PHOENIX FROM THE COLD: Survival in the Arctic

By Kurt Jaeger

A crew member of an oil-and-gas exploration syndicate working in the Arctic North of Canada suffers from a broken leg and receives first aid at the camp. In the meantime, an aircraft got ordered by radio to bring him urgently to Yellowknife's hospital. The plane arrives late with the patient's wife, who is a nurse. At the same time, an adverse weather front moves in rapidly from the north. Although the first gusts of wind and driving snow sweep over the camp, the pilot decides to take off and right away gets into horrible weather conditions.
Close to the ground and dodging high-rise terrain, the pilot manages to fly ahead of the storm, but then suddenly, the engine quits, and he has to attempt a forced landing immediately. Due to bad visibility, the aircraft strikes a frozen lake's shoreline. It ends up severely damaged the woods. Although nobody is hurt, the chances of getting out and back to civilization are practically zero. Hit by roaring winds and freezing temperatures, they hope in vain for a search aircraft and subsequent rescue.
After days, the situation becomes desperate, but then the pilot comes up with the idea that seems completely unreal. Although the Cessna aircraft's damage is substantial, he wants to get it back into the air. However, there is no help around. Hit by hunger and bitter cold, he works on a solution that might be disastrous.

• Language: English
• Publisher: tredition
• Release date: Aug 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9783347354838

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

22nd November. Camp Three at 18:10 hrs.

As if carved in stone, the tall man's sharp-edged facial features brightened up rhythmically to the movements of the Coleman lamp. In the dazzling whiteness of the hissing light, ghostly shadows danced over his bearded face framed by the wolf hair of his hood. Like small vapor columns, his breath blew from his nose to vanish at once in the harsh cold of the polar night. The fresh snow beneath his fur-lined boots crunched dryly at every step, flying up as a glowing white flag in the glaring lamplight. In the folds of his thickly padded anorak, he carried a small box under his right arm. He was 50 yards from the dimly lit entrance of the wooden barrack when he stumbled briefly. A curse crossed his clenched lips as he tried to regain his balance with outstretched arms. The box under his arm flew into the spraying snow.

Bloody hell! He grunted for a moment, then shone his light on the container, sunk deep into the snow. With difficulty, he finally managed to grab the box with the thickly padded glove of his right hand and then clamped it under his arm again. He uttered a few incomprehensible words while grumbling, then slowly stomped on towards the barrack's lighted entrance.

Owen Burnett hated this hostile place in the winter, the camp, and the weather conditions in this godforsaken area. For hundreds of miles, nothing but bushes, patches of forest, and frozen marshes. The small Grizzly Mountain near the camp was the only minor geological point of interest.

He remembered very well how the company down at Edmonton had described his future assignment here at Great Bear Lake: solitude, pleasant temperatures, and a few mosquitoes, but that had been in the three summer months. Now the harsh winter had already been in control of the camp since the beginning of October. A few weeks ago, the vast lake had started to freeze over, and the work on the natural gas exploration wells was increasingly fierce due to biting winds, drifting snow, and the bitter cold. Owen Burnett was sure about one thing – he would not be renewing his contract in the coming spring. Let the gentlemen behind the teakwood desks in Edmonton look for another idiot to do the job.

Burnett had now reached the steps to the crew's quarters. From the generator shed, the dull throbbing of the diesel engine resounded. And then he heard familiar voices from inside the austere log cabin. Shivering, he climbed the steps to the entrance, turned off the Colman lamp, kicked the snow off his fur boots against the jamb, and opened the door. In the sparsely furnished room, brightly lit by two ceiling lamps, warm smoke-filled air hit his face. The mist of beer and sweat crept into his nose.

Shut that bloody door, Owen! a bass voice barked. Burnett slowly pulled the hood of his coat back, combed his graying hair with his fingers, then slammed the heavy door behind him shut with the heel of his boot.

Here, Percy, there's the pharmacy pack from Barrack Three! There should be some stuff in there that you might need for Ryan's leg.

He placed the red-cross-marked plastic box in front of Percy Miller on the table amid glasses and beer cans. For a moment, the loud conversation of the men gathered around the table fell silent. Everyone looked fascinated at the box. Miller, a giant of a man, pushed back the rolled-up sleeves of his lumberjack shirt. His eyes, deeply buried under thick eyebrows, looked at the chest for a moment and then at the cold-stained face of Owen Burnett.

Thanks, Owen. I'll drop by Ryan and check with Michael Reeves to see if there’s anything in the box that’s usable.

And, what about the damn airplane? Shouldn’t it have been here a long time ago? Burnett asked a bit indignantly. He wiped his dripping nose with the back of his hand, then, with a grim expression, scratched his gray-mottled beard.

I know the question is justified, Miller replied, but the flight was ordered by radio the day before yesterday and immediately after the incident. I don’t know what happened.

Maybe they have bad weather down there and can't get through to us, said an elderly, slender-looking man with an unkempt mustache. He was wrapped in a greasy overall, and his eyes fixed on a beer can in front of him.

You can forget that, Ethan. They report clear weather in Yellowknife. I think there may have been a technical problem with one of the planes. At seven o'clock, we'll have radio contact with the base again, and then we'll hear the reason for the delay.

Burnett had now taken off his weighty Anorak and sat down at the table opposite the bulky foreman, Miller. He was worried. Thirty hours had passed since the accident with Ryan Cooley. The combination of an open leg fracture and deep cuts had caused him substantial blood loss. An infection on his poorly dressed leg also appeared entirely possible.

How could shit like that ever happen to Ryan? Burnett asked.

What do I know? Percy Miller replied flatly. It's always the same – not paying attention for just one moment, and it's already too late. You know yourself that Ryan always tended to engage in an exaggerated hustle and bustle, and that's when the shit hit the fan.

But why was he alone up there in the rocks? He had no assignment from me, Miller countered.

He was probably curious and wanted to investigate the old log cabin of the uranium prospectors who worked here years ago. Ryan must have slipped on an ice sheet hidden under the fresh snow and fell over the rocks. With this cold weather around here, the bones tend to break faster than usual.

Did you notify his wife already? After all, Ryan will hardly make our camp happy again until next spring, a young man casually leaning against the wooden doorpost wanted to know.

Of course, Frank. After we knew how badly Ryan was hurt, I immediately notified the Head Office in Edmonton. Why do you ask?

Could be that his wife will come by plane to pick him up.

Not if we fly Ryan to the hospital in Yellowknife. She can visit him there and fly with him to Edmonton after the doctors have patched him up.

Frank Wilson seemed hardly satisfied with the answer. With the corners of his mouth pulled down, he wearily raised his shoulders.

Frank is not so wrong with his question, Ethan Turner at the end of the table interjected, eagerly trying to pull his mustache straight.

I don’t want women in this lousy camp. That's only asking for trouble, Miller replied sharply.

It would be a nice change, however, geologist Dick Summer said, grinning and leaning against the warming stove. The only women around here are over at Fort Franklin, and that's damn far away.

As usual, his glasses had already slipped down his nose, and he involuntarily pushed them up again. Percy Miller laughed out loud.

That would no doubt suit you, you horny old goat. Better concentrate on your Playboy Centerfolds. As long as I'm in charge here, Camp Three is and will remain free of any woman, no matter how old or ugly they are, understood?

Well, guys, did you hear that? Camp Three has the status of a male monastery! Frank Wilson bellowed loudly. He pushed himself away from the wall and theatrically threw his arms in the air. The callouses on Dick's hands will continue to come not just from changing the drill rods or tinkering with the handle of a shovel!

There was loud laughter at the table. Wilson's teasing seemed to be getting approval.

Idiots, as if we didn't have enough worries, Miller muttered, shaking his head and getting up clumsily. He grabbed the red box, fished his padded jacket off the wall hook, and stomped toward the door.

I'm going to look at how Ryan Cooley is doing. Our medicine man, Michael, is probably keeping him company. See you all tomorrow.

Have a good snore and sweet dreams, someone barked as Percy Miller pulled up the zipper of his jacket with one last deliberate movement and then pushed the door open. The next moment he stood alone in front of the entrance, submerged in the harsh cold, driven by a chilling wind from the Northwest over the barren blanket of snow. Miller needed some time to get his eyes used to the darkness. Finally, he pulled his flashlight out of the side pocket of his jacket. He beamed at the surrounding area for the reflecting eyes of voracious polar bears, then down the snow-covered path to the nearby sleeping cabin of Ryan Cooley.

Percy Miller did not need to knock. His weight made the wooden steps to the door creak loudly. He pulled the door open and entered cautiously. Cooley lay awake in his narrow bed, his splinted leg propped up with some pillows. The air in the cramped room was pleasantly tempered but carried the unmistakable smell of disinfectants and kerosene. The burner in the oven hissed audibly. Beside the bed sat the slightly plump paramedic Reeves, staring now intently at the approaching camp manager. However, Miller's eyes fixed on the somewhat pale face of the patient.

Well, how are you, Ryan? Are you in great pain?

A subtle smile squeezed the pale features in the face of the approximately thirty-year-old man from Calgary. Dark stubble framed his strong chin, making his glowing eyes appear to sit deeper and shine brighter. Swaths of sweat-soaked hair hung over his glistening forehead.

Thanks, Percy. I’m okay. Only the damned throbbing in my broken leg seems to be getting fiercer by the hour. Michael here thinks we should relax the bandage a bit, but I'm not so sure.

Owen brought me the reserve medication box from the kitchen shack, Miller said, ignoring Cooley's remark. I hope Michael will find something that will help you.

He put the red box on the small table next to the bed and tore off the tape around the lid. Then he flipped the cover back.

Let me see, Michael Reeves said as he rose to look at the contents.

You know, Percy, you should know that never in my life have I had a complicated leg fracture to look after. My knowledge of these things is purely academic. But what worries me a lot more is the open leg wound. I mean, we should carefully open the bandage around the splints again and check the injury. If, in the meantime, an infection has started, we’ll recognize it immediately. Ryan's temperature has gone up, but he doesn’t have a real fever yet.

You're the boss, Miller replied with a cheerful grin.

Well, let's have a look in this box of miracles here to see if we can find something suitable, Reeves muttered as he rolled up the sleeves of his gray and white plaid lumberjack shirt and started to rummage in the various compartments of the box. Suddenly he paused, picking up a small white plastic bottle, and said, We can use that. My supply has run out!

What's that? Miller asked.

Disinfecting wound powder, that works at least as well as good old penicillin!

He handed the bottle to Miller, who examined it for an expiration date. Meanwhile, Reeves had begun to unwrap the bandage around Cooley's leg. And as he did so, he warned the patient.

Beware, Ryan, we’re about to remove the two wooden supports. You’re likely to experience severe pain, but we have to improve the leg's blood circulation. Then we have to see if the wound has started an infection yet. That means that the gash will begin to bleed again. If that happens, we'll reapply a pressure bandage again.

Ryan Cooley nodded but looked anxiously at his bandaged leg and the way Reeves was handling it. While Miller stabilized the leg, Reeves seemed absorbed in his work. Only once did he look a little worried at Cooley's pain-stricken face as he loosened the wooden support rails from the blood-soaked bandage, and Cooley acknowledged it with a scream.

Allowing for a short break, Reeves began releasing the dressing over the wound. Cooley's moaning became more plaintive. Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead. Miller wiped them off with a damp cloth, then sympathetically squeezed Cooley's right hand cramped into the bedsheet.

This shit will be over soon, Ryan. After that, you’ll feel better again, and we’ll have the certainty that everything is fine, for now.

Cooley nodded silently with tight lips. The throbbing in his leg had stopped. Instead, waves of pain similar to pinpricks paralyzed him.

Percy, give me the powder bottle, please! Reeves shouted suddenly and, as Miller looked over, he saw how Reeves unwrapped the last twirl of the discolored bandage and, in slow motion, peeled off the gauze underneath. The appraisal seemed to take forever, but eventually, Reeves straightened up and said, Doesn't look bad, but we have to make sure.

He sprinkled the white powder on the partially open edges of the wound, from which again some blood trickled out. Then Reeves quickly applied new layers of wound gauze and carefully began to wrap a new bandage. This time, however, he paid attention to a less tight fit.

Are you still alright, Ryan? Michael Reeves wanted to know. Cooley nodded weakly and with his eyes closed.

Percy, please give me the railings now and help me put them on properly.

While Miller held the two makeshift wooden rails along the broken leg, Reeves carefully tightened the new bandage around them.

That's it, Ryan. The worst is over. I'll give you a strong painkiller now, after which you should try to sleep a little. I'll come back in about two hours to check on you again, okay?

Thanks, Michael, Cooley said weakly, trying a half-hearted smile. With a sideways glance at Ryan Cooley, Miller pulled his paramedic aside.

What do you think, Michael? Will he get through the night without too much pain?

I guess so. The pill Ryan has to swallow now will inevitably send him to the land of dreams for a while. You can rest assured your man here will be ready for the morning flight to Yellowknife.

Okay, in that case, I’ll go right now to the radio shack to check on the flight from Yellowknife. We have to find out what's wrong with the aircraft and when we can expect it here. Afterward, I’ll hunker down in my bunk. I'm pretty tired and need a good dose of sleep.

Reeve's round face glistened. With a sigh of relief, he wiped his forehead, pointing to the window close to the bed.

Did you listen to the last weather report on the radio? They seem to be talking about a nasty weather front with snowstorms from the Northwest.

When?

Sometime tomorrow at noon.

Miller pensively kneaded his square chin. This kind of news worried him immensely.

Well, we'll see how the situation develops. Hopefully, the aircraft gets here before the weather front. Anyhow, we’ll see each other tomorrow morning at breakfast. Okay?

Reeves nodded weakly. He thought of the blizzard he had experienced ten days ago, which had taught him fear and respect for the elements of nature. Oh God, just not that kind of a blizzard again, he prayed. Come on, whatever, Ryan Cooley had to be rushed to a hospital where they could treat his leg expertly. A plane was the only fast means of transport here in the Arctic and could save Cooley from life-threatening complications. Reeves had great respect for the courageous pilots flying around in this godforsaken area in almost every weather, evacuating the casualties, transporting food and supplies, or bringing trappers and hunters to the deserted Yukon regions of Northwest Territories.

He thought of the sturdy, single-engine 'Beaver' airplanes equipped with floats for the short summer months to land on the countless lakes of the North; in the winter, instead of floats, they had skis mounted to the landing gear to land, but now on frozen ground and lakes. Or the classic 'Cessnas', which, while more delicate and, therefore, lighter in weight, could accomplish the same tasks with less effort. All of them were flown by pilots who, in his view, feared neither death nor devils. Cooley would undoubtedly be in good hands when traveling to Yellowknife with one of these bush pilots at the controls.

One last time, Reeves checked the raised leg's position and then walked over to the small table and several opened packs. He poured some tea into a pint cup from a thermos and held it out to Cooley with one hand, holding in the other a pill between his thumb and forefinger.

Here, Ryan, take this pill with some tea. In two hours, I'll see you again, and tomorrow you'll be on your way to Yellowknife and civilization.

Cooley took the pill, then washed it down his throat with a sip of tea. The severe pain in his leg had subsided, and drowsiness had seized him. Reeves took the cup from him and put it back on the table.

Goodnight! And don’t worry, there’s always someone nearby if you need help.

Goodnight, Ryan, repeated Percy Miller, then he urged Reeves to come along. Once out on the stairs, their breath caught a choking cold. Dotted with thousands of stars, the clear night sky seemed to give the pervasive chill an additional effect.

Damn cold night! I think the thermometer will probably reach a new low for November by tomorrow morning.

Quite possibly, Miller countered with a critical look to the Northwest. On the other hand, it could also be that the clouds of the announced weather front will block any additional chilling by radiation.

He pointed his chin in the indicated direction and then said, The stars there are already covered by a layer of Cirrus clouds. So, the prediction could be correct.

Reeves nodded thoughtfully, pulling the hood of his jacket over his ears. The front could make their life at the camp damn hard for the next few days: drifting snow in conjunction with the chilling factor, triggered by the fierce wind that left limbs freezing in a matter of minutes.

See you tomorrow then, he told Miller turning away. Let's hope it doesn’t get too bad.

Goodnight, Michael. In case of trouble with Ryan's leg, please wake me up!

Miller raised his hand in farewell and then walked on the snowcovered path to his hut. In the well-heated entrance area, the Motorola single sideband radio was standing on a small table. He looked at the timepiece on the wall. In a few minutes, there would be the last regular radio transmission of the day, and he needed to know if the airplane would arrive by tomorrow to fly Ryan Cooley to the hospital in Yellowknife. He took a seat in front of the radio unit. He felt tired and needed a good night’s sleep. Tomorrow's evacuation of Ryan would undoubtedly cause a lot of excitement.

Cessna 185 on skies – Credit to Jean-Pierre Bonin

CHAPTER 2

23rd November. Yellowknife Airport at 09:20 hrs.

The electric heater next to the simple desk in the barren