Coughed Up From The Belly Of The Beast

Iqaluit is the capital of Nunavut, one of three territories in northern Canada. Prior to 1987, it was called Frobisher Bay. It is situated in the south-eastern section of Baffin Island.
This is where our airplane would re-fuel.
Even though it is south of the Arctic Circle, it was dark at around noon when we landed. More like twilight because at that latitude, the sun still does sort of peep above the horizon as the solstice nears.
It didn’t take long to top off the fuel tanks, and the behemoth C-130 taxied back to the runway. Things were a little different this time, though. We started down the runway, and just when I figured the nose should go up, there was a loud bang, the airplane’s brakes employed, and we screeched to a halt. The eerie silence that ensued lasted for just a few moments before the brown khaki military guys announced we were abandoning the aircraft.

Cold Enough To Freeze …………

“Make sure you’ve got your boots, hats, coats, and gloves on, and beginning with row A, prepare to exit through the rear ramp. Leave all carry-on possessions behind.”
Reportedly, it was minus 40 with wind gusts to 40 mph. We were at least half a mile down the runway and almost that far from the hangar, which was the nearest shelter.
We started to walk in that direction, led by military personnel. Everyone I talked to wished they had the pants and the balaclava with them instead of stowed in their luggage.
Tiny ice beads formed on my eyelashes, and I was afraid to scratch my nose for fear it was frozen and I’d break it off. At that temperature, the snow has a very different sound than usual when you walk on it. There was a meaty, solid crunch with every step. It was almost comical to hear thirty or so people crunching in unison. It would make an excellent soundtrack for Leiningen Versus The Ants.
The “shelter,” which appeared reasonably ordinary from a distance, loomed larger and larger as we approached it. A hanger designed to service C-130s, it was gigantic.

The Hall Of Shambala

We entered a vast cavernous workroom the size of an arena. There were large fans in the walls blowing heavenly warm air and all manner of machinery, hoists, pulleys, hooks, ladders, and cables, but no airplanes or people. Spooky.
The brown khaki guys instructed us to climb a set of stairs leading up the east wall to some windowed rooms that overlooked the hangar. The rooms were offices and a lunchroom where we could wait for official news.
It wasn’t long before some officers informed us that the airplane had blown an engine. Another C-130 was being inspected and prepared in Trenton and flown up here to continue our journey to Alert.
“But get comfortable,” one of them said. “It’ll be six to eight hours.”
“I need a drink,” I said in exasperation to no one in particular.
“That could happen,” came a voice from behind me. It was Ted, the writer of the show. “Gotta get someone to go back to the plane, though.”
A group of people volunteered to return to the wounded bird and get our carry-ons and any musical or camera equipment that might be sensitive to the cold. We made a list, and off they went.
We milled about and talked, some played cards, and some slept on wooden benches. We had free reign to wander around the hangar, which is what Bob and I did. When we returned to the lunchroom, we couldn’t find Shirley. Someone saw her and Robert Paquette leave the building after donning the rest of their arctic gear that the volunteers had retrieved.
“How long ago?” asked one of the khaki military guys.
“An hour,” someone replied.
“Not good. We’re in polar bear country.”

Grin And Bear It

It was agreed that we should go out and look for them and a search party was organized.
There are no trees on Baffin Island. And being a little ways away from the town, we had very little light except for a surreal moonlit phosphorescence reflected in the rocks and ice.
“It’s like the face of the moon,” Bob commented, awestruck as we crested a snow covered granite hill behind the hangar and looked down on the base.
We had called out for Shirley and Robert just a few times when we heard loud giggling and screeching to our right side. We turned to see them sliding together down the hill on their backs. He was in front, she was behind with her legs wrapped around him, and they formed a sort of human toboggan.
When we caught up with them at the bottom of the hill, I explained graphically about the hungry polar bears, and we quickly headed back to the hangar.

Cocktail Hour

We all got back inside safely and began to doff the arctic gear. I had just barely pulled off my balaclava when I spotted Ted, the writer, motioning to me and pointing across to the far end of the building. There looked to be a car parked in the corner.
“Okay. See you there in five!” I yelled.
The car proved to be an old wreck up on blocks with no tires. Ted was sitting in the front seat at the steering wheel.
“Climb in,” he said. “You like Scotch?”
“It’s my favourite,” I lied. If Ted had said “bathtub gin,” my response would have been the same.
So we drank Scotch, right out of the bottle, sitting in a rusted-out Ford Galaxy with no tires in an airplane hanger just south of the Arctic Circle, waiting for another flying Beluga Whale to arrive and take us to the North Pole. Just another day in show biz.