About the book

Canadian pilot and author Dominique Prinet turned his back on university and a predetermined life of academia in Paris to find himself alone in Vancouver B.C. at age 25, firmly in command of his own destiny. His career would include a 5-year stint as a bush pilot for Gateway Aviation as a colleague of another well-known Canadian pilot: Joe McBryan of Buffalo Airways.

What follows are three previously unpublished short stories, the ones that didn't make the cut for the 279 page pilot memoir Flying To Extremes: Memories of a Northern Bush Pilot. It is a standout collection of flying tales featuring Prinet's pilot insights and his gorgeous film photography of airplanes and scenes from the North. Some of the photos included here aren't directly from the tale but were shot in the area and represent the atmosphere and cultural setting.

The book can be purchased on Amazon.com. —Zane Jacobson, [email protected]

A Fisherman in Distress at Night on Victoria Island

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Late one afternoon, I took a dozen American fishermen from Cambridge Bay, on Victoria Island, Northwest Territories, to a campsite in Albert Edward Bay, about 50 miles to the northeast, where they would spend a few days fishing Arctic char. It was late in August, and I was flying a Gateway-Aviation Otter on floats. At this latitude of 70° north there was still daylight quite late at night, but within a month the sun would set at 6 p.m., just as it would do everywhere else on Earth at the equinox.

My passengers had arrived in Yellowknife around midday on the regular Boeing 737 flight from Edmonton, and had carried on to Cambridge Bay in the afternoon in Willy Laserich's DC-4, which was based there. That evening, I was handling the last leg of their journey, from Cambridge Bay to the campsite on the tundra.

Willy Lazerich’s DC-4 was based in Cambridge Bay (Victoria Island, Nunavut). He was operating emergency flights and bringing in supplies. Occasionally, he had to parallel routes of certified scheduled carriers (Pacific Western Airlines; NWT Air) who complained: the Ministry of Transport spent considerable time for many years trying to shut him down. Feb. 1969. Photo: Dominique Prinet

Once at the fishing camp, everyone was tired but glad to have arrived—including me. The summer had been really hard and I had spent months flying every single day, basically non-stop since there was no night. I was exhausted and it would soon be getting dark, so I decided to stay at the fishing camp and return to Cambridge Bay the next morning at dawn, especially since the wind was piercing and cold, and the cloud cover really low.

Inuit staff at Char Lake, working for the Char Lake fishing outpost, Victoria Island, 1967 Photo: Dominique Prinet

Pilots usually only pass by, so no one at the camp thought about feeding me, let alone putting me up for the night. I could always sleep on the kitchen floor, but the kitchen would probably stay open virtually the whole night for the American tourists. Sleeping in the plane was also an option, and I was used to it, but it would be noisy and not very comfortable because of the wind and the waves. With my sleeping bag under my arm, I left in search of a tent that someone might agree to share with me for a night.

In the region of Cambridge Bay (Victoria Island, Nunavut), near Bathurst Inlet, the manager of the outpost of Arctic Circle Lodge is the local guide for two American fishermen who just caught a superb arctic char. 1968. Photo: Dominique Prinet

All the tents seemed to be occupied already by two people, until I reached the wide-open tent of a beautiful Inuit girl, 15 or 16 years old, who was breastfeeding her baby. Her tent was lit up by a kerosene lamp, and she gave me a disarming smile as I walked past, stopping for a moment to admire this charming nativity scene.

Encouraged, I began to wonder if she would take me in as a bodyguard for the night. The baby's crying would be annoying, but I was sure the charm and interesting conversation of the smiling young mother would compensate for that.

Inuit family helping at the fishing camp on Char Lake, NE of Cambridge Bay, on Victoria Island (Nunavut). 1968 Photo: Dominique Prinet

I was about to open my mouth and ask her if she would consider inviting me in when I heard someone shouting out loudly in the camp: "Pilot? . . . Pilot?"

What was this all about? I was done for the day and was busy looking for a place to sleep.

The shouts started again: "Pilot?"

The callers seemed impatient and persistent, which made me think the situation might be serious. I figured maybe my floatplane, jostled against the rocks by the wind and the waves, had sunk in front of the camp, or perhaps it had unmoored and floated away on its own into the Arctic Ocean—which would indeed have been serious. I therefore headed back toward the camp to let everybody know that I was here, no need to shout so loudly, and found myself surrounded by a pride of excited and scared fishermen, all talking at the same time.

"We have to go to Cambridge Bay right now. You need to take a passenger there!"

"Sorry, but it's already nighttime, the weather is lousy, the cloud cover is very low, and there's a range of hills between the camp and Cambridge Bay so we can't get through. In any case, I can't take off from here at night when I can't see the rocks or the shoreline, and I won't be able to land in the dark on the water in front of Cambridge Bay. Goodnight."

"But this is an emergency!"

"It doesn't change anything. The flight is impossible, and I don't want to kill anyone."

On that note, they brought me the emergency passenger. He was tall and skinny, and must have been at least 70 years old. He seemed very nice, and he looked at me anxiously. He seemed to have a bad cold. He could not breathe, and his closed mouth was very swollen.

"He has two fish hooks in his lips."

I got closer and saw that his mouth was completely shut by a fish hook that had pierced his upper lip and got stuck in his lower lip from the inside, and by a second hook that had pierced his lower lip and got stuck in the upper lip from the inside. It was all so tight and swollen that surgical instruments were obviously needed to relieve the unfortunate man. In the meantime, the poor soul was suffocating, and he clearly would not make it through the night.

Navigation across Victoria Island is challenging in the summer (lack of landmarks; erroneous maps; unusable magnetic compass) but, in the winter, in the dark and the cold, it is terrifying: the few landmarks disappear under the ice and snow, and there are no shadows when the sun is below the horizon. 1968. Photo: Dominique Prinet

I wanted to ask him how on earth he had managed to get himself into such a compromising situation, or at least why he had not done it during the day when the weather was fine and we could still fly. Instead, I said, "All right! I'll try. But this is a very risky flight and really very dangerous. You don't take off facing the shoreline when you can't see anything, and you don't fly at night on the tundra in such conditions under low stratus, especially when you know you can't land at the other end. All this is completely irresponsible."

"I'll come along to help him," said one of his friends.

"No, absolutely not. That's out of the question. Only the two of us are going, period. That's non-negotiable."

We all headed to the plane. His friends helped him into the righthand seat, I untied the ropes, and we sailed backward, facing the wind like a weather vane, the waves getting stronger and stronger as we moved away from the shore. It was now completely dark, and I could see nothing at all, not even a few lights from the camp over the dunes. The ocean was very shallow, and the steps of the pontoons regularly bumped against rocks. I could not see the shoreline or the rocks, but after a while we were no longer hitting the bottom. I let the large tri-blade propeller turn very gently as we slowly continued sailing backward, facing the wind.

Allen Kulak of Baychimo Harbour, on the mainland near Victoria Island. A few weeks after the photo was taken, his young brother Jerry Pudlik was accidentally shot in the belly and was saved through an emergency night flight to Cambridge Bay, at night on an unserviceable and grounded Cessna 206 on floats, and then to Edmonton on larger planes. He was saved. Around 2016, he disappeared on the tundra with his skidoo near Coppermine, further along the Arctic Coast. 1967 Photo: Dominique Prinet

Twenty minutes later I figured we should have enough space in front of us, and I pushed the throttle wide open. I was afraid to hit rocks or the shore, so I jerked the plane out of the water as soon as possible, and we were off, flying over the tundra, maintaining an altitude of 150 feet to avoid the clouds and the risk of icing, and making a long detour around the end of the range of hills between the camp and Cambridge Bay.

On the mainland not far from Victoria Island, the entire male population of the community of Baychimo Harbour investigates the Gateway-Aviation Cessna 185. The next day, I was caught by bad weather further along the coast with three passengers and the plane sunk. It took me three miserable wet, cold and hungry days to get it out again. 1968 Photo: Dominique Prinet

I was sure I would find Cambridge Bay because of its powerful radio beacon. That was not a problem, but we had to get there without hitting the ground, and then land in the bay without being able to see it. Forty-five minutes later, I spotted the lights of the small town. I called the control tower to let them know someone should come to pick up my passenger, and I also asked if they could have some cars drive to the docks to try to light up the water surface a little. I smiled when I spotted the procession of cars heading toward the docks, lining up along the shore to show me where to land. The landing was very smooth, and my fisherman was quickly taken to the clinic, where a visiting doctor, certainly very skilled, spent over an hour cutting the flesh and taking out the fish hooks.

At another fishing lodge, this one on Great Bear Lake, happy American fishermen display the catch of the day. 1969. Photo: Dominique Prinet

The next day, my passenger and I, well-rested, fed, and fresh, returned to the fishing camp. He was welcomed as a hero, carried away in triumph, and the whole camp took great interest in his story, asking for the details of the surgery. My charming little Inuit girl, still just as cheerful and smiling, was in the kitchen doing the dishes, her baby on her back. Finally, the cook, even though he had long finished serving breakfast, offered me an omelette before I left for Cambridge Bay and other missions. A bit later, when most of the people in camp had gone fishing, I went back to my Otter by myself, unmoored it from the rocks, let it drift backward with the wind, and took off for Cambridge Bay.

I never found out the name of the fisherman with the fish hooks in his mouth, and have no recollection of meeting the campsite manager. But then, when a patient is rushed to the hospital, does anybody ever care about the ambulance driver?

Off the Hinges!

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My 10 American sport fishermen were going from Arctic Circle Lodge, on the N.E. corner of great Bear Lake, to the head of the Bear River, not far from Fort Franklin (now Deline), at the other end of the Lake.

They were big men, in their fifties or sixties, rich and loud, friendly types but demanding, some of them accompanied by their wives and others by their younger secretaries. A two-hour flight each way, on a perfect day. In the summer of 1968, I was on contract with the lodge with a Gateway-Aviation Otter on floats.

Two American fishermen at Arctic Circle Lodge, on the North West corner of Great Bear Lake, have just been showed to their boat by one of the staff, at dawn, and are waiting for their guide. 1968 Photo: Dominique Prinet American fishermen examine the catch of a colleague returning with his guide to Arctic Circle lodge at the end of the day, near the North East corner of Great Bear Lake. 1968. Photo: Dominique Prinet

The current at the head of the Bear River is fast, and teaming with graylings, a small dark fish with a long dorsal fin. The fish has the much-appreciated attribute of fighting like hell right to the bitter end, and fishermen absolutely loved it.

We landed against the current, towards Great Bear lake. While taxiing upstream, looking for a place to park the Otter along the shore, I asked a young First Nations guide to step out through the back door onto the pontoon with a rope, and jump ashore when possible.

Arctic Circle Lodge, at the NE end of Great Bear Lake. The lodge is open for six weeks in summer (mid-July to the end of August) for sport fishermen from the US who try to catch trophy lake-trout. 1968. Photo: Dominique Prinet

Suddenly, cries came from the back, quickly amplifying. Soon, everybody was yelling. I turned back towards my passengers with an inquisitive face.

"The door, the door...!"

What do you mean: "The door"?

"The door fell off"

Airplane doors don’t fall off. Maybe I misunderstood.

"The door fell into the river!"

That was indeed a problem. I would have to fly without a door from now on, which is annoying because it causes a lot of noise inside the cabin, produces a strong draft of cold air for the passengers in the back, and triggers a certain degree of anxiety for the passenger sitting right where the door should be. Especially in flight. I had to do something.

Though not the exact location of the door loss, this photo from Fort Smith shows the Otter's rear door in question. Photo: Dominique Prinet

The door was heading towards the rapids, a few hundred metres downstream. The river was narrow, and I wasn’t too sure I could make a U-turn and chase the door down river, but it was worth a try: I rushed to the bank to my right, and then applied full power to make a left turn, pulling to wheel right back to lift the front of the pontoons and help spin the plane around its heels, taking advantage of the prop wash which would push the tail sideways. The guide, on the pontoon, was hanging on for dear life.

While not readily apparent from this photo, this particular Otter flight was carrying TWO boats, one on each float, and took 10 minutes to climb 500 feet and a massive turn radius under high power to come about. When asked why he faces the transom forward in flight, instead of the seemingly more intuitive bow-forward, Prinet replies "...fish and whales have the large section up front and the pointy end at the back. So does the Otter itself." Prinet flew flights like this a half-dozen times each season to move boats to remote cabins, flights of 50-75 miles. Photo: Dominique Prinet

We ran past the other side of the river at full power and great speed, settled facing down river, caught up with the door, continued for a few seconds past it, and turned back again at the last moment, once more to the left with full power and the nose up, just when we were about to be swallowed by the rapids. We were soon back facing the current towards the lake. That was close!

The long-abandoned airport at Sawmill Bay, on the South shore of Great Bear Lake, was used during WWII to refuel American fighters and bombers being ferried to Alaska and beyond as support of Russia’s war effort. Some 25 years later, the compacted earth surface is still usable but very rough, so much so that the door of the Otter I was operating flew off one day on landing. 1968 Photo: Dominique Prinet

I aimed at the door floating towards us, placing the Otter right above it. The guide caught it between the pontoons and, after we had managed to dock along the riverside, I reset the fugitive door on its hinges and held it in place with a pin through the pintle. My passengers were a bit shaken.

Remember: before a flight, always make sure that the pin across the top door-hinge is in place!

The Search for the Lost Japanese Expedition

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"The Japanese overland expedition is missing. They should be back by now."

It was mid-September 1971, and Reg Merkley, manager of the Cambridge Bay co-op in the Northwest Territories, was sharing his concern about three students who had left the hamlet on July 21 by canoe.

The students’ plan had been to follow the south coast of Victoria Island towards Wellington Bay, some 100 kilometres west, before turning north to cross the island. They had taken lots of food, and they had access to a fuel cache on Victoria Island, but they had been expected back well before now.

Victoria Island, Nunavut, NW of Cambridge Bay. Navigation, so close to the magnetic pole, is challenging in the summer. In the winter, in near darkness and without shadows to help identify landmarks, it is very scary. 1968. Photo: Dominique Prinet

I was in Cambridge Bay for a month, flying a Gateway Aviation Otter on a contract to bring Arctic char to the co-op each day. When I heard Reg’s concern, I offered to go and check the 45-gallon drums in the fuel cache to see if the students had been there. Reg and I found the drums. They were unopened.

Inuit children in Cambridge Bay, Victoria Island, Nunavut. 1969 Photo: Dominique Prinet

Later, an Inuit who came by the co-op said that he had spent the summer at Wellington Bay and hadn’t seen anybody go by. The three students must be along the shoreline just west of Cambridge Bay.

Typical prospector’s camp in the tundra, probably looking for gold or silver. 1969 Photo: Dominique Prinet

I took off again with Reg and flew low over the water along the shoreline. The Inuit man sitting next to me spotted a big red backpack on the beach. We landed fairly far from the beach because the water was murky, a sure sign of shallow depths, and taxied in carefully.

The backpack was new, filled tightly and unopened. A bad sign. A little farther along the beach we found a canoe in good condition except for scratches along one side. Not far away we found a canoe carrier with one wheel missing, and two canvas bags with food wrapped in plastic bags. Back in Cambridge Bay, the colleagues of the missing students immediately recognized the backpack and supplies.

Two men went out on foot, following the shoreline from Cambridge Bay to the area where we had found the canoe, and I dropped off two other men some 10 miles farther out to check the shoreline back to the canoe. During the subsequent two-and-a-half-hour search with the RCMP and the students’ colleagues, we picked up, close to the canoe, two sacks containing sleeping bags and various items including a diary. We also found a fuel tank on one of the Finlayson islands, 30 kilometres out of Cambridge Bay.

Inuit camp at the mouth of the Perry River, Arctic coast (Nunavut), on the mainland and some 200 miles SE of Cambridge Bay. July 1968. Photo: Dominique Prinet

On September 20, a four-and-a-half-hour search produced two plastic cans of outboard motor oil, another red packsack, and one piece of the stabiliser.

On the 21st, the RCMP took over with their own Otter. They spotted a paddle on one island and an outboard motor some 200 metres from shore, abeam of the canoe. It was sticking out of the shallow, muddy water. I was no longer needed and left that day, returning to Yellowknife.

The body of one Japanese student was eventually found close to the canoe; another was discovered one year after the accident, 400 kilometres west on an island, near Coppermine; and the third one a year later, 400 kilometres east, near Gjoa Haven.

Flying To Extremes: Memories of a Northern Bush Pilot

The best chapters of Prinet's memoir are in the actual book: "Crashing Through the Ice," "Sinking with a Floatplane in the Arctic Ocean," and "Gold, Dead Bodies, and Airplane Crashes in the Nahanni River" among many others. Buy it on Amazon.com.