ODDS’N’SODS — Hammered

As a resident geologist in northern Ontario in 1969, I was asked to assist an Ontario Department of Mines reconnaissance field crew working in the area of Fort Hope.

One morning, a few days later, I boarded a float-equipped helicopter at a base camp that was an old Hudson’s Bay post. The helicopter was to drop us off at an old tote road leading to the Fort Hope gold mine, and we were to spend the day examining outcrop and workings around a mine shaft built around 1928.

As I was attempting to get from the float to the outcrop, against which the pilot had nudged the helicopter, I found I had too many things in my hands and was likely to fall into the drink. I threw my hammer up on the outcrop without thinking that the rotor blades were in the way.

The next thing we heard was a loud bang. I remember one highly agitated pilot, his head scrunched between his shoulder blades, hanging on to the controls for all he was worth.

I looked back at the outcrop and, noticing a small shaving of hammer handle fluttering to earth, realized the enormity of what I had done — I had broken the flying machine’s blade.

After I took the well-deserved wrath of the pilot and the party chief, we realized that things were not so bad. No one was hurt and we only had a 7-mile walk back to camp.

My mind was already racing, however, with thoughts of what the government bureaucrats, who would have to deal with this situation, would do. I was already mentally preparing myself to start looking for a new job.

By the time I returned to Red Lake a couple of days later, my manager had already heard rumors of some calamity with the helicopter. To my surprise, he treated the whole thing somewhat philosophically and told me not to worry.

It just happened that Ontario’s deputy mines minister was due in Red Lake that evening for the announcement that Selco had a winner in its South Bay deposit. It was with some trepidation that I left for the evening reception.

The deputy minister, who was known to have, on occasion, a penchant for the essence of barley, was the first person I saw when I arrived. From his deportment, it appeared that he had already sampled the heady potions of some of Red Lake’s finest emporiums.

As soon as I walked into the room, he called out my name and headed over, intercepting my futile attempt to fade into the wall. Being a big man, he needed only about five strides, which seemed to be played out in slow motion, to eliminate the distance between us.

The first thing he did once we were within handshaking distance was to slap me on the back, put on this ear-to-ear grin, and shout out to all and sundry, “I hear you had some difficulty with a helicopter.”

Nothing like firing me with the whole room watching, I thought. He even appeared to be enjoying it. I steeled myself for the final thrust, picturing myself as a Christian facing a gladiator in the Coliseum.

It took a few seconds, but I realized that he was laughing aloud and congratulating me. Although I was still having difficulty with the reality of the situation, I observed that at least I hadn’t been run through with a sword.

As I gradually refocused, he said something to the effect that anyone who can kill a helicopter had to be a good guy in his books. Apparently, he had been a passenger on the first helicopter the Ontario government had ever used, and had gone down with it in a swamp north of Timmins. He and the pilot escaped serious injury and managed to walk away from a machine that never flew again.

Luck had obviously been with him and, thank goodness, with me.

A partner and I managed to secure title to the claims at that old mine site last fall, and I’m hoping the rocks there will be as rich as the memories.

— The author, a consulting geologist, resides in Thunder Bay, Ont.