Ferry Tales: The Coldest Caravan

I love an adventure. A real adventure. The more weird, interesting and off-grid it is, the better. I’m not sure of all the psychological issues associated with the way my mind is (un)wired, but when I got the call to fly a Cessna Caravan on amphibious floats from Nigeria to Minnesota, a smile spread across my face.

The flight started with all the issues to be expected coming out of a third-world country in Africa. I could write a book about the first half of the trip, with long airline flights, heat, humidity, unfamiliar customs, odd regulations, the Sahara Desert, high-density altitudes, people helping me, people trying to steal from me, low fuel levels on long legs, scenic flight through France, and unbelievable views from my moving window. The first half of the flight from Nigeria north through the Sahara, across the Mediterranean, up through France and Ireland to Iceland was full of great stories. But it was the second half of the flight where the experiences tested my ability as a pilot.

A Caravan on amphibious floats is a wonderful airplane. It feels like an overgrown Cessna 210, except that the floats lower the CG and add a “pendulum effect” to the flying characteristics. Tried and true, trustworthy and tall (really tall), the Caravan has a big presence on the ramp. I’m not the only one that thought well of the amphibious Caravan. Everywhere I went landed, people came out of the woodwork to see the special bird.

For the second half of the trip (Iceland to Minnesota), Warren Lovell joined me on the trip. Warren is a team member with Shepherd Aero, the company that manages my international flights. I’ve done many flights for Shepherd Aero, and I think they are singularly outstanding. Warren asked if he could join me on the flight, and I was thrilled to have him along.

We departed Belfast, Ireland (EGAA) on a clear Friday afternoon for Keflavik, Iceland (BIKF). It started to get cold in the cockpit, so we turned on the cabin heat. But, the cabin heat did not work. In the Caravan, a switch opens a bleed air valve, allowing bleed air to enter the cabin. For some reason, the bleed air was not entering the cabin as anticipated. I suspect it had not been opened the entire time the Caravan was in Africa. There simply was no reason for it in that heat.

Leaving BIKF, we climbed up to FL120, and our problems started. The problem was the cold. The temps at FL120 started at -23C near Iceland, but it got colder as we flew toward Greenland. We could not descend due to the risk of airframe icing at the lower altitudes, and with the heater not working, it got cold. I don’t mean a little chilly. I mean COLD! With an OAT of -23C, the cockpit was probably -10C while in flight. The sun’s rays were bathing the cockpit on the way to Greenland, which helped keep the temperature in the cockpit almost bearable.

We crossed a cold front when we passed eastern Greenland, and the temperature dropped to -30C at FL120. I had an immersion suit fully on, blankets covering me, a goose down jacket, along with extra socks, shirts and long johns. I was bundled, but the cold was still extreme.

The landing at BGSF was easy, with the weather nice and calm winds. We ran inside (literally) and soaked up all the warmth we could muster. Both of us were bitterly cold-soaked and uncomfortable, but it was about to get worse. We took off from BGSF at 5:59 p.m., just before the time when the airport closes. The view up the fjord at Sondestrom was spectacular as we climbed up over the many peaks towards Iqaluit, Canada (CYFB). Again we climbed up to FL120, and again it got cold. And it was going to get colder.

The sun was setting and our only source of warmth was going away. Additionally, the temperature was dropping as we flew towards Iqaluit. The OAT was -33C as the sun made its slow descent below the horizon. The cold was simply unbearable. We were already bundled up with everything we could find to bundle with, but it was simply not enough. I lost feeling in my heels and toes. My well-gloved fingers hurt. My core temperature was undetermined, but it was certainly lower than it should have been. Time just dragged on. It was a 4-hour flight to Iqaluit, and we were both frigid upon landing.

The next day Warren and I committed to each other that something had to change. We had more than 10 hours of flying to get to our destination, and most of that was over the cold of Canada with forecast temperatures below -30C. We went to one of the local mini-markets, and we whooped for joy when we found about 20 packets of “foot warmer” packages on the shelf. With those small heaters, we felt that we had a good chance of being comfortable.

We departed CYFB in the clear blue sky and started the climb over the vegetation-free ground in the arctic towards LeGrande Riviere (CYGL). We then broke out the foot warmers gleefully thinking about the heat they were to provide. But, wouldn’t you know it – none of them worked! There were no dates on the packages, but clearly they were older because they simply did not produce any heat. It was going to be another cold-soaking for Warren and me. The temperature was -33C and unrelenting. The cold takes everything out of you. It was physically and mentally draining. We knew we had nearly 5 hours of frigid flying ahead of us to CYGL.

The views were smooth, beautiful, white and lovely, but there was just no way to enjoy anything because we were so frozen. Interestingly, I bet I took dozens of photos on the first half of my ferry flight from Nigeria to Iceland and didn’t take a single picture from Iceland to Duluth, Minnesota. It is not that there were no views to behold, but I just didn’t dare pull my fingers out from the gloves.

Upon landing at CYGL, I again barely made it out of the cockpit and into the building. My feet hurt. My body hurt. I was so depleted of energy. I went into the building, took off the immersion suit, and laid down in the middle of the floor in the terminal building. I was completely exhausted.

Warmth returned to my bones, and I started to feel better. And then, another wave of glorious warmth came upon us. Two airline pilots from the area were dead-heading to another location, awaiting their next flight. They saw us, took pity, and left the building to “get a few items.” They came back with some snack items and foot warmers. Oh my gosh, foot warmers! I would have given both of those guys $1,000 for those, but the Good Samaritans refused to take our money. Instantly I broke open the packages, and glorious heat began to flow.

We departed CYGL for KDLH, and the foot warmers were a complete gamechanger. Even though the temperature never rose above -30C in cruise flight, our feet and hands were much, much better. As we flew southbound, more trees began to dot the scenery, and many lakes and rivers of the region were still snow-covered. Hudson Bay was still completely frozen over, but breaks in the ice were present, showing that things were beginning to change – spring was just around the corner. And then the sun began to set, and the bitter cold came upon us yet again. The foot warmers began to lose their ability to produce heat. It was going to be a frigid 5-hour flight.

So here I was, at night, at the end of a very long, cold day, and wanting to be on the ground. Could anything else go wrong? Yes. It can always get worse. Some of the lighting in the cockpit began to flicker and extinguish; the ice light that illuminates the wing popped a circuit breaker; the autopilot began to porpoise incessantly; and the intercom began to have loud cracks that were as annoying as they were a hindrance to communication. I was so glad to have Warren along to help. We juggled the ever-increasing complexity of the flight as well as I’ve seen any crew handle a flight.

We remained at 12,000 feet in the bitter cold of -32C until we were near Duluth to ensure no icing up. I hand-flew the airplane on the ILS approach to Runway 27 at Duluth and gave an audible sigh of relief when the runway light came into view. Upon landing, my feet hurt again. I was hurting cold. I was tired. I really just wanted a hot shower and a bed. Within two minutes of getting out of the shower, I was in bed and fast asleep. It was an incredibly long day.

So, was I a complete idiot for taking this flight? I’ve wrestled with this question now that my body has warmed up and my mind works better.

To “not take the trip” would be against my grain, against my personality, and against my penchant for accepting the tougher missions. Could decisions have been made to mitigate the risk? Sure. It is easy to armchair QB a flight after the fact. Had the bleed air valve worked, it would have been a gamechanger. Warmth at altitude would have changed everything. I got an object lesson on the cumulative effects of numbing cold. Nothing works as well in cold as it does at a moderate temperature, especially the mind. I’m convinced that my decisions were altered simply by my mind not processing as well as it would normally.

Could the bleed air valve have been repaired? Maybe, but where? There are not readily available mechanics along the North Atlantic route. And, if there were, where would they do the maintenance? In the howling winds of Iceland or the frigid temperatures of Iqaluit? No, there’s not a simple answer. It’s a complex question to a complex situation. There are a thousand “what if’s” that need to be processed.

You don’t need to cross the North Atlantic in the arctic regions to have aviation quandaries. Most pilots reading this article will go flying when challenges exist because they always exist. If you only flew when the wind didn’t blow, the temperatures were moderate and the visibility CAVU, you’d never go flying. We all accept the risks of flying for the fabulous rewards that flying offers.

The lesson learned and affirmed with this flight is that “in the heat of the battle, you’ll not be as good as you think you will be.” The extreme cold was the factor for me on this flight, but we can all experience conditions that make us less than our best in the lower 48. Turbulence, fatigue, a seemingly benign change in medical condition, excessive heat or humidity, and any other number of factors can tilt the scales of safety in a downward direction.

We fly in a dynamic environment. Things change. Today’s flight will not be like yesterday’s flight or tomorrow’s flight. The best pilots are not the ones who avoid risk but that mitigate risk well and adapt to ever-changing situations.

You can bet your bottom dollar that I’d take this flight again if given the chance to do it over again. You’ll definitely find me in a cockpit on the other side of the world seeking out an aviation adventure in the future. But, you’ll find me dragging a suitcase with better cold-weather equipment and the knowledge that extremes will cause you to be less than your best.