I put the remaining fuel of the barrel into the wings, and collected all the useless stuff I left behind the day before from the airport building/shed.  I squeezed everything back in the plane, made sure it was stable. While doing this, the chartered airplane landed. The scientist were driving around on one of the cool ATV’s and were performing some last minute research (or were just having fun, I couldn’t tell, but knowing scientists, it’s probably a bit of both). I double and triple checked everything to make sure I didn’t leave anything behind since I wouldn’t be coming back anytime soon…

Satisfied that everything was on board, all hooks were untied, I squeezed myself back in my immersion suit, probably for the last time. It was about this time the pilots from the big plane were rounding up their preparations. I waved goodbye to the scientists and told them I’d race them to Resolute Bay, our common destination.

I switched on the battery and heard the gyro’s spinning up. Mixture full rich, carburetor heat off,  throttle 2 centimeter open, left clear, right clear, starter engaged. Nothing happened. Again, I engaged the starter engine. No sound, no movement. Nothing. I switched of the battery and tried again. Again, silence. I checked the circuit breakers. All looked good. Once more I tried engaging the starter. Still nothing happened. FUCK.

I jumped out of the airplane and got out of the immersion suit, walked up to the other aircraft and told them they would probably win the race. “By the way, you don’t happen to have a mechanic on board ?”. There was no mechanic on board. At that moment I felt all my energy draining from my body. It was a harsh realization that I was indeed all alone up there. Everybody there was doing their job, and I was the lunatic flying over there and using their resources and time. I was staring at the airplane in disbelief to find a possible solution. One of the scientists, Phil, saw my worried look and walked over to me.

Phil owned a Cirrus and knew some things about airplanes. He thought the starter might have trouble to lock on to the gears, so he advised me to rotate the propeller a bit. I did so and tried to start again. And guess what: nothing. The last option that remained on my “fix it yourself”-list was to handprop the airplane. With this technique, you give a very strong swing at the propeller while hoping that this will cause the engine to start running and hoping that you can remove your hand fast enough before it gets struck by the firing propeller. Ah yes, and don’t lose your balance so you don’t fall over into the propeller. Sounds easy and very safe!

Since I thought there were only 2 likely options: either the starter engine was broken, or the battery was too weak because of the cold (neither which would prevent a safe flight once the engine started) I decided to fly over to Resolute Bay if the engine would fire.

I checked the procedure with Phil. He said he knew how to do it, but also that he wasn’t going to do it. A decision I fully understood. Another scientist had joined me by now and he was eager to hand prop the airplane for me. He had extra gloves in his luggage, put them on and was willing to give it a try. First we tried a few swings without power and fuel, so he could feel how the propeller would react when it was not firing. After that, it was time to try the real thing. Battery switch on, select only the left magneto, prime a little bit, throttle few centimeters open, mixture rich. And a thumbs up. The first swing was unsuccessful. A few seconds later, he tried again. And again. And again. With every stroke I become more nervous and less optimistic. I shat everything down and rotated the propeller back a few degrees to empty the combustion chamber. Again, I hopped back into the airplane and set up the airplane. The brave scientist tried again. With no success. This was the 15th attempt already, and he didn’t want to quit. And then, after the 21st powerful stroke the engine came to life ! The engine was finally running! I turned on the alternator and checked it was generating power. Everything looked normal so I could start my taxi. With an extremely bright smile I taxied away from my parking spot and waved the scientist and the other airplane goodbye.

During the taxi I performed a long and very thorough run-up, checking every item twice looking for any anomalies. Luckily there were none. Except for the fact that I forgot to put on my immersion suit again due to the engine problems. Ah well, with a bit of an uncomfortable feeling of relief (or stupidity) I didn’t worry about it anymore at that time and without further delay I took off. This was the second time I took off from this airfield, yet another sign I was on my way back.

Twenty minutes later, I heard the other airplane checking in on the air-to-air frequency. They were flying to the same destination as me, following the same routing (direct). I asked them if they would be willing to take a picture of me. They would be happy to comply if they ever found me. Giving some rough position reports, we came to the conclusion I was 12 miles ahead of them. Fifteen minutes later the pilot told me he had me in sight and was coming up from the left. I only saw them when they were practically colliding with me. They slowed down a bit and descended to my altitude. For the next 5 minutes we took pictures from each other from every possible angle in every possible position.

But alas, for them it was a working day, so play time was soon over. We swapped e-mail addresses over the very bus arctic frequency (it took about 5 minutes to get our address through clearly) while I watched them climbing and disappearing in the distance. Leading the way for me to Resolute Bay.

During the flight I kept checking all the engine instrument and was very happy to see everything stayed as it should be. When crossing the patches of water, I regretted not wearing the immersion suit. I was fortunate this mistake remained without consequences. After a little more than 3 hours I saw something that looked like Resolute Bay airport. I was almost overhead the airfield when I realized I was lining up with a road instead of the runway. It was an uneventful landing.

Once landed I started to look for a mechanic. I soon found a lost mechanic on the apron, working on a huge aircraft. He redirected me to two of his colleagues. These two colleagues were very skilled and friendly, but they also enforced the stereotypical view one may have of mechanics. 30% of their sentences were build with the words “shit” and “fuck” and variants thereof. But again, very friendly guys, so I listened to their colorful language with a smile. For the very first time in my life I removed an airplane engine cowling myself. Adrenaline! To my very professional eye, everything looked perfectly fine (nothing exploded or started to burn, which I found a big advantage). Their professional eye however discovered the master relay was at least partially broken. My naïve question “so can I continue to fly with it when I hand prop the plane ?” was soon met with rolling eyes and a  “sure, but if it breaks you will lose all your electricity, so we wouldn’t recommend it”. A new part it is.

Since I needed a new part, the first logic step was to call the owner. One of her employees answered the phone and connected me to the mechanic. He told me he’d ship the part over immediately with Fedex. They would deliver it anywhere in Canada within 3 days. I asked him if he knew where Resolute Bay was located. “Yes yes, they deliver anywhere in Canada withing 3 days!”. I decided to believe that. This would be a mistake.

I put the cowling back on the airplane, while it stood on the apron waiting for the part. It would stay there for a long time.

I called Aziz again, and he drove me back to his hotel. He told me he’d look for a spare part in one of his scrap yards. Ah well, at least I made it back to Resolute back, another 450 NM closer to civilization. And all of that in a broken airplane. In Aziz’s hotel I gave a short summary of the North Pole flight to the people I met there a few days earlier. After that, I went to bed, back in “my” room where I stayed 2 days earlier.

Just to be on the safe side (and because I made some steep turns over the pole – for the pictures you know), I crosschecked the gyroscopic compass with the position of the sun. I also saw the longitude was more or less constant on the portable GPS, while the latitude was decreasing. Everything was looking good. The panel mounted GPS was still searching for a signal.

I know it must have been impossible, but still, I had the feeling I recognized every cloud, every crack in the ice from my way up North. Then again, everything did look the same, so the chance was pretty big I saw some similar things. White and blue, the only colors you need to paint a landscape. Half an hour away from the Pole, the panel mounted GPS started working again. I entered Eureka as my destination. EET: 5 hours 20 minutes. Flying above clouds in this scenery started to get a little boring. I spent the time writing down every fuel tank switch, when the ferry tank fuel pumps were turned on, every time I changed the gyroscopic compass. But these things only take ten seconds every 20 minutes. Not really an activity to keep you busy very long. My mood increased considerably when after 8 hours of flying, the clouds disappeared again, and I could see the ice. From 7000 ft… It soon struck me that the chances were pretty slim I would ever return here, so I decided to take a closer look at the ice. I saw the North Pole up close, but this time there was no fog and in a sunny sky I started the descend. There was no need to maintain at least 500 ft since there were no people or any other structures around. I leveled off at about 20 feet and trimmed the nose up so that any distraction or turbulence would cause the airplane to move up into the unlimited sky instead of down towards the very close ground. I spend some time following the cracks in the ice, making some very shallow turns, watching the snow and taking some pictures. I could feel the disturbance in the air when I flew over a little heap of snow. I was low. Very low.

After a few minutes, I gained some altitude to safely switch between video camera and movie camera, and I repeated the low level flying once more. It was one of the most beautiful views I had ever seen. My shadow was clearly visible in the snow under the left wing. It danced over the surface, over the water and sometimes disappeared when I made a turn. Twenty minutes later the play time was over. Staying this low could prevent a safe return if I kept burning too much fuel, so I climbed back to 7000ft. This little vertical detour gave me the adrenaline I needed to continue the flight as focused as possible.

It was an hour after this event that the thing I planned for, but dreaded from the beginning of my trip, started to form. A very uncomfortable feeling started to rise. Very uneasy I started to check every instrument, and looked in my bag for the tools to fix it. I tried to focus and hoped the problem would go away. The EET was going down very slowly. Time was creeping by. Every minute felt like an hour, and I started to dawn upon me that it would be impossible to reach Eureka in this state. Fuck. I had to accept the fact, I couldn’t ignore it anymore. I had to pee.

On the bright side: it gave me another task to pass the time. I took the little “Travel John” I brought along, and started to read the manual. All of this while flying at a safe altitude in perfect trim. The package promised it was spill proof. When you are wearing a water proof suit, and you have to pee, it is very advisable you don’t spill anything, since you will carry it along for the remainder of the trip. So “spill proof” sounded very promising. It was time to start steering with the rudder pedals since I needed both hands to position the “spill proof” cup. This is some type of flying they don’t prepare you for in a flying school. It was the only part of the trip I really wished for an autopilot. With a bit of practice I managed to keep the course deviation within 20° and the altitude difference associated with the course changes stayed within 300ft. Perfect flying, spill proof !

A little while after the peeing incident, the mountains of the mainland started to be visible at the horizon. I was now a victim of the coming home feeling. I still had to fly for about 2.5 hours, yet I felt like I made it. These were the longest hours of the trip. You see the mountains, you know the airport is behind them and you just want to get it over with. When I reached the mountains I saw that most of the fog had lifted, which only increased their beauty. Impatiently I enjoyed the scenery. I was crossing mountains, creeks, rivers, water, glaciers and hills again. The once so full ferry tank had shrunk to the size of an empty garbage bag. All the juicy fuel had been converted in the power that was required to propel this airplane through the arctic air over the rooftop of the world and back again. And then there it was, in the middle of all that beauty, as a lighthouse in the dark night: Eureka International Airport.

I tuned in on the radio and was happy to hear a voice. It was almost ten o’clock and normally the station was unmanned during that time. I was very grateful somebody was listening. Once overhead I joined the downwind leg and made a smooth landing. I taxied back to my reserved parking space, close to the fuel, which I would need the next day. I shut down the engine and checked the timer: I flew exactly 12 hours non-stop in a Cessna 172 without auto-pilot.

I opened the door and managed to crawl out of the airplane. My legs were shaking. I looked a bit in disbelief at the airplane. This little piece of metal took good care of me. From the military building a group of people was approaching the airplane. Also the friendly scientist I met the day before was coming to greet me. First there was a quick photo shoot in full immersion suit, which I got out of as soon as possible. Freedom to move my arms and legs again! I gave a quick summary of my trip to the military people, who were most impressed by the fact that I did this with a rental airplane. They offered me a drink, but all I could think about was some real food. I tied the plane to the ground and walked to the weather station. The wind in my hair, a smile on my face. A big one. It was only now, with most of the pressure dissolved, I could really enjoy the Eureka scenery. The water looked more blue, the mountains a bit more brown and orange. The clouds friendly. The wind powerful yet comforting. I felt alive again.
After I ate some leftover food, I met the helicopter pilot in the computer room. He congratulated me and made me promise to take some pictures together for his facebook account (yes, even at 80°N, a facebook account is one of the primordial concerns of any human being). Once the computer was free, I logged in on AvCanada and informed my track team I was safely back in Eureka.

By now, it was almost mid’night’. Under the bright sun I walked back to the tent. One last look to the infinite sky before I taped the window with a trash bag in an attempt to darken the room. I crawled into bed between all the grey gravel that somehow ended up everywhere. And my mind wondered back to the first day I left in the hot Texas desert. I tried to imagine the distance I had covered, all the flying hours the plane endured. The changes in terrain, in altitudes, in temperatures. Good weather, bad weather. Stable, unstable. I felt very lucky everything proceeded more or less as planned. At that time, I was still unaware I my luck would run out the next day. Still care free, I closed my eyes and dozed off. I didn’t dream. I was living my dream.

Half an hour later, I called back. The friendly PCSP meteorologist answered the phone and started to work on the forecast. Because the connection with the server that contained the satellite images was rather slow, he asked to call back again in 15 minutes. So after 14 minutes and 50 seconds I dialed the number again. The forecast was very similar to the one I got the day before. The area around Eureka was cloud free. From 200 NM a little bit of scattered high clouds could start forming. In an area of 50 NM around the pole, I could expect low clouds or fog. Possibly around 400ft. Maybe higher, maybe lower. Around the coast line, some fog was to be expected but only for a few miles, so no need to worry about that. For the next days, no improvements were expected, it might even take a turn for the worst. I got the feeling it was a bit a “now or never” situation, so I crossed my fingers and hoped that I would be able to see the pole. And if not, at least I would have flown over it.

The decision was made to fly. Next part: file a flight plan by phone. They always ask the same questions, but the answers were a little bit more different this time.

“Edmonton Center, good morning”
- “Good morning, I’d like to file an IFR flight plan”
“Ok, go ahead”
- “It will be a local flight CYEU – CYEU via the North Pole, 90° North”
“Airplane type ?”
- “Cessna 172”
[… silence…]
“Estimated time on route ?”
- “12 hours”
“Endurance ?”
- “16 hours”
[…]
“Thank you sir, have a nice flight”‘

I walked back to my airplane. I did a thorough preflight check, removed the tie downs from the plane while keeping the hooks firm in the ground for when I returned. By now, it was around 10:30 and the people were all moving towards the weather station for the typical Sunday brunch. I added a quarter of oil in the engine, put on the immersion suit and squeezed myself back into the airplane. The more you try to squeeze yourself into the plane, the easier it gets. I looked around the cockpit, and made sure everything was safely secured. All the maps were within reach, the Personal Locator Beacon was hanging around my neck. The spot device was looking for a signal. The satellite phone within reach.

The anxiety from the night before had disappeared and was replaced by a sense of adventure. By the feeling of turning something surreal into reality. I looked at the sky. Checked the apron. Left is clear. Right is clear. Ignition. And the engine was running. Since I was parked at the end of the active runway I needed to backtrack on the gravel runway. This gave me ample opportunity to perform the preflight check. This included checking the ferry tank pumps. All looked normal. I lined up on the runway and applied full throttle once again. The airplane was raring to go and so was I. I could see some people at the scientist camp looking at me. I was hoping I would see them again in 12 hours.

Once airborne I turned heading North. That was one advantage of this flight, it was quite easy to remember which heading to turn. I relied on the GPS to set my gyroscopic compass. The magnetic compass was getting very sluggish and unreliable. When I checked, I flew a magnetic heading of 090°.

The first two hours of the flight I was still over land. It was a bit of a repetition of the day before: mountains with glaciers. Only difference: they were a little higher and so much more beautiful. I could see the fog from the coast trying to conquer the mountains. First the valleys were covered in the steamy fog, then the lower heights and finally the glaciers. Always getting higher and higher, until only the tops remained visible. When the tops disappeared, I was crossing the coast line. At the shore, only a few miles of water were remaining. Barely visible under another layer of fog. When the water disappeared, so did the fog. It made room for a beautiful Arctic Ocean. It was covered for 95% with flat ice. Between the ice were pockets of water. Some had a dark blue color, indicating that these were real cracks, which means you’d sink to the bottom of the ocean if you would dive in there. The others were kind of a greenish blue, with less sharp edges. These were little lakes/puddles in the ice due to the surface melt. You could swim in these without sinking to the ocean. In theory.

Soon, all of the land disappeared and only the white ice was visible. Ice everywhere. Some very thin high altitude clouds and a beautiful sun. I was flying over the ice for 2 hours when I noticed the ice started to disappear. Clouds were forming. Every now and then, the clouds would become very thin which allowed me to take a peek. The ice was still there, which was nice to know if the engine would decide to quit. When I headed North, it got closer to the low pressure area, so every half an hour I cross checked my altimeter with the GPS indicated altitude.

The hours passed by. The EET was soon expressed in minutes instead of hours. The closer I got, the thicker the layer of clouds became. A second higher layer of clouds started to form. The visibility was still very good and there was no ice forming on the wings. The impatience and eagerness to reach the destination started to grow. I checked every gauge and every indicator in the cockpit twice every minute and started my descend to 2000 ft. The minutes started to pass by extremely slowly. Until that moment that the GPS indicated the distance in single digits. 9NM to go… 8 NM … 7 … 6 …. Careful, maintain the track, the longitude indication is very sensitive here. 5 … 4 … 3 … 2 … back to 3 (watch the heading!) … 2 … 1. I was now flying within a 1 NM radius of the geographical North Pole.

Above the clouds, at 2000 ft, I had a beautiful sight at the sun, and I couldn’t see the Pole. I could see a very faint glimpse of the surface, so I decided to try and descend below the cloud base. I dove into the clouds, and a little bit of ice started to form. The surface became clearer and sharper with every feet I descended, so I was not worried of crashing into the water. At 400 ft, I was out of the clouds and I saw the surface in front of me. The clouds must have contained fresh snow and freezing temperatures, because the little puddles in the surface were frozen again, and the surface was covered in a thick layer of fluffy snow. Before that moment I was still considering landing on the pole. An experienced Pole traveler told me that the ice would probably be thick enough to land a C172, but the challenge would be to find a piece of ice unaffected by the surface melt. Turns out he was right.

Tempting faith by trying a landing on wheels on a freshly snowed surface with melted ice everywhere was a bit too risky, even for me. I forgot that idea, and tried to pinpoint the exact location of the Pole. I crossed all 360° meridians in 3 minutes while flying at 300ft with Kenny Loggins’ “Danger Zone”(Top Gun) blasting through my headset.

So that’s how on the 17th of July 2011, at 21.25 GMT, a little Cessna 172 was flying over the geographic North Pole, all alone, in a vast white emptiness, more than 400 NM away from the nearest airport.

This friendly gentleman, a local inuit, took care of the plane during the “night”, and turned it with the nose in the wind, since apparently it started bouncing away when the wind picked up. Many thanks sir! Next on the todo-list was the fueling of the plane. This time it took only one barrel to fill up the airplane. I described the fueling process to Jane and managed not to cut all my fingers this time. One hour later, the plane was ready to fly, a flight plan was filed, and I tried on my brand new immersion suit. It was easy to get into, but once I was wearing it, I felt like an oversized Teletubby.

I tried to enter the plane. This was already a difficult task in my normal clothes, let alone in a fat, thick rubber suit. After a few tries, the easiest way was too swing my feet across the ceiling and install myself on the seat while trying to avoid breaking the yoke. I tried to keep the question “how will you exit the airplane in case of a real ditching” out of my head and comforted myself with the knowledge that at least I would drown all warm and comfortable.

I waved the people gathering around Jane goodbye and started the engine with a very low throttle setting. To avoid gravel damage, I did not use the brakes and let the airplane roll by itself while the engine was idling. A Kenn Borek Air Twin Otter took off before me. While backtracking on the runway, I performed the necessary run-up items. All looked well. The airplane was ready for its flight to one of the most remote airports in Canada. Full throttle brought the airplane up to speed. I pulled the nose up and set course for Eureka (CYEU). Ten minutes later, every sign of a civilization was gone again. I left Cornwall (the island on which Resolute Bay was located) behind me, crossed some water, flew over some other islands and so on. Some of the water was just that: water, but most of the time, a thin layer of melting ice was still visible, which created some nice patterns in the water. Under influence of the wind, this ice was sometimes drifted against a coast line which, as I would learn later, decreases the temperature drastically.

Only one hour of flying to go, and my map was telling me to expect mountains up to 5000ft. And indeed, first as tiny anthills, later as huge solid rocks, the mountains grew bigger. What was first a little dot on the horizon soon grew into a huge glacier below the wheels of my little plane. Although the absolute height of the mountains was not that high, having the base of the mountain at sea level did show an impressive height difference. I hopped from top to top, trying not to confuse all these valleys (thank you GPS!). I enjoyed the mountain view for 45 minutes. As sudden as they appeared, they shrunk again, only to make room for the final water crossing of this trip: the bay where Eureka was located.

I tuned in on the Eureka frequency, and received a response almost immediately. This was very strange for an airport that received maybe 2 flights a day. I made a wonderful approach over the water and saw the gravel runway between all the other gravel that covered almost every square inch. After the smooth landing, I was told that I could park anywhere. After I parked and shut down my engine, the scientist in charge came to greet me, and, told me to move the plane to the other side of the runway, where they stored their fuel. Aziz made arrangements so I could use a drum of fuel. It took me just under 45 minutes to partially refuel my tanks. I saved the remaining fuel in the drum for my flight back.

The scientist in charge drove me over to the weather station (about 2 km west of the airport). There I found out that the ATC frequency was broadcasted in the recreation room, which explained the rather quick response earlier. I informed the people there of my plans, and asked for a weather forecast for the day after (it was after all a weather station). I was very surprised to hear that they couldn’t help me with that. The weather station only measures data, it does not give out forecasts. That meant I would have to call my new friend at the PCSP (Polar Continental Shelf Project), located 350 NM more south, to get a forecast for the North Pole.

I walked around a bit, and learned that there are normally 9 “permanent” residents. They live in Eureka for 3 months, then go home for 3 months and are replaced by other people. During summer, the population is increased to 15 with extra scientist, flying around in helicopters all around the area. The military itself also had a base there. As a matter of fact, one of my “followers” on the AvCanada forum called the military over there, to ask if there was a C172 on the ramp. So I dropped by and said hi to the station commander. He called me nuts when I informed him about my plan, but also had a bit of respect for it. I also met Massimo, an Italian helicopter pilot who moved to Canada. He was very interested and was curious to see if it would work out. He was already impressed by me reaching Eureka in a single engine airplane.

With all this support and interest in my trip, I went to bed feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. And yet, a little nagging feeling of fear and doubt was sneaking its way into my head. Against all odds, I made it to 80°N in this very unforgiving terrain. I had lots of luck so far that nothing serious broke down, and that the technical problems were discovered before they caused any serious harm. I was lucky to have met such nice people with only good intentions. People who kept their promises, who came through for me in the end. I had been flying for only 2 weeks and was about to reach my goal the next day, or fail miserably in an even more remote area. And what about flying for 12 hours, would I be able to handle it ? Would the plane be able to handle it ? And the ferry tank ? All these thoughts were spinning in my head. I somehow managed to fall asleep. I had confusing and stressful dreams that night.

With a mental “all systems go”, I ate a quick breakfast. The hostess called me a cab to drive me to the airport. Rankin Inlet is quite a small town (+- 2400 people), yet had a surprisingly efficient taxi system. All distances were small, which resulted in one fixed price for a cab: 5 dollar anywhere you wanted to go. Surprisingly cheap compared to the accommodations.
When I arrived, the manager told me I had to leave the airport by 11 in the morning. Around 10 o’clock, I was taxiing to the holding point of the active runway. A regional jet was waiting to enter the runway while I was rolling for take-off. Once airborne, I noticed the plane was quite heavy again which made sense since it was fully loaded on fuel, just as it was in Muskoka. The temperature was 15° lower now, so the performance was not as bad as expected. I remembered my flap mistake from a few days earlier, and retracted them at 900 ft this time. Only a slight height loss this time. I set course to Resolute Bay and started the timer to keep an eye on the fuel consumption. I soon discovered the plane would fly for 30 minutes, then needed a 10 minute refuel to keep a constant fuel level according to the unreliable fuel gauges.

The first part of the trip was uneventful. There were indeed some low level clouds in the distance, but they looked very friendly and hospitable. It were their big brothers higher in the sky that stole my sunshine. To keep a reasonable performance, I was cruising at 5000ft in the beginning and was performing a cruising climb (or you may just call it sloppy flying) and climbing to 6000ft. At first, this altitude kept me below the big clouds and above the small ones. The further north I got, the lower the big clouds were. Since there was mountainous terrain ahead, I decided not to go lower than 4000 ft, and started to climb to 7000 ft, in an attempt to climb through them. I was soon IMC (=in the clouds), but had the vague impression (illusion) I could see the sun above me. I continued the climb until 7500 ft, when I noticed the performance of the airplane was getting terrible. This was to be expected, since I was still quite heavy. I had only burned 24 USG, so there were still about 125 gallons remaining. I maintained this altitude for half an hour, still chasing the sun, while being mainly IMC and popping out for a few seconds every 5 minutes. Every now and then I casted a quick glimpse outside to see how the brightness of the sun was doing. It started to become lighter every time I looked, which gave me the impression I was approaching the end of the clouds. It was at that time I noticed some small shiny dots on the windshield. It looked as if the windshield was damaged, but when I kept looking for other ‘damaged’ parts, I noticed the whole front part of the wing was covered in a layer of ice…

This was not a nice feeling. I started to work out possible plans of action. I could turn back, which would mean at least half an hour flying through known icy conditions. I could descend and hope to break out of the clouds before hitting the ground. I could just continue and hope for the best. After all, I had been flying without problems through the ice for half an hour now. Only problem was, I didn’t know how long the icing conditions would last. Or, I could descend and divert to Taloyoak, which should be a few miles west of me, about 15 minutes away.

I cursed the weather man (freezing level around 10 000 ft, right!) and dismissed the turning back option, since that was the only option that guaranteed me another 30 minutes of ice on the wing. I heard on the Taloyoak frequency that the weather was deteriorating there quite quickly, and they had a ceiling around 900 ft at the time. Taloyoak had an elevation of 92 feet, but there were hills with elevations up to 600 ft around, and some obstacles that were even higher. This made me dismiss the “divert to Taloyoak” option. I was going to try to descend down t o 3000 ft maximum, and see if I would break out of the clouds. Going lower would be useless, since the terrain would start to rise in another hour. A quick descend later, I broke out of the clouds at 4000 ft, only to see another layer below me, almost reaching the ground and another wall of clouds a few kilometers before me. This wasn’t going to work out, so I started my chase for the sun again. Climbing back towards the sun, and checking the wing every 10 seconds, I reached my cruising level of 7000 ft again without collecting any more ice. Ten minutes later I was clear of clouds. Half an hour later all the ice was melted and I continued as happily as before.

An hour later, I had to enter another cloud, with again the same icing effect. This time, I knew what to expect, and half an hour later, the ice started to melt again. The last part of the flight was flown in the nice sunny weather I’d gotten used to. The scenery started to change again. Almost no vegetation, just rocks and water. Lots of water. I saw the first ice of the trip, and some isolated remains of what was one giant area of ice a few weeks earlier.
After 7 hours of flying, I saw the first glimpse of the destination. I radioed the airport, and asked them to inform Aziz of my arrival. The radio was very difficult to read, which made me unsure if my message got through. In the middle of the rocks and water, a shore line appeared. In this shore line, a little bay was forming. Little houses popped up, and 7 kilometers to the west, another group of buildings became visible. The gravel runway was a bit difficult to see, so I made a nice by the book visual approach. Circling overhead, joining left hand downwind (first time this was over an icy sea), trying to keep a visual on the runway (which is not as easy as it looks when everything you see is gravel anywhere). The clouds were at 2000 ft, very dark. I made a smooth landing and taxied to the apron. The ‘tower’ told me I could park anywhere I wanted. Parking anywhere you want in the North means that the parking spot you first select will always be a wrong space, which will mean you have to move somewhere else, exactly where they tell you to, which included a complete useless taxi at slow speed and high power through a gravel apron. Trying not to damage the plane, I reached my final taxi stop. The tower closed my flight plan and I jumped out of the plane, to be immediately greeted by Aziz. The local business man running half of Resolute Bay, who sold me the fuel and offered me accommodations.

I didn’t want to keep him off his work for too long, so I rushed through the plane to collect all my gear. I wouldn’t need my tent to sleep, as he promised he would take care of me. No tie downs were necessary either, as he told me the airport guys would call him if the wind would pick up above 15 kts. All the stuff was packed in his car. It was then I recognized the car: it was a bloody Mercedes! A nearly new silver Mercedes, driving around at 70°N, in a dusty gravel environment.

After a stop at his car shop, where Aziz helped some people fixing a truck, I arrived at his hotel. I updated the friendly people on the AvCanada forum and informed a local pilot I was staying at Aziz’s hotel. I had a lovely dinner made by Randy, Aziz’s cook. I would see Randy a lot the next week, but more about that later.

I made a little stroll through the village and the bay. Resolute Bay. A little later the pilot dropped by for a visit and gave me some more information about flying here. The house keeping lady of the hotel was also a social match maker, and informed a reporter that there was a crazy guy planning to fly to the North Pole in a small airplane. She made a quick interview with me, to feature in her ‘Arctic Explorers’ story. The house keeping lady had the time of her life setting up the interview room with all kinds of props left behind by other travelers. This included a canoe, a dead muskox and some hiking gear. Jane was actually there to jump on an Ice Breaker on its way to Cambridge Bay, telling a story about the North Western Passage, an area still a bit in dispute to whom it actually belongs.

Feeling like a movie star after my interview, I went to bed. I was really high up in the Arctic by now. And I would go higher.

My first take-off from a gravel runway was uneventful. I managed not to damage the airplane, and flew over Churchill city, waving my hosts goodbye. I crossed a little bit of water and followed the shoreline for almost the entire 2 hours. While flying, I was constantly hopping frequencies in an idle attempt to maintain radio contact if the need arised. I had been told this was prime polar bear season, so I was very eager to see these creatures in real life. They should be collecting at the shore, waiting for the big Hudson Bay to freeze over again, so I flew at 2000ft over the shore. My disappointment was enormous when I arrived at Rankin Inlet (CYRT) without seeing even one polar bear!

Rankin Inlet is used as one of the main hubs for the Arctic traffic. Rankin Inlet was also the first airport where I landed that was referenced to True North instead of Magnetic North. Yet another clue my destination came closer. Once landed in Rankin Inlet, I needed to look for the fuel company that was supposed to have a building nearby the airport. This was my last chance to buy some cheap avgas, so I was planning on buying 2 drums of 55 USG worth of Avgas. But first I had to find the company.

Rankin Inlet was a place of many firsts: first true north reference, first fuelling out of drums and also my first contact with the Canadian natives: the Inuït. A lot of these people use the airport as the only means of transportation to go visit friends and relatives. A lot of these people also work at the airport, often one of the only places where you could actually work in the arctic. One other unfortunate thing that defined them, was that they were often poorer than the other people that lived there. Which resulted in quite an old not so well maintained airport building. In a very friendly but often with an extremely strong accent, they explained me where I needed to be.

This was yet another moment I was always looking forward to: meeting the voice you’ve heard so many times before on the phone. The friendly Derek arranged my fuel. There was quite a long wait, which gave me a little more insight in the fuel economics of Rankin Inlet. There was one company selling all kinds of fuel (to burn, to drive, to use in ones snow scooter, for airplanes etc). The prices were determined by the government and –luckily for me- heavily subsidized. 45 minutes later, my fuel arrived at my plane. Some heavy machinery brought it right where it needed to be. When the two drums were standing in front of me, I realized how much 110 USG of fuel actually is. It’s a massive amount to put in a Cessna 172.

Now it was time to try and open the fuel drum. I’m very grateful that Dave, the mechanic from Muskoka, gave me a drum opener right before I left. I made sure I brought pumps, but I forgot about the first basic step. First I used my Leatherman knife to try and make an opening in the plastic cap. Two finger cuts later, I saw the metal seal underneath the cap. I squeezed the drum opener in, bruised another finger and with a wonderful hiss, the drum was ready to release all its fuel. I put the fuel pump in the drum, and attached to other end of the hose to the ferry tank. This was the easiest tank to start the fueling, since it was within reach. I started rotating the pump, when I saw the little sticker on the pump. It needed 100 rotations to transfer 5 USG… After an hour of fuel transfer, the first drum was finally empty. With a slightly increased skill, I managed to open up the other drum just a little bit faster. By now, the ferry tank was almost full, which made it very hard to put any extra fuel in it. The constant switching between venting the air from the tank, rotating the fuel pump and making sure the fuel hose was not cut off due to the position of the tank, mixed in with the occasional bump on the head on the wings, made it one of the more frustrating moments of the trip.

When the main ferry tank was filled, I started putting fuel in the wing tanks. This included moving a fuel drum that’s half full. Not an easy task to do by yourself. Half an hour later, the fuelling was finished. Originally, the plan was to put up my tent, and camp somewhere in the village. Given my bruised fingers, all the cuts, my hands that were showered in fuel and started to look weirdishly white, my clothes and gear that was all covered in the grey arctic dust, me being very tired and the not really friendly looking village, I treated myself by renting a room for 175 dollars. And yes, a room, that’s all it was. A room with a bed, and a shared bathroom.
All the gear was settled in, and it was time to visit the village. I visted the big Inukshuk (big pile of rocks, like a totem pole) in the middle of the city. Unfortunately vandalism is also quite a plague in this part of the world. So there were some custom paintjobs on the Inukshuk. Still, it managed to remain very majestuous.

While I walked around the town and the little coast line it was a shame there was soo much garbage lying around, especially at the rocky beach. In the town center you could see a lot of people were using the fuel drums of the company where I bought my fuel, but they all left them outside. It gave quite a view of the average fuel consumption of a family. The dented old barrels were more than a year old, the empty new ones with the paint still on probably quite recent.
I got back at the ‘hotel’ and called up Aziz, my contact in Resolute Bay. Everything was arranged for my stop the next day. If the weather was good, I would be inside the Arctic circle tomorrow. This put a smile on my face, and I went to bed.

For breakfast I went back to the same (and only?) restaurant as the night before. It was a beautiful day today, and the weather forecasts looked good. Some towering cumulus were expected during the late afternoon in Churchill. Just to be on the safe side, I filed an IFR flight plan again. Filing the plan by phone was similar to what I’d done before. What was new today, was activating the flight plan. There was no ATC present in Nakina, and there was no guaranteed reception of an ATC frequency, so I had to call ATC by phone 10 minutes before my departure. The clearance I got was “Contact Churchill Center 70 NM from your destination”. This was for a 573 NM long flight ! I did get an extra list of frequencies I might or might not receive at my altitude.

With a little help from the colleague of the friendly employee the day before, I managed to pull the airplane back on the apron (the plane was place a few centimeters behind to secure it). A thorough preflight check later (no bear damage) the engine was once again started. One track direct to Churchill.
It was during this flight that the scenery changed enormously. The vast woods made room for lower vegetation, grass, rivers and a lot of swamps. Every now and then, I tried to make contact on a frequency without any success. The international emergency frequency (121.5) was always active, just in case. 5 hours later, I crossed the magic 70 NM border and started to enjoy the chitchat with Churchill Center. The weather was apparently changing a bit faster than expected. There were isolated thunderstorms in the vicinity, and the clouds were moving in over Churchill.

With this weather report in mind, I thought a strange phenomenon in the distance was a huge cloud or heap of fog. When I was approaching, and about 15 NM away from Churchill, I saw some orange glow in the fog. Turned out this fog was a forest fire, eating its way through the landscape. The naïve side of me informed ATC about this, but of course they already knew, and were quite relaxed about it. It wasn’t threatening the city yet, so why not let it burn ?
The closer I got to Churchill, the more rainy clouds were visible at the horizon. For the moment, I was only flying through some very light drizzle, and was hoping to keep it that way. I spotted the airport and, as was written in the notams, the main concrete runway was under repair. This would be my first gravel runway landing ! Not really sure what to expect, I saw a rectangular piece of brown dirt, positioned in such a way that it should be the runway. While turning final, lots of rain started to pour down. Once on final, I saw some lights through the rainy windshield (wipers, my kingdom for windshield wipers!) and figured it were the runway centerline. At 300 ft, I suddenly saw another line of lights appear through the rain. There should only be one runway… A few seconds later it looked as if the lights were floating above the runway, and were in fact the runway edge lights. Floating over the threshold, I noticed the edge lights were about half a meter high. It would not have been healthy to land on that. By now the raindrops had thickened even more, and although the visibility was quite good, the windshield became unusable. In the distance you could see some lightning strikes. Using the view from only the side windows, I managed to make a rather smooth landing.

At the moment I left the runway and entered the taxi way, the heavy rain was replaced by the light drizzle again. I tried to locate a living soul on the airport. This took a bit longer than expected, but eventually someone showed up. Some heavy concrete boulders were moved so I could tie down the airplane. The guy moved the first boulder and told me to move the second one myself. What a service!

I got picked up by 2 lovely ladies I got to know via www.couchsurfing.com . A must-visit website for any traveler! They drove me around in their corner of the world. Once of the local attractions was ‘Miss Piggy’, an airplane wreck just lying around there, a few meters from the airport. Another source of amusement were the new polar bear warning signs that were put up all around town. This got me optimistic to actually see a polar bear. So far, no luck…

It was still morning, and very cloudy. Because of this, the temperature was not yet too high, and it was an ideal situation to make a quick Circuit and check the performance of the plane. I started to taxi with the full ferry tank, but no luggage. It was time for the run up now. Following the checklist as a crazy man, not to forget anything –after all, this would be my last stop with a decent mechanic in the neighborhood- I was a bit too enthusiastic and inadvertently switched off both magneto’s at run up power. A loud bang and red cheeks were the consequence of that.

The rest of the run-up, the plane behaved normally, and I had no problem controlling it. Because of the low clouds, I filed a Special VFR flight plan for one circuit. Another one of my firsts ! Applying power, I started the take off roll. The airspeed indicator slowly came alive, and t he controls were still responding nicely. No problem with a center of gravity close to the aft limit. I slowly rotated the plane and got a decent 500 feet per minute climb out of it to circuit altitude. Staying below the clouds was not too hard, and the sun started to break through them. Everything was looking perfect for the trip this day. I turned final and started to slow down, again paying special attention to the COG. The elevator trim was still within limits, again putting my mind at ease. I made a smooth landing, and taxied back to the mechanic.

I asked him if my little magneto bump (which they all heard) would cause any trouble, and was assured that as long as I wouldn’t do it every time, there would be no problem. I spent the next hour stuffing all my stuff in the plane. Although it were a lot of small bags, collecting them all took a while, and I had the vague idea they would be heavier than expected. I also loaded the survival equipment: arctic tent, sleeping bag, gun with ammunition, life raft for one person and a bright red immersion suit. The plane was ready to go, and it was time for a group picture. If everything would go well, I would be back in about two weeks.
The plan was to fly to Nakina (CYQN), about 450 NM from Muskoka. With an average fuel flow of 8 GPH (about 45 USG on board connected to the engine) and a planned groundspeed of 100 kts, this would not be a problem. I said goodbye to Dave and his crew, and started the engine. This time, the airplane behave a little bit more vividly, which made me think the COG has shifted a little bit more to the back, but should still be within limits. This time runway 36 was in use, which meant I had to taxi a little bit on the runway, and then leave it again to ask permission to enter the runway for take-off. Basically, taxiing was uncontrolled, but take-off was a controlled action. Which makes you wonder what would happen if an airplane cleared for take-off would meet a legally taxiing uncontrolled airplane during his take-off roll…

Taxiing very slowly and trying to avoid as many bumps as possible, I made it to the threshold. A few minutes later, I got my IFR clearance. The weather had cleared up a lot already, but there were some isolated low level clouds that I wanted to cross. The temperature had climbed from about 22°C to 28°C. As I did two hours ago, I lined up on the runway (albeit in the other direction). The runway was clear and take-off power was applied. The engine veered to live and it took the airspeed indicator just a little longer to come to life. I took the stick back and became airborne slowly. Very slowly. The indicated rate of climb was about 200 feet per minute. I slowly cleared the trees at the end of the runway and was flying over the forest. Not being very comfortable with this rate of climb, I remembered my ATPL courses and realized that I had to lose the flaps to get a better rate of climb. So that’s exactly what I did. Only problem, even though I was flying for a few minutes, I only made it to 400 ft AGL. Retracting the flaps required me to put the nose down to keep up the speed and to avoid a stall. Not a very smart move at that time if you look back on it. The trees suddenly started to grow again. I lost 100 ft before I got enough speed to risk climbing again. After 15 minutes I made it to 4000 ft and informed ATC I would not be going any higher (I filed 7000 ft). I even had to fly full throttle to keep this altitude.

Since this take-off, I decided to manually switch the fuel tanks every half an hour, to keep better track of my fuel consumption. It soon turned out I would probably not make it to my destination due to the hot weather, low altitude and a 15kt headwind. The fuel consumption was also a lot higher (I calculated it had been 10 – 11 GPH after the flight). The EET for Nakina kept going down, and for a moment I thought I would make it. I made the last switch of the tank 30 minutes before I estimated the tank would go dry. I kept looking for alternative airports in the vicinity, while continuing to Nakina. After 35 minutes of flying on the tank, the indicator indicated the tank was completely empty. Because I wanted to know the accuracy of the indicater, I kept flying on the tank, holding my hand on the fuel tank switch. Every little vibration made my heart skip a beat, only to see that nothing happened and it was probably just a little bit of wind. I watched the GPS screen.

“1h15 to go… If the tank would be empty now, I wouldn’t be able to make it.” “1h to go… If it would be empty now I might make it, the other tank should be a little bit fuller, or not ?”… “50 minutes to go, if it keeps going like this I’ll make it…” “45 minutes to go, hmm, border case, I’ll probably make it, but what if the airport would have a problem or a closed runway and …” . Suddenly there was a sputtering engine and silence. Even though it was expecting it, an engine failure does surprise you and it took a few moments to realize that this time it was no wind and the engine did indeed quit. I turned the fuel tank switch and was happy to see the engine come to life again within seconds. A lot less than the 30 seconds Cessna documented in their manual. I checked my watch and noticed I had at least 50 minutes of fuel left. Time to check the options: would I make Nakina? Probably yes, especially if you include the descend which would make the fuel consumption even less than the previous 50 minutes. It was only a 40 minute flight at this point. The closest airport which looked like a descend place was Manitouwadge (CYMG). I didn’t want to end my adventure running out of fuel due to a fuel calculation, so I decided to divert to Manitouwadge, which was only 10 minutes flying away.

I tried to inform ATC of my diversion, but I was in an area not covered by any control frequency. They were not expecting me for another 50 minutes anyway, so I diverted quietly. I tried calling Manitouwadge (I just love writing this name, Manitouwadge! ) but received no response. Flying overhead I noticed the wind sock, and proceeded to my best choice of runway for the final approach.

Now, when I looked into the manual of the Cessna, emptying the main tanks would cause the COG to move a little bit forward. I was thus expecting no problems for landing. On final however, I noticed I needed full forward trim and still had to push the elevator forward a bit. Not wanting to stall or spin in these conditions, I made a fast approach, floated over half the runway, and made a smooth landing in Manitouwadge. The airport was totally isolated. Completely dead. I had a sparkle of hope when I tried the door of the airport building and it was open, only to found the second door locked. The first door gave me access to the phone so I could close my flight plan. The friendly Canadian lady at the other end of the line didn’t even know where Manitouwadge was located, which gave already a little hint of my situation. There were some signs on the wall for fuel services, all jet fuel. Time for my plan B: crack open the ferry tank and start pumping some fuel in the main tanks.

I installed the pumps and tubes, sticking everything together with duct tape. At that moment, a dark cloud was floating by over the airport. It was then, all by myself on that airport, messing around with the airplane, in the chilly weather (the temperature had dropped to +- 16°C and I was still in full summer clothes), that I first felt lonely. I was only at 49°N (even more south than Belgium), and I started to wonder what I’d gotten myself into. What if the plane broke down here ? What if the tank started to leak ? What if I would get robbed ? All questions I had answered to myself before the trip, but the answers didn’t sound too convincing at this time. Not having a lot of options, I continued on my task at hand so I could make it to Nakina. They were expecting me there, and assured me they had plenty of fuel and were open all day.

My optimism soon returned when I first switched on the fuel pumps, and I noticed the fuel gauge going up very slowly. I tested it for a minute, and then decided to start the engine to avoid an empty battery. I was sitting there in the airplane, standing stationary, running the engine and burning fuel, just to put more fuel in the tanks. The irony made me smile, and at that time the sun evaporated the dark cloud over the airport. My optimism was back and I was going to the North Pole. Yay !

I taxied and took off, all in one fluent motion and had Nakina in sight half an hour later. It started to become cloudier every moment, and I made a landing in the grey airport. I was worrying this would be a second Manitouwadge scenario, but then I saw a local guy popping up in the door, asking me what I needed. I told him I needed a full tank of AVGAS. When he asked me where the fuel caps were, I realized that even here, only a few hours flying away from the US border, a Cessna 172 was already considered a peculiarity. I told him they were on top of the plane. With a friendly smile he started to fuel it. My first idea was to camp at the airport to save some dollars (which wasn’t a problem according to his colleague I spoke to the day before on the phone), but when he told me he chased away bears this week and there was a motel just next to the airport, it was an easy choice. It wasn’t even expensive, a little unexpected in an isolated village as Nakina.

The temperature had gone down even more, and it was time to switch to my autumn clothes. The lady owner of the motel gave me directions to the only restaurant in town. While walking (it’s not far, but then again, nothing is far in Nakina) I passed the friendly airport employee who was just finishing his shift. He offered me a ride to the restaurant. I was not even seated yet before he friendly but firmly ordered me to buckle up. Which I did. Of course. I learned he was born in Nakina and adopted a few local children. Two minutes later we were in front of the restaurant.

After the good meal (where they thought I was French, what an insult to my Flemish heritage!), I walked back to the motel in the slight rain. I enjoyed the scenery and the isolated area. Being the last village connected to the road network does mean one doesn’t get a lot of passing traffic.

Back in the motel, I went to bed early, to process everything that happened that day. I slept well.

Now, imagine being on a trip that will take you across roughly 4500 NM and hopefully back. Through isolated areas and rough terrain, where the nearest suitable maintenance facility is literally up to 2000 NM away. One would want his plane to be in perfect shape, ready for the adventure, very strong, unbreakable and extremely reliable.

So when I heard the verdict “your main oil line is about to burst, your muffler is cracked”, my optimism soon made room for frustration. From a mechanical point of view, it was a miracle I made it to Muskoka without an engine failure or bursting into flames. Thanks to the ingenuity of Craig & Dave, the airplane could be repaired the same day. While they were fiddling around with screws, oil and all kind of tools I’d never seen before, I tried to fit in the ferry tank in a secure way. When a 100 USG tank would start rolling in flight, there’s a big change you’ll end up in the news papers.

Because the tank was round (one of the characteristics of a cylindrical tank), it was very difficult to keep the outlet at the bottom while fuelling. In the late afternoon, the engine of the plane was fixed, and Craig took a look at my fuel tank struggle. We filled the tank, saw that it started moving a bit, and subsequently emptied it again. Emptying a 100 USG tank while trying to save the precious fuel, is not as easy as one might think. This was however the ideal moment to test the fuel pumps attached to the tank. Tip: an empty battery won’t power a fuel pump. And attaching a starter to the pumps directly won’t work either… Ah electricity, thy are mysterious! After an hour of pumping, the tank was empty, ready for a second attempt.

Dave decided the best course of action was to build a rudimentary strong wooden construction that would keep the tank from rolling. He would build that this evening, so I could leave the next day in the morning. If everything would go as planned I’d be out of Muskoka by noon. A very big if…

Dave, the friendly mechanic from the day before, also attached a map to his fat-ass truck which allowed me to find the last fully operational steam boat. I enjoyed the Canadian highways, the beautiful lakes and a nice museum telling the story of the Muskoka lakes.

The evening was spent preparing everything for the flight the next day. Thinking the check-up on the plane would be routine, I went to bed. Still optimistic.