Wop May, the Mad Trapper of Rat River, and the Manhunt That Changed Bush Flying Forever

In January 1932, a Bellanca monoplane lifted off into temperatures of forty below zero over the Northwest Territories of Canada. The pilot was Wilfrid Reid “Wop” May, a First World War ace turned bush pilot. What he did on that mission marked the first time in North American history that an aircraft had been used to hunt a man in the wilderness.

Who Was Wop May?

Wilfrid Reid May - universally known as “Wop” - was one of the most consequential aviators Canada ever produced. He flew with the Royal Flying Corps during the First World War, and on April 21, 1918, he was at the center of one of aviation’s most debated moments.

May was on his very first combat mission over the Western Front when he became separated from his flight - a dangerous mistake for any pilot, let alone a new one. Manfred von Richthofen, the Red Baron, with 80 aerial kills to his name, spotted the lone aircraft and moved in. Captain Roy Brown dove to defend his wingman. Australian ground troops were also firing from below. Richthofen was hit. His Fokker triplane came down behind Allied lines. Whether the fatal round came from Brown or the Australians has been disputed for more than a century.

May survived. That experience shaped everything that came after.

From the Western Front to the Canadian North

After the war, May returned to Alberta unable to stay on the ground. Through the 1920s, he flew mail, trappers, and prospectors into remote wilderness that was still genuinely unmapped in places. If you put down unintentionally in that country, the operating rule was simple: you might not come back out.

In 1929, May demonstrated what bush flying could mean for human survival. A diphtheria outbreak struck the Peace River country of Alberta in brutal winter. Roads were impassable, children were dying, and no one else could get the serum through. May flew it in weather that should have turned him back, navigating by rivers and instinct, and delivered the medicine in time.

That was the pilot the Royal Canadian Mounted Police would call three years later.

Albert Johnson: The Man No One Knew

In the summer of 1931, a man calling himself Albert Johnson arrived in the Mackenzie Delta region of the Northwest Territories. He bought a trapping license, built a cabin on the Rat River, and made it plain he wanted nothing to do with anyone.

Even by the standards of that country - which attracted men who did not want to be found - Johnson was unusual. He refused contact with neighbors absolutely.

Local Dene trappers began reporting interference with their trap lines. In December 1931, the Mounties sent Constable Alfred King to investigate. He knocked on Johnson’s door. Johnson didn’t answer. Not a word.

The Chase Begins

King returned in January 1932 with a warrant and three more officers. When they knocked, Johnson opened the door with a rifle. He shot Constable King, who survived. The officers fell back; King had to be evacuated 150 miles by dog sled to Aklavik - a journey that took several days.

The Mounties came back with more men and dynamite. They blew a hole in the cabin roof. Johnson kept shooting from the rubble. When they finally reduced the structure to splinters and heard silence, they went in and found him gone. He had slipped into forty-below darkness with only what he could carry on his back.

What followed was a 48-day manhunt that became one of the most extraordinary wilderness pursuits in recorded history. Johnson moved at night. He walked backwards in his own tracks to confuse the dogs. He laid false trails. He covered distances that experienced woodsmen said flatly were not possible.

Staff Sergeant Edgar Millen, a decorated officer and one of the finest wilderness men in the force, caught up to Johnson on the Eagle River.

Johnson killed him.

Wop May Takes to the Air

The death of Staff Sergeant Millen escalated everything. The RCMP called Wop May, who was then running a small air service out of Edmonton in the depths of the Depression.

He flew north in a Bellanca Pacemaker monoplane - not large or powerful by any modern measure, but in January 1932 it was the most sophisticated technology anyone had ever brought to that part of the north.

The operational challenges were severe. At forty below, oil had to be drained after every landing and kept warm overnight or it would congeal solid. Starting a cold-soaked engine sometimes required a fire built under the cowling. “Airstrips” were cleared patches of river ice - misjudge the snow depth or clip a pressure ridge and the aircraft didn’t go home. There was no meaningful weather service. You read the sky and launched on judgment.

What Aircraft Changed About the Manhunt

May gave the ground parties two things they didn’t have: speed and eyes. Dog teams could cover 15 to 20 miles on a good day. May covered that in minutes.

He could search terrain that would take dog teams days to reach, spot fresh tracks in new snow from altitude, and relay position information back to the ground. When search parties needed resupply - always critical in a chase that long - he could fly in food, fuel, and ammunition rather than turning men back and losing precious days.

May flew multiple sorties over the Richardson Mountains, which rise to over 5,000 feet with sharp ridges and unpredictable downdrafts. In winter, they are among the most hostile environments in North America. Johnson, on foot, crossed them - a feat the Mounties on the ground said they did not believe was physically possible under those conditions.

When May spotted fresh tracks crossing the mountains toward the Yukon, the ground parties knew which direction to push. The net began to close.

February 17, 1932: Eagle River

On February 17, 1932, a ground party guided by veteran trapper Karl Gardlund located Johnson on the Eagle River, moving across open ground with no meaningful cover.

Wop May was overhead. From altitude he could see the entire scene: the frozen river, the treeline, the lone figure crossing the white. He watched the confrontation unfold beneath his wings, able only to bear witness.

Johnson fought to the end. He was hit nine times and kept shooting until he fell.

He was never identified. He carried no papers. He never spoke during the entire 48-day chase, never surrendered, never gave any indication of who he was or where he had come from. His identity remains officially unconfirmed to this day.

Why This Matters to Aviation History

The story ran on front pages across Canada and the United States almost immediately. Radio stations carried updates during the manhunt as it unfolded - one of the first times a national audience followed a pursuit in near-real time. And that audience grasped something new: an aircraft could reach places, and accomplish things, that no ground effort could match.

For bush flying, the demonstration was decisive. The Bellanca had done in hours what dog teams measured in days. It had extended the reach of organized human effort into country where the standing rule had always been simple and unforgiving: you could only go as fast as the dogs could run.

The aircraft changed that calculation permanently.

What Became of Wop May

May flew south after the manhunt and kept working. He continued flying the Canadian north for years, doing the supply and mercy work that connected remote communities to the rest of the world.

He died in 1952 from a stroke while hiking in Utah. He was 57 years old.

A sentiment attributed to May captures something essential about the work: flying in the north taught him that every flight was a negotiation, not a conquest. You don’t beat the weather. You don’t beat the terrain. You find your path through on the best terms you can arrange.

That is still what bush flying is.

Key Takeaways

Wop May was a First World War ace who witnessed the death of the Red Baron on April 21, 1918, then became one of Canada’s most important bush pilots.
The January–February 1932 pursuit of Albert Johnson in the Northwest Territories was the first aerial manhunt in North American history.
May flew a Bellanca Pacemaker at forty below zero, operating off river ice with no weather service, no navigation aids, and no margin for mechanical failure.
Aerial speed and observation compressed a search that would have taken ground teams weeks - a capability demonstration that permanently changed how remote operations were conceived.
Albert Johnson’s true identity was never established and remains one of the enduring mysteries in Canadian history.