Four Degrees Celsius (7 page)

October 11, 1929

Richard Pearce's Diary, Dease Point

Extra! — Charlie and his young brother, Jimmie, the Eskimos we had been waiting for, came in at six o'clock with their dog team. Were they welcome? I'll say they were. They brought part of a caribou and a lot of fish … I could only stand one helping, but the others had two. A full stomach once more; what a grand and glorious feeling.

The men's waning optimism almost instantly rebounded. The food was plentiful, the temperature was dropping, the ice was forming … all was good. Alex Milne celebrated his twenty-sixth birthday with a caribou feast and he said it was his most noteworthy birthday on record. After living for a month on five ounces of food per day each and then to have plenty was beyond their expectation. Preparations were now back on track for the trip to Cambridge Bay. With sufficient food intake, the colonel had the men begin to build up their strength for their sixty-mile trek for help.

What could possibly stop them now?

Moving Northward

October 18, 1929

Richard Pearce's Diary, Dease Point

Last night was an awful one. A real gale blew, probably up to sixty miles an hour, driving the snow so that it felt like bullets. Everything in the lean-to tents was covered and the snow oozed through the cracks into the mud shack, making us very uncomfortable. The tarpaulin roof split in several places and we spent an anxious time while repairs were made. We ran out of thread and were at our wits' ends until someone hit on the happy idea of using surgical thread from the first aid kit … Jimmie stayed with us last night, crawling in with Alex and Mac in their doubled-up sleeping bag. That made nine of us in a row.

The men's spirits sank like stones. The storm was a painful reminder of their precarious situation. The gale continued to blow during the day. Ice fragments crashed against the shoreline, obliterating the water's edge in blinding whiteness. One of the Inuit children had wandered into this howling gale, and Pearce joined in the desperate search for her. Caught in the wind, the five-year-old girl was swept perilously close to the shore. It was sheer luck that she was found before she was dragged in and drowned in the frigid surf.

Just when they thought things couldn't get any worse, the father of Jack, one of the Inuit, told the men he would be leaving for at least two days to get more fish for the trek out. Morale dropped even further with this news because the Inuit sense of time did not always correspond with theirs. The thought of another two days (or more) delay dampened what little hope the Domex men had of ever getting out of there. Their thoughts continually wandered to subjects “Outside.”

Front page headlines of
The Northern Miner
, October 17, 1929, announced a story on their plight, “The Arctic Rescue Effort Boldly Begins Next Week.” The paper continued to report that although the pilots were grounded due to weather conditions, the rescue team actively continued to plan their next moves. The two- and three-plane aerial searches would scour a three-hundred to four-hundred mile area between Baker Lake and Bathurst Inlet once the lakes had become frozen. This large area held the most promise of locating the missing men.

As Canadians gobbled up news of the missing expedition, optimism remained high that the men could survive in this land of eternal snow and ice. D.M. LeBourdais, Vilhjalmur Stefansson's biographer and Arctic companion, was quoted in
The Northern Miner
on October 10, 1929, as saying, “If there is one man with Arctic experience in the group he would see them through, but with all the men experienced and resourceful it is idle to worry about them.” He continued with his thoughts of Stefansson's
The Friendly Arctic
,
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“It makes a great newspaper yarn, but I have no doubt the men are enjoying a splendid outing and hunting party. They should be able to live off the country and make themselves fairly comfortable for a very considerable period.”

Members of the Dominion Explorers might have shaken their heads grimly at LeBourdais's blithe comments as they eked out the bare minimum for survival, depending both on the weather and the Inuit. At least their Inuit friends had finally returned with sleds and dog teams, indicating that the trek to Cambridge Bay would begin soon. But when? The violent storm destroyed the ice that had formed along the route they would be taking, once again postponing their departure. The mental strain from the wait was agony, and the men's hopes seemed as broken as the ice along the shore.

With the Inuit now numbering sixteen, Dishwater Point had become a crowded settlement with little to occupy the men's thoughts and actions. The waiting was all-consuming. Some gathered fuel. Others hunted for food. The colonel even made a list of the things the Inuit might want once the Domex men made their way to Cambridge Bay. They sang songs, told stories, and played cards — anything to distract them from the tedium of waiting.

Richard Pearce recorded his impressions of this time at Dease Point on October19, 1929: “The storm blew itself out during the night and this is a beautiful day. I went outside early, and found that the snow had drifted right up to the top of the shack. The tent near the doorway had caved in, its steel ridgepole and end rods being broken. The drifts are as hard as rocks.”

The men began their daily routine of shoring-up, propping-up, and cleaning-up. Pearce was invited to go by dog sled to a cache near Dishwater Point. He gladly hopped onboard with his Inuit friend Charlie, and when they reached their destination he was quite surprised to discover the real object of the journey was to distribute the belongings of an old woman who had recently died. Her “will” consisted of a single piece of paper with six rows of human figures drawn on it. Those gathered had all been invited to this ceremony and each came up and received their share of the woman's possessions, which ranged from a baking powder tin full of cigarette butts to a hand-sewing machine.

After the ceremony the group returned to their settlement, and around 3:00 in the afternoon the feasting began. Pearce managed to feed the group of twenty-four with the food that had been brought to camp from the cache. It was a very tight squeeze in the sod house, but the companionship seemed to calm the Domex men, or perhaps it was because the Inuit had given them a tentative date as to when they felt the ice would be ready to cross — or it could have been the fact that Pearce had been given some tobacco. The necessity to use toilet paper as cigarette rollers didn't damper the joyous event. At this gathering, forty days since they had first met, the men learned the Inuit names of their friends: “Grand-dad told me his name was Unani, that ‘Mary's' was Helika, ‘Jim's' Tepinna, ‘Charlie's' wife, Bunnuck, ‘Jack's' Awordiwo, ‘Joe's' Keninya, ‘Dad's' Otoogo, the pretty girl's Olga, and the new Eskimo, Tigattook, the mother Kena, ‘Alice' Tigalook and ‘Charlie' Penukta.”
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The following morning, October 20, Mac wrote notices and placed them in both planes saying: “Everybody OK in party. Left here on October 21 with three huskie [
sic
] dog teams. It is planned that the Colonel, Pearce and Baker recuperate day or so at Cambridge, then proceed by dog team to Burnside base. If steamship Bay Maud is still wintering at Cambridge and her wireless is OK, then this trip to Burnside may not be necessary. If you have gas, return by way of Cambridge Bay Post.”
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The men glimpsed a mirage to the west of Dishwater Point and took it to be a good omen for the next day's journey. This sight appeared to be the reflection of the straits they needed to cross and also of what appeared to be Bathurst Inlet. Both early Arctic expedition members and modern-day Northern explorers write about the refraction of the Arctic light and how tricks can be played on the eyes. Tales have been told of icebergs floating in the sky and great phantom ice-covered mountain ranges looming out of the Arctic Ocean. However, the light refraction on the snow, which created the mirage, gave the men hope for the anticipated trip.

Thompson decided to shave for the occasion, and Pearce assisted with scissors. Once shaved, Thompson no longer resembled the old feudal lord. The rest of the men busied themselves getting the food ready for travel. Caribou steaks were cut and an inventory was taken of the remaining “bush fare.” They still had three tins of beef, the chocolate bars, thirty Oxo cubes, a slab of bacon, eight hard-tack biscuits, and a very small amount of cocoa. The Inuit added tea, coffee, and the primus stove for the walk out.

The Dominion Explorers and their Inuit guides stand for a formal photo just prior to beginning the trek to Cambridge Bay. The Inuit had done their best to ensure each member of the group were as warmly dressed as possible and had even made “hats” out of seagull skin to keep heads warm.
Courtesy of Daryl Goodwin.

Before the last light, the group lined up for a farewell photo. This would be a fitful night's sleep. Their minds were jumping, restless with anticipation and hopeful that nothing more would delay their trek to the post at Cambridge Bay. Their group strength was bound by both determination and their desire to reach the outside world. They would need it for the demanding journey.

Andy prepared his report for WCA: “All machines were hauled ashore up well-oiled planks for a Slipway. ‘A.R.K' the Northern Arial Mineral Exploration machine was nearest the water, tail outwards. To all appearances especially as the lake had already a thin skin of ice, all machines were perfectly safe and tied down….”

At Baker Lake, the men readied the planes for ski landings. The northwest shore of the lake was open water when they arrived, but the temperature was dropping. The changeover from floats to skis was exhausting. It took several men to remove and lift the float and the undercarriage. Once this was done, an undercarriage equipped with a ski was attached on each side. The changeover was time-consuming, with only one plane being done at a time.

Ice that formed on the lake during the night still broke up frequently during the days, causing some concern. Despite this, all seemed to be going well, but that was about to change. Cruickshank's sixth sense was nudging him.

The air engineers adjust the skis on Roy Brown's 'SO. These skis were manufactured by the Elliot Brothers of Sioux Lookout, Ontario, and were built to withstand the harsh landings in the frozen North.
Provincial Archives of Manitoba, Canadian Air Lines Collection #587.

Early in the evening on the 17th, the men were in the Révillon Frères Trading Post at Baker Lake, playing poker with the RCMP constable and Dr. Bruce. Andy Cruickshank felt he needed some fresh air, so he folded his cards and walked out to the beach. He sat on the shoreline writing a poem to Esmé. It was their second wedding anniversary. He called Esmé his “star” and in his poem wrote about how he missed her. As he wrote, the wind began to pick up and the premonition intensified. He walked over to the planes to make sure they were tied securely and hoped that his sense of foreboding was misplaced.

Tonight would be a night to remember.

During the changeover from floats to skis, the five planes had been squeezed into a very tight space on the beach outside the trading post. Three could have fit there comfortably. Once the wind started to blow, Cruickshank knew they were in for more trouble. He braced himself and waited. Just after midnight the uncontrollable wrath of nature unleashed its power.

“The beach is collapsing!” His call for help pierced the night, bringing the men out of the post. In his report to Western Canada Airlines, Cruickshank recorded: “We had a terrible storm from the East, which sprayed “A.R.K.” ['RK] forming ice on the tail plane elevators and rudder, gradually weighing the tail down. The force of the storm then threw tremendous waves bearing large pieces of ice far up on the shore smashing the elevators and rudders. All hands worked nearly all night hauling her further ashore.”

Besieged by Arctic blasts, freezing rain, and darkness, the men attempted the near impossible — to turn each aircraft around, facing outward, to protect the more fragile tail assemblies. As they laboured, the wind broke the thin ice up into a sharp, churning mass, cracking and shifting under their feet and slicing their legs. The spray slammed into the tail of Vance's 'RK, freezing on contact, its weight pulling the tail and rudders down and destroying the tail assembly. Having been the most exposed, and the one that had not been changed to skis, it bore the brunt of nature's assault.

In the morning light, the men stood at the edge of Baker Lake. They were exhausted, soaking wet, cold, and disheartened — they had not been able to save the severely damaged 'RK. It looked like a wounded bird, with its tail and rudders broken and its wings poised at odd angles. T.W. Siers, the maintenance manager for Western Canada Airways, described the event in his report: “In the dark the machine was turned 180 degrees in so confined a space that the task seemed utterly impossible when seen in daylight.”
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