Another tale from Oil Gypsy and a brief note on Deadly Enterprise promotions for this week.
I went to a local copy shop and had some posters made up to publicise the book and future events that I intend. I left enough space under the picture of the cover to write in whatever event I intended to publicise. I also had a paragraph about the story, a small paragraph on me as ‘Local Author’, and two quotes from reviews. My wife, who had been in advertising when we married, was impressed with the finished posters.
I have also sold two of the few copies I bought to local libraries and discussed possible dates for doing readings and book signings. The dates will also depend on my publisher making arrangements with another POD company that will offer publisher (and author) discounts on quantity orders. I won’t try to place any books in local stores until I can deal on the price. Later this Fall, he says.
I have almost finished the full novel critique I have to do for my online writing group, so am beginning to see my way to get back to online promotions. And getting postings for this blog back on schedule. Let me know if you are finding the Oil Gypsy stories interesting – I’d love to hear from you.
Chris. kwhyte2@gmail.com
OG7
Today, it seems that no one can take a lid off a jam jar without consulting some expert or other. I don’t remember our getting much expert advice when I worked in remote locations in the oilpatch – we learned from our misadventures and from the accidents to others.
I had an early lesson on the unforgiving nature of the Arctic soon after we began working there in the winter of 1970. The company chartered a light aircraft out of Inuvik, at the mouth of the Mackenzie River, to fly supplies to our two crews in the area. The crew I worked on was an hour’s flight west along the Beaufort Sea coast, while the other one was an hour north near Tuktoyaktuk The company placed an expediter in Inuvik to collect the supplies and ensure they were sent to the right crew.
I’ll call the expediter Kevin, he was from Oklahoma and had a limited experience of Canadian winters. On a fine, sunny December day, perhaps only -20 Celsius, he met the aircraft as it returned from our camp and loaded it with items for the other. He’d not visited the crews this winter, so decided to accompany the pilot for the ride.
He wore his usual town garb, sufficient for the drive between town and the airport, rubber overshoes and a parka thrown over his city clothes. The aircraft cabin was heated, and he’d be back in Inuvik in two hours.
Half way to the Tuktoyaktuk crew, they flew into a storm. They pressed on but failed to find the camp under the blowing snow of a ground blizzard. The pilot figured he was in the right place, so descended to low altitude to look for the airstrip. While they were flying in the storm, peering out through the blowing snow, they crashed into a snow covered hillside.
The pilot was the only one of the two injured in the crash, having both legs broken. Kevin, the expediter, was uninjured. But the storm raged all night and it was about noon the next day before a driver on a nearby oil company road saw the wreckage and rescued them. They were rushed to Inuvik and then flown to the University Hospital in Edmonton that had the best frostbite facility in Canada.
The pilot had been dressed for the Arctic and had mild frostbite as well as the broken legs. Kevin was different – lightly dressed, he had severe frostbite in all his extremities.
The doctors tried to save his feet, but had to amputate them to save his legs. Then they had to remove most of both legs to save his life. They tried to save his hands, but had to amputate them to save his arms. It turned out that they couldn’t save much of his arms – or his ears, or his nose.
His wife collected him to take him back to Oklahoma, what was left of him.
After that I was adamant about my crew venturing out of camp without adequate protection. We subsequently moved to a new job in the Arctic Islands, and the oil company provided a snowmobile as fast transport for any quick jobs out of camp. I would not use it myself, nor allow any of my survey crew to go out of camp on it. I was mindful of a reply given by an Innu hunter to a question why he still used a dog team instead of a snowmobile. With a long Innu history of hunters stranded alone for weeks by storms the hunter replied, “Can’t eat a snowmobile.”
People often asked me which was the most dangerous place I worked in – The Sahara Desert or the Canadian Arctic. If someone were to be wrecked and lost in the desert they could die of thirst and heat prostration in two or three days. They could be lying in a wreck in the Arctic for two or three hours and not survive.
I went to a local copy shop and had some posters made up to publicise the book and future events that I intend. I left enough space under the picture of the cover to write in whatever event I intended to publicise. I also had a paragraph about the story, a small paragraph on me as ‘Local Author’, and two quotes from reviews. My wife, who had been in advertising when we married, was impressed with the finished posters.
I have also sold two of the few copies I bought to local libraries and discussed possible dates for doing readings and book signings. The dates will also depend on my publisher making arrangements with another POD company that will offer publisher (and author) discounts on quantity orders. I won’t try to place any books in local stores until I can deal on the price. Later this Fall, he says.
I have almost finished the full novel critique I have to do for my online writing group, so am beginning to see my way to get back to online promotions. And getting postings for this blog back on schedule. Let me know if you are finding the Oil Gypsy stories interesting – I’d love to hear from you.
Chris. kwhyte2@gmail.com
OG7
Today, it seems that no one can take a lid off a jam jar without consulting some expert or other. I don’t remember our getting much expert advice when I worked in remote locations in the oilpatch – we learned from our misadventures and from the accidents to others.
I had an early lesson on the unforgiving nature of the Arctic soon after we began working there in the winter of 1970. The company chartered a light aircraft out of Inuvik, at the mouth of the Mackenzie River, to fly supplies to our two crews in the area. The crew I worked on was an hour’s flight west along the Beaufort Sea coast, while the other one was an hour north near Tuktoyaktuk The company placed an expediter in Inuvik to collect the supplies and ensure they were sent to the right crew.
I’ll call the expediter Kevin, he was from Oklahoma and had a limited experience of Canadian winters. On a fine, sunny December day, perhaps only -20 Celsius, he met the aircraft as it returned from our camp and loaded it with items for the other. He’d not visited the crews this winter, so decided to accompany the pilot for the ride.
He wore his usual town garb, sufficient for the drive between town and the airport, rubber overshoes and a parka thrown over his city clothes. The aircraft cabin was heated, and he’d be back in Inuvik in two hours.
Half way to the Tuktoyaktuk crew, they flew into a storm. They pressed on but failed to find the camp under the blowing snow of a ground blizzard. The pilot figured he was in the right place, so descended to low altitude to look for the airstrip. While they were flying in the storm, peering out through the blowing snow, they crashed into a snow covered hillside.
The pilot was the only one of the two injured in the crash, having both legs broken. Kevin, the expediter, was uninjured. But the storm raged all night and it was about noon the next day before a driver on a nearby oil company road saw the wreckage and rescued them. They were rushed to Inuvik and then flown to the University Hospital in Edmonton that had the best frostbite facility in Canada.
The pilot had been dressed for the Arctic and had mild frostbite as well as the broken legs. Kevin was different – lightly dressed, he had severe frostbite in all his extremities.
The doctors tried to save his feet, but had to amputate them to save his legs. Then they had to remove most of both legs to save his life. They tried to save his hands, but had to amputate them to save his arms. It turned out that they couldn’t save much of his arms – or his ears, or his nose.
His wife collected him to take him back to Oklahoma, what was left of him.
After that I was adamant about my crew venturing out of camp without adequate protection. We subsequently moved to a new job in the Arctic Islands, and the oil company provided a snowmobile as fast transport for any quick jobs out of camp. I would not use it myself, nor allow any of my survey crew to go out of camp on it. I was mindful of a reply given by an Innu hunter to a question why he still used a dog team instead of a snowmobile. With a long Innu history of hunters stranded alone for weeks by storms the hunter replied, “Can’t eat a snowmobile.”
People often asked me which was the most dangerous place I worked in – The Sahara Desert or the Canadian Arctic. If someone were to be wrecked and lost in the desert they could die of thirst and heat prostration in two or three days. They could be lying in a wreck in the Arctic for two or three hours and not survive.
posted by Christopher Hoare at 7:21 PM
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