92 On the trail of vanishing birds 



warden with whom we had stayed was equipped with an outboard 

 motor for his light canoe and was good enough to carry us up to 

 the landing. We were airborne before noon and an hour and a half 

 later were beyond Wrigley, with the Franklin Mountains to our 

 right and the rugged Mackenzie Range to our left. Far off in the 

 northwest, on the borders of Yukon Territory, we could see high 

 peaks covered with snow. Shortly we could make out the western- 

 most arm of Great Bear Lake, and then we were approaching the 

 airstrip at Norman Wells. As we came in to a landing we noted 

 deep snow patches on the Carcajou and Norman ranges close on 

 either side of us. It was raining lightly and was chilly, but we 

 found snug quarters at the Imperial Oil Company's camp. And 

 that night we slept soundly in spite of the daylight that now did 

 not end with the day. 



The following morning, the eighth of June and the sixth day 

 out from Regina, we awoke to the disappointment of a low ceiling, 

 a high wind, and a considerably lower temperature. We waited 

 around, Bob talking shop with Sandy Tweed, a Canadian Pacific 

 Airlines pilot with wide experience in that part of the North. By 

 2 P.M. Aklavik reported that the ceiling had lifted to 3,000 feet, 

 so we got off the ground and headed out on the last lap. It was 

 still overcast at Norman Wells, and before an hour had passed 

 we ran into fog and rain. At 3,000 feet the outside temperature 

 was 36 F. Staring through the dripping windshield, Bob remarked 

 that the weather up there would be difficult to estimate. "This is 

 where weather, as we know it, is made/' he said. In a wet fog, 

 and with an unbroken wilderness beneath us, we skimmed across 

 the Arctic Circle and felt no different from the way we had before. 

 Absolutely painless incident! The time was close to 3:30 P.M. 



Beneath us some of the smaller lakes were still frozen over and 

 the whole panorama was bleak and cold-looking. We lost the 

 first batch of fog and then ran on into another and thicker bank. 

 At 5 P.M. we were over Arctic Red River. Ahead, to the west, lay 

 the snow-topped Richardson Mountains and directly before us, 

 immense and ill-defined, stretched the vast delta of the Mackenzie. 

 Bob brought the little amphib down close to the main stream, 

 where we skimmed along over great islands of rotting ice that 



