Medford mail tribune., May 19, 1963, Image 37

LOST IN
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Ralph Flores spent three days tramping SOS in snow.
THE YUKON
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Helen shows Hamilton the makeshift font that provided shelter during 60-day ordeal.
and unloaded Davidson's supplies. By 3:30 I was
flying above the woman again. She waved franti
cally at me. No smoke obscured the tent now, and
I was surprised to see it was no more than a
shelter cloth of bright yellow fabric with black
markings. I tried to read them "N588. . ." The
fabric was ripped after the last "8."
What was the number of that lost plane? I was
almost sure it was "N58856." The Indians must
have found the wreckage and were using parts
for shelter. But Indians would have reported a
crash. Could these two be survivors? That was
even more unlikely.
As I climbed, I spotted airplane wreckage far
ther up the mountain, then about five miles closer
to the lake I located the man again, still flashing
his mirror from between lengthening shadows.
I radioed Watson Lake and told what I had
seen. My receiver was bad that day, and the only
reply I could understand was "Roger." But I
sensed they were feeling the same anxiety and
bafflement as I.
The closest I could land the Super Cifb was on
Aeroplane Lake another five miles northwest of
the man. Two Indian trappers, Charlie Porter and
Louie Boya, met me, and I told them to go inland
with dogs and sleds as soon as possible: I could be
back at dawn with help.
Watson Lake was humming with excitement
when I got there. Pilots and hangers-on knotted
around while. I reported to the search and rescue
unit of the RCAF and the Royal Canadian
Mounted Police. Together, we developed a plan.
At dawn, Hal would fly our Super Cub to the
lake with Mountie Constable George Lepky. I
would fly there with Corporal Steve Pentiluk in a
Cessna 180. From the lake, the Mounties, trappers,
and Hal would search for the man. I would take
the small, maneuverable Super Cub, land in a
meadow about three miles from the woman, and
snowshoe up to her. Other bush pilots had been
ordered by the Mounties to stand by on the
ground in case we needed help.
By 4 :30 a.m. Monday, we were warming our en
gines (it was then 10 below). Already news wires
had flashed stories of "possible" survivors of
N58856. The girl was Helen Klaben, 21, of Brook
lyn, N. Y.; her pilot was Ralph Flores, a Mormon
lay preacher and father of six children in San
Bruno, Calif. Both had been returning to the
States after working in Alaska.
I kind of regretted those news stories. In
Brooklyn and San Bruno, families were hoping
again. It was tragic that their loved ones had
vanished in a void of wilderness. It was even
more cruel, though, that we should be giving
them false hope. And we were almost certain that
was the case.
Too Many Odd Against Survival
From' the wreckage I had seen, the couple must
have smashed hard into the mountainside. Even
if they had lived, they had been isolated for 60
days. They had carried virtually no food in a
barren land impossible to live off, and during a
winter which was a killer in itself.
I couldn't help thinking how my own wife
Marion would react to such premature reports
if I had been missing and, worse, how she would
feel when they were inevitably scotched.
By 6:30 I was taking off from Aeroplane Lake
in the Super Cub, fearing I would be the person to
smash the unexpected hopes of the Klaben and
Flores families. I buzzed low over the meadow,
looking for a place to set down. A guide had ad
vised against landing there: the windfalls were
plentiful and even the smooth stretches of snow
might deceptively cloak dangerous obstructions.
But the plane didn't need much run space, and I
put the skis down gingerly on a strip of neat
snow, joggled a little and slid to a smooth atop.
A private pilot. Jack McCallum, already had
landed nearby but had been unable to locate the
woman immediately. I had flown over the terrain
enough Sunday, however, to know where to pick
up a footpath, presumably tracked through the
snow by the man. I strapped on snowshoes and
followed the trail.
The climb was steadily upward, and I was
slowed by snow three feet deep, tangled with
brush and blocked by fencelike rows of fallen
pine. After an hour or so, I labored up a ridge
and looked across a barren knoll to a triangle of
yellow. I called out. A shapeless figure lifted it
self from the ground and waved unsteadily to me.
Jack McCallum had just arrived at the scene, too.
The figure slumped down now, burying head in
arms and crying in violent, body-shaking sobs.
But I had glimpsed the face. It was a white wo
man. Helen Klaben was miraculously alive.
When I reached her, she lifted her head.
"You've saved me." Her voice was choked. "I'd
love to kiss you, but I can't walk." Her feet were
wrapped in layer after layer of cloth; she must
have been wearing five or six pairs of slacks, and
a heavy scarf was pulled around her wind-burned
face. She signaled me to sit down, and when I did
she kissed me, and crying welled up in me, too.
A Problem) How to Oot Hoton Out7
I had to determine two things now: how badly
was Helen injured, and how could I get her down
to the plane? But Helen wiped away tears and
rushed on :
"Ralph 1 He's out there I Did you see him?"
I assured her that he probably had already
been rescued, and she sighed, "OA, thank Godl
It was his faith, you know. His faith set the ex
ample for me to follow. That's what saved me."
She thanked God for being alive, for being
rescued, for saving Ralph but again and again
she thanked God for "letting her see things." I
didn't understand that at first Later I was to
fConltnitcd on page 7)
Frnmllt WHkly, May IS, 1M) I