Flying On Instinct (6 page)

In recognition of his contribution to mapping the Arctic, Gilbert was made a fellow of the Royal Geographical Society in 1932. He was awarded the McKee Trophy in 1933, “in recognition of his exploratory flights throughout the North.” Gilbert settled into the life of a bush pilot in Fort McMurray, taking prospectors and miners on charter flights across the North. With Punch Dickins, he completed the first commercial flight to Port Radium on Great Bear Lake in 1931, and that same year the Canadian Press paid him to fly a reporter to Aklavik for an interview with Charles Lindbergh, the first man to fly non-stop from New York to Paris, and his wife, Anne Morrow Lindbergh. The couple were flying across Canada on a trip to China and the Far East. The next morning, when Lindbergh had difficulty lifting off in his heavily fuelled plane, Gilbert pulled in front and took off so Lindbergh could ride his slipstream up off the water and into the air.

CHAPTER

5

CLENNELL HAGGERSTON DICKINS
could not remember when he was not called “Punch.” Born in Portage la Prairie, Manitoba, he moved to Edmonton with his family when he was 10. His nickname was bestowed either when his brother, Francis, called him Punch for some unknown reason, or when his maternal Aunt Nell called him a fat little punch because his clothes kept riding up over his tummy. However he received it, the nickname stuck for life. As a bush pilot he acquired other monikers. Northern Natives called him Snow Eagle, northern whites called him White Eagle, the press dubbed him The Flying Knight of the Northland and the Inuit called him Tingmashuk (birdman), although they
were often very skeptical of his airplane because “the wings don't flap.”

After enlisting in the infantry in the First World War, Dickins spent a less-than-exciting year as company clerk, then transferred into the RFC, where he became a bomber pilot, shooting down seven enemy aircraft and becoming one of the few bomber pilots designated an ace (a pilot with five or more kills). He modestly attributed his success to teamwork with his skilled gunner, Second Lieutenant Jock Adam, and by 1918 they had flown 73 missions together. Dickins was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross (DFC) at age 20 in 1919. After returning home, he briefly studied engineering at the University of Alberta, then earned commercial-pilot certification and joined the new RCAF from 1924 to 1927. Seeking to impress a girl named Connie whom he had met at university, Dickins flew his plane under Edmonton's High Level Bridge over the North Saskatchewan River. It was a dangerous stunt but dramatic enough to catch Connie's attention. They married in 1927 and remained a devoted couple for almost 70 years.

Assigned to report to the Edmonton Post Office on the use of aircraft to deliver letters and packages faster than by rail or truck, he left the military for civil aviation. He joined WCA and convinced them of the profitable future for airmail, proving it by flying the first prairie airmail circuit, which included Regina, Calgary, Edmonton, Saskatoon and Winnipeg. Like fellow bush pilots, Dickins was fascinated
by the new frontier, the North. During his long career, he flew more than 1,000,000 miles (1,610,000 kilometres) across the uncharted Arctic using nothing more than dead reckoning and his handmade maps because weather reports, accurate compass readings and even prepared landing strips were unknown. As a bush pilot, Dickins was reported missing many times, but he always made it out and back home. His exploits became legendary. Dickins delivered the first airmail over the Northwest Territories; he was the first pilot to fly along the Arctic coastline, the first to fly the full 2,000-mile (3,220-kilometre) length of the Mackenzie River, doing so in two days, and the first to fly prospectors to Great Bear Lake when uranium deposits were found there.

Throughout his life, Dickins was lucky. He walked away from many crack-ups without a scratch, leaving his planes to be picked up at a later date. He once ditched on a northern Ontario lake when his engine quit. He camped out, rationing his food to stretch over one week. Although he had brought his rifle along and could supplement his rations with wild game, he had no idea where he was. On day three of his encampment, he heard the roar of a plane and threw some more twigs on the fire. The search plane had spotted his signal fire and flown over to investigate. Seeing Dickins's waving arms, the pilot dipped his wings up and down and then landed to pick him up and fly him out.

It could have been much worse if Dickins hadn't been
wearing his usual cold-weather flying suit, which was a fur parka made entirely out of rat pelts. (They were probably muskrat pelts, but people liked the rat story better.) It was a unique wardrobe choice but essential to surviving in a harsh environment. Dickins counted on it to keep him snug and warm in the worst weather. It again proved its worth when he was forced down by a blizzard shortly after takeoff and had to walk through hip-high snow back to base.

In 1928, the parka accompanied him on a contract job for Lieutenant Colonel C.D.H. MacAlpine of Dominion Explorers. The job involved checking out locations along Hudson Bay and then parts of the unmapped Northwest Territories. Richard Pearce, the editor of
Northern Miner
, came along to write about the trip. Fuel caches would be available, but there would be long unexplored stretches of the Barrens to cover. They flew out of Winnipeg to Port Churchill and looked down on a pod of whales cavorting in the water below. Refuelling at Baker Lake, they flew over trackless tundra with not even a caribou herd in sight. For hours, there were no identifiable markers, and Dickins began to question his navigation. Were they going in the correct direction? The horizon was an indistinct blur with sky and land indistinguishable. He checked his rudimentary instruments and his maps, such as they were. He checked his own internal compass and sense of direction honed over years of bush flying. Cabin conversation ceased. The engine droned on. Finally there was a reflection from
something down below. It was Dubawnt Lake. They had made it over the worst part of the Barrens. Turning south, Dickins put down at the RCMP post at Stony Rapids, where they spent the night and refuelled after MacAlpine had a wee private chat with the reluctant commandant, who at first claimed there was no fuel available for the plane.

The next morning, gassed up, they set out again, but there were strong headwinds that ate up fuel at an alarming rate. Then the needle in the fuel gauge stabilized at quarter-full. Dickins was relieved, but not for long. When the engine started sputtering, he realized the needle was not registering accurately because it had frozen. The engine was dead, and they needed a place to land immediately. Down below was the Slave River. Dickins lined up with the ribbon of water, looking to see if there were any deadheads just under the surface, or any sandbars or animals crossing. It looked clear, but there would be no second chance. He had to get it right the first time. The three men chucked up their safety harness for maximum restraint and prepared to go in. Dickins chose his spot, an area without dark shadows that would indicate any obstacles. The Fokker floated down and landed like a leaf on the water. As the plane headed into shore, the men jumped out, sloshed through the cold water and tied the plane to some trees with rope from its cargo compartment.

Over a campfire, the men discussed their options. Nobody knew where they were, so rescue was unlikely. They
could abandon the plane and trek 60 miles (97 kilometres) with few supplies through unmapped bush in what they believed was the direction of Fort Smith. Dickins suggested they get the axe out of the plane, cut down some trees, build a raft and float downriver, hopefully to civilization. It was agreed that a raft was their best chance of getting out safely. MacAlpine and Pearce went to check out possible logs for the raft, and Dickins went to get the axe. Standing on one of the plane's floats, he stopped to catch a sound that was not made by Mother Nature. It sounded like the putt-putt-putt of an engine, but his engine was very dead. Then he heard the blast of a whistle coming from the river. He grabbed his binoculars and scanned the water. It was surreal. Coming around the bend, belching black smoke and churning the water, was a real live steamboat.

Dickins jumped back on shore and tore through the underbrush, shouting and waving his arms. The boat kept moving. Racing over rocks into a clearing, he yelled even more, jumping up and down on top of a high boulder. The boat slowed, started a turn and gave a loud blast. Somebody on board waved back. As the steamboat pulled near shore, a man in a red-and-black-checked wool jacket leaned over the rail and shouted, “Are you guys in trouble?”

Not any more, thought Dickins, but he shouted back, “Do you have any airplane fuel on board?”

“Sure do,” was the reply. “Got ten drums for some guy called Dickins who is supposed to fly up here next winter.”

In 1929, one of the first airmail planes in the North is loaded with mailbags at Fort McMurray, Alberta, en route to Aklavik, Northwest Territories.
GLENBOW ARCHIVES NA-463-49

“I'll take them. I'm Dickins,” came the response.

MacAlpine was flabbergasted. Pearce was madly scribbling in his notebook. Prescient or not, management back at WCA had decided to set up fuel caches along the riverbank for future flights they had scheduled for Dickins. The fuel had arrived just in the nick of time. Gassed up and good to go within an hour, Dickins lifted off and dipped his wings to the steamboat below before heading to Fort Smith with two very relieved passengers.

In spite of demonstrations to the contrary, the federal government still did not believe a private company could deliver mail quickly and reliably. WCA wanted to prove
them wrong. On January 23, 1929, with engineer Lew Parmenter and postal inspector T.J. O'Reilly, Dickins was airborne from Edmonton, en route between Fort McMurray and Aklavik, Northwest Territories, on the Arctic coast. The temperature was -50°F (-45°C). On approach over Great Slave Lake for a stopover at Fort Resolution, Dickins checked out the frozen surface, then dropped down to land. Even his sharp eyes had failed to see a snow-covered hummock. They slammed into it with gut-wrenching force amid shooting chunks of ice and the sound of tearing metal. The plane had barely lurched to a stop before Dickins was outside looking at the damage. The left undercarriage was torn and the aluminum propeller blades bent. They had no replacement parts. The closest telegraph office was at Fort Smith, six days' travel by dogsled. If parts were available, they could be flown in, otherwise the three men would be stuck at Fort Resolution until spring when parts could be shipped by boat from Edmonton. Or, they could try to fix it. To the ever-confident Dickins, that seemed their best option. They stabilized the plane with some gas canisters under the left side, rigged a crude teepee out of poles and hides to cover the engine and then bedded down. Dickins pulled his rat furs around himself and drifted off to sleep.

The next morning, they crafted a replacement strut out of some metal pipe from Fort Resolution's plumbing system, then set to work hammering out the propeller blades. The first one went well, but the next blade broke. Dickins
cursed. After a sleepless night, he and Lew decided to give it one more try. Remembering he had a hacksaw in his tool kit, Dickins pulled it out and began filing down the broken blade of the propeller, then taking an equivalent amount off the good blade. Reshaping both blades and then repointing the tips with a file was a time-consuming job, but by afternoon it was finally done.

“Looks pretty good,” said Lew. “Take her up and try them out.”

“Tell Connie I love her,” Dickins said as he hopped in and Lew spun the prop.

Dickins turned the plane into the wind, opened the throttles and released the brakes. The plane moved forward but more slowly than usual. Dickins knew he had less power from the shorter blades, but he had a lot of lake. Gaining momentum, he pulled back on the control stick, and the plane lifted off. He was airborne. The next week, all three men were back in Edmonton and the plane was being repaired. Six months later, Dickins landed in Aklavik with the mail.

In 1929, Dickins flew to Fort Good Hope on the Mackenzie River and picked up the first shipment of furs ever sent by air to traders in Winnipeg. In January 1930, the federal government finally awarded WCA a contract to establish Prairie Air Mail Service, and Dickins made the inaugural flight. In November of that year, Canadian Airways bought out WCA but kept the staff. Dickins
became superintendent of the Mackenzie District, and then of the entire northern operations, overseeing 20 planes and 50 men. But when the stock market crashed in 1929, unemployment rose, factories closed, drought decimated prairie crops and the Great Depression hit. Suddenly, fast mail delivery was not a government priority, and the contract was cancelled. That did not ground Dickins. In 1935, he flew bureaucrats studying mining operations, investigating northern air routes and mapping the Yukon.

In 1936, Dickins conducted an air survey of northern Canada that covered 10,000 miles (16,100 kilometres). When the Second World War broke out, he again enlisted, this time as head of the RAF's Atlantic Ferry Command, delivering combat aircraft to Britain, and then as a proponent of the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, which taught flying skills to thousands of Allied aircrews in Canada. In the early 1940s, the Canadian Pacific Railway Company had bought up bush airlines in quick order, ending with Canadian Airways in 1942, to form Canadian Pacific Airlines (rebranded CP Air in 1968). By 1945, Dickins was the company's vice-president. Given the genesis of the company, management was an amalgam of early bush aviators: president Grant McConachie, Punch Dickins and Calgary depot manager Wop May.