A fond look back at a special piece of Canadian history
Who would have thought that the construction of an airfield back in 1943 would be the start of so many memories? That little air force base in the Alberta countryside became home for many. It seems like yesterday that crews were standing around hangars and buildings ready for duty—rag-wrench crews with screwdrivers at hand to launch another flight into the sunset. All part of the air force family who made life at the Namao base interesting.
During happier times, we remember the moms and dads, sons and daughters of the community. We recall the concerts at Guthrie school, nights at the swimming pool, the kids’ hockey and the figure skating club. Then there was the base theatre for movie night and our pint-sized grocery store with matching library. These helped meld the lives around us each day as our families grew.
Eventually the young people left, spreading through our city, province and country, where you will now find them in all areas of life. It has been our legacy, you might say, and one of which we are justly proud.
During our tour at Namao, many visitors were welcomed. Who could forget the numerous refugees who flew into Canada and whose first look at this country was the tarmac at Namao airport? There was never a dull moment and the community was like the Alberta weather: If you stood around long enough, something newsworthy was bound to happen.
How many remember Operation Morning Light, which took place in the late 1970s? Morning Light, for those who don’t remember, was the name of the mission to recover a Russian satellite that came down over the North, spreading its radioactive payload over much of the area. Many of us had to put down our rag wrenches and head off to the Northwest Territories to help in the cleanup.
Our airport hosted many famous visitors over the years, including a royal visit during the Commonwealth Games and an outdoor Mass during Pope John Paul II’s visit to Canada in 1984.
Our air force family deployed to many corners of the world and, following tradition, we served in many UN and NATO roles, including resupply trips to Alert in the Canadian Arctic during winter, as well as assisting with many humanitarian flights. In addition, there were many search and rescue operations.
Many in the community and province remember with us the thrill of the air force days and the big air shows, where we got to strut our stuff. When the gates opened, you wouldn’t know it by our demeanour, but we were all proud of the role we played and happy to have the chance to show off a bit.
In other cases, the work was quite serious. After all was said and done, though, the best memories are of family and our community with its cast of characters who, on a daily basis, completed all the tasks that needed to be done.
These, then, are my memories—a view that reflects a snapshot of the life and times at one of Canada’s major air force stations. There are still many of us in the community who remember RCAF Namao. We watched with a large degree of sadness as the final curtain came down with the knowledge that all the air force personnel and their families made this such a great place. We know that the legacy of this fine airbase will live on long after the sounds of aircraft such as the mighty Hercules, the trusty Twin Otter and the great Chinook helicopter have faded away.
Now called CFB Edmonton, we watch with pride as present-day members carry on these great traditions. On Canada’s National Day of Remembrance in November, please pause a moment to remember the dedicated air force personnel from RCAF Station Namao, whose ranks are fast depleting.
—by RJ Goodfellow, St. Albert, Alberta
Sowing the Future
The Tree Planting Car brought nature education to four generations
Some of my earliest and fondest childhood memories go back to the times when I would accompany my dad, Alan Beaven, to search for the Tree Planting Car (TPC) located somewhere among the hundreds of railcars at the Canadian Pacific Railway (CPR) yards in Winnipeg. It always felt like an adventure. Dad was the longest-serving lecturer on the TPC, beginning his career in 1926 and ending in 1946. By the time I came on the scene, he had completed his stint on the car but was still responsible for its operation.
The saga of the TPC began in 1919 when the Canadian Forestry Association, in cooperation with the CPR and Canadian National Railway (CNR), launched one of the most innovative and longest-surviving education programs to be undertaken on the Canadian Prairies. From 1919 to 1973, the TPC travelled 263,000 miles and played host to four generations, numbering more than 1.5 million people across Alberta, Saskatchewan and Manitoba. During those years, about half a billion trees were planted on approximately 100,000 farms.
The TPC was a railcar equipped by the CPR as a “travelling schoolhouse,” with accommodation for the lecturer and an assistant or, in the case of my dad, for his family. My mom and brother toured with Dad for several seasons until my brother started school. Being considerably younger, I missed this experience and have often felt cheated because of that! I was very privileged, however, to have the opportunity to meet many of the fine men who served as lecturers during the later years, as they were frequently entertained at our home.
Knowledgeable staff engaged rural people in their own communities and encouraged them to plant trees, thus making the TPC program unique. Over the years, all available teaching tools were used, including slides, silent films, radio broadcasts and “talkies” to enhance the program. Presentations included a grade-appropriate series for schoolchildren who visited the car during the day, and a program for adults in the evening. In addition, for 40 years, from 1933 to 1973, the TPC doubled as the Conservation Car and travelled through the parkland regions to promote the wise use of renewable resources, emphasizing the importance of forests and trees.
Each spring, the car would leave on a pre-arranged itinerary, stopping at small towns and villages. There was great excitement and anticipation among the population when they knew the car was coming to their town, particularly in the early years when there was little or no other entertainment. If the first evening program was “sold out,” families would wait in the heat and dust or in the rain for up to two hours until a second show was presented later that evening. At times, they would stand on wagons or the back of trucks and peer in the windows to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside the car.
Lecturers were required to keep a daily diary and their reports provide entertaining scenarios.
Friday, July 29, 1938, Irvine, Alberta:
“It was one of the hottest days of the summer, with heat in the car intense. Yet so many turned out, two meetings were necessary, a remarkable showing for this small place. Watching the program was like taking a Turkish bath, and running it was even worse. None remained for the question period!”
Wednesday, July 12, 1939, Oxbow, Saskatchewan:
“Just to keep it from being too perfect, about a million mosquitoes invaded the car when the lights went on for the lecture, and I couldn’t tell whether the people were applauding me or slapping the insects!”
So many passionate people contributed to making the TPC a successful endeavour, including the lecturers who served with dedication and conviction; the railway personnel from both CPR and CNR; the staff at the federal tree nursery at Indian Head, Saskatchewan, which supplied the trees and shrubs that the farmers planted; private nursery operators, who expanded the variety of plant materials available; and, most importantly, the farmers themselves who bought into the dream of “planting the Prairies” and helped make it a reality.
The TPC was retired in 1973 and donated by the CPR to the Manitoba Forestry Association. The car was moved to the Sandilands Forest Discovery Centre near Hadashville, Manitoba, where it now resides.
—by Dianne J. Beaven, Winnipeg, Manitoba
High Hopes
Remaining calm while skydiving is essential—especially when your chute fails to open
Skydiving in the ’60s was a relatively new sport. It was so new, in fact, that it barely qualified as a sport at all. The equipment we used was military surplus that was not desi
gned for skydiving. A few modifications were made to adapt the equipment to this new civilian pastime, which included cutting panels out of the back of the canopies to give us some forward speed and the ability to steer.
The parachutes were 28 feet in diameter and were intended to save a pilot who had to bail out of his aircraft. A skydiver could reach speeds in free fall in excess of 120 miles per hour and, depending on your body position, the opening shock could be violent. A deployment sleeve was designed to impede the speed of the opening, thus eliminating this rather unpleasant experience.
The only emergencies we trained for were those involving a malfunction of the main parachute. We couldn’t detach the main chute, as is the procedure today, so we would have to deploy the reserve while we were still attached to a malfunctioning main. This deployment procedure was basically quite simple, but it was not always successful. You’d pull the ripcord handle on the reserve chute, reach under the canopy, grab the reserve and throw it away from you, hoping that air would find its way into the reserve canopy.
By 1969, I’d been skydiving for two years and had 164 jumps under my belt. I had learned about parachutes in the RCAF, when I was trained as a safety systems technician. I took my training in parachuting and skydiving at the Abbotsford Sport Parachute Centre in Abbotsford, British Columbia.
One winter day, three buddies and I had been waiting for hours at the centre for the weather to improve. The clouds had been hovering at around 1,500 feet, but we needed 2,200 feet before we could go up. The wind was blowing at 20 miles per hour, which was too strong for us to safely jump. Sometimes, days could go by while we’d sit at the drop zone waiting for the weather to change—and we weren’t a patient group. The weather on the west coast of British Columbia in winter could be grey and dismal for weeks at a time.
So, there we were: The wind was up, the clouds were low and the pilot, who had been threatening to leave for a while, now had one foot out the door heading for his plane and home. So, we decided by a vote of four to none that the wind had in fact dropped and the ceiling was at 2,200 feet. Off to the plane we headed, not feeling much better about the weather, as nothing had changed, but at least we were doing something.
We’d planned a “hop and pop,” which is basically exiting the aircraft one after the other on one pass. I was second out the door with a normal and stable exit. I waited five seconds and pulled the ripcord. So far, so good—except something didn’t feel quite right. There was no opening shock at all. My deployment sleeve had rolled up around the bottom of the main canopy. I found myself on my back, staring up at a snarled main parachute that didn’t appear to have any hope of opening. It was very quiet and everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Time stood still, but there was no feeling of panic or urgency. I just floated in some kind of limbo.
Finally, I grabbed the reserve ripcord handle, pulled it and reached under the canopy to deploy it. The parachute was damp from days of rain, so all I could see was this lump of white flopping around in front of me. Still in slow motion, I could see people on the ground pointing up at me as I fell to earth at 80 to 90 miles per hour.
I reached out to grab a hold of the risers and gave them a shake. Air began to find its way into the bottom of the canopy and, finally, at what was estimated to be about 400 feet above ground, the reserve chute deployed.
The wind was still up, and after a ten-second canopy ride, I was approaching a cornfield where pointy cornstalks were sticking up out of the ground like spikes. I was falling downward and sideways at about the same speed and those cornstalks certainly had my attention at that point.
When I was about 50 feet above the ground, the wind suddenly stopped. For the first time that day, the wind ceased blowing and remained calm long enough for me to land and gather up my parachutes. The wind then began to blow again and didn’t abate the rest of the day.
I have thought of that experience many times over the years. I never really understood what happened in those long moments before the reserve parachute opened, but I’ve always had the feeling that someone or something greater than myself was looking out for me that day—and probably still is.
—by Darryl W. Lyons, Sayward, British Columbia
My Struggle With the Nahanni
Canoeing down the beautiful but treacherous Nahanni River was both exhilarating and daunting
It was many years ago when I first read about the Nahanni River in Pierre Berton’s book The Mysterious North. In it, Berton describes canyons along the river rivalling those of the Grand Canyon, mystical and mysterious valleys, and a waterfall twice as high as Niagara—Virginia Falls. As a UNESCO World Heritage Site in our Canadian North, it was a region I just had to see; at age 74, I couldn’t leave it any longer.
The only way to do it is via canoe using a licenced outfitter. You are also required to register with Parks Canada. In the back of my mind was a desire to get some wonderful photographs; I even wanted to use my specially devised 3-D camera to share the beauty I experienced. Attending an adventure show in midwinter, I shared with the outfitter my desire to take pictures. He suggested that two boats be attached together catamaran-style to stabilize a rig for that purpose.
While I was experienced with canoeing, I had never done any whitewater, so the outfitter advised me to take a course that spring on the Madawaska River, which I did. The teachers devoted a considerable part of the discussion afterwards to the Nahanni River, and the conclusion they came to was to expect fairly large, standing waves, nothing more. They also assured me that with a guide in the stern, all would be fine.
I flew to Yellowknife and met my nine fellow adventurers. They weren’t very young either, but all were younger than me. From there we all flew to Fort Simpson, Northwest Territories, our journey’s official starting point for our two-week adventure. There we met our two guides—I was to be paired in a canoe with one of them—along with adventurers from the previous trip. The latter remarked, “The water levels are so low you’ll have no trouble at all.”
The pilot of the Twin Otter float plane that was to take us to our launch point assured us we’d have fair weather for the coming week. After the first day of our trip, however, it started to rain. And it continued raining day after day as if it would never end. An east wind at Virginia Falls signalled further bad weather. The staff of Parks Canada declared we’d have wet weather for nearly a week. The only good thing was that the forest fires had been extinguished. Some of us calculated we’d already had four inches of rain and the river had risen six feet. The river was now a raging torrent—the very worst scenario possible.
We knew that Fourth Canyon (which is actually the first one you come to—they go from Fourth down to First) immediately after Virginia Falls would be the most challenging. In an attempt to minimize the risk, we joined our boat and another together catamaran-style. We strapped two narrow logs to the boats as tightly as we could, leaving the boats about five feet apart, and set out.
It wasn’t very long before we got into trouble. We were faced with the wildest, most turbulent water I had ever seen, with waves as high as seven feet breaking in front of us. One of the four attachments had come loose and we couldn’t fix it. That meant the two canoes could no longer remain parallel.
Meanwhile, a huge wave was about to break over the bow. My guide and partner Adrian Smith shouted “Backpaddle!” which I did, but when I leaned back to do this, I couldn’t keep the spray skirt sealed in front of me and a huge quantity of water got in the boat. With our boat nearly full of cargo, it didn’t take many waves of this size to fill it. By now both attachments on the other boat were quite loose. Adrian, more agile than a monkey, ran across on the logs to the other boat to loosen them, and believe it or not he succeeded. Now the other boat was free, but ours, with two poles hanging out to the left, was completely swamped.
The river, still raging, was not as bad as before. Adrian then said, “John, get onto the other boat and lie with your chest in the middle and remain perfectly still.”
Next, Adrian had to deal with our swamped boat with the two logs hanging out. Fortunately, these acted like a paddle, turning the canoe towards shore. All the same, it was all he could do to bring it in. The other guide came to his assistance, and the two of them bailed out the boat and brought it back to where I was on the opposite shore. We then resumed our journey.
But that wasn’t the end our troubles. The following day, one couple lost control of their canoe between Third and Fourth canyons and capsized. With help from the other guide, the woman made it to shore, albeit cold, wet and shaken up emotionally. Her male partner remained floating in midstream, carrying the two paddles. It was up to Adrian and me to rescue him. He caught our line and we ferried him to shore—but it wasn’t easy. Ferrying across that current is really tough even without towing anyone. With a 250-pound man in tow, my arms were nearly pulled out of their sockets, but we made it. The two victims warmed up and put on dry clothes—all our clothing and personal items had been stored in food barrels to stay dry—and the journey resumed.
The next day was a repeat performance, only worse. Our boats got out of line leaving the Pulpit Rock campsite, in an area called “The Gate.” The same couple capsized again, and ended up together holding hands in midstream between steep-walled canyons. Their capsized canoe was headed straight towards the canyon wall, and it was only thanks to the quick action of the other guide that it was saved. It was once again left to Adrian and me to rescue the pair in the water. We did get them, but they were forced to remain there for about three minutes, as there was no safe area to land, and Adrian and I weren’t strong enough to ferry them any faster. More than five minutes in that icy water can cause death.
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