Twin Otter Aircraft: Arctic Adventures
The twin otter aircraft is one of the most remarkable machines ever built for northern operations. The de Havilland Canada DHC-6 Twin Otter stands as a symbol of Canadian engineering ingenuity — a short takeoff and landing airplane that can operate virtually anywhere on Earth. From frozen tundra and gravel strips to lakes, snowfields, and glaciers, it’s a bush plane that redefined what “runway optional” truly means.
The de Havilland Twin Otter aircraft can land on almost any surface — water, snow, ice, or rock. Its rugged design and powerful Pratt & Whitney PT6 engines make it a trusted companion for explorers, scientists, and Arctic pilots alike. Runways are optional, but reliability never is.
During the 1970s through the early 1990s, I had the privilege of flying with numerous Twin Otter operators throughout the Canadian Arctic. Some were on straight skis, others on wheel-skis, high-flotation tires, or amphibious floats. These aircraft supported our research expeditions from Tuktoyaktuk on the Beaufort Sea, across the High Arctic Islands, and east toward the Canada–Greenland border at Baffin Bay.
Our work often meant bringing everything required to build winter camps on drifting ice — fuel, instruments, food, and tents to survive in temperatures well below -30°F. On one unforgettable day we unloaded cargo at -67°C while the engines ran continuously so the oil wouldn’t freeze solid. I often managed to claim the right seat, and when the pilot learned I had my private license, he’d hand me the controls and take a short nap. Even with my modest experience in a fabric-covered 85-horsepower taildragger, I felt completely safe in the Twin Otter aircraft.
Impossible Landing
In 1974 we carried out an experimental oil spill in Balaena Bay, near Cape Parry on the Beaufort Sea coast. Normally, we flew supplies from Inuvik with the Twin Otter aircraft landing on a small frozen lake near camp. But by June the ice had turned unsafe, and my boss ordered me to “create” a runway on uneven tundra covered in boulders so 18 visitors could arrive. I protested, but several days of digging and clearing produced a strip barely 50 feet wide and 1,000 feet long. To call it a runway was generous at best.
I expected the pilot to make a low pass and head home, keeping everyone safe. To my horror, he returned and committed to land, hanging on the stall with full flaps. The Twin Otter bounced across the tundra, its high-flotation tires skipping over rocks while the PT6s roared in full reverse. Miraculously, he pulled it off. The takeoff was even wilder — we became airborne at the very last second and dropped into a shallow valley in ground effect before climbing out. That was the last time I ever agreed to build a runway.
Skis Down but No Snow
In 1980 came one of the toughest projects of my career — camping on 15-foot-thick floating ice, 650 miles from the North Pole at 79°N. We depended on a Twin Otter aircraft from Resolute Bay for supply runs. After weeks on the ice, we packed up camp and waited for our ticket home — that beautiful red-and-white Otter coming over the horizon.
The pilot that day was a legend in Arctic aviation, with tens of thousands of hours in type. On final approach to Resolute, I noticed the red ski-down light still glowing on the panel. I said nothing, assuming the experts knew best. Moments later, we touched down — skis scraping across the gravel runway — and stopped in what felt like a hundred feet. No one spoke, but I learned two lessons: always speak up in the cockpit if something feels wrong, and never underestimate fatigue, even for the most experienced Twin Otter pilots.
Hard Landing in the Fog
A few years later, another flight reminded me just how durable the twin otter aircraft really is. We had waited for days in the small Inuit hamlet of Spence Bay (now Taloyoak) for weather to clear so we could return from the ice. The flight back started normally, but fog rolled in and buried the airport. There was no GPS in those days and the alternate was too far away to reach.
While circling above the clouds, the pilot suddenly spotted the runway through a small hole in the fog. He spiraled down and literally dropped the airplane onto the strip. The impact was brutal — it felt like the wings must have snapped off — but the aircraft held together. The force slammed the wheel-ski assemblies so hard that the restraining cables snapped, yet we all walked away unhurt. The Twin Otter aircraft was ferried back to Resolute for inspection, and we went home with a deep respect for its strength.
Ice Operations
Many of our Arctic landings were on floating ice using retractable wheel-skis, but one operator developed a technique for landing on bare ice with oversize tundra tires. We would scout by helicopter for a smooth refrozen lead — young, flat ice often coated with powder snow — and drill holes to confirm it was at least 20 inches thick. Watching the Twin Otter aircraft drag the surface from above was a sight to remember: the big tires brushed the ice gently, settling the airplane into a perfect slide that ended in a soft plume of snow. On clear spring days, it was pure northern magic — the definition of bush-flying perfection.
The twin otter aircraft remains a symbol of endurance and versatility in one of the harshest environments on the planet. From makeshift tundra strips to drifting polar ice, it has carried explorers, scientists, and supplies across places no other airplane would dare go. It’s not just a plane — it’s a lifeline of the Arctic.
If you’re fascinated by aircraft built for extreme performance, read also: Twin-Engine Planes: Comparing Performance and Reliability.
