Odds ‘n’ sods: No good deeds go unpunished at drill job in the Yukon

Our company was completing a drill program out of Mayo, Yukon Territory, in February 1996. We had to build an ice bridge over the McQuesten River, plus 21 km of winter road to the top of Red Mountain (5,000 feet elevation) and complete 5,000 feet of RC drilling by April 1 to comply with our access permit.

We staged our camp at the headwaters of Ballard Creek and were operating 24 hours a day, seven days a week to get the job done. One day, the contractor ran short on fuel and needed someone to drive to the city of Mayo and bring some back before they ran out.

One of the guys, Ray, had his own private, much-loved and brand new F350 Ford diesel truck at the camp, so he volunteered to make the run to town. As the project manager at the time, I said ‘go for it,’ and expected him back in a couple of hours.

It was -45°C, mostly dark, mid-winter days, so you can imagine my concern when Ray still hadn’t returned five hours later. I headed out to see what happened, and found him and his Ford barely crawling along just east of Mayo.

As it turned out, the truck’s new fuel filter was plugged with ice, so Ray had to stop every few minutes, shake it out, and restart the motor. I told him to take my truck, get the fuel, then return to camp. Meanwhile I’d bring his truck into town and get a new filter for him. He agreed, so off he went.

I limped my way to Mayo but alas, the mechanics said the parts were only available in Whitehorse — 400 km away. I planned to head there for business regardless, so I limped on through the night and cleared the filter when necessary.

About halfway to Stewart Crossing the truck engine stopped completely, so I put my mitts on and stepped out into the frigid weather. Unfortunately, my mitt touched the electronic door-lock button, and I unwittingly locked myself out.

It was about 1 a.m. and I needed to get back into the vehicle, otherwise I was going to freeze out there. So I took a tire iron from the pickup box and bashed the window open. Since the filter was hooped and the truck wouldn’t start, I called the Northwestel operator on my radio and told the operator I needed a tow truck.

She found a contact number and put me through to a guy in Stewart Crossing who agreed he’d be there in half an hour. When he showed up, it was clear his tow truck was just an old flatbed with a tripod and a come-a-long winch on the back that he rigged himself.

But his contraption was the least of our worries. We were positioned on a hill, and when he winched the truck off the ground, the whole unit — including the tow truck — slid down the slope, picking up speed as it went.

It eventually jackknifed, and I choked up as I watched the whole side of Ray’s precious truck crunch against the flatbed.

To make matters worse, the service guy approached me from behind and said I was his first customer ever, and he had no insurance.

Long story short, I had him tow me all the way to Whitehorse and dropped the truck off at the Ford dealer, with an urgent request to repair all the damage and window ASAP, and load it up with fuel filters. Two days later I took the truck back to camp looking as good as new, after a hefty repair bill.

Ray got his truck back and thanked me for the filters, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell him what happened.

A few years later, he was having some repair work done at the Ford dealer and was given service records that showed the truck had major repairs a few years back.

He argued with the dealership that it was a mistake, and when I met him later that day, he was in quite a huff over it. I knew at that moment I had to come clean, so I told him about what happened that night outside Stewart Crossing.

Although he laughs about it now, he might not have found it so funny back then!

— Cor Coe is a professional geologist in Vancouver.

(Editor-in-chief’s note: Readers are always invited to submit their firsthand, lighthearted or poignant mining and exploration tales to run as an ‘Odds ‘n’ Sods’ column. Please send them to tnm@northernminer.com.