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Authors: Michael Vlessides
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pantheon of modern-day air travel. As Mikey says, while there are other airlines around the world that fly a few of these old warbirds (Alaska’s Everts Air Cargo and Colombia’s Saldeca are two), none can claim such an extensive fleet of flying history.
With so many things to look after, it’s no wonder that Mikey’s work day continues long after he’s left the confines of Buffaloworld. Whenever we go to lunch, Mikey’s phone rings every few minutes. And when his phone’s not ringing, he’s constantly sending and receiving texts and emails, hundreds per day. On one frozen February afternoon, Mikey and I are sitting opposite each other at his favourite Yellowknife haunt, Surly Bob’s sports bar. (Mikey also has a soft spot for the local strip club, Harley’s Hard Rock Saloon, particularly on Monday evenings, when a new stripper arrives from Edmonton for a week-long stint in the Knife). We’re not looking at each other, though, as our heads are buried deep in our iPhones. “You know,” Surly Bob growls as he hands us our meals, “you could just look at each other and talk. ”
As if. Mikey gets fifty to sixty-five calls on a slow day, a hundred if things are getting hot and heavy. The guy goes through a new cellphone about every four months and is an expert on cellphone technology.
Like so many people his age—he was born in 1982, when I was making my way through high school—Mikey is more comfortable with technology than he is without it. He doesn’t seem to care all that much about what he wears, what he drives (a beat-up 1989 Buffalo Airways Ford Ranger), or the condition of his house, which seems to be in a state of perpetual renovation and/or repair. But when it comes to technology, Mikey is dialled in.
The focal point of Mikey’s living room is a massive sixty-two-inch flat-screen TV. When he’s not at work, he spends a fair bit of time in front of it, simultaneously watching and working on his MacBook Pro. Sure, he’s got his satellite TV, Blu-ray player, and other digital accoutrements that adorn the living rooms of most North American families these days. But what separates Mikey from the rest of us mere viewers is that Mikey is a student of technology. He is addicted to social networking and thinks that Facebook may be the greatest innovation since the Ski-Doo.
“I can probably attribute thirty thousand dollars a year in merchandise sales directly to Facebook,” he told me one evening as we relaxed in his living room. “So how can I not be fully behind that kind of technology?”
Yet as much as it may have profited him, Mikey also appreciates Facebook for its ability to thrust its users— all of its users—into the global spotlight. “Sure, the people who are private will always be private,” he says. “But I think people tend to be narcissistic; that’s human nature. So thanks to Facebook, everybody is a celebrity now.”
Admittedly, some of us achieve greater celebrity than others, regardless of the Facebook phenomenon. I don’t have people throwing themselves all over me in distant airports. I don’t have strange women texting me photos of their scantily clad and/or unclad bodies. And I don’t have business owners from all over the globe sending me cases of their wares, in the hopes that I may eat it, use it, mention it, or wear it on my wildly successful TV show. Mikey does.
As I reflect on his celebrity—and the phenomenon that Ice Pilots has become—I begin to realize just how much foresight, intelligence, creativity, and business acumen this frat-boy-cum-TV-star possesses.
As you might expect, Mikey’s indoctrination into the world of aviation did not start at adulthood. Buffalo Airways has been a constant in his life for as long as he can remember.
He was born and raised in Hay River, Northwest Territories, a town of slightly more than thirty-five hundred people perched just north of the 60th parallel. The town sits where the Hay River empties into Great Slave Lake,
With so many things to look after, it’s no wonder that Mikey’s work day continues long after he’s left the confines of Buffaloworld. Whenever we go to lunch, Mikey’s phone rings every few minutes. And when his phone’s not ringing, he’s constantly sending and receiving texts and emails, hundreds per day. On one frozen February afternoon, Mikey and I are sitting opposite each other at his favourite Yellowknife haunt, Surly Bob’s sports bar. (Mikey also has a soft spot for the local strip club, Harley’s Hard Rock Saloon, particularly on Monday evenings, when a new stripper arrives from Edmonton for a week-long stint in the Knife). We’re not looking at each other, though, as our heads are buried deep in our iPhones. “You know,” Surly Bob growls as he hands us our meals, “you could just look at each other and talk. ”
As if. Mikey gets fifty to sixty-five calls on a slow day, a hundred if things are getting hot and heavy. The guy goes through a new cellphone about every four months and is an expert on cellphone technology.
Like so many people his age—he was born in 1982, when I was making my way through high school—Mikey is more comfortable with technology than he is without it. He doesn’t seem to care all that much about what he wears, what he drives (a beat-up 1989 Buffalo Airways Ford Ranger), or the condition of his house, which seems to be in a state of perpetual renovation and/or repair. But when it comes to technology, Mikey is dialled in.
The focal point of Mikey’s living room is a massive sixty-two-inch flat-screen TV. When he’s not at work, he spends a fair bit of time in front of it, simultaneously watching and working on his MacBook Pro. Sure, he’s got his satellite TV, Blu-ray player, and other digital accoutrements that adorn the living rooms of most North American families these days. But what separates Mikey from the rest of us mere viewers is that Mikey is a student of technology. He is addicted to social networking and thinks that Facebook may be the greatest innovation since the Ski-Doo.
“I can probably attribute thirty thousand dollars a year in merchandise sales directly to Facebook,” he told me one evening as we relaxed in his living room. “So how can I not be fully behind that kind of technology?”
Yet as much as it may have profited him, Mikey also appreciates Facebook for its ability to thrust its users— all of its users—into the global spotlight. “Sure, the people who are private will always be private,” he says. “But I think people tend to be narcissistic; that’s human nature. So thanks to Facebook, everybody is a celebrity now.”
Admittedly, some of us achieve greater celebrity than others, regardless of the Facebook phenomenon. I don’t have people throwing themselves all over me in distant airports. I don’t have strange women texting me photos of their scantily clad and/or unclad bodies. And I don’t have business owners from all over the globe sending me cases of their wares, in the hopes that I may eat it, use it, mention it, or wear it on my wildly successful TV show. Mikey does.
As I reflect on his celebrity—and the phenomenon that Ice Pilots has become—I begin to realize just how much foresight, intelligence, creativity, and business acumen this frat-boy-cum-TV-star possesses.
As you might expect, Mikey’s indoctrination into the world of aviation did not start at adulthood. Buffalo Airways has been a constant in his life for as long as he can remember.
He was born and raised in Hay River, Northwest Territories, a town of slightly more than thirty-five hundred people perched just north of the 60th parallel. The town sits where the Hay River empties into Great Slave Lake,
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