Canoes were replaced by airplanes for hauling freight in the bush. There was nothing romantic about it, but no one who flew the ’Dak’ up north could ever forget it no matter where they ended up.
I met a friend a while ago, abandoned in the winter snow;
A thing that meant the world to me when I was young.
A DC 3, a sight to see, a lesson from antiquity,
That opened up and taught to me what I’ve become.
We used to fly the northern skies,
Higher, faster, further, than the ones who came before.
We’d fly, the northern skies,
From the gold mines, to the Dewline, to the wild arctic shore.
In the right seat of a DC 3, nothing else meant much to me,
I flew to live but truthfully, I lived to fly.
I’d figure out a course to steer, synch the props, raise the gear,
And when I see the way she’s standing here, well I could cry.
Well in her day she reigned supreme, the northern lights own flying queen,
And in my hands we made a team and roamed so free.
From Moosonee on Hudson Bay to Inuvik, we knew the way,
From Lac La Ronge to Saguenay and in between
I never thought those days could pass, or I could leave a land so vast,
But it all dried up and all too fast they parked my Dak.
I looked for work — I really tried. I spent one winter high and dry,
So I said so long, I need to fly, and turned my back.
I’m flying still but from this jet I close my eyes and can’t forget,
And in my heart I’m with her yet or so it seems,
I point this thing up off the ground, hauling 3-piece-suits around
But late at night I can be found in old sweet dreams.
[Chorus and end]