(This excerpt about the Harvard Mark IV aircraft XEN is from the biography Edward Hadgkiss: Missing In Life, an aviation adventure available from Mac’s Fireweed Books in Whitehorse, Yukon.)

Ed Hadgkiss pictured on wingwalk of Harvard XEN 
(Jane Gaffin Photo Collection)

Kathy Rheaume shown on Harvard’s wingwalk, shortly before the doomed flight, 1969
(Jane Gaffin Photo Collection)

For three days, Ed Hadgkiss and Kathy Rheaume wandered aimlessly around the Whitehorse airport. They chatted with pilots and aircraft mechanics and drank too many cups of coffee from white Styrofoam™cups while waiting for a favorable coastal weather report.

Nobody knew why Ed chose to fly the coastal route at a time of year when experienced costal pilots spend more hours on the ground than in the air.

November’s weather was as wicked as a black-hearted witch. Ed knew that. He had grownup on the coast. This was the worst season for unsettled conditions. Atmospheric disturbances created slate-gray, rolling clouds, low overcasts, thick walls of fog and bone-chilling, freezing rain.

Besides, the wheel-equipped Harvard would be flying over large bodies of choppy, peagreen sea with few landing places en route.

Every instrument a pilot would need was duplicated in the Harvard’s front and ft cockpits, but Ed had to maintain a visual reference with the ground. He was not yet rated to fly instruments and had only enough training under the hood to satisfy requirements for his commercial license.

Instrument flying would make a flight safer. If a pilot gets cornered, he can climb and fly in or above the clouds while deciding how to solve a problem. Without a knowledge of instrument flying, he sometimes has to stay too close to the ground. And it is a strain on the pilot’s eyes and nerves to poke his nose into a gray wall of clouds unless he can resort to instruments.

There is nothing wrong with visual flying...the majority of flying is done that way...as long as the pilot can see ahead, not just down, and is heading toward improved weather and avoiding approaching fronts.

During the idiosyncrasies of fall, there is a great contrast between the warmth of the days and the coolness of the nights. Churning air masses produce unexpected fronts, accompanied by precipitation and low visibility.

When in a gloomy mess, the pilot tries to stay high but is squeezed low by the cloud base which is shredded with vapor tendrils. He can only lower altitude so much before he has to dodge high obstructions, and the ground comes up to meet him. If fog is coming up from the ocean, he can be squashed between cloud layers.

In November, visual flying is common along the British Columbia mainland cost and Vancouver Island. But on the north coast, between Prince Rupert and Price Island, the rapidly-changing fall weather is so bad and unpredictable that ducks are grounded.

It is easy for a pilot, who is unfamiliar with the north coast, to misinterpret the weather reports.Conditions that sound favorable could be disastrous. A lack of official reporting stations means meteorologists sometimes have to report what is seen from where they sit.

In the past, Ed had always used the interior route for flights to the Vancouver area. He would go through Fort Nelson, Fort St. John and Prince George into Pitt Meadows. Perhaps his decision to take the direct coastal route was based on economics, to save gas, for it was several hundred miles shorter; or maybe the advice about not chancing it in the fall was a challenge.

Except for the weather, everything was in order.

The Harvard waited, nuzzled into the hangar. Ed and Kathy had repainted the day-glo red wing bands, engine cowling and “meatball” insignia. They had cleaned the interior and polished the many plastic panes.

The Harvard sparkled with the attention, and Ed was anxious to show his saffron pride to his friends in Haney (Maple Ridge). He would give Jon Harris the thrill ride of his life.

Although the Harvard looked good, it had become impractical to own. Operating and maintenance costs were done on a shoestring budget. Little things began to break down and go wrong.

When Ed purchased the plane, only a hundred hours remained on the Pratt & Whitney. The engine, crowding zero time for a mandatory major overhaul, could no longer be turned over by the weak twenty-four volt battery.

Ed did not relish spending several hundred dollars on a new battery, or a lesser amount for a used one. He relied on someone to wind the starter crank by hand.When it reached a certain speed the inertia starter would kick in while he operated the throttle from the front cockpit.

Because weight was critical and storage space scant, Ed and Kathy bare-boned their selection of personal gear.

Kathy had mailed some things to her mother in Chaudiere Bassin, Quebec. Some of Ed’s and Kathy’s belongings were in his apartment and other things stored with Stan Reynolds.

One evening at midnight, Jim Oakley had threaded the green pickup through the Crestview streets, while Ed, sitting on the piano stool in the truck bed,had serenaded the sleeping sub-division with rag-time music on the upright piano, which had to be moved from Ed’s former residence on Strickland Street.

Into the Harvard’s cargo hold, Ed shoved the cardboard suitcase, filled with survival gear for all trips.

There was a Coleman stove and a .22/.410 break-down rifle for small game, but once he had gut-shot a moose with it.

There was fishing gear, cooking utensils, flares, hatchet, hand-held compass, a mirror, first-aid kit and a survival book. Spare wool clothing consisted mainly of sweaters, bush pants, work socks, longjohns, toques and gloves. There were bulky Arctic-weight sleeping bags and foam bed rolls.

The parachute still needed a mate.

Ed’s worn leather club bag was always packed and ready to go. Inside, he placed a small, bird-shaped soapstone carving, a gift for his parents, and a Polaroid camera and film. Ed liked instant documentation of events.

His black imitation-alligator wallet bulged with credit cards; operator and chauffeur licenses for passenger vehicles and airplanes; and registrations for the short-barrel .22 rifle and the .455 Webley handgun, which was still officially registered in his name. Of approximately $1,200 carried in the wallet, $700 was in traveler’s cheques.

Kathy packed a pair of fashionable knee-high leather boots. Inside her light-colored handbag was a spiral-bound, calendar notebook she used to keep a daily diary and a bank book showing a $3 balance.

Kathy, who was typical of young people out to see the world armed with more courage than resources, traveled lightly with a small amount of cash, a telephone number and a prayer.

An improved weather report finally came in for the coast, and Ed and Kathy pulled on their dark-blue nylon flying coveralls. They were off on a grand adventure,in the best of health and highest of spirits, to enjoy each other to the fullest and their first holiday together.

Ed telephoned to bid “so long” to Stan. For emergency purposes, Stan’s name and telephone number would be included on flight plans filed for refueling stops at Juneau, Prince Rupert, Port Hardy and Pitt Meadows, near Vancouver.

About 10 o’clock Monday morning, the Harvard lifted off into a gentle northwest wind and made a low rumble over Second Avenue.

Stand and Ruthie were driving into town to pick up their mail.

“There they go!” cried Ruthie, looking skyward, as the Harvard swung south toward Alaska’s capital.

Stan laughed about ‘Ed and his darned Harvard’.

The day was not over before the upbeat mood wilted.

Stan had received a phone call.

Ed was overdue.

-------

Sinister weather swallows bold pilots who barge ahed against a stacked deck of clouds and refuse to turn back. Ed was trapped because he did not want to continue flying ahead. He turned back. But by the time he had recognized and reacted to the problem, it was too late.

He must have interpreted the briefing at Prince Rupert to mean there was better weather ahead. He was cleared to take off for Port Hardy, flying direct at a thousand feet.

Port Hardy, on north Vancouver Island, was open and reported ten miles visibility. There were scattered clouds, broken at 8,000 feet with an overcast at 15,000 feet.

At five o’clock, an hour past Ed’s estimated arrival time, the ceiling had only lowered to an 8,000 overcast, broken at 4,000.

These conditions remained until the warm front, forecast to shroud the coast, moved in later than night.

Once en route, Ed had no way of getting an update of what was ahead because there were no reporting stations between his departure and estimation points.

Fog drifted up from the ocean, and a patient drizzle reduced visibility.

An hour and fifteen minutes into the flight, he circled McInnes Island lighthouse, off the tip of Price Island, then turned back toward Prince Rupert.

But the warm front, expected hours later, had moved up the coast faster than could be predicted.Conditions had deteriorated and the north coast was socked in solidly.

Ed could not go back north, so he turned east toward the mountains.

He had been briefed about favorable interior weather. But he did not have enough fuel to cross the high peaks of the Coast Mountains. He was trying to reach one of the few coastal landing fields that could offer refuge to the Harvard.

About ten miles east of his original flight path he recognized the futility. The weather had outwitted him and trapped him between layers. Sheets of white fog reached up to join hands with the dingy chiffon fingers hanging down from the dirty clouds, ragged with winter.

Freezing rain pelted against the yellow aluminum. Beyond the moisture-smeared plastic and fine gray mist of the propeller was a very bleak world.

He had to get down before he ran into something or ran out of gas.

There was only one place to land.

Tipping out of the trashy weather like a mirage was a rocky ridge, draped in white. Small firs sparsely whiskered the ridge like miniature pegs stuck haphazardly into a crib board. Conifers, dripping black with moisture, lined the steep mountainsides that dropped quickly away into the fog bank.

This dilemma was more serious than even Ed would bargain for to add excitement to his day; odds were stacked completely against walking away from the landing. He had made a mistake in judgment and prepared to correct the error with the least amount of facilities available.

His actions showed he was confident, was in full command of his ship and knew exactly what he was doing.

It was there, on the edge of that rock, he proved he could do more than drive an airplane. His performance was a daring display of skill that proved he was a real pilot.

His eyes and mind would be riveted on the dangerous business ahead.

He nosed the Harvard to the southwest, lining up for a long, low approach on the upslope of the formidable rock.

The rocky runway, cracked with tortuous crevices, snaked a half mile toward a mountain knob on the shoulder of the ridge’s outstretched arms that curved at the elbows as though poised for a hug. The imaginary hands, long and disproportionate, drooped downward.The Harvard was coming in at the wrist joint.

The Harvard’s propeller, set in fine pitch, was taking small bites from the air. The landing gear remained tucked inside the wheel wells so the Harvard could scoot in on its belly and slither up the crooked arm.

But there were those cursed trees in the way.

To reduce speed, Ed gradually pulled on two notches of wing flaps. His task was contradictory. While trying to slow down to hit at minimum speed, he had to keep the air speed up to almost a hundred miles an hour, otherwise the Harvard would fly like a D-8 Caterpillar™.

This was going to be a crash of great magnitude, and the chances of surviving--no matter how well the crash was controlled--would be slimmer than outrunning a fire on board.

If they were not crushed, they could be blasted to fragments. A tiny spark from metal grating against rock introduced to fifty gallons of fuel from a ruptured wing tank would send them to heaven in a hurry.

Meeting death is man’s only true fear. To escape death’s cunning ways on this rock would be a miracle. Yet they were drawn toward the rock because there was no place else to go.

But the fear of death is offset by man’s strongest instinct: the desire to live. No matter how acute the pain, man will struggle against death to his last gasp before giving up, giving in.

Ed loved life and had done more in his few years on earth than people twice his age. He had taught many friends the secret to life was to live it, to wring the most out of it.

Even though the proverbial luck of the Irish always rode in his hip pocket, and he had an uncanny knack of Hodini for slipping a noose in the nick of time, this looked like the place where life’s glow would be extinguished.

The rock crept closer.

The wide wing span could not slip between the two firs that loomed large in the Plexiglas™. The leading edge of the port wing was aligned half way up a tall, sturdy tree; the other wing was ready to prune the top of a shorter one.

The jolt was going to be tremendous when the trees and wings did battle between an approach speed of ninety-five and a touch-down speed of seventy.

Then the world exploded.

The noise of splintering wood ripped the air as the tree toppled forward.

The Harvard went up on its tail like a trained porpoise, back-flipped and crashed enormously to the ground. Upside down, it skidded backwards on a metal frame and plastic, careening sideways, wildly out of control.

Ed and Kathy hung upside down like spiders in their cages.The umbilical cords, attached to their safety harnesses, pinned them to the seats and protected them from being tossed around inside the cockpit.

The inverted Harvard skied downhill a thousand feet over polished ice and over the side of the cliff before the journey ended. Abruptly.

Along the ledge grew a grove of shaggy fir and hemlock. Beneath the umbrella of black boughs, the spongy ground, carpeted in a thick tangle of undergrowth, caught and cushioned the incapacitated yellow hulk like a deep grove of a catcher’s mitt finds and stops a speeding baseball.

In a hairline moment of suspense, the wreckage was protected from taking a deep plunge into ravine far below.

Then you could hear a cotton ball drop.

-------

When Ed twisted planes, he did it neatly.

The Harvard came to a final repose upside down, intact, tilted slightly port side, the tail raised when it snagged some brush. It was nothing more than pure fluke the wreckage was positioned in such a way as to allow the occupants freedom to crawl from their separate cages. Otherwise, it is conceivable that Ed and Kathy, who had come within a handshake of death, would have been permanently entombed.

The propeller was curved into a symmetrical “S”, as though machinery had precisionshaped the steel. Where the port wing had mowed down the fir looked like a gigantic can opener had curled back the jagged yellow metal in a gaping wound that exposed the silvery underskin.

The other wing’s leading edge and the canopy frame were bruised and wrinkled there were scratches and dents here and there. Plastic panes had popped out. But the landing-light globes were uncracked and still functional.

After such a spectacular crash, the relatively petty damage was proof that the magnificent machine had been built to crash.

The designer’s idea had been to give maximum protection to the many students who wee to fly them. The remarkable design and materials, coupled with Ed’s piloting skills and a whole lot of luck, were responsible for Ed and Kathy to escape unharmed.

To ward off the chill and clamminess, Ed and Kathy slipped from their summer-weight flying suits into warm wool clothing dug from the survival bag.

Kathy neatly folded and placed thenavy-blue coveralls beneath the plane.

Next to the wreckage, they slung the parachute and built a small fire. For the first liquid, frigid night, they could cuddle down into the sleeping bags inside the make-shift home. The thin rustling walls of the silky hut was all that separated them from the sweeping wind and snow.

If the brooding weather persisted and delayed the military rescue helicopter from coming soon, they could set up something more permanent.

But Ed had faith in Search and Rescue. He knew they would come. That was why he made a habit of filing flight plans. He also knew he must use ingenuity and every facility he could muster to try to attract the attention of the search aircraft.

Looking for a plane in a vast wilderness from the air was like looking for a specific glitter of quartz on Crescent Beach where he had played as a child. When the fog cleared, searchers should be able to detect the prominent yellow and crimson stain against the green and white backdrop.

In case things went awry, Ed was always prepared to look after himself. With him he carried his bushmanship, along with plenty of survival gear, which may have included a portable, battery-operated, emergency locator beacon.

In a letter, dated December 2, 1967, Ed had written home that he had ordered a SARAH, an acronym for Search And Rescue Aircraft Homing.

Ed and Kathy had done everything right and had no reason to worry. As soon as the weather cleared, they would be spotted and a rescue helicopter would come along.

The hours dragged as their time was spent making themselves comfortable in a rough situation that would be better if the sun would shine. In the worst season, they could only expect rain and snow.

During the vigil, Ed noted the Harvard’s last flight in the aircraft’s journey log book, a record of all flights that stays with the aircraft from birth at the manufacturer’s plant until the plane dies.

His last entry indicated he did not know exactly where they were camped and he was operating on Yukon Standard, an hour behind coastal time:

“November 10, 1969, 1300 from Prince Rupert to 1400 crashed on top of a mountain.”

The intact Harvard skidded to a rest upside down in a clump of fir trees
on Roderick Island, British Columbia, November 10, 1969.
(Jane Gaffin Photo Collection, courtesy of Doc Payne)

The Harvard: Rock of Eternity is an excerpt from Jane Gaffin's illustrated, northern adventure book Edward Hadgkiss: Missing in Life. It is available from Mac's Fireweed Books in Whitehorse, Yukon by calling the toll-free order line 1-800-661-0508 or visiting www.yukonbooks.com.

Author contact is jane(at)diarmani.com or visit her at www.diArmani.com.

See related excerpts: The Cessna; The Percival Prospector; The Super Cub; The Harvard: Built to Crash and The Harvard: Cylinder with a History.

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The author can be reached at Jane(at)diArmani.com

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