Bonus: A Day on the North Slope

with a phone call. Hello, Hey, I speak to Barbara, please speaking. That's Barbara Conti, who dated Don John's, the Missing Pilot in the early nineteen seventies. A few years ago, her son us heard about my research and emailed me. He told me that his mom had something fascinating an unpublished article written by Don John's called A Day on

the North Slope. In it, Don details of plane crash he survived in Alaska in early nineteen seventy two and the brutal conditions he encountered as he trudged through the bush looking for help. When Don vanished. Barbara gave the article to her sister, who wanted to read it, but the stead guard is. My sister was murdered at the same time, and I don't remember the day. I was completely lost. You know. Her husband killed her. Then he committed suicide, and her poor kids were fifteen and sixteen.

He had taken her down, put her in the trunk of her car, and when he got home from school, they still something dripping from the trunk. So they ran in and got to eat, and opening up, I saw their mother was there, head blown up. So they they are still traumatized by Barbara's sister was murdered on October, only one week after Dawn disappeared. After the murder, Barbara found this article A day on the North Slope, laying in her sister's den. Here it is voiced by Chandler Maze.

To the southeast, Alaska's Brooks Range is silhouetted in pink Am February. I'm planning a three flight to Fairbanks in my for a load of supplies. I fly support for an oil exploration camp. The thermometer is negative fifty four degrees fahrenheit pre flight the aircraft. It has been heated all night with a flameless cattle at a heater full oil drained sumps. Everything brittle and vulnerable to breakage. Be careful, ever so careful, I remind myself. Depressed starter a feeble

click click from the starter, solenoid battery frozen. I try hand propping it. After yanking five minutes, I give that up. Finally, locate a hundred pound caterpillar battery and a pair of jumper cables. The engine starts. Disconnect the caterpillar battery. Let the aircraft idle five minutes while they return battery to caterpillar. Hurry back to the aircraft. Whack the skis to break them loose, mount the cockpit, forward on the throttle. Things

don't sound all that healthy, What does it? Negative fifty four degrees fahrenheit. The aircraft rumbles down the side of the hill, airborne and climbing slowly. Cockpit fills with frost. Left wing Super Heavy had parked on a hill last night. As a result, fuel flowed to the downhill tank, just the happy bullshit of an arctic day. Ice crystals filled the cabin, wind shield frosted. I fly by instruments. In a couple of minutes, condensation from my breath diminishes with

the warming by the cockpit heater. Soon I'll be up in an inversion layer and warm. Suddenly the propeller over speeds. The g D non congealing cooler has frozen and thereby prevented oil from coursing through the engine's enters, a condition I've experienced many times. Mother throttle back to permit the oil cooler to warm up, slow the air speed in order to keep prop within sight of the red line, remedies that have worked in the past. I could do

a doctorate on non congealing oil coolers that congeal. However, airmen are vein buggers ad forever occupied with digging up excuses. Basically, I fucked up by letting the engine idle too long. Oil under too little pressure got mushy, clogged the oil cooler and its supply lines. In short order, oil remaining in the engine core overheated and thinned to the viscosity of water. In turn, the propeller governor, which boosts normal oil pressure, couldn't make two with water like oil, so

it copped out on its job. Yes, the prop oversped because an arctic wise pilot screwed up. Should have put more masking tape over the cooler glance at the oil temperature j C far above the red line means engine oil is red hot. A furtive look at the oil pressure gage zero. The engine's butters and begins to knock. What does an old pro do when he encounters a tight situation? Ship his pants pray? Tell what else? Unfortunately

it's a diversion, all too quickly completed. If impending catastrophe is kept too long in a Vivians, one is better off with another diversion. I am already flying low and slow, too little of everything for a turn back towards camp. Ahead into the left, I see the enactivic river. In the real world it would be called a frozen creek. I make the mile or so to the river. Went boom, the engine blows blow, it does fire and smoke up through the oil filter access door, oil spreading out the

front errand takes now what best shot? Already fired as it is, it will take a week of warm wind to dry the seats. I point the nose down and look ahead for a landing place. Thank god, this horizon skis A moment later, goddamn river bed is all rocks and ice ridges. A bum day to die happy fiasco. D J. There is no question about landing. It is reduced to a simple puzzle. Will I walk away with my one as intact? Two airplanes bladdered? I slow airspeed more,

but you won't fly. The combined result of no power and a hefty load of ice brought in yesterday from port barrow jerk on first notch of flaps, almost immediately, I'm forced to grab another notch over one embankment across the serpentine leg of the frozen river, flashing perpendicular in front of me, Now very low and aiming to center punch the three ft high embankment and the river's far side.

Third and last notch of flaps up like a balloon on a false gust, A short stretch of rocks, strown gravel, bar thud, hit, bounce, sliding, fuel off, switch off stop. I can hear the snap, crackle and pop of a well done engine, Smoke gushing into the cockpit. One good sign. The fire blew itself out. I fumble with the seatbelt, opened the door, jump out, balls, gotta be bum karma. Plane undamaged, except lept Ski has a grapefruit size hole gouged in it. The tire above the hole is punctured.

I reach in the air intake to touch the engine. My hand drags out a jagged chunk of metal about the size of campbell soup can. It is part of the crank case. What do you think you are? A d J A junk collector, and put it back it is. I'm at a latitude sire north or thereabouts, maybe seven eight miles from a tiny camp in which there are four other men, who, by the way, pay this birdman to be their lifeline. I'm sixty miles or so north of a small Eskimo settlements, or more to the other

nearest white man. It is more than fifty degrees below, So stay and pray to the east, burn the aircraft, or walk out on with blue insulated survival suits actually an adopted snowmobiles cover all. Tighten the laces on my muckluck's pull on a face mask, march man A thought. Many years have I spent flying the Arctic. Unfortunately, I've been a walking only twice, but both times in these

blue cover alls. The first time after a double engine failure in the sky van a hundred fifty miles south of here in October, nearly lost a frost bitten foot to a surgeon's blade. Baby, better change your lifestyle. Maybe it is the blue cover alls. I decided to trash them. If I get out trudging north down the Enactivic River, I break through a lightly bridged crevice and stick my right muck cluck into the slowly flowing black water beneath screw You will take my stroll on the bank ahead

and on the right side of the river. About five miles is I'm certain Rooftop Ridge not much of a mountain, maybe feet, But in this flat, frightening, forlorn, fricking frozen desert, it passes. I know our camp is opposite Rooftop Ridge, on the west side of the Inactivic River, just a hair from the river. Muck luck before muck luck before

muck luck. Christ, what a bummer. In any event, it could be worse, Yeah, asshole, it could be a lot better, Like you could have been at twelve thou feet over the Brooks Range cockpit, all cozy and a hundred miles closer to town by now, not to mention four thousand dollars less worse off. How would a stoic's philosophy of never look back fit out here? Personally, I'll hang onto my regrets. At nine, the distinctive sound of our nod Well snow tractor fractures the Arctic morning. At first, the

sound appears from the west. There was a west wind of three to four knots. I removed my face mask to uncover my ears. Now the sound seems from the north. As suddenly as it started, the sound of the reving engine stops. I strained my ears, but all I can hear off on the river three quarters of a mile to my right is the bank pop crack of river ice.

I recognize this as the sound of overflow, the Arctic phenomena whereby a river freezes to the bottom of the river bed in some constricted spot, causing a reservoir of deep water to swell upstream. When the pressure gets strong enough, it splinters four to six feet of surface ice, flooding it with gushing water from beneath. Sometimes the new water is three ft thick. The new surface water itself quickly freezes, but while doing so it makes a lot of ice fog.

It is exceedingly dangerous to attempt a landing or try to walk on overflow. Overflow conditions happen most readily when temperatures take a sudden dive or when cold persists. This morning, the river begins to fog due to open water flooding the surface. Sure as hell isn't getting any warmer. I decided to continue north parallel to the river, about a half mile from the river bank. Thank the Virgin for abundant warm clothes this time. Following my nineteen seventy crash,

I damn near died of cold and exhaustion. For leg gear, I am wearing long John's under a pair of brown checkered street trousers. Over it all my blue insulated snowmobile cover rawls. For the torso. I wear a head turtleneck undershirt. My head makes luxurious skis. Remember Austrian ski sweater down vest and my new orange down ski PARKA. Damn it, dude, ever consider becoming a ski bum and really saying screw

airplanes forever. On my feet, I'm wearing Canadian Army Arctic muck Luck's with natural rubber souls with canvas uppers, no cold fracturing, quote rubber eyes plastics. Like last time. The whole works is called footpacks the best going. My feet are loose and warm, but they will still freeze if I sywash for the night. What a funny word. It means going native in the open, a poor man's bivouac, kick a trench in the crust, and try to keep breathing. The idea causes a sharp pain in the ass on

my head. I'm wearing my customized stocking cap slash face mask, purchased and hacked up only day before yesterday in Fairbanks. What a blast that was. I looked all over town for a lightweight, long stocking cap with mouth and eye holes. No luck. Finally I purchased a stock model, grabbed a pair of scissors, sniffed holes in the correct locations, and watch my brainchild unravel in my hands. In desperation, I fetched a needle and thread and spent half an hour

making stop stitches. I am glad such a fine job had been done. D J. Maybe you would make someone a good wife. Go slow, better extract your ass from this predicament before considering marriage. Speaking of ass, I forthright reached two conclusions. One, my sexuality had been dealt a stunning blow when I shipped my trousers two hours ago. To my ass and chin are the only parts of me, that are cold, outrageous coincidence on my hands. I have jumbo leather mittens with woolen liners ten a m. Where

in the hell am I? In answer? The enactivic river looses a volley of snaps like a popcorn machine. Two hours you've been walking, that is eight to ten miles. I stopped to listen again. Where did the nod Well tractor sound go? Just like these dudes to shut the engine off? No consideration for pilots. Ahead on the right

river bank about three miles is rooftop ridge. I think if it was five miles away before, and you've just walked eight miles and it is still three miles away, you're arithmetic bears watching with the mere utterance of bear comes to reality. There was a goddamn grizzly ahead into the right j C. This is all I need. A feeble minded bear that doesn't have sense enough to hibernate.

He should run from me and I from him. But I'm ass whole deep in snow and can't run, and he is obviously a muck if he's out here in midwinter. To be on the safe side, to take a y detour when about two hundred yards on his down wind side, an old hunting trick. I see that he is a large wind exposed rock. Nonetheless, I'm fresh out of faith number one. I'm gravely concerned over the remains of a four thousand dollar engine now worth about a hundred dollars

Arctic depreciation, just to rattle my cage. I am lost, or nearly so frightened on the ViRGE of panic. Like it will be dark again in five hours. Then what behind me? I can see my lonely trail at meander south from where I stand strong with little zigs and zags, where I've walked with head down. It disappears over the horizon. The breeze is stiffening, ice fog obscures more of the river.

The whole scene looks like a science fiction nightmare. I make up my mind to walk another hour in the northerly direction that will put me three hours back to the aircraft. Of a storm comes up. If a really big blow starts, I've got big problems. There is not a tree, bush or stump within a hundred miles. The only chance would be to make a hasty retreat toward the aircraft and hope to make it even if I got back to the aircraft, it would be a gruesome

ordeal to survive. I've seen storms last a week with winds over fifty knots and fifty below. Bullshit. When will they start looking for me? I imagine in two to three days. There isn't that many in our breed that will venture a search on the north slope. Maybe a few of the old pros from the interior airways, like Bob Jacobs, or a couple of the fellows hired by the oil companies like Jack Spurgeon of Aalieska pipeline who

found me last time. Definitely not C A P or f A A. Last time I crashed, I damn near died before anybody considered looking. All around me are teeny rolling hills tops shrouded in fog. The effect is to make pip squeak mounds appear as mountains. Of course, there are no mountains on the north slope, all of which makes me less and less sure of where I am. It isn't the first time I thought I was in Siberia.

I can still see rooftop ridge, but in the bleak Arctic morning, it looks fuzzy too far away Where are all the good donarracts this morning. Douniacs are old Eskimo spirits. They may be good donats or bad don acts. Doniracts may dwell in specific large mountains, rivers, trees, et cetera. I hastened my march only to work up a sweat across my shoulders in the back of my neck. I opened the front of my parka and coveralls. The faster pack still makes me sweat. Sweat is a goddamn no

no in the Arctic. It leads to deep chills and freeze dried corpses. If consistent, it would make a good walking Instead, I fall through the crust and scrape my shins once in about every twenty yards. The anticipation of falling through is innervating. Reminds me of waiting for a jack in the box. My muck lucks make a crisp thump creek sounds like walking on a wrinkled drum. The wind bites my eyes, they water, the water freezes into instant icicles. Every five minutes, I take a glove off

and flick the accumulated ice from my eyelashes. Otherwise, all the mirages are blurry. Who needs blurry mirages. At a time like this, if I look down my nose inside the face mask, I can see icicles hanging a half inch from my nostrils. Great day for a hike. From time to time, my chin freezes. I dig in a pocket and come up with a knitted earbands, more romantically, a Norwegian jockstrap. This goes around my lower face. That cures the chin problem. I am afraid, not soon enough.

My chin is numb and feels brittle. My windward ear, the left prick is near frostbite. Fifteen years ago, both ears were severely frost bitten. They have always been more vulnerable to freezing. Since is it only negative degrees fahrenheit? The only sign of life is an occasional limbing trail. Imagine those little mothers out here and a fox track. All tracks are blown in which means a week or

so old. Not a bird, not another living thing save one lonesome aviator flapping his wings in a vacuum, an endless, worthless pearl. This the fat cat conservationists of California want to save any ecological accident, even oil spill, would be a step forward, no doubt about it. I'm lost visibility is getting hazier. My ass is in a sling. If I don't find camp. In fact, if I don't get back to camp, some prick somewhere will notify the f a A. Tis little better than not being found at all.

Not that they would come looking, No, they would get lost and blame the airplane manufacturer. But they would lounge around and wait for someone to find me, then slap a big violation against me. For assuredly, as Allah did his own thing, I've violated some law. The f a A operates under the philosophy that the only legal airplane is a parked airplane. So when accidents do happen, never mind the missing wing or faulty engineering, there is a violated rule. Thus the f a A motto, if the

pilot hadn't taken off, the accident wouldn't have happened. Listen, all I hear is the incessant bang from the distant river ice. My right foot is beginning to blister. Good time to pee. Pause for a philosophy break. Granted, passing water is not one of life's biggia's until you've taken a frightened frozen tool, apply attention to it, and attempt to coax it over three inches of clothing. Follow me through, remove clubs on jam frozen park a zipper, unsnapped down vests,

unzip frozen cover rolls, and pull up sweater. From here it is by brail unzipped trousers with right hand, fish for the little gym, pry open long john fly and underwear pouch Eureka with horse and hand. I began uncoiling quicker than you can blink an eye. I had the entire two inches pulled taut over the edge. I can just discern his frosted label made in Japan. Anyway, great white pilot tankled. I resolved to hike to the nearest knoll,

maybe a mile west of the river. From that vantage point I may see better referencing rooftop ridge with a primitive fix on the sun. I turned ninety degrees left from my otherwise straight north running footprints, and begin to walk west. It takes balls to change course in life. Sometimes it is the only way it is. I am frightened, perhaps from the forced landing. More I think from the

familiarity with the unrelenting Arctic. Less than a year ago, a scant forty miles from where I stand, I collected the frozen body of my good friend George Curtis. George and I had known each other for to five years. He was the Arctic's most experienced geophysical supervisor. The night before he was killed, George and I raft about the Arctic and its catastrophic assault on things living. The conversation ended with George, what the hell are you still doing here?

Don't you know life goes on outside while you freeze? George reminded me, and you you made it big ones. We fell asleep inside by side bunks. The next morning, I bade George so long and jumped into my plane. Later that day, the helicopter in which he was writing augured into Mother Earth in a white out. The following day, I circled the wreck while another chopper landed and confirmed the worst. The day after, I took George Curtis on his last airplane ride. Such as the Arctic so goddamn beautiful.

It hurts sometimes so brutal, with such finality. At others I used to love it. To be one of its unique experts was a pride I couldn't verbilize. Ecstasy comes less frequently these days, but when it does I think it worth the weight? I am very near or my friend and Jules Thibodeaux, the most illustrious pilot of the North bit the dust of Kayak Mountain Christmas sixty or sixty eight. My mind rebels. To get my head straight,

I start reviewing great books of courage I've read. Foremost is The Long Walk, where the mind of man overcame unbelievable hardship in Siberia. Next, I remember Papillon and his years of travail and utter isolation. If I should be totally lost out here, I resolved to use these examples for inspiration. It is now eleven o'clock. Is the whole world flat white? Or do they still make trees and grass?

When I get to the top of the knoll, I'll sit and rest half an hour and listen carefully for any sounds that might come drifting out of white space. At the end of half an hour, I'll retrace my steps to the aircraft. All reasoning points to the probability that I've walked past the camp and am too far north. I have walked over fifteen miles before being forced down. But reasonable certainties are not enough on which to bet your life and getting lost is an absolutely certain route

to disaster in the Arctic. I am plotting due west according to the sun, which is a whole ten degrees above the southern horizon. My zombie like shadow is at zenith. The Arctic day is half gone. Civilized parts of the world are contemplating spring. We're just emerging from deep winter. Not long ago, an acquaintance asked me to teach him to fly on the north slope. Teach luck, Show a man how to do the common sense number, Demonstrate a will to survive, Drill him on how to fly lot

with confidence. Instruct him on how to fly by the seat of his pants on instruments. Tell him about darwin Survival of the Fittest the blind. Teach the blind. He must have been shooting me. I glanced to the south j C smoke. I start walking. Before walking five minutes, I suddenly catch sight of the camp, not at the smoke, but off to the west. Is ecstatic the correct word? As it turned out, the smoke isn't smoke, but sunlight making a mirage on the ridge. Remind you of the

bear that wasn't. Had it not been for the mirage, I would not have found the camp. Whatever the camp isn't an illusion. It is only about two miles away. As suspected, I had walked past the camp on the try, more or less by accident, I've stumbled back to it. The final two miles is at a bouncy clip. It is new. I've walked eighteen to twenty miles. As I'm marching the camp, Don Callahan, the party chief, exclaims, what the hell, don't give me any bullshit. Just take a picture.

Before I pulled his face mask off. Part of my chin comes off with a mask. I am a believer mirages are good. Don acts. Okay, so this article obviously shows a few things. First, Don had a sarcastic, sometimes profane sense of humor. Second, even though I've harped on his seventeen thousand hours of flight time and extensive experience piloting planes and interior Alaska, he sometimes made mistakes. This

was one, as he himself admitted. Another occurred six years prior, in October nineteen sixty six, when he embarked on a NonStop, fifty hour record breaking flight from Miami to Fairbanks and a small plane, a Piper Cherokee. He didn't get far Shortly after takeoff, he was forced to crash land on a four lane highway right outside Miami. The f a A quickly discovered that he had overloaded the plane by

seven hundred pounds and temporarily revoked his license. If he had made it, his ex wife Willie told me he would be the hero. Because he didn't make it, he was the villain. You can reach us by phone at one eight three three m I A tips that's one eight three three six four two eight four seven seven again one eight three three six four two eight four seven seven, or you can reach us via email at tips at i heeart media dot com. That's tips, T I P s at i heeart Media dot com. Ben

Bowen is our executive producer. Paul Deckan is our supervising producer, Chris Brown is our assistant producer, Seth Nicholas Johnson is our producer. Sam T. Garden is our research assistant. And I'm your host and executive producer, John Wallzac. You can find me on Twitter at at John Wallzac j O n W A L c z A K special thanks to Chris and Barbara County, and thank you to Chandler Mays who voiced Don John's Missing in Alaska is a co production of I Heart Media and Greenfork Media.