Back in the Yukon, I found myself under a flurry of grievances, each more irritating than the last… The egregious animal abusers. The humanoid corpse masquerading as my passenger. The hideous mountains. The complete lack of sleep—because, of course, I’d forgotten to account for the 22-hour "days" near the Arctic Circle when I was haggling over my daily wage. Classic Dumb-Ass me, a pro at self-delusion. Naturally, I felt shortchanged when my employer developed the charming habit of waking me at 11 p.m. to suggest we go flying, since it wasn’t quite dark yet.
Then there were the demanding flying conditions—paired with an aircraft that was held together, I suspect, by duct tape and wishful thinking.
A cocktail of mounting concerns, really.
One day, I was out with one of the guides, luckily one of the few who were not smelling like decaying carcasses, scouting for stone sheep high up in the mountains—a task that firmly held the title of my least favourite chore.
Picture this: a 3,000-foot sheer drop yawning below, the edge of the cliff practically brushing the wingtip, and me—someone not exactly fond of heights—wrestling with violent downdrafts and upwinds that threatened to turn our little airborne contraption into an unfortunate pile of rubble.
The lad behind me, my passenger—who fancied himself a budding aviation authority—had his binoculars trained on the cliffside, scanning for the elusive and breathtakingly beautiful white stone sheep. These elusive creatures were worth over $10,000 a pop to hunters eager for an impressive trophy to hang on their walls back home.
I glanced back and told him to put away the binoculars unless he was keen to examine the rock face on a microscopic level. I promised, with just the faintest edge of sarcasm, to bring him close enough to the cliff that he'd have no need for magnification.
“Is this safe, flying so close to the cliff?” The self-proclaimed aviation PhD-holder in the back finally piped up, sounding concerned.
“Of course it’s not, you moron!” I shot back. “But didn’t you just say—and I quote: "Get me as close to the drop as possible unless you’re a pussy’? Be careful what you wish for, my friend!”
The truth was, I was probably more terrified than he was, but there was no way I’d let him know that. So closer we went, the cliff face filling the windshield as we hugged the escarpment, bouncing with the winds. Up and down we danced along the ridge, flirting with disaster.
We crested the hill, and that’s when it happened: a vicious downdraft slammed us like a hammer, and we dropped 1,500 feet in what felt like a heartbeat. The fall was so violent that both of us smacked our heads against the unforgiving metal headliner, and any loose gear in the cockpit instantly relocated itself to unpredictable places.
Unfortunately, among the flying debris was my trimming wheel—a crucial lever for keeping the aircraft’s attitude balanced.
It had popped right off.
An excerpt from What Could Possibly Go Wrong? Chronicles of Chaos and Courage remains available here. The full book can be ordered here.
One Last Ride Before the Emotional Apocalypse: Yukon Exit, Wyoming Entry.
First time on a horse.
First time in a cowboy hat.
First time realising that red parkas don’t belong in cowboy lore.
This was the moment before I traded the Arctic Circle for something far more volatile: a Wyoming ranch overrun by emotionally unhinged horse girls fleeing from their own reflection.
This was 2018 — still frostbitten from Yukon misadventures, still naïvely optimistic.
I thought the worst was behind me.
I thought the horses were the problem.
But in 2019, I landed in Thermopolis, Wyoming.
No real cowboys.
No cattle drives.
Just a carousel of city-scarred women performing spiritual CPR on themselves via overpriced horse therapy.
A dude ranch, minus the glamour. Plus broken dreams, hay bales, and unsolicited crying.
In hindsight, the horses were the most stable part of what came next.
🧨 Exhibit A: The View from the Edge — Yukon Descent, Moral Altitude Unknown
This was the view.
This was the view. Not from a tourist joyride—but from a barely controlled nosedive into the ethical swamp of airborne trophy scouting.
We were ridge-hugging over the Yukon badlands, wind slamming into the Cub like an unpaid debt collector.
Behind me sat a seasoned hunting guide—skilled, experienced, and utterly miserable.
His job?
Spot the elusive stone sheep—those pristine, white-coated ghosts of the cliffside—so his moneyed clients could blow their heads off for Instagram glory and a $10,000 ego boost.
He had binoculars. I had a death grip on the stick and a rapidly deteriorating relationship with gravity.
“I said get close,” he’d muttered earlier.
So I did.
Right up to the point where the cliff replaced the horizon and updrafts turned into sucker punches from Mother Nature herself.
Then it hit—the downdraft. 1,500 feet down in a blink, cockpit gear flying, both our heads ricocheting off the metal roof like confused dinner bells.
The trim wheel snapped clean off.
So did any remaining justification for being part of this gig.
That wasn’t flying.
This wasn’t adventure.
This was purgatory in a Floatplane.
💀 The Red Outhouse of Doom™ – Yukon, 2018 💀
Where hygiene came to die.
Filed under the prequel logbook of What Could Possibly Go Wrong?, this glorious crimson coffin was my designated latrine during a brief but pungent episode of northern wilderness employment.
Nestled in a remote bush camp already under siege by soap-hating colleagues and the general stench of unwashed despair, this outhouse offered a sensory experience so violent it may still be classified under war crimes.
It smelled like fermented horse blanket, moral decay, and something that might once have been chili.
Fun Fact:
The door didn’t lock.
Privacy was granted only by the sheer force of shame and nausea.
The Cabin by the Lake: Where Dreams Went to Smell Funny
Welcome to base camp—a deceptively picturesque Yukon lakeside cabin that doubled as the kitchen, operational HQ, and nasal warzone during my brief but traumatic employment here.
Surrounded by nature's grandeur and staffed by hygiene renegades, this charming log box came with one feature you’ll never find in Airbnb reviews: the lingering scent of authority gone rogue.
This was ground zero in the third instalment of
What Could Possibly Go Wrong?
—a backwoods symphony of bad decisions, horse sweat, and the boss’s special culinary flair.
🧨 Category: wilderness mismanagement | 🇨🇦 Yukon meltdown | 🥃 olfactory trauma | 😈 Romdane Chronicles
False Prophets on Floats: Yukon’s Romantic Scam for the Overqualified Escapee
At first glance? Heaven.
A glassy lake.
A floatplane that whispers promises of freedom.
The silhouette of spruce trees framing what should’ve been salvation.
This was going to be it—the great reset, the grand northern exile after Africa, complete with seaplane dreams, frontier purpose, and no more NGO nonsense.
But then came the humans.
Welcome to Camp False Hope™—where the only thing deeper than the lake is the collective inferiority complex of camo-clad trophy hunters compensating for generational failures. Hygiene? A distant memory. Ethics? Taxidermied. And your colleagues? Somewhere between unbathed sociopath and woodland war criminal, with a daily routine of dog-kicking, bear-baiting, and soul erosion.
This floatplane wasn’t an escape. It was the getaway vehicle from your final illusion. And the dock?
Just the last place your faith in humanity still had a pulse.
Conclusion:
What Could Possibly Go Wrong? – Yukon Disaster, Part III:
The Great Floatplane Illusion.
Add it to the logbook. Burn the rest.
