The Algoma country of Ontario is a vast, rugged wilderness. It is a sprawling expanse of dense bush, broken by cliffs, bogs, and deep stream gorges—some of the best hunting land in the province, and one of the easiest places to die.
In December 1958, this wilderness claimed another victim. Harold Patrick, a moose hunter, drove his jeep 50 miles north of Sault Ste. Marie, left his two companions, and walked into the Pancake River country. He never walked out.
When he was reported lost, the "usual search" began. But in the Algoma, the usual was never enough. The year before, a hunter's skeleton was found just 300 yards from a main highway, 22 miles from where he was last seen. The year before that, another man vanished. Harold Patrick was just the latest.
But his death would be different. In Sault Ste. Marie, a group of sportsmen, hunters, and fishermen were tired of the grim pattern. They were convinced that organized, expert bushmen with the right equipment could have found these men in time. Among them was Maynard (Mac) McCracken, a past president of the Algoma Rod and Gun Club and a man who knew the bush intimately.
In March 1959, McCracken called a meeting of 15 men who shared his conviction. They gathered not just to mourn, but to build. By the end of the meeting, the Sault Search and Rescue Unit was born. Its treasury began with a collection from the 16 charter members: $14.50.
It was a laughably modest start for a group with such a deadly serious mission. In a steel-mill city of 45,000, some looked on the new outfit as a "play group for grown men."
They didn't have to wait long to prove them wrong.
The First Test
Six months later, in the fall of 1959, the call came in. Peter D'Huk, a young German student, had gone deer hunting near Garden Lake. Inexperienced and totally unfamiliar with the country, he had wandered into a swamp and become hopelessly trapped by water on all sides.
The newly-formed unit deployed. Fifty men entered the search the first day. Seventy-five the second. On the third morning, with the situation growing critical, a helicopter was called in. That afternoon, the 'copter crew spotted him. D'Huk was brought out in good condition.
The rescue silenced the skeptics. The Sault Search and Rescue Unit had proven it could do the job. Its prestige soared, and it began a legacy that would, as the 1964 Outdoor Life article "They Find Lost Men" put it, save an unknown number of lives.
"A Way of Life"
The unit quickly grew into one of the most sophisticated volunteer organizations on the continent. It wasn't a club; it was, as unit coordinator Malcolm (Mac) Nicholson said, "a way of life."
Membership was exclusive. A screening committee investigated every applicant, and its word was law. The unit didn't want numbers; it wanted experts. The roster of 186 men (as of 1964) was a cross-section of society—steel workers, timber crews, police officers, and a doctor—all united by one trait: they were masters of the bush, trained in survival and two-way radio operation.
The unit also boasted 22 aqualung divers, some of the best in Canada, who would be called on for the grim, lonely job of recovering drowning victims. Later, the Soo Ski Patrol joined, adding 32 members with specialized cold-weather rescue training.
There were no dues and no pay. This was their most sacred rule. The officers were emphatic: if they charged a fee or accepted a reward, the word would get out that their services were only for those who could afford them. They were there for everyone.
A Race Against the Cold
The unit's dedication was most fiercely tested by the most vulnerable. The rule was simple: for adults, searches began at daylight. For children, the search began instantly.
In January 1960, less than a year after they formed, Sgt. Ivan Shanahan took a frantic call at 5:30 p.m. It was cold, and snow was falling hard. Two children, John and Denise Brisson, ages two and four, were lost.
Within 30 minutes, a 75-man search crew was combing the swampy bush. It was only a few degrees above zero. The team moved in a line, shoulder-to-shoulder, probing the darkness with lights. They called the children's names, but there was no reply.
An hour later, one of the searchers saw it: a small, trampled place in the snow. His light swept up and found Denise and John, huddled together under a spruce tree, wet, shaking, and "too scared to reply." Veteran searchers agreed: had they waited until morning, it would have been too late.
Masters of Land, Air, and Water
From its $14.50 treasury, the unit raised funds to acquire over $20,000 in equipment—a truck with a power winch, boats with sonar, portable base radios, walkie-talkies, and a complete base-camp outfit.
But their greatest asset was collaboration. In a unique international pact, the U.S. Air Force at Kincheloe, Michigan, agreed to put a long-range jet helicopter in the air anytime the Canadian unit requested it. The U.S. Coast Guard was also on call.
This combination of grit and technology built an extraordinary record. In its first five years, the unit conducted over 100 successful rescues without a single loss of life. They found fishermen adrift, hunters with broken hips, and even a man who had deliberately gotten "lost" to dodge a subpoena. One hunter, they noted, had been lost and found three times.
The unit's only failure in that time, the 1963 loss of moose hunter Curtis Oliver, was a painful reminder of the stakes. But it never broke their resolve.
Their toughest jobs were often recoveries, not rescues. Divers would descend into 110 feet of black, freezing water to bring a victim home, a hard and lonely job. But they did it.
It all came back to the simple, urgent lessons learned in the bush. As Mac Nicholson warned, "Any time you're heading into the bush, be sure somebody knows your plans... Searching for a lost man is a lot easier, and he is far more likely to be found, if the search party knows where to look."
The Sault Search and Rescue Unit was forged in tragedy, built by dedication, and proved in the unforgiving wild. They turned the "usual search" into a disciplined, military-grade operation, ensuring that when the call came, the wilderness would not so easily win.