Sergeant Restive Of The Yukon

H Is For Helicopter (And For Hover Crafty)

Photograph copyright: MATTHEW McMAHON

He is one of Canada’s most decorated rescue helicopter pilots but the next time I catch up with Doug Makkonen, I won’t be shaking hands with him. Nuthin' personal, though. The last time I did, in 1999 at Haines Junction in the Yukon, my hand came back a different shape and I can still hear the knuckles cracking in his generous grasp. Doug, the base manager for Trans North Helicopters is a big bloke, and his vice-like grip befits the national recognition for his skills as a fearless chopper pilot and his bravery as a rescuer.

You think I'm kidding about his grip? Nope. Mate, look at the picture below and you'll see that his three passengers on the right have their hands determinedly out of his way. Doug was born to be a chopper pilot, but never, ever tell him ``Get a grip''. Ask me. I know all about it.

This is Kluane National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage site, and we are shortly to head to the Lowell Glacier, even though the weather is not too flash. The yellow and red Bell Ranger is bound to mother earth by silvery metal clamps on the launch pad. Having mangled my hand, Doug (pictured here in olive-green cap and blue parka) makes amends by giving me the airborne equivalent of the penthouse suite, the left-hand seat in front with him, in the clear perspex bubble of the cockpit.

I make a mental note not to touch the white rudder pedals in front of me as Doug shows us how to strap ourselves in. Three metallic clicks later, we are in business and Doug does one final inspection of the chopper as he checks the outside locks on the passenger doors.

Then he settles into the pilot's seat, hands out a set of headphones to each one of us with brief instructions on how to use them ("make sure the microphone is really, really close to your lips") and then the whine of the engine and the thump of the rotors drowns out normal conversation.

The landscape starts to change. There are patches of ice on the ground. Shortly, we are in the thrall of the Lowell Glacier, its ridges and its edges and its awe-inspiring vistas that are a legacy of the Ice Age. Doug tells us how Lake Alsek, formed some time between the 18th and 19th centuries, reached halfway to Whitehorse and how it is thought to have drained back in just under three days after the ice dam broke.

What unfolds below us is one majestic sight after another. Doug reminds us that the glacier's levels keep shifting. "If I were to put down on the glacier and turn the engine off, you'd hear it groaning and creaking constantly." Suddenly I am struck by a colour on the glacier. To our left is a patch of vivid blue, a shade I have never seen anywhere before. More patches appear with the same unique colour and when I ask, Doug explains that it is caused by melting ice. As a photographer and painter, it is the purest blue I have ever seen.

On the way back to the airfield, Doug gives us plenty of photo opportunities. He gives us a James Bond-eye-view of some peaks, flying up to them and (to our untrained eyes) not clearing them by too much. It's one thing looking at 007's stunt pilots doing this in 70mm. It's another thing altogether when you're sitting there, alongside the pilot. Then Doug does his party piece. He skims over a looming peak and then, abruptly below us, is a deeply-riven valley. No warning. Whoa. I am convinced my lunch is about to reappear.

When I get my breath back, I ask Doug what the drop was. "Three thousand feet," he says, laconically. Three thousand feet? In my state of instant apoplexy, I'm convinced it was at least the height of Everest. But Doug's the king of the Yukon, so I take his word.

But we didn't shake hands on it. I'm not that stupid.