A couple weeks ago we had a teacher conference in Inuvik, NWT. We had to travel across the not-yet-frozen Mackenzie River to get there from Tsiigehtchic. The solution? A helicopter!

A few of our staff have already flown to and from Inuvik in the previous weeks. Our new 4-6 teacher flew in by helicopter at the start of November (talk about an entrance!), and one of our other staff members has been in-and-out for medical appointments in some of the larger medical centres outside of Tsiigehtchic. Thankfully all went well, and all our staff were ready on November 12th for our flight.

Out at the edge of town there’s a place called the “flats”, that’s where the ferry lands during the summer, and where the helicopters land during the winter. We got a drive down to the flats, and watched at the first helicopter came in. 

One of the new staff members and myself got out of the car to see if we could spot it flying in. Long before it came into view we could hear a distant “wum-wum-wum-wum” from over the horizon. Moments later we spotted a small dark speck in the sky, and heard the engine of what sounded like a giant gas-powered mosquito. The noise grew louder, and the speck came closer, until we could make out the propelor blades and helicopter frame descending over the far shoreline. 

The helicopter came in low, skimming over the frozen river. Just before the landing, it dropped its tail, tipped toward the sky, and slowed to a hover. The engine roared while the pilot balanced delicately over the landing site. Snow blew up in a white plume around the helicopter, and momentarily obscured it from view. We could see the landing skids just barley skim the ground, skittering, and then down. The engine wound-down, the snow settled to the ground, the pilot door opened, and our pilot stepped out. He was decked in a flight helmet, bomber jacket, and Canada Goose snow pants. This was a guy with style.

He waved us over. We introduced ourselves. He showed us around the helicopter, and all the safety features. The helicopter had a special trap door that held survival gear (incase we crash-landed into the Tundra). Inside the cabin was seating for five - just like your average sedan. Unlike your average sedan, this one had a fire extinguisher, four-point harnesses, and headsets so we could talk to each other during the flight.

I called shotgun (two of the other staff had already flown like this, so they were “old hat” and didn’t seem to mind too much taking the back seat). We all buckled in, and moments later, the pilot was flipping switches on the instrument panel in preparation for takeoff. click rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrup…rup….rup….rup-rup-rup-rup-rupruprupruprup…” The whole machine started to vibrate with each revolution of the blades. The blades started blowing snow up around us. The engine turbines whined. The pilot danced his feet lightly on the foot pedals, raised the collective and throttle, and then as if it took nothing, we lifted off the ground. Straight up for a moment, and then dipped forwards. It felt like falling forward out of your seat until the chopper started to accelerate forward, skimming twenty, thirty feet above the ground, then fifty, one hundred, and moments later were were hundreds of feet in the air, looking down at the tiny houses of Tsiigehtchic, and the ferry landing on the opposite shore of the Mackenzie.      

From a thousand feet up, the ground below looks like a miniature figurine of a forest. The trees are small toothpicks dressed in cotton-baton snow. Out in front, the sun casts light across the horizon. When its this low, you can look down and see tree’s shadows, all falling in the same direction. 

The pilot suggested we keep an eye out for Caribou and Moose. 

“Do you ever just land somewhere when you’re on a flight?”

He smiled. 

“Sometimes.”

Any of these thousands of frozen lakes below us would take hours or days to get to on foot, or by canoe. Each lake could have been a stunning, pristine camping site (minus the mosquitoes). We flew past a lake with a sweeping coastline, and long, curved peninsula. It looked like a perfect place for a beach-side campsite in the summer. 

“I don’t always do it, but sometimes I’ll see a spot, and stop there for lunch.”

While we flew over the frozen lakes, the pilot pointed out the window to a frozen lake. 

“Caribou”

He banked the helicopter gently to the left, and flew a circle around the frozen lake. Sure enough, there were two little caribou, and one mother caribou, walking along the shoreline of the lake. They didn’t seem too concerned by the distant sound of our helicopter circling a few hundred feet over head. They continued on digging and grazing in the snow. 

Out flight continued for another twenty or thirty minutes until clouds started rolling in. The pilot had told me one of the things that was most challenging flying up north was weather. Weather changed quickly, and out on the tundra, you are on your own. As if on cue, foggy clouds started to gather around us, and the ground became faint. He flew the helicopter closer in to the ground. Through the thickening fog, we could make out trees and ground features. We skimmed over a low-lying mountain, down a small valley, and over a small river. I was concerned that we might have to fly up into the cloud, and loose all sight of the ground. Our pilot had become quiet. He radioed to the airport that we were on approach. I looked out the window, and saw nothing but grey fog around us. 

The pilot banked right, and through the fog, I made out a few structures on the ground. I could see what looked like a paved road. Next there were airport lights, and a runway. I realized we were flying over the perimeter of Mike Zukbo airport in Inuvik. I relaxed into my chair. We skimmed past the runway, toward a small landing pad. Our pilot slowed the helicopter: one hand on the flight controls, one hand on the collective, and both feet balancing the rudder pedals. In this delicate balance, he slowed the helicopter to a hover. His eyes, hands, and mind seemed focused and composed while he balanced the helicopter’s controls. We came down slowly and steadily, until we felt the landing skids touch firmly on the landing pad. We’d landed ten feet infront a hanger labeled “Great Slave Lake Helicopters.”

That was our flight to Inuvik. We grabbed our travel-bags from the cargo basket, thanked our pilot, and climbed into a truck waiting just next to the landing pad. We got driven over to the Mackenzie Hotel in Inuvik. The next day we would start our 3-day NWTTA teacher conference.