Crevassse jumper

Flight Journal, Oct 1999 by Morrow, Tim

Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! 'Mac' radio, or anyone listening, this is Navy 425. Engine failure somewhere in the vicinity of Kiwi Team B near Mount Christmas. We're heading toward the Ross Ice Shelf."

I had been cruising along on top of the overcast, looking for a break in the clouds that was large enough to go down through, when a definite "clunk" came from the engine. A noticeable vibration from up front followed. The engine instruments indicated a drop in rpm, and the rpm needle was dancing. The oilpressure gauge pointed to the low end of the scale. Another glance at the windscreen showed oil creeping up over the glass. This was definitely not good.

"Get rid of the load, Dan," I shouted over my shoulder. "We're losing it." Still on top of the cloud deck, I turned left toward a space between two mountains that loomed above our 8,000-foot altitude. Other, lower peaks could be seen poking up through the clouds beyond the gap toward which the plane was now heading.

Continual retrimming of the Otter was necessary as the crewman and a passenger, a Navy photographer, hurriedly tossed everything they could out the door. I began to notice a decrease in our rate of descent as the plane lightened.

I looked over at Capt. Pridemore of New Zealand who was sitting in the right front.

"I hope your guys will understand when we don't show up," I said.

"Oh, oi wouldn't worry 'bout that," he shouted over the noise of the faltering engine. "If my chaps 'eard your broadcast, they'll be more worried 'bout us than they are 'bout themselves. But at least oi saved their Christmas mail in meh pouch."

A faint voice crackled in my earphones. "Hey, Marine. We're trying to find somebody willing to look for a jarhead. Can you give a guess where you are?"

"We're still in the mountains somewhere in the neighborhood of Kiwi Team B. Ask Scott Base for the coordinates. We're on top of an overcast with about fifty percent power and failing. Losing altitude steadily. If we can reach the Shelf without running into any rocks, we should be in the vicinity of the Darwin Glacier."

"Roger. Gotcha! Back to you in about five."

Howls from the husky tied up at the rear of the cabin could be heard above the reduced power noises. The huge beast bared its long fangs and snapped at the men as they passed.

The windscreen was now covered with thick oil, darkening to black as it congealed in the frigid temperature. Forward visibility was zero.

"Oi say; does all that RT traffic mean what oi think it means?" Capt. Pridemore's voice was quite normal as he asked.

"We're going down, captain. Getting rid of your cargo might give us a chance to get away from the mountains before we enter the clouds. It'll be instrument flying to touchdown anyway. Even if we make it to the Shelf, the surface could be awfully rough. I think we're about to see how tough an airplane the Otter can be."

A tap on my shoulder "All gone, skipper." About a ton and a half of cargo had been thrown out of the door in a matter of minutes.

"Good work, Dan. I can see only two more peaks up ahead, and we should clear between them with a little to spare before we mush into the overcast."

"Good show. They're the only ones oi see from my side. Piece of cake."

The earphones crackled again. "D'you still read, Otter? If you can hear, a P2V Neptune is diverting in your direction. He should be in your neighborhood in an hour and a half or so. We're also sending a chopper in case the surface will not permit a pick-up by the fixed wing. What is your condition?"

"Right now, we're passing the last of the peaks sticking through the tops. Depending on what's hidden in the clouds, we should make it off the coast."

"Roger. How about some info on the weather?"

"Just passing five thousand and entering the overcast. If I can, I'll report bottoms, but it'll be instruments all the way. I have no forward visibility."

"Keep in touch. Mac radio listening. Out."

"A search has been started. When they arrive in the area, we'll ask them to contact Team B and tell them we won't be in with their supplies," I said.

"They're probably 'earing most of this and know we're not comin'. The blighters are feelin' the dogs right now to see which is the fattest," Pridemore said, grinning as he talked. A very cool customer.

Still holding to a 600-feet-per-minute rate of descent, we dipped into the top layer of the overcast. The inside of the Otter went dark as thick clouds closed around us. With visibility gone and no navigational aids to fix our position in relation to the surrounding mountains, we were in the hands of providence. God willing, the last two mountain peaks we had gone between before entering the clouds were the precursors of a descending valley heading toward the ice shelf of the frozen Ross Sea. I carefully maintained the gyro compass heading of the course between the peaks and prayed that the terrain of the glacial range would fall away below us faster than the Otter was going down. If the clouds were the top of a fog bank, we wouldn't even see the ground coming up at us. At this point, luck would be our most important asset.