It’s about 1400 on an island called Bougainville in Papua New Guinea. I’m into my second week on the job, second pilot, supporting the boss flying a Jet Ranger.
I got the gig because my resume said I had 800 hours in a Bell J Ranger. Technically true. It was actually a Bell 47 J-2A Ranger… not a Bell 206 Jet Ranger. But hey, they didn’t ask, and I didn’t tell. I got the job!
I did a quick 5-hour familiarisation with someone in Australia in a Jet Ranger and turned up in PNG the newest know-it-all on the block.
That day, I was flying cargo into a village about 15 minutes from the main base — which sat around 2,500 feet AMSL. The drill was simple: sling in a cargo net full of rice, Liklik Wappas (PNG biscuits), and 777 mackerel (canned fish), then sling out their freshly picked cacao. Easy peasy.
I lifted off from the helipad, transitioned away, and with “time is money” ringing in my ears, I was off. The weather was fairly clear for 2 in the afternoon — usually the time the daily deluge of rain and cloud rolls in. But today, that still looked a little way off.
The village was on the far side of a ridge. Normally, I’d follow the ridgeline, turn left at the top, and continue a few minutes up the valley. This was the late 1980s — no GPS, no maps (they hadn’t been printed yet for this area), and only verbal directions. Hopefully, there’d be a smiling face waving from the ground when I found the right spot.
It was my second trip, so I figured it was all clear. I’d only been there 20 minutes earlier, so instead of flying along the ridge and looking down the other side, I decided to cut straight across — perpendicular to the ridgeline.
Big mistake.
Instantly, I was swallowed by cloud. A full whiteout. Like a loose nut dropping into a dirty oil pan — I disappeared. Deep shit. F@#&! (Oops, this is for an American publication — I mean, oh darn!)
How did I get here?
Let’s rewind. I learned to fly in New Zealand on one of the original R22 HPs. No governor back then, and limits? Nobody talked much about them. I already had a fixed-wing licence with some basic instrument time, but that didn’t translate well to helicopters. Here’s why:
- Helicopters are completely unstable. They don’t want to fly themselves. Any kind of real instrument flying in a chopper means you are the autopilot.
- Every helicopter I’d flown so far had the bare basics: altimeter, airspeed, magnetic compass, balance ball, and engine instruments (MAP or torque). No attitude indicator, no VSI, no turn coordinator, and certainly no GPS or moving map (they didn’t exist yet). And forget about radio contact — there was no one around for a thousand miles.
Back in training, I had to log five hours of night flying. We cable-tied a bat-and-ball (turn indicator) to the console and off we went. There was no requirement for an attitude indicator in VFR helicopters at the time — they were too expensive and hard to fit anyway.
In NZ, there was no cultural lighting, no real weather forecasting, and no lighting rules. That night training felt like a waste of time — just ticking the CPL syllabus box. There was no way in hell I was ever going to intentionally fly at night. Too bloody scary. My instructor, an ex-Vietnam scout pilot, seemed crazy to be doing it. I just hoped he stayed that crazy-competent while I was onboard.
But that “useless” training? That’s what saved me.
As soon as I hit cloud, I locked onto what little instrumentation I had.
Altimeter. Airspeed. Magnetic compass. Bat-and-ball. Torque gauge.
I was at 60 knots and pulling 75% torque with the sling load hanging 50 feet beneath. That was the sweet spot — so I kept it.
If I slowed, I was probably pitching up. If I sped up, I was pitching down — neither good. If I didn’t touch the collective and held 65% torque, I wouldn’t introduce more variables to chase.
I knew I was above the ridge, so a 180-degree turn at constant altitude was the only real option. Climbing was a no-go — no idea how high the clouds went, and trying to outclimb the terrain ahead was a losing bet. Besides, the ridge on the far side was definitely closer than any potential clearing sky above.
The sling load helped. It kept things reasonably stable. But looking out the door and watching it vanish into the soup? Yeah — not good.
Compass heading: 030. OK. I needed to turn to 210. I chose a right turn — more likely to see something out the right side door if it came into view. The Jet Ranger’s bat-and-ball would give me a standard rate turn at one notch — 3° per second. Slow, smooth, focused.
You’re not out of control until you let it get out of control.
Work the problem. Get home to your bride.
And it worked. I made a steady, coordinated turn, held altitude and airspeed, and flew that heading like my life depended on it — because it probably did.
Just as quickly as I entered it, I popped out the other side. Clear air. Beautiful, clean air. A stunning vista, and a much deeper appreciation for what I’d been taught.
I flew straight back to base, landed, shut down.
Walked into the office.
The boss looked up. “You came back with the load?”
“Yeah,” I said. “Weather crapped out, so I called it.”
“Jeez, you young bastards are always looking for a way out of doing the job. I’ll go do it.”
And he did.
What did I learn that day?
- Never, ever assume.
- Behind every nice white fluffy cloud is a big, hard, angry mountain.
- Never discount the quality of your training — it might just save your life.
- Make your own decisions. Keep your cool.
- And sometimes… your boss can be an arse.
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