Flight Attendance

Has Anyone Seen The Pair To This Sock?

Photographs copyright: DAVID McMAHON

I was very little when my parents showed me a windsock at Calcutta’s Dum Dum Airport (yes, it really was called Dum Dum, after the suburb which gave its name to the infamous bullets, which were manufactured there). I was struck by the simplicity of the windsock and the line-of-sight information it instantly conveyed.

It’s not just pilots who use this simple device. Here in Australia, we still have windsocks along the Western Highway from Melbourne to Adelaide, to give drivers and truckers an immediate reference point on prevailing wind conditions over bridges and across valleys.

But I’d never seen a multi-coloured windsock until I saw this one fluttering strongly on the outskirts of Haines Junction in the Yukon. One of the many great experiences I had during the week-long trip organised by Yukon Tourism was an Icefields Discovery Flightseeing Tour over the Kaskawulsh Glacier and Mount Logan.

Just before our pilot, Andy Williams, led us to the aircraft, I walked over to the windsock but decided not to take a shot of it horizontally as it flew proudly from the mast. Instead, I figured it would be a more unusual view if I shot it vertically, from straight in front, looking through the windsock as its canvas surface whipped in the strong, crisp breeze off the mountains.

It crossed my mind that the red and white stripes of the windsock were patriotic and appropriate for a Canadian airfield. That’s when I noticed the national flag flying proudly a few metres away. Let me tell you, I had to work very hard to get the right angle on this shot below, with the flag seeming to fly over the snowy peak in the distance.


Was I proud of the fact that I "saw" this composition? Yes, absolutely, because it wasn’t immediately apparent - and that’s one of the challenges for any photographer.

I've also included a view of a mountain overlooking Andy’s aircraft. I used a vertical frame to emphasise the tightness of the frame and to utilise the diagonal shadows to best effect. There is nothing extraneous in this shot, because I guess it’s like a good speech - it gets straight to the point, while it includes details that attract attention.


Through the Perspex of the cockpit canopy, you can clearly see the headsets. These are vital for communication between the pilot and the passengers, because the engine noise drowns out normal conversation. I sat in the back seat at Andy’s instruction, so that I would be able to use both cameras to get an interrupted view through the port and starboard windows. As he pointed out, if I’d sat in front, in the right-hand seat, he would have obscured some of the best views on my left.

I was also interested in the confidence in his voice when he said the weather would soon start to deteriorate. There was clear blue sky above us before we took off, but he was spot-on. Less than two hours later, the weather was less photographer-friendly.

Back in 1999, Doug Makkonen, base manager of Trans North Helicopters, took me on a memorable flight above the Lowell Glacier. This time, as Andy flew us in from the other direction over the Kaskawulsh Glacier, I was in my element, shooting with both Pentax digital cameras, one with my Sigma 18-125mm lens and the other with my Sigma 70-300mm lens.

And Andy was right. I shot 520 frames during the hour-long flight, which is roughly one every nine seconds. They were all shot through the port and starboard windows, except the final shot below. Watch this space for glacier and mountain-top photographs taken during the flight, but in the meantime, here is my closing thought.

How richly blessed does one have to be to fly over two glaciers on two separate occasions?

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Sergeant Restive Of The Yukon

H Is For Helicopter (And For Hover Crafty)

Photograph copyright: MATTHEW McMAHON

He is one of Canada’s most decorated rescue helicopter pilots but the next time I catch up with Doug Makkonen, I won’t be shaking hands with him. Nuthin' personal, though. The last time I did, in 1999 at Haines Junction in the Yukon, my hand came back a different shape and I can still hear the knuckles cracking in his generous grasp. Doug, the base manager for Trans North Helicopters is a big bloke, and his vice-like grip befits the national recognition for his skills as a fearless chopper pilot and his bravery as a rescuer.

You think I'm kidding about his grip? Nope. Mate, look at the picture below and you'll see that his three passengers on the right have their hands determinedly out of his way. Doug was born to be a chopper pilot, but never, ever tell him ``Get a grip''. Ask me. I know all about it.

This is Kluane National Park, a UNESCO World Heritage site, and we are shortly to head to the Lowell Glacier, even though the weather is not too flash. The yellow and red Bell Ranger is bound to mother earth by silvery metal clamps on the launch pad. Having mangled my hand, Doug (pictured here in olive-green cap and blue parka) makes amends by giving me the airborne equivalent of the penthouse suite, the left-hand seat in front with him, in the clear perspex bubble of the cockpit.

I make a mental note not to touch the white rudder pedals in front of me as Doug shows us how to strap ourselves in. Three metallic clicks later, we are in business and Doug does one final inspection of the chopper as he checks the outside locks on the passenger doors.

Then he settles into the pilot's seat, hands out a set of headphones to each one of us with brief instructions on how to use them ("make sure the microphone is really, really close to your lips") and then the whine of the engine and the thump of the rotors drowns out normal conversation.

The landscape starts to change. There are patches of ice on the ground. Shortly, we are in the thrall of the Lowell Glacier, its ridges and its edges and its awe-inspiring vistas that are a legacy of the Ice Age. Doug tells us how Lake Alsek, formed some time between the 18th and 19th centuries, reached halfway to Whitehorse and how it is thought to have drained back in just under three days after the ice dam broke.

What unfolds below us is one majestic sight after another. Doug reminds us that the glacier's levels keep shifting. "If I were to put down on the glacier and turn the engine off, you'd hear it groaning and creaking constantly." Suddenly I am struck by a colour on the glacier. To our left is a patch of vivid blue, a shade I have never seen anywhere before. More patches appear with the same unique colour and when I ask, Doug explains that it is caused by melting ice. As a photographer and painter, it is the purest blue I have ever seen.

On the way back to the airfield, Doug gives us plenty of photo opportunities. He gives us a James Bond-eye-view of some peaks, flying up to them and (to our untrained eyes) not clearing them by too much. It's one thing looking at 007's stunt pilots doing this in 70mm. It's another thing altogether when you're sitting there, alongside the pilot. Then Doug does his party piece. He skims over a looming peak and then, abruptly below us, is a deeply-riven valley. No warning. Whoa. I am convinced my lunch is about to reappear.

When I get my breath back, I ask Doug what the drop was. "Three thousand feet," he says, laconically. Three thousand feet? In my state of instant apoplexy, I'm convinced it was at least the height of Everest. But Doug's the king of the Yukon, so I take his word.

But we didn't shake hands on it. I'm not that stupid.