Chapter 8
CANOL, the Forgotten Trail
Trekking the U.S. Military’s bungled northern Pipeline Project
2000
THIS IS NO PICNIC
Working and living conditions on this job are as difficult as those encountered on any construction job ever done in the United States or foreign territory. Men hired for this job will be required to work and live under the most extreme conditions imaginable. Temperatures will range from 90 degrees above zero to 70 degrees below zero. Men will have to fight swamps, rivers, ice and cold. Mosquitoes, flies, and gnats will not only be annoying but will cause bodily harm.
If you are not prepared to work under these and similar conditions,
DO NOT APPLY
(This message appeared in hiring office across North Americaduring the spring of 1942, posted by Bechtel-Price-Callahan, the primary civilian contractor supporting the United States War Department’sCanol Pipeline Project. The immense, secretive, and ultimately bungled construction project overwhelmed a vast swath of the Canadian Northwest during the wartime years.)
What had begunas intermittent drizzle was now a continuous downpour. As bone chilling clouds slidover the low foothills of the Yukon’s Mackenzie Mountains, every branch and twig in the barrens seemed to reach up and grasp at the swirling mist, stalling its progress. More and more rain dumped onto the sodden land. It was the wettest northern summer in recent memory, and there was no end in sight. Deep puddles obliterated long sections of the dirt road leading east from RossRiver. I held my breath as Chris Ferguson(Ferg) inched his Subaru through coffee coloured water that sloshed against the doors and threatened to flood the engine. Fifteen kilometers short of the North WestTerritories border, a flooding creek had washed a deep and wide cut in the deteriorating track. This obstacle marked the end of the road, at least for our vehicle. Ferg shut the engine off, and we sat in silence. I watched raindrops splatter opaque patterns across the foggy windshield. Neither of us leapt eagerly from the car. It was not the type of weather that encouragedone to depart for eighteen days in the wilderness.
I generally agree with the great Victorian thinker John Ruskin, who once wrote that ‘there is really no such thing as bad weather, just different kinds of good weather.’ But the moment of embarkation is an exception. While thetransition from ‘civilization’ to ‘wilderness’, from ‘comfort’ to ‘hardship’, is normally packed with eager anticipation, a moment symbolic of freedom, inclement weather dulls all idealism, and the sanity of the undertaking comes into question. Whether tearing oneself from a warm sleeping bag on a frigid morning, or unloadingcanoes from a float plane during a freakish summer snow squall, one feels a reticence to begin. Of course once underway, one easilydeals with whatever natures presents, quickly falling into the rhythm of the land,managing clothing, schedules, and expectations appropriately. And youtruly enjoy it all; the rain, fog, sun and wind. But starting in foul weather? That just feels wrong.
Eventually it became clear that delaying the inevitable was getting us nowhere, so we jumped from the warm carandhauledour bulging packs from the trunk. Anoraks were retrieved,hoods pulled up, cameras stuffed into garbage bags, and gators tightened over our leather hiking boots. After edging across a slippery beam that spanned the creek before us, we strode off side by side,down a wide gravel track that lead onwards into the misty mountains. Willow scrub stretched out in all directions, covering the gently rolling land like a prickly green blanket. Apart from the soft patter of rain, the wildernesssatunder a veil of silence. Even the birds had taken refuge. Within minutes the car had disappeared from sight behind us. Our destination lay three hundred and seventy kilometers (230 miles) away, along an abandoned and long forgotten trail built more than 50 years earlier by the U.S. Army.
During the latter years of the Second World War, this quiet and remote corner of Canada’s northwest played host to what would later be described by a U.S. military historian as ‘the biggest construction job since the Panama Canal.’ Following Japan’s crushing attack on PearlHarbour, and the ensuing systematic destruction of the remaining American Pacific Fleet, a land invasion of North America via the northern chain of Aleutian Islandsbecame a threat Washington could no longer ignore. American military planners, who previously had been distracted by events on the European fronts, now went into high gear. Continental defense became an almost obsessive focus, and Alaska was of primary concern. With no road or rail connections to the south, and only limited air supply capabilities, the territory of Alaska(not a State at the time) represented a strategic weakness.
Initial priority was placed on completing the North West Staging Route, a series of aerodromes linking Edmonton withFairbanks. Runways and aprons were expanded to handle heavy transport aircraft, while housing and service facilities were installed. Heavy attention was also placed on the creation of an overland route to Alaska, for without a ground link, the north would remain an Achilles heel. Over ten thousand men were dispatched, and in eight monthstheybulldozed a one thousand five hundred and twenty mile (2530 km) road through the wilderness. The Alaska Highway,only commissioned for military use, connectedDawson Creek, British Columbia with Fairbanks, Alaska.
The question of how to supply fuel for aircraft and ground troops operating in the northern arenasoon became paramount. Coastal shipping was growing increasingly risky due to Japanese naval dominance, and transporting gasoline by truckalong the new Alaska Highway could never meet the estimated demands. As the U.S. War Department began to weigh their options, Vilhjalmur Stefansson, a veteran Arctic explorer, advised that a viable source of crude lay beneath the isolated Canadian community of Norman Wells, on the banks of the Mackenzie River. Mackenzie himself, the river’s namesake, had reported spotting oil seepages along the banks in 1789, and Imperial Oil had drilled several productive wells in the region, but subsequently capped them due to the anticipated expense of delivering the crude to an outside market.
A hasty plan was developed by the War Department to pipethe Norman Wells crudeacross a thousand kilometers of Canadian wilderness to Whitehorse, where a new refinery could supply diesel and gasoline to the Alaska Highway and North West Staging Routeaerodromes. As word of the pipeline leaked out, opposition to the proposalquickly mounted around Washington. Detractors declared the schemewas both absurdlyimpractical and prohibitively expensive. Still the project crept forward, cloaked in deception and secrecy, more to shield the venture from Congress than to hide it from the Japanese. Even the name ‘Canol,’ which is today widely accepted to have stood for ‘Canadian American Norman Oil Line’, was misleadingly represented by the Army’s Public Relations department as an acronym for ‘Canadian Oil’, a veiled attempt to guise the project’s location and intent.
When Japanese troops occupied Attu and Kiska (two of the outermost Aleutians) during June 1942, economicsand practicality suddenly took a back seat to hysteria. Facing a looming threat of invasion, the War Department unilaterally moved ahead andpassed final approval for the Canol Pipeline Project. A quick and simplefive month construction period was forecast. Attention quickly turned elsewhere, for there were more pressing concerns facing the nation. Hidden from sight, the Canol took on a life of its own, and even the project’s worst detractors could never have foreseen the bottomless pitthat it would eventually become, consuming vast amounts of precious time, money and effort.
Within weeks heavy construction equipment began to arrive at the railhead of Waterways, Alberta. Barges would move the supplies northwardsalong the Athabasca and SlaveRivers, and after a portage around the rapids of Fort Smith, across Great Slave Lake and up the Mackenzie to Norman Wells. After a late breakup of river ice delayed the beginning of transport, the Army was anxious to make up for lost time. Wharfs, barracks, construction yards, refrigeration buildings and power plantswere quickly installed at waypoints along the route. Barges toiled around the clock, and larger vessels were requisitioned. But operating in the remote northern wilderness proved a formidable challenge. Mud, dust, and bloodthirsty hordes of insects plagued progress. Summer storms created choppy waters, and the Army’s inexperience became clear as caterpillars, tractors, and graders routinely slidoverboard from heavily laden barges. Several boatloads of pipe sank, and the rest languished at Waterways as project engineers struggled to move critical construction equipment northwards. By early fall, as the rivers iced over, and the project’s five month completion deadlinecame and went, only a fraction of the required materials had been delivered to Norman Wells. The surveying of a route over the rugged Mackenzie Mountainshad not even begun.
Pipeline planners faced a difficult job. No detailed maps of the region existed. An aerial reconnaissance showed that river valleys leading into the plateau lands of the Mackenzie Mountainswere narrow and riddled with canyons. Only the Dene First Nations, whose traditional hunting grounds encompassed these high, flat ranges, traveled the area. Their knowledge of ancient trailsystemsproved to be spectacularly detailed, having been passed down for generations through the oral tradition of storytelling. That winter, three local Dene hunters guided a small survey party across the mountains, traveling by dog team and hunting for sustenance en route. By January news returned to the south that a viable route had been traced through the alpine highlands.
That spring work on a road began, and the pipeline followedclosely behind. Because of the urgent nature of the projectand the low pour point of the Norman crude (it remained viscous even in extreme cold),the pipe would not be buried but rather laid directly by the roadside. Once again, the project suffered greatly from a lack of experience. After bulldozers carved a right of way through the bush, they would return only hours later to find a muddy quagmire, the result of disturbing and exposingpermafrost. The next day a new road would be cut, which in turn would become a sea of mud. Soon a tangled web of muddy tracks spread through the forest, and hundreds of vehicles lay mired inbog, many sinkingcompletely from sight. Eventually the cutting crewslearned not to disturb the topsoil. Drainage ditches were dug to draw off melt water and a surfacing team followed quickly behind, laying insulating brush and gravel.
But the difficulties plaguing construction in the ruggednorthern terrain would not let up. After struggling to deliverseven thousand vehicles to Norman Wells, officers discovered more than seventy five percent were out of commission within a year. Mud devoured many, brutally cold winter temperatures the rest. If fires were not continually kept burning under transmission cases and axles, oil froze solid and equipment was rendered useless. As a second spring arrived, warming brought with it flash floods, landslides, and forest fires. With a traditional response, the Army threw more resources at the stubborn project. Two hundred thousand tons of supplies made the difficult journey north, and fifty three thousand workers toiled as the pipeline slowly crept forward through the mountains. Ten pumping stations were installed to help move the crude along the line. A refinery waspurchased in Texas, dismantled, shipped up the Pacific coast, and rebuilt in Whitehorse. As progress on the primary Canol pipelineground forward, subsidiary lines were laid from Whitehorseto Fairbanks, WatsonLake, Skagway, and Haines, bringing the total network to almost eighteen hundred miles (3000 km). Two thousand miles (3300 km) of road were constructed, a length thirty percent greater than the Alaska Highway, which the project was meant to service. And finally, on February 16th, 1944, almost three years after the Canol’s approval, the last weld was completed. Normal Well’s crude began to flow.
A one hundred and thirty four million dollar bill was presented to Congress, but further inquiries showed that upwards of three hundred million was actually spent, the remainder carefully hidden amongst other wartime costs. Either way the cost was astronomical. And still the fledgling project continued to be beset with difficulties. The pipeline required constant maintenance in the unforgiving terrain. Over one hundred and ninety thousand barrels of oil were lost due to leakagesand spills during the first months of operation. Oil which did flow all the way to Whitehorse became some of the most expensive in history, having associated costs as high as three hundred dollars per barrel. (If one accounts for inflation, this reflects a 2004 price of well over three thousand dollars a barrel!) To put this in perspective, during the war the Army had an outstanding contract to purchase domestic crude for $1.43/barrel in the lower forty eight. It quickly became clear that the four inch pipe (a laughable gauge even by 1940 standards) could never meet Alaska’s fuel requirements.
The Canol had become a target of Truman’s Special Investigating Committee long before its completion, and by late 1944 the facts were damning. The Senate threatened to go public with an inquiry unless the controversial project was halted. After three years of excruciating construction efforts and only eleven months of operation, the Canol was scrapped.
In a rush to wash its hands of the entire affair, the U.S. War Department quickly sold salvage rights to the Canol for a paltry seventy thousand dollars. The pipeline was pulled, the sixty thousand residual barrels sitting inside it dumped across the land, and pumphouse machinery picked over. Engines and tires were stripped from vehicles, but the vast majority of what the Army had installed was left behind, remaining to languish in the remote wilderness of the Canadian northwest. While the Yukon government chose to maintain a portion of road for civilian traffic, the remaining three hundred and fifty five kilometers (210 miles),a rugged and mountainous stretch cutting through the Northwest Territories, were abandoned. Within a year landslides and shifting mud had rendered this section impassable. Floods and ice soon tore out all of the sixty five bridges. Today, apart from a dotted line winding across Canadian topographical maps, the massive project has been all but forgotten.
With heads buried under our anorak hoods, and asteady drizzle of rain hammering the thin plastic, Ferg and I did not hear the mountain biker until hewas upon us. At first I thought the fast approaching sound was a flock of birdsabout to passinches above my head. Spinning around in surprise, I found myself face to face with a tall, poncho clad man astride a rusty mountain bike. Ferg and I stared in surprised silence.
‘Do not be scared,’ he said with an unmistakably German accent, extending a hand. ‘I’m Michael. The Mounties in RossRiver[1]told me that two hikers had set for the Canol today. I drove up as fast as I could, hoping to catch you. I have wanted to hike this route for many years, but the bears,… you know,…it can bea problem alone. So, I come with you?’
Ferg and I stared at the tall man in shocked silence, our minds struggling to digest his request. ‘Are you planning to ride your bike?’ I finally asked hesitantly.
‘No, no. My pack is in my car, I will go back for it. I just wanted to ask first.’ Michael appeared strong and sturdy, but adding a new companion at the start of a long and difficult journey is not something to be taken lightly. I was at a loss for words, and an uncomfortable silence hung heavy between us. ‘Well…, O.K., sure,’ I stammered, hospitality taking the better of prudence. ‘We are only going as far as Milepost two-twenty-two[2] tonight, just beyond Macmillan pass, we can meet you there.’ After a few smiles and handshakes, Michael turned around, and pedaled off into the mist.
‘What are you thinking?’ Ferg looked livid. ‘I know you are easygoing, but we don’t know anything about Michael. How strong is he? Does he have the right supplies? In the end we may need to sacrifice our trip, or even endanger ourselves to save him.’ The same thoughts were rushing through my head. We had planned this challenging backcountry trek for months, going through every possible scenario and emergency. For our team of two to suddenly become three in the first hour felt uncannily strange. I knew that it had not been wise to rush in and spontaneously say ‘yes.’ Ludicrously I had done so because I hated to disappoint anyone, even a stranger.