dale’s dad, Delbert, the company president and director of operations, and Dale’s mother. The Wells family even hosted Erik in their home for a couple of nights until he found a place to live. Erik recalled the pilot proficiency check that Dale gave him in his first week as one of the most thorough he’d ever received. He’d been impressed.
By September 6, Erik had completed his route check and been assigned captain on a twin-engine ten-seat Piper Navajo. But the challenges of flying with Wapiti Aviation far exceeded anything he’d faced in the Arctic, testing the bounds of his abilities. In comparison to flying in the far north, where the skies were uncontrolled and pilots crossing Canada’s vast expanses had room to manoeuvre, Wapiti’s passenger flights between Grande Prairie and Edmonton were complex. In short order, Erik had to learn approach procedures for six different airports, the locations and workings of eighteen navigational beacons, and thenuances of the weather and terrain in between. The airline maintained a fleet of fourteen single- and twin-engine commuter airplanes flying a loop of tightly timed stops to small communities in northern Alberta. Erik flew two to four flights a day, six days a week. When he wasn’t flying, he was on call for medivacs.
During one of his first flights, he’d connected by VHF radio with a former bush pilot he’d met four years earlier when they’d both worked in the Arctic. Shortly into the chat, the pilot asked Erik to switch over to a private frequency, then asked, “What the hell are you doing at Wapiti?”
Erik told him that he’d been desperate for work. He’d applied to dozens of airlines, but no one was hiring. When he’d learned about Wapiti, he’d been driving a transit bus for the handicapped in the Vancouver bedroom community of Surrey.
“That company’s bad news,” the pilot told him. “Get out of there.”
Soon after that exchange, Erik had a second chance encounter with another former Arctic bush pilot. Erik had just landed his plane in Edmonton and was waiting to be refuelled. The fuel truck finally arrived and a tall, familiar-looking man in a rampie’s jumpsuit got out. Erik’s eyes widened. It was Duncan Bell.
Erik had heard nothing of Bell since the pilot had crashed his plane. The two men shook hands awkwardly. There was no light banter, no
Hey, Enrico!
Erik had wanted to ask him what had happened on the day he crashed. He still couldn’t understand how Bell could have made such a careless mistake, but considering how the tables had turned for the two pilots, Erik said nothing.
The meeting with Bell reinforced Erik’s feeling that he was lucky to be aloft, even if there were rumblings about Wapiti. September unfurled mild and clear, the landscape aglow with vivid fall colours—brilliant reds and oranges against enormous blue prairie sky. In the fields, combine harvesters worked overtime and from above Erikwatched them moving like small bugs across the prairie, consuming golden oceans of wheat and depositing neat bales like
Similar Books
