The North-West Staging Route

(In the course of his summer’s work with the R.C.A.F. last year, Flying Officer French’s duties took him over a large part of the territory covered by the Canadian section of the North-West Staging Route. The name of this once-famous airway, though no longer heard as often as it used to be, was familiar to all Canadian ferry and fighter pilots operating in the north-west of this continent during the Second World War. In the present series of articles, the author gives his impressions of the Route as it is today and relates his encounters with some of the people who were concerned with the making of it—Editor.)

“The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, But the queerest they ever did see—”

” What, Sir, is the meaning of all this?”

At the sound of that all-too-familiar voice, I stopped my chanting and looked up. Framed in the doorway of the editorial office of “The Roundel” stood Sgt. Shatterproof, staring with mingled astonishment and distaste at the assortment of articles I was attempting to stuff into a valise — geiger counter, cakes of pemmican, waterproof boxes of matches, collapsible rifle, axe, several pairs of Bishop’s Jaegers, and other no less Suggestive items of equipment,

“I go, Sergeant,” I said sternly, “to the North. I go to recapture the Spirit that fired the breasts of Robert Service and Jack London. Sloughing off the tinsel trappings of civilization, I go—”

“You go, Sir,” he interposed, “to visit some of the units along the North-West Staging Route. I know. The editor told me. That is the reason for my question. Why the impedimenta?” He gestured at the litter surrounding me. “You feel that the transport might break down somewhere in the trackless wilderness that lies between this office and the Union Station?”

“I am thinking,” I said, ignoring his humour, “of lands far from here. I am thinking—”

“Should you find yourself in extremis at any time during your travels, Sir, I can heartily recommend the cuisine at several of the cafés which abound today north of the sixtieth parallel. ‘Joe’s Ritz-Waldorf, for example, is justly famed for its casserole de poulet sans culotte, while at ‘The Three Jolly Bulldozers’ the ragott a la mitaine de mécanicien—”

“You are acquainted with that part of the world, Shatterproof?”

He considered me thoughtfully for a few moments. Then:

“In person, Sir, no,” he admitted. “But you will find that the name I bear is one to conjure with in the North-West. Have you never heard of my uncle Six-Pan Shatterproof, the Titan of Telegraph Creek?”

I had not; but, needless to say, I very promptly did.

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Safely aboard “The Canadian”, with my gear deposited in a roomette, I set out on a tour of the train. The tour was prompted by necessity as much as curiosity, for roomettes were evidently not designed for the accommodation of 220-pound pioneers plus their gear.

As I passed through the last car on my way to the observation dome, I came upon a mobile pub. The discovery cheered me somewhat. By nice scheduling, it should be possible to divide my time agreeably enough between the dome, the pre-prandial, and the table. Next day, however, I found that I had been wrong in my calculations. For some sadistic reason, while the train is crossing the prairies and its passengers are most in need of cheer, the bar is closed. I was thus forced, when we crossed the Ontario-Manitoba border, to ease myself back into my roomette and to break the seal of an item that I had planned to use only in the direst emergency. But, as I gazed through the window at the unbroken horizon and the drab buildings which, at rare intervals, added to the starkness of the scene, I felt that few emergencies could be much more dire than this.

I whiled away part of that phase of the journey by studying the literature I had brought with me on the Subject of the North-West
Staging Route. It was fascinating stuff, and the story it told began in the days when the old navigators first embarked On a quest that was to last for more than four hundred years — the quest for a short route to the fabled lands of Cathay and Zipangu, or, as we know them, China and Japan. I do not propose, though, to recapitulate it here. For the purpose of the narrative which follows, it is not necessary to take the reader farther into the past than the year 1935, when the civil aviation authorities were studying potential Great Circle air routes from the heart of North America, and Canada’s position in relation to such routes. One such route was projected on paper from Chicago to the north-west through Alaska and Russia to Shanghai and China. It was also envisioned that such a route, in its initial stages, would give a direct connection from Central Canada to the Yukon which, up to this time, could only be reached by the Pacific Coast.

A survey of the paper projection was therefore made by A. D. McLean, then Superintendent of Airways in the Department of National Defence, in a Fairchild 71 aeroplane which was. chartered from Canadian Airways and flown by C. H. (Punch) Dickens, one of the best known northern pilots of the day. Mr. McLean discovered that a practical route coincided almost precisely with the Great Circle projection and left no doubt that it was also the best route from the standpoint of weather and terrain, removed as it was from the effects of coastal precipitation and the deep snows in the coastal ranges. Further, it could be flown at an altitude not exceeding 4,000 ft. over its whole length. In fact, it lay entirely east’ of the main chain of the Rocky Mountains and only approached the Coastal Range at Whitehorse. A further check was made in 1936, with the object of deciding upon the best connection from the route to Vancouver, for it was realized that such a connection would undoubtedly be called for once an air mail service from Edmonton to the Yukon was finally established. Present-day service to the Orient departs from the Great Circle route in Alaska and goes via the Aleutians, an expedient dictated by political relationship with Russia.

In 1937 a contract for a weekly air-mail service between Edmonton and Whitehorse was let to United Air Transport, whose name was subsequently changed to Yukon Southern Air Transport. This service, which operated via Fort St. John, Fort Nelson, and Watson Lake, was extended a year later to give a direct connection via Fort St. John to Prince George and Vancouver. The traffic soon justified an increase in frequency, until finally, in 1940, a daily service was authorized.

The experience gained in the continuous operation of the route confirmed fully the most optimistic expectations, and a decision was made to construct a modern airway as soon as funds could be obtained to build the necessary aerodromes and install the radio ranges and other aids to air navigation. The survey was under way when Canada entered the war in September 1939.

There was some question, at first, of withdrawing the parties from the field and setting them to work on the urgent task of locating and surveying the many aerodromes required for the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan, but it was decided to carry on and complete the survey of the North-West Airway (as it was then known). It was realized that, should the United States be drawn into the war, the Airway would immediately become of the highest strategic importance, as affording direct access from that country to Alaska.

On 18 December 1940, funds were released for the project, orders were placed for the necessary equipment, and contracts let for the execution of the work. Six weeks later, the actual work began when the huge diesel-driven trail-builder pulled out of Dawson Creek on its journey of three hundred miles to Fort Nelson. Space does not permit of a detailed description of the amazing feats of construction that followed. It must be enough here to say that, by the end of the year, radio ranges were in operation, and, when the Americans entered the war, Canada was able officially to offer them the use of an airway with good airports and radio ranges at 200-mile intervals all the way from Edmonton to the Alaskan boundary.

Throughout the war the North-West Staging Route was the responsibility of the R.C.A.F.’s North-West Air Command. Every one of its stations was the scene of intense activity for twenty-four hours a day. Fighters, bomber, and transports came and went ceaselessly, some of them on ferry flights to Russia, some of them to meet the ever-present threat to the west coast from Japan. Nor, when eventually peace returned and the aircraft went home from Alaska and the Aleutians, did the Route cease to be of major value either to Canada or its war-time ally. Aircraft still drone their way over it, night and day, on scheduled flights that have ended for ever the isolation of the North-West. Seven of the ten aerodromes along the Route are operated by the Department of Transport and three by the R.C.A.F. At Edmonton, the starting-point, there is both a large R.C.A.F. base and a big civil airport The Alaskan section of the Route, which is less than one fifth as long as the Canadian, is, of course, operated by the U.S. authorities.

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The first thing I did on my arrival in Calgary was to phone two old-timers who had been associated with the Staging Route in its early days and who now worked with C.P.A. Since the line seemed to be remarkably busy, and since, each time I hung up the receiver, my nickel failed to return, I soon ran out of small change. Just then a man from the telephone company came along. He opened the box, pulled a piece of toilet-paper out of the coin-return slot, and down showered a stream of coins. This, he told me, was the manner in which many people supplemented their old age pensions.

Finding that both my men had been transferred to Vancouver, I went into an attractive little cellar-restaurant for a meal. During the course of it, I asked a pretty blonde who was sitting beside me what a stranger in the city might do while waiting for a train connection. She expressed a polite regret that I was not staying longer, and suggested that I might visit the zoo at St. George’s Park. I therefore spent my brief stay in Calgary in letting the gibbons watch me in my cage.

The trainman of ‘The Dayliner”, which took me on to Edmonton, cornered me on the platform at the rear of the train to tell me about the troubles he was having with his psychiatrist, and I had barely had a chance to locate my seat before we were in Edmonton. There I took a taxi to a well-known hotel where a bell-boy seized my bags and led me to the desk. My enquiry as to the price of a single room elicited a figure which was exactly the amount paid to me by the government for one day without rations and quarters. As I picked up my bags and walked out of the hotel lobby, the silence of the spectators was oppressive. Prosperity, I perceived, had indeed hit the Albertan capital.

On the following morning I went to Tactical Air Command Headquarters to report to Group Captain H. G. Richards, O.B.E., the Air Officer Commanding, who briefed me thoroughly on what I needed to know before starting on my trip.

The maintenance of the North-West Staging Route, he told me, is essential for military and civil traffic, and for the defence of North America. It is possible that, of the six units now operated by the R.C.A.F., two more will be passed over to the Department of Transport before very long. At the present time the responsibility for the various units is allocated as follows:

• Edmonton (military and civil airports)
• Grand Prairie (D.O.T.)
• Fort St. John (D.O.T.)
• Beatton River (D.O.T.)
• Fort Nelson (R.C.A.F.)
• Smith River (D.O.T.)
• Watson Lake (R.C.A.F.)
• Teslin (D.O.T.)
• Whitehorse (R.C.A.F.)
• Aishihik (D.O.T.)
• Snag (D.O.T.)

Watson Lake, I gathered, is retained by the R.C.A.F. because it is used for summer camps and as a base for advanced air exercises — “and it’s a damned good fishing-area, too!”

I had to spend three days in Edmonton before I could board the “sked-run” for “Whitehorse, and I employed much of the time in visiting various libraries and in talking with several people who had had some connection with the Route. There is something about about Edmonton that catches the imagination of anyone who is even remotely concerned with ‘the history of Canadian pioneer flying. The city was the chief centre of early northern aviation, and many were the once-famous bush pilots who trod its streets — “Con” Farrell, “Wop” May, “Punch” Dickins, E. G. Fullerton, Leigh Brintnell, Walter Gilbert, George Gorman, Andy Cruickshank, D. R. McLaren, Pat Burke, Grant McConachie, and numerous others. Such men as these it was who helped to make Canada, in the mid-thirties, the largest carrier of air freight of any nation in the world. (Russia, by the way, took over the lead some two or three years before the war.) Much of that freight was carried into — and out of — the far north-west, a region devoid of other means of transport.

On Saturday evening I found myself tired of reading and talking, and I decided to blaze a quiet little trail of my own. Thus, I eventually found myself in one of Edmonton’s less “sophisticated” taverns, seated at a table at one end of the rather dingy room. Beside me was a jovial and sanguine old man, who now and then tilted his kitchen-chair precariously against the wall. Presently, after eyeing me for a few moments, he said,

“Good day to you, my friend.”

I replied that it was.

“Are you a stranger in town?” he went on after a brief silence.

“Virtually.”

“What is your business?”

Seeing no reason to conceal it, I told him. His eyes sparkled even more brightly than before.

“I’m Wop May’s Uncle,” he said.

I too tilted my chair back, and we sat for a time side by side against the wall, exchanging the odd pleasantry. Then my friend, who, like myself, had by this time broached another bottle, settled back and began to speak of bygone days.

“Well, friend, just after the war, Wop got a job with a travelling circus while it was in Edmonton. He was to fly over the city distributing hand-bills. So one day he said to me: ‘Uncle Tom, how’d you like to come up with me?’ Well, we went out to the circus grounds and Wop tied me into her real tight. She was called the ‘City of Edmonton’.

“We went up and flew all over the city, with me throwing out those papers. In between throws I sat there out in the open air looking with a little misgiving at those two flimsy wings. When all of the advertisements had been circulated, so to speak, I tapped Wop on the shoulder. This was what he’d been waiting for. Up we zoomed, and he did all kinds of tricks — loops, figure-eights, the whole works, Then, all of a sudden, we started to dive. Down and down we went, faster and faster. Then, quick as anything, we levelled off and flew right under the High-Level Bridge which straddles the Saskatchewan River right in the heart of Edmonton. When we returned to the circus field we were met by the mayor, the councillors, and several policemen. Did they lay into Wop!”

A few years before the incident related to me by Uncle Tom, Wop, together with Roy Brown, another Canadian in the R.A.F., had been involved in an episode which had caused not only his fellow townsmen, but most of the world, to cheer. Having destroyed a German aircraft in a dog-fight over Germany, he was returning to base in his Camel with his guns jammed. Suddenly he was attacked by the famous Baron Manfred von Richthofen in his scarlet Fokker. The Red Knight of Germany had left his circus of Albatross scouts and Fokker triplanes, to pursue the lonely Camel. Just as it looked as if Wop was going to be hit by Richthofen’s deadly fire, Roy Brown appeared on the latter’s tail and shot him through the heart.

Wop was soon forgiven for his exploit under the High-Level Bridge. In 1920, the Imperial Oil Co. bought two Junkers aircraft in New York for use in connection with its new development about fifty miles down river from Fort Norman. May and George Gorman went to pick them up, and on their arrival in Edmonton they were accorded a civic welcome.

May then left the job, and Imperial Oil hired another young bush-pilot, named Fullerton (*Group Captain E. G. Fullerton, A.F.C.
(retired)): and he and Gorman took off for Fort Norman. When, after several stops to refuel, they landed on the snow at Fort Simpson, 250 miles from their destination, Gorman’s ‘plane sank into the soft snow and smashed its propeller and one ski. Then followed one of those fascinating episodes in which the history of the north country abounds. Although it has little direct bearing on the North-West Staging Route, a brief account of it seems well worth giving here.

They were told that the ice on a small subsidiary channel (or snye) of the Mackenzie, about a mile away, would provide a better landing field than the one chosen. The undamaged aircraft (the Vic, as it was named) was flown out of the field to the snye, where it could be refuelled for the final hop to Norman Wells. During the flight the Vic developed a pre-ignition knock as a result of using low-grade gasoline. The obvious remedy, an overhaul, would have meant further delay. Since the engine of the other aircraft (the Rene) had run fewer hours than that of the Vic, and as the aircraft required only a prop and ski to make it serviceable, it was decided to lend the Rene the prop and one ski from the Vic. The changeover made, the Rene took off. Unfortunately, it stalled and crashed, suffering a broken prop, damaged wing, and wrecked undercarriage. The borrowed ski, however, was undamaged; so it was returned to the Vic, thus leaving that aircraft minus only a propeller. But the word “only”, at Fort Simpson, had somewhat drastic implications: it would take five months to obtain a replacement. After some discussion, therefore, Bill Hill, the mechanic, set about making a propeller out of some oak sled-boards, moose-hide glue, and large clamps from the Catholic Mission. He was ably assisted in his incredible undertaking by a local carpenter named Johnson, who had been a cabinet-maker in England. The propeller was completed in a month, and, to the amazement of everyone but Hill and Johnson, it functioned perfectly on its test flight.

The end of April was approaching, and, with the break-up so close, it would have been sheer folly to attempt to continue the flight to Fort Norman. Accordingly, preparations were made for the return trip to Peace River. The members of the party were all peacefully sleeping when, at 5 a.m., an Eskimo awoke them with the news that the ice on the Mackenzie was breaking up. With the ominous rumbling of breaking ice spurring them on, they hurried out to the Vic. When they reached it, smooth solid ice stretched before the aircraft for 400 yards, but, by the time the engine was started, its extent had dwindled to 200. Beyond were only innumerable floating ice-cakes. None the less, a successful though nerve-racking take-off was made, and the Vic headed for a small nameless lake some five miles distant, After landing, the pilot trekked back to Fort Simpson through deep snow to bring out the rest of the party and the equipment; and finally they pitched camp for the night beside the aircraft.

Next morning, leaving one man to stay with the Rene, they took off with full tanks. As they went further south, however, the snow beneath them became less and less, until at least none at all was visible. Landing on skis thus posed something of a problem, and, as they approached Peace River, they decided to try a landing on Little Bear Lake, about 15 miles north-west of the settlement. Since the ice on the lake was blackish and ducks were swimming all around its edges, the prospect was not an inviting one, but they had no alternative. First, however, they circled the Peace River landing-field in order to drop a note to the cook-caretaker requesting that wheels and gasoline be brought out to Little Bear Lake — and, much to their surprise, they saw a Junkers parked on the runway. Then, returning to the lake, they made a landing without mishap.

While awaiting the arrival of the wheels and gasoline, they drained their tanks in order to ascertain how much fuel was left, and they were considerably shaken to find not more than half a gallon. A few minutes later the Junkers which they had noticed earlier landed beside them, Its pilot was the New York agent from whom Imperial Oil had purchased the Vic and the Rene. With him were the requested fuel and wheels. Having heard that they were due back almost any day, he had been waiting for them at Peace River and happened to be in the hangar when they dropped their note.

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I arose at 4.30 on Monday morning and took a taxi out to Namao to catch the “sked” at 7.00 o’clock. Several other human shapes were sitting around the waiting-room, wondering — as I too wondered — why on earth we had been told to be there at 5.45. Presently the parachutes were wheeled in. I, being rather tall, always have to spend some time opening the straps of a parachute harness to their full extent. On the present occasion, just as I had succeeded in adjusting them so that they fitted me if I stood in a semi-circular posture, a loud speaker bellowed: “The sked run to Whitehorse has been postponed until 1100 hours.”

The other sheep and I removed our harnesses and set out in various directions. I decided to go over to the officers’ mess and snooze in the lounge. On arrival there, I found the cushions still turned up in the chairs: even the staff had not yet appeared. I therefore made my way downstairs and played billiards with myself. Since I was not even yet feeling quite up to par, we both lost.

After breakfast and a brief nap, I returned to the waiting-room, adjusted another harness, put it on, and was advised by ‘the loud speaker that the flight had now been cancelled and would I “Please report here at 0545 hours tomorrow.”

For the next nineteen hours I found relief from boredom in learning what I could about R.C.A.F. Station Namao. It seems that, during the war, time Edmonton Airport speedily became a very important junction for air traffic. Trans-Canada Air Lines, Pan-American Air Lines, the R.C.A .F., and the US. Air Transport Command, were all using it. The congestion became too great for efficient control of traffic, and eventually it would have led to a tie-up which might have impeded the flow of aircraft to Russia and the Aleutians.

The U.S. Army Air Force therefore made arrangements with the Canadian Government to construct an aerodrome at Namao, eight miles north of Edmonton. With planning and supervision under the direction of the Department of Transport, work began in August 1943 and was completed early in November 1944. Approximately 2,500 acres of land were expropriated by the Canadian Government for the site. To transport building material and, later, aviation gasoline, coal, and heavy supplies, a spur line five miles long was built, connecting the Northern Alberta Railway with Namao. At a cost of $7,000,000, which was repaid to the United States after the war by the Canadian Government, a modern aerodrome was constructed, to which the R.C.A.F. has, in recent years, added many new buildings, including messes, permanent married quarters, and an immense community recreation centre.

It was in a duly impressed frame of mind that, having adjusted a third harness, I finally boarded the C-119 Packet early the following morning.