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Thursday, October 25, 2007

A Friendship Carved in Granite


They were two of a kind, right down to the name, both men were named John, John Fletcher and John Turnbull.Funny, though you always seemed to know which one someone was talking about. They grew up together in the small Nova Scotia town of Mount Uniacke. They were of an age, perhaps separated by two years. They both shared a love of the outdoors that they indulged for nearly three quarters of a century. Together they tromped the backwoods of Hants county, chasing rabbits, grouse, or fishing. It didn't matter what the season, it was an excuse to leave the town behind and spend a few precious hours or days, stolen away from work and cares. Much of that time was spent in a place called Granite lake. They had a small cabin there for over thirty years. It was here they most loved to escape.

I heard tales about "the camp" as they always called it, for years before I ever got the chance to go there. When we were young my Father would take my younger brother Larry and I fishing around the Mount, in lakes that were largely fished out. We would take a lunch and go in the hot months, July and August when Dad and Johnny had given up going back to "the camp". We would sit in the sun and drown worms, pleasant enough, but even at that young age I knew this wasn't real fishing. I dreamt of what the camp would look like. I pictured the lake in my mind and all the details from the stories my Father would tell me. I knew there was a ways to go before I would be ready and I bided my time.



I don't remember exactly how old I was the first time my Dad asked me if I wanted to go with them back to Granite. I do know that I didn't waste a second in saying yes. This was an important milestone in my life, it was a rite of passage every bit as important as my first date, my first job, my first car. There were rituals here as important as, an as codified as those of religion, like some kind of Bar Mitzvah. What was to follow would become a kind of routine that we would take every time we would go back to "the camp". About mid week a call would be placed between Dad and John, not about whether they were going, that was a given. Every weekend from ice out in April until the heat and flies got too bad in mid-June then again from late August until October brought the close of fishing season they would make the long trek back to Granite. There was no question of whether they were going, no weather, no matter how foul could stop them. No amount of nagging from their wives about lawns that needed mowing, basements that needed sweeping or houses that needed painting could stop them. This was an urge as primal as that of Salmon heading upstream to spawn. This was instinctive, today we would say "it's a guy thing!".

The call would establish who was going, Dad and Johnny had other friends who sometimes joined them men like big Bill Gill or George Williams who shared their adventures. This week it was just the three of us, Dad Johnny and ME! On the phone the exchange was quick, it was long distance in those days. There were important details to resolve, whose turn was it to bring the bait? Whose turn to bring the meat? Had Dad heard about the trout that so and so had caught just last weekend? How big? Lucky bugger. The call ended and it was decided we would be bringing the bait and some meat. Friday night was shopping night in those days as that was Dad's pay day. We went to the Sobey's store up the street and Dad bought a roast chicken from the rotisserie which had a grease stained sign which read "There's nobody here but us chickens so serve yourself". We also picked up small cans of milk for our tea and hot dogs and bacon which we would freeze. We froze the bread too so it wouldn't get crushed in our packs. After we took the groceries home we drove "down east", along the eastern shore towards Chezetcook. We would watch the side of the road for hand made wooden signs that read "bait" or "minnows". We would pull over usually to a small shack by a creek that ran in from the sea. There was usually a tank of some sort, an old freezer or an oil barrel cut in half. The proprietor would scoop a hundred or so minnows up in a dip net and dump them on a burlap strainer and you would paw through them and pick out the size you were looking for. They sold, in those days for a buck for three dozen. They would take an old tobacco can or one quart ice cream pail and pack it with dry leaves and pack the minnows in that. If we couldn't dig worms we often bought those too. We were now ready to start packing.


Dad and Johnny carried huge packs that they made themselves out of canvas and old seat belts for straps. They had only one compartment which was about the size of a 27" TV, the old kind, with a tube! Over the years I never ceased to be amazed how Johnny could dig in that monstrous pack, the third day into a long weekend and still come up with some hoe made goodies that his wife Lottie had packed in there for us. She was a wonderful cook and it sure tasted good when there was no stores or diner near. Dad had a head start as his pack would never be fully unpacked. He would take out only what he needed to when he returned and many things just stayed there. I needed changes of clothes, rain gear, bug dope, tooth paste and brush, a comb, matches, a knife, fishing gear, some store bought goodies bought with my allowance or paper route money. We left the food for morning, the meat and bread were in the freezer and the eggs and butter in the fridge. We had tins of stew and bully beef in our packs along with sugar and tea bags, etc. As the season wore on they would stockpile these items in the camp and would need to carry less stuff back with them.

Then it was off to bed, an early start meant an early night. It was useless, though. I couldn't sleep, it was like Christmas and my birthday rolled into one. It seemed like I would never get to sleep and then no sooner, it seemed, had I gotten to sleep than I felt Dad's strong hand on my shoulder gently shaking we awake. He held his finger to his lips as a sign not to disturb my brother. We crept down the stairs where my Mother was already moving around the kitchen. It was still pitch black outside. We ate quickly and Mom took the rest of the food out and placed it on the counter. She patted my head and told me to mind my Father and be careful in the boat. We moved like cat burglars and placed the food on top of our now bulging packs and did up the straps. We pulled on our boots and packed the gear to the car. I wiped the dew from the windshield as Dad filled the trunk. Mom watched from the driveway and waved until we were out of sight. We headed for the highway and took the turn off to Bedford. It always seemed like such a long drive in those days, before the new highway opened up. We drove along, Dad must have sensed my anticipation as he began to tell me once again that it was a long walk back to the camp. I couldn't get my head around that, of course because I was young and had never been there before. For me it was an adventure and I was keen to go. It seemed like forever and the first streaks of dawn were paling the inky sky when we pulled into Johnny's driveway. In those days Johnny lived near where the old train station had been, just inside Mount Uniacke. He was waiting in the driveway with this pack at his feet, a cigarette dangling from his lips. Johnny smoked rollies, unfiltered cigarettes made with Players navy cut tobacco. He would roll a whole tin full for a weekend, and smoke them all. Dad too lit one of the butt of another and I always marvelled at how they had never burned down the entire forest.

Johnny greeted us warmly, he was dressed as was Dad in a Mackinaw jacket, red check. Work pants, green lace up boots with the red and white tops of wool work socks peeking out over the top of the boots. A green work shirt with a plastic pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. John had eyes as blue as a China cup and a face that was creased and worn like old leather from a lot of sun and hard work. It was a friendly, honest face. They both wore ball caps, Johnny's perpetually tilted at a rakish angle. Dad always wore his square on. We slid our packs onto our shoulders and Johnny led the way across the highway and onto the rail tracks. We followed these for the better part of a mile. This was always one of the worst parts for me. I hated walking the rails. The roadbed was narrow and sandy and there was not enough room in most places to walk beside the ties. The ties themselves were too close to step one at a time and too far apart to take two at a time. So i stumbled along as best I could and waited for that part to end, which it seemed would never happen. Birds sang in the early light and you avoided the long grass where you could as it was soaked and soon we were wet to the knees. Eventually we reached a spot where the bank had been worn away by footsteps and a good deal of sand and gravel had piled up in a trail heading into the woods. I welcomed leaving the rails as the walking was instantly better. Johnny ahead of us disappeared into the darkness of the bush and soon we too passed through a layer of trees like an evergreen curtain. The trail was worn right into the forest floor. It was a mud path with tree roots sticking out making the walking often treacherous. In many places the path was full of water and its' bottom was a slippery mix of mud and clay. You had to grab the alders at the sides of the trail to steady your course as you were laden with a big pack and carrying a fishing rod in one hand. A short walk lead us to the shores of a small lake. "Five Island." Dad said as we approached. The water was a mirror, still as a mill pond. Johnny disappeared into the bush and came back with a set of oars joined by a length of cord. Dad lead the way to a boat chained to a tree. Johny unlocked the padlock, righted the boat and slid the oars into the oar locks. We took off our packs and put the gear into the twelve foot row boat. I got in the bow, Johnny sat down to row and Dad launched us and took a seat in the stern.


The only ripples on the lake were the rings left by Johnny's rhythmic strokes. I soon came to understand that there was another rule here too, whoever rowed this time, fished next time. None of these rules were ever spoken. Dad and Johnny were men of few words, I was beginning to notice. Yet they had a set of rules that they had worked out on a thousand other trips like this. Dad looked at me, I must have had a puzzled look on my face. "No fish in here." He said. "We will wait until we hit the fishing rock.'" We rowed the length of Five Island in peaceful tranquility only the sound of the oars in the locks and the slight drip as the oars swept forward. Dad and Johnny were powerful men and the trip took no time at all. Soon we beached the boat and chained it to yet another tree. Johnny hung the oars and we struck off along another well worn path. I wondered how many times there feet had passed this way to wear so well defined a highway through the forest floor.

The forest smells and sounds filled my senses. The early morning air was scented with pine and the smell of damp decaying vegetation. There was the sound of crickets and peepers making their soothing almost purring serenade. Every once in a while a squirrel would blast us with his angry chatter at having his property violated. The terrain was hilly and some hills were very steep. At the bottom of one we hit a large still water. It too was like glass, living up to its' name. Dad stuck out a arm in front of me to bar my path. He raised his finger to his lips as he had done in my bedroom back home. I stared around in anticipation... nothing. No sound, nothing moved. In the still water there was a beaver lodge, a grey lump in the mist and early morning light. Beside it was a smaller black lump, about the size of a sofa. I looked back at Dad, unsure why we were stopping, when the smaller lump moved, and a bull moose raised its' head. It stood there chewing vegetation, water streaming from its' horns and head. Without seeing us it returned to grazing. The next time it raised its' head it must have gotten our scent as it turned and stepping with an odd grace, walked up the bank and quickly disappeared into the bush.

We continued to walk, more hills, crawling over fallen trees, slipping in the mud, it was tiring going. Finally we reached a clear stream where we stopped to get a drink of the cold water. Dad and Johnny smoked. I of course asked the proverbial "Are we there yet?" Dad smiled, "A ways yet, we're about halfway there." Half way? Holy cow, was he kidding? Where is this place? Taking off my pack was too much work so I just leaned against a tree. Soon we were moving again. More hills more fallen trees more mud. Eventually we reached a hill. There was a huge tree split like a pitchfork looking like a candelabra. "The lake's just ahead." Dad said. Thank god, I thought. We walked down the hill, which is just as hard as climbing. At the bottom we hit a swampy area. Again Johnny disappeared into the bush and returned with yet another set of oars we walked along a muddy trail until we came to a huge tree. Chained to it was a boat, identical to the first. Johnny unlocked the chain and we followed the same routine, with Dad at the oars this time. We slid into a narrow channel with weeds on both sides, a floating layer of leaves lay just below the surface. "No fishing here'" Dad said, "too many weeds." We rowed along the channel toward an opening where there was clear water. The lake was shaped sort of like a cowboy boot. We were in the toe. As we hit open water Johnny readied his rod, I followed suit. We fished for a bit off a large rock. This was the fishing rock, I would learn that most of the rocks, islands and other points of interest had names, like neighborhoods. You could pinpoint an island or rock, or turn in the trail, they all had names;the Fishing Rock, Pine Point, or Porter's Rock. With a minimum of words you could instantly identify a specific area. That was a theme with them, they didn't say a lot when they were together. It was like they had a code. Better yet, it was like all the really good stories were like the verses of a well known song that they had sung to each other and to their friends so many times that all they had to do was start a story and it was like humming the first few bars of a well loved song. "Remember back in '69 when Bill came walking into the camp, just in time for breakfast?" Dad would ask. "Yep." Johnny would answer "Crazy Bugger!" I of course had no clue what they were talking about so I would follow up, I loved stories of the camp, there were a million of them and I wanted to hear every one. "Tell me!" I would protest and what followed was a story of how Dad was supposed to pick up Bill Gill one Friday night in the Fall as the boys were going back to camp to cut firewood and hunt rabbits. Dad had waited but Bill did not show up. With snow threatening Dad headed to the Mount and he a Johnny walked back to the camp. That night it snowed over a foot and when Dad and Johnny were cooking breakfast next morning who walked in but a half frozen Bill Gill. Bill had missed Dad and had gotten a ride to the Mount, he started in the bush at dark and got caught in the snow storm. Unable to make any progress he cut some boughs and bedded down in an area we called The Tunnel. It was an area of dense evergreens where the tree cover was so tight that you wouldn't get wet even in the worst downpour. Bill slept in a snowbank and walked in to camp at first light. They were tough men.

I think Dad and Johnny liked having me along. It gave them an excuse to finish the stories. I loved hearing them, dreaming of the day when I would be in one. We fished off the rock a few minutes when Johnny got a fish. "You broke the ice!" Dad said excitedly. It was not huge but I was always fascinated by how beautiful a brook trout was, its' sides bejewelled with the orange dots with bright blue halos. Johnny lined the creel with damp moss and added the trout to it. We returned to the boat and made our way along the shore of the lake. In an area at the heel of the cowboy boot was a stream that splashed into the lake. We fished here for a few minutes and then dragged the boat up on a flat rock and tied it to a tree which had well worn marks on it from having this done many, many times before. We followed the stream and walked into the bush a hundred yards or so. Around a bend in the trail a small cabin appeared. Nothing fancy, maybe 14 feet square with a sloped, shed roof and a stove pipe sticking out. This was it! The fabled Camp! Not much to look at. There were piles of firewood outside and the door faced away from the lake. There was no lock, just a piece of board on a nail that turned to one side to hold the door too. There was also a hasp with a carved peg instead of a lock that held the door when no one was using it. Johnny opened the door and we stepped inside. The camp was a guy place, to be sure. Nothing fancy but neat as a pin. The bedding was rolled up in bags and we took it out to air. Dad gave me a bucket and showed me where we took water from the stream which babbled along over numerous rocks a few yards from the cabin. I stooped and filled the large bucket with ice-cold crystal clear water. I always marveled at how the water skimmers on the surface darted out of the way and avoided getting scooped up in the bucket. As we approached the cabin we could already smell the wonderful smell of the wood smoke as Johnny kindled a fire in the wood stove, from firewood stacked on the back wall of the cabin. We always refilled this supply of dry wood before we left so that we could always get a fire going in any weather.

The cabin was simple, just a bunk bed that could sleep four men and a table built into the front corner. There was a sink built into one corner of the table consisting of an enamel basin with a hose in the bottom which went out through a hole in the log wall. Over the sink was a window with a sliding glass that had a screen on it , it was open to air the place out. The wood stove occupied the other corner of that wall, it was a 45 gallon drum, on its' side with a stove pipe welded on the back and a door welded on the front. The cook surface was a sheet of steel plate. Johnny was feeding the fire as we entered. The bucket of water went on a shelf in the other back corner of the cabin at the foot of the bed. There was a galvanized metal box on the wall with a wooden box around it. There was a gap of an inch or two between them. This gap was filled with moss and kept wet, it made a nice little fridge. We took the frozen meat out and put it in the cooler. We also carried Vinegar jugs full of water that had also been frozen. These acted as ice packs and we could drink the water as they thawed. Johnny put the trout in a bread bag and put it in the cooler. We unpacked the food and the items we did not need were left in the camp. Johnny brewed tea and we flaked our wet things on racks over the stove so they would dry. Inevitably we always ended up soaked to the waist when going through the bushes around the lake soaked with morning dew. The tea and a few of Mom's home made cookies went down well and soon we were ready to head up the lake. Johnny took the oars and Dad and I played lines out behind the boat. The rowing motion of the boat imparted a curious motion to the bait. As the back sweep of the oars allowed the bait to stop ever so briefly and this always seemed to get the fish to bite. Soon my rod tip bent and I jumped to my feet 'I got a bite!" I yelled in my youthful exuberance. "Sit down!" Dad said sharply as he grabbed the gunwales to stop the boat from rocking. " I quickly sat down, ashamed at having made so stupid a mistake. My face must have been a mask of shame as Johnny said "Keep your rod tip up! Don't lose him!". I followed directions and soon a nice sized brookie was thrashing in the bottom of the boat. My first Granite lake brookie. Dad held him up before putting him in the creel. Congratulations helped aleviate my embarassment. I had learned a lesson, never again would I stand up in the boat. We fished our way up the lake. We got a couple more fish then we landed on a small island. This was Porter's Rock. We slid the boat up on yet anoth big flat rock. Granite lake lives up to its' name. It is perhaps a mile long and its' shore is a connected series of Granite boulders. Its' bottom is a series of granite slabs which were left behind by the glaciers and look like scores of giant dominos, strewn as if by some petulant child. It is rugged and beautiful, in those days you could not hear a human sound. You could imagine there was not another human being on the entire planet. In later years the highway would cut hours off the walk and open the lake up to weekend warrios and the sound of tires humming on the 101. Back then we went to sleep at night with the sound of the babbling brook and the occasional owl. I was beginning to see why Dad and Johnny loved this place, why they could spend so many thousands of hours here, escaping menial jons, daily cares and the cluuter of city life. Trading it all for the tranquill waters, the sound of loons singing and the promise of a big trout. I too was falling in love. This place was getting into my blood. God,I love it so...

We fished the rock and Dad told me yet another story. Of course it started as a line to Johnny. "Hey John, remember the time Bill and George went back to Futlz's and left us here?" "Yep." Was the standard reply. I was begining to see a trend. "Alright." I said, rising to the bait like a Granite brookie. "What happened?" What followed was a tale of how Dad and Johnny were left behind as the fishing in Granite was too slow for Bill and George. Not long after the other two had left the fish started biting, they bit so furiously that Dad and Johnny soon ran out of bait. They had to cut fins off of the trout they caught and use them for bait. When Bill and George returned a few hours later, troutless of course, the two triumphant fishermen had more than twenty trout each spread out across the rock. There was, of course, not enough room in the creel. Like all Granite stories it was taken as gospel. There was a small plaque on the wall of the camp, made of heavy cardboard, yellowed with age and cigarette smoke, that read "There are only two honest fishermen in the world, me and you. Sometimes I am not so sure about you." The two figures in the plaque wore caps and macinaw jackets. Dad and Johnny could have been the models. After an hour or so we made our way across the channel to a large flat rock whose name is lost to my poor memory. On it was a small depression in the enomous granite boulder. The depression was ringed with berry bushes, blueberries and partridge berries. It was far too early for either. These bushes and the rim of the depression formed a small hedge and wall that kept the wind off on cold dayts and offered shelter from sun or rain. In the center was a well used fire ring. Here we made lunch. We built a fire and took out the billy can. For those who don't know a billy can is a juice can (1 1/2 quart) which you remove the lid, punch two holes at the top edge, opposite one another for a coat hanger bail (handle). This is hung over the fire by a forked stick wedged in the rock or ballanced between some stones. It gets back and sticky friom resin so you wrap it in newspaper. The black helps spread the heat more evenly. Soon lakewater is boiling in the can. Dad tosses in a few tea bags (usually more than was needed) and inevitably a bit of ash from the fire and a few spruce needles end up in the can, it all just adds to the taste. We made strong tea. "Boiling your friends away." Mom would call it. It didn't matter Dad would drown it in canned milk and add three heaping spoons of sugar. It was sweet, it was hot and it would put hair on you chest. I still love tea this way. We cut the meat off the store bought chicken and ate it on the bread which had not quite thawed on account of the cool morning so we toasted it on a wire rack that hung from a bush for just that reason. Years of caked on grease and burned on ashes galzed the grill and there was no visible rust in spite of the climate. It was simple and it was delicious we each got a wing or a drumstck to gnaw on too. We washed it down with water and tea so strong it would keep you awake in spite of the early morning. We sat on rocks arranged many years before for just that purpose. The breezes were stopped by our natural ampitheatre and after lunch we sat around and another story couldn't be far off. They talked of how they hauled all the stuff to build the camp, they did it in winter, hauling the boats down the frozen lakes and over the hills like huge toboggans. They used the hood from an old VW beetle to haul tar for the camp roof, plasic too. The stove and the boards. They built this camp to replace the first one they built, which had rotted since they hadn't peeled the logs. I marvelled at how much work this had been. They loved this place so much, it was a labor of love.


The fishing was slow. Johnny looked at Dad and asked "What about trying Fultz's" Dad nodded eagerly. The boat was reloaded and we made our way across the lake to a small swamp behind Porter's Rock. We beached the boat as the bottom was muddy here and we struck out across the marshy ground and dissapeared into the trees. We started climbing a sizeable hill, following trails worn right into the lichen eaten grantite. The trail was easily recogniozable as a pathway seemed paved with pea sized granite gravel worn by the treads of there boots over the lichen softened graniote. We climbed until we reached the crest where a small lake was visible, this was Fultz's, less than half the size of Granite. "There are less trout here, but they are bigger." Dad informed me. Soon we reached a place that must have been a regular spot as another fire circle was there and a big rock afforded a deep spot to cast a line. Johnny made his way to a rock a few yards from shore and started casting. There was enough room for Dad and I to fish side by side on the big rock so soon we were casting and waiting. We didn't have long to wait as we soon had a couple of dandies each. The afternoon sun shone and our clothes were now dry and so were the bushes. As I fished a big snake crossed over our packs and swam out into the lake, his head held above the water like a periscope. Beavers could be heard slapping the water with their tails and the afternnon was spent in this pleasnat way with hardly a word spoken. It was as if we wre in church or a monastery and it would be sacreligious to talk. Soon our bellies told us it was getting close to supper time. We decided to head back to the camp so we stowed the gear and headed back to Granite. We fished our way down the lake . Went back to the camp and built a fire for supper. Johnny puulled a huge cast iron skillet out which had no handle. Like most camp items it was no doubt a kitchen cast off. I recognized many of the items as having come from our house, Old melmac mugs, cutlery with the fake bone handles. Johnny took some of the trout we'd cleaned and rolled them in cornmeal and flour, salted them and lay them in the frying pan with some cooking oil. Soon the camp was full of the wonderful smell of frying trout and boiling potatoes. Some fiddleheads we picked by the creek simmered in another pot. We ate , Dad and Johnny sitting on two ancient woodedn kitchen chairs held together with stove pipe wire while I sat on the edge of the bunk. The food was delicious, hard walking and fresh air are the best seasoning you can get for a trout meal.

After dinner we washed dishes with water heated in a huge teapot on the stove. There was a few minutes to fish, in the failing light, at the mouth of the stream. As night fell we lit the kerosene storm lanterns. I climed into my bunk and listened to my small portable radio with an earphone, it seemed like I was listening to the world from outer space. Dad and Johnny sat at the table, it was early maybe 9:30 yet it seemed so late. Out here the sun was the clock. There was no clock of any sort in the camp, we watched the sun and ate when we were hungry, there was little need for a watch. Outside as night fell the sounds of the forest changed and intensified. The brook seemed even closer and the crickets and songbirds gave way to peepers and owls. We were in the middle of nowhere, yet we had full bellies, solid walls to keep us warm and a roof to keep us dry, we were in a safe enclave.The cabin was as much civilization as was needed and no more.
Made from local logs and built on the rocks it blended into its' surroundings. It was not on the earth it was of the earth. Safe from bugs and creatures, but safe too from the nasty world. Safe, warm, fed and tired before I knew it I was asleep.

I awoke at dawn, even before Johnny and Dad. I flew out of my bunk and ran to the door, it sounded like rain! I eased the door open and was releived when the sound turned out to be the brook. It alwats threw me off when I awoke. Dad and Johnny were stirring too and soon they had rekindled the fire from the ashes and busied themselves with breakfast. Dad cut canned potatoes for pan fries, johnny fried bacon and put the teapot on the stove. I went for fresh water. I had just returned when a rabbit hopped up to the open cabin door. "Look who's back" Dad said. Johnny rooted in a bag and took out a carrot. He placed the carrot on the floor a few inches inside the door. The rabbit sniffed a bit, hopped in, took the caarot then hopped out. He didn't go far but sat a few feet away eating. "He's been hanging around the past two years." Johnny said. "I guess it's the same one. " The rabbit seemed to have very little fear of us. He ate the carrot and some other goodies we gave him then left. "Feel like a walk?" Dad asked. "Sure!" I replied. I felt great. We ate breakfast then packed what we would need for the day. We struck out away from the lake following the stream that flowed by the camp. Again the bushes were wet and soon we were soaked again. We walked about forty minutes which is aboput two miles. Three miles an hour in the woods, was about average. We came upon a big lake and again Johnny appeared with a pair of oars. A third boat identical to the others was righted and we were soon heading out on the Lake. The lake was bigger than the last two. We trolled a while, picking up a few trout then we landed on a large island. Again well worn paths and a well used fire ring were evidence of many prior visits.

We got a fire going and had a cup of tea. Tea was accompanied by a story of how Dad once caught a 16 inch trout through the ice with a six inch trout in its' mouth. After tea and stories we started fishing. The island was seperated from the mainland by a narrow channel. I could cast almost the whole way across it with a very good cast. I was trying to catch a big one so I was putting my all into evry cast. On one such monster cast I watched in horror as the tip section of my rod shot down my line and landed with a splash a very long ways indeed from shore. If I lost my rod tip my weekend was done. I quickly started my retrieve when to my dismay I felt a bite. Oh NO! If he broke the line there goes my rod. Right away I knew it was a big one. My drag on my reel began to sing. I raised my shortened rod in an effort to stop the fish from taking all my line. I watched as the line spooled off my reel, I knew I was dangerously close to the end. Then what? Would the fish simply break my line and dissappear with my rod tip? I fought back, taking and inch or two of line back in. I waited for a lull and then tightened the drag. I knew if I tightenend too much he would break my line, but I also knew that if he took all my line he was gone too. It was easy to see where the fish was as my rod tip stuck out of the water like the conning tower of a submarine. Dad and Johnny set down their rods to offer advice. They coached me as I tried to gain the upper hand. It was hard to control the fish with my now shortened weapon. "Don't give him any slack!" Johnny offered. "Hold you arms high!" Dad reccomended. My arms were starting to ache as I held them high over my head trying to compensate for the missing leverage. It seemed like an eternity but the whole thing probably took less than ten minutes. I worked the reel with my hands over my head and gradually, inch by inch I worked the fish toward shore. Dad got down on one knee and when I had the trout close enough he took the fish from the water as it spahed us all. It fell in the bushes and thrashed free of the line. I tackled it like a halfback and held on for dear life. Dad hooked a finger through the gills and held aloft the most beautiful trout I had ever seen. "Look atr that!" He cried. "Johnny she must be all of three pounds!" "A beauty!" Johnny agreed. I felt ten feet tall. I quickly reassembled my rod. Dad laid the trout in the bottom of the creel and it dwarfed its' cousins. I was enjoying the moment. I wish that we had taken a camera with us, although I can see that fish as clearly now as I did then. Its' sides covered in stcks and small leaves from the bushes. "It looked like a submarine." Johnny said. It became a story that would be repeated in later years. Something I could mention that would make Johnny say "Yep." I had my own Granite story.

The rest of the afternoon was anticlimax. A few more fish a lot more bites. The sun soon told us we had to head back to the camp. A short boat ride and a brisk walk sharpened the appetite for supper. We tidied the camp and beagn the trek trhat would take us home. We talked less, all of us a little sad that we were heading back to the world. Back to jobs and school (for me) back to responsibilty, clocks, noise, engines, and cares. The trek out seemd a little shorter as I now had landmarks to guage the distance by. All too soon we reached Five Island and the last boat. As we slipped out of the woods the evergreen curtain closed behind us. With it closed we had reached the rails, the first sign of other human beings. Again the walking was tough, tougher I suppose as my feet were heavy, they did not want to leave that place. It was partly mine now. It was part of me now. The closing of a curtain works both ways I thought, It will keep everything special about that place safe until I come back once again and open that curtain. We reached the highway and then Johnny's yard. Lottie asked Dad and I to come in for a quick tea before we hit the road.She looked at me and I must have been beaming. "How was your first trip?" She asked "Fantastic!" I said and I meant it. Our stay was brief, the sun had set and we had to get home. There would be many more trips back to the lake. Time would march on. The new highway came through and it shortened the trip back by more than an hour. It was a mixed blessing as now all the weekend warriors could go back to the lake. Logging companies logged within a few yards of the lake. Vandals stole everything out of the camp one winter and we had to hide stuff in a wood pile. One group used up all the fuirewood then burned the bedding. One spring we came back and the boat was gone. When we reached the camp, someone had removed the prop that held the weight of the snow in the winter and the roof had cllapsed. Gone were the days when hard work and a long walk protected this sacred area from barbarians. Dad and Johnny continued to come back to the lake, if only for day trips. They remembered a time when they had come back in the spring to find a note and a twenty dollar bill on the table. The note explained that a couple of hunters had become lost, had found the cabin and had eaten some of the food and used some of the firewood. The twenty bucks was for the use of the cabin. In those days twenty bucks bought a lot of Grub. Dad and Johnny kept the note, they were proud that there cabin had helped someone in need and that the person had appreciated it. Gone were those days. Gone now are both Johnny and Dad. I went back to the cabin once and I looked for the little plaque that talked about the honest fishermen. It was gone, too ephemeral to have survived the elements. I found a small back metal fish that had hooks for haning keys on it. It read "Have Rod Will Fish" It is my souvenir of the old camp. The loggers are done and the forest is slowly coming back. The lake is still as beautiful but not as quiet. You can hear the hum of semis on the 101. The loons still calll and the trout still jump. Somehwere up in heaven Dad and Johnny are pulling on green lace-up boots, and making the long hike back to the lake. Only in heaven the fish bite and the flies don't...

Saturday, October 20, 2007

The Box

The young guy in the seat next to was an airline employee deadheading to his home city. He asked the question everyone asks if they are in a talkative mood on a plane, "What brings you to Calgary?". "I am headed to Halifax for my Father's funeral." I replied. "Sorry." He said and I knew he meant it. "It's all right. " I responded not wanting him to feel ill at ease. "He was 87, he had a good life." It was true. He had a good life. Yet, if he was 157 I would still miss him. He was my Dad after all. We were close, like brothers. We did everything together.

When in my teens while my friends discovered the generation gap and kept there distance from their "Old Man" I was tromping the backwoods of Hants county with my Dad. Watching sunrises over Granite lake and chasing grouse and rabbits around Scotch Village and Lakelands. I was having too much fun to realize that we were supposed to be poles apart. We drank tea from a billy can over an open fire. For the uninitiated a billy can is made from a one quart juice can, you punch two holes in it with a nail and make a bail (handle) out of a coat hanger. The can blackens with use and the heat distributes more evenly. You wrap it in newspaper to keep your pack clean. It was cheap and it kept us from ruining one of Mom's good pots. Dad was a great woodsman, he could get a fire going in any weather. He knew about game and how the animals would behave. He showed me how a mother grouse will drag a wing and fake injury to lead you away from her chicks. I learned lots and I loved every minute of it. Dad and I were kindred spirits. I loved spending time with him. It was so hard to believe he was gone.

It was March 17th when I received the call I had been dreading. Dad had pneumonia and wasn't expected to live. It could be hours it could be days. I live in Tulita a remote community on the MacKenzie river in the NWT, It was Saturday, it wouldn't be easy to get out of here on a weekend, I started making arrangements immediately but could not get a flight until Monday. Dad didn't make it to Monday. Late Saturday he succumbed to the pneumonia. Part of me was grateful that he did not suffer. Another part of me was wrought with guilt for not having been there. I could have changed nothing but I could have shared the load for my Mother and siblings. My brother had held his cell phone out so I could say my last goodbyes as Dad passed. I felt helpless and wanted to be moving, just to feel like I was doing something. It would be Tuesday evening before I made it home. Dad had suffered from Geriatric Dementia, He had been in the Veterans Memorial building in Halifax (known as Camp Hill Hospital) for eight years. The staff there were wonderful, after nearly a decade they were like family, especially for my Mother. She had been the very definition of the word caregiver. At first she would go everyday and spend hours with Dad. Toward the end her own health was suffering so the visits had become less frequent, she still made it at least five times a week. There is a special place in heaven for my Mother, she is as close to a Saint as you can get.

There were many things to be done and there was the question of who would give the eulogy. There was no doubt in my mind who would do it. He was my Father and my best friend. I would be honored to do it, yet I was scared that I would choke up and not be able to get the words out. I didn't have much time to write anything down as I scrambled through eight airports and six airplanes to get home. The funeral was Wednesday. I spent Tuesday night at my brothers and used his computer to make notes. I knew some of what I wanted to say. I wanted to give people a snapshot of the whole man. Everyone knew him in their own way. I wanted them to see it all; the loving son, cherished brother, adoring husband and devoted Father. I wanted them to see the hero who had rescued two girls from drowning. The Fire Chief who had fought back the forest fire that nearly leveled Mt Uniake back in '48. The baseball coach, the Tyro leader, the Cub leader. I wanted everyone to leave that church feeling that they had known a very special man. I didn't want people to feel sad. Dad's was a life lived not a life lost. I spoke of Tom Brocaw's book "The Greatest Generation" and how my parents generation had survived the depression, won the war against tyranny and built the country we now know, the most democratic, caring and free society than the world has ever known. My Dad was part of that. I was very proud of him. When the funeral was over people said it was a moving eulogy without dwelling on loss. My Dad's dementia shrank his world but did not diminish his ability to enjoy the simple things, his existence while not perfect was not suffering. I wanted to have him for every second the Lord would give us but I would not make him stay any longer than he had to just for my sake. It was his time.

After the funeral I spent a week with my family and we shared stories and memories of Dad and some of the cherished moments we had spent with him. All too soon it was time to head back to my job and my life in the north. Dad had been cremated and the interment still lay ahead. I thought that somehow it would be easier as I would not have to speak. Of course it wasn't. We did it on Father's day weekend in June. My wife Lina was there this time and that made it easier. Following the internment my Mother asked me to help clean out Dad's closet and drawers. He had been in the VMB for almost a decade so there was not a lot lot of his stuff there. We gave his suits to the Salvation Army and threw away a lot of things they would have no use for. He was a pack rat, like me. I guess the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. I took the hunting knife I had bought him. It was when I first moved out. I wanted to give him something special. I had some extra money in my pockets as I was single and had no expenses. I went into a sporting goods store in Edmonton and asked for the best knife they had. It had a bone handle and a brass hilt. It was a thing of beauty. It lay in Dad's drawer in the original box, with the gift tag still in the box. Never used. "It's too good." He said with a smile when I chided him about using his old one when we went out in the woods once. "I'm scared I'll break the tip opening canned milk!". That was Dad, he would "save it for good.". I held it gingerly, wondering if I would ever use it. "There are some other things in the basement." My Mother's words brought me back to reality. I went down the basement steps, memories of Dad sweeping the floor when I was a kid, sunlight streaming through the basement windows catching the dust in shafts of golden light. On Dad's old workbench was a number of old boxes. I opened one which contained a lot of paper. I took it upstairs to my old bedroom and began to spread the papers on the bed. My wife wrinkled her nose. "It sure is musty." She said. "Mom says that Dad never unpacked it after they moved here."

That was in 1957. Many of the documents were even older. I began to sort them and read them. I became fascinated by what he had saved. I set aside the love letters to and from my Mother (those were too personal) There were other things that covered the entire spectrum from the mundane to the sublime. I began a journey that would leave me with a greater understanding of the man. I would run the entire gamut of emotions from grief and tears to joy and laughter.


The mundane items still had a fascination for me. There was a receipt for an Electrolux Vacuum cleaner that cost $151.50 in 1951, a small fortune at the time. I chided Mom about such extravagance. "They are good vacuums, i still use one!" she retorted. There were insurance receipts and a letter from Roger's Furniture in Yarmouth dated 1945 (They are still in business) thanking Dad for a recent purchase and pointing out that they had a new shipment of carpets if he would care to have a look. There was a 1951 property tax bill for their house in Mt Uniacke for the sum of $20.90." We paid more than $80.00 when we got this place." Mom informed me. There were receipts from the two grocery stores in Mt Uniacke. They were the handwritten type and were evocative of the era.First of all the fact that they were hand written speaks of a day and age when time was less pressing. One, from R.A.Blois' store featured a wicker basket with the word "Groceries" under it. "Phone Ring 5" over that. The other from J.M.Cole's Store featured a uniformed attendant pumping gas into a forties style sedan, while on the left an apronned clerk behind a counter piled with goods says "Yes Ma'am fresh groceries and cheap too!". They speak volumes of the time they were printed. A time when clerks actually served you when you went to the store, of a time when you knew everyone who walked through the door and there was enough time to have a conversation and perhaps exchange a bit of news or gossip.
The most moving artifacts in the box were the letters, to and sometimes from my Dad. There were letters there from almost everyone important in his life, his brother, his sisters and his father. I began reading and became fascinated. some were letters written to Dad while he was in the Army during the war. Dad had contracted Rheumatic fever when he was in Yarmouth. He spent a year in hospital on Cogswell street Halifax. The disease so weakened him that he had to reach down and lift his feet when he came to a curb. He was so weak at first that he could not even sit up. The first letter I read was from my aunt Violet she talked of how they all had the flu there and how Charles had bought a new car and how she hadn't heard from sister Edith although she had written her over a week ago. The next letter was from Edith and said that they all had a cold and that Charles had bought a new car and that she had gotten a letter from Violet but had not had time to write back. There was a letter from Dad's youngest sister Katherine (We all call her Kay) who thanked Dad for the dollar he had sent her. There was another letter from aunt Edith which talked about the baby she had just lost. You could tell so much about them all from the letters, even if you did not know them. There was mention of how beautiful a spring it was in one of Violet's letters she mentions the honeysuckle and the lilacs. She talked of putting in some seeds in a week or so. Violet loved plants and animals, anything really, she could bring even the most abused house plant back to life. My mother once gave her a potted African violet which was little more than a stub. Months later we visited Aunt Violet and Mom remarked " Where did you get that lovely violet? I've never seen so many blooms!". "You gave it to me,, don't you remember?" Violet replied. Was ever anyone so aptly named?

One envelope bore no postage. I examined it curiously then I saw the censor's stamp in the corner and realized it had been mailed from the front. It was from my Uncle Charles when he was serving with the West Nova Scotia regiment in Italy in August of 1944. He was driving and ambulance and had enclosed a copy of the Maple Leaf a paper published for servicemen. I felt a chill go down my spine as I realized that it had been written on the dashboard of his ambulance during a lull between two major battles. In the lines there were no mention of the horrors that I know he had seen. The details were mundane, a request that Dad send him a watch., mention of a mutual friend that Charles has seen, and a wish that Dad get better soon and maybe he should reenlist in the air force this time. Charles loved cars and he mentions that in his letter and how he slept in the ambulance or under the stars rather than in the barracks.

In one envelope was an unmailed card to a friend of Dad's in Mt Uniacke. The writing is what hit me he hardest. It was not like Dad';s at all, it was a child like scrawl and spoke volumes of just how weak he was. It occurred to me that these letters were as important for how they looked as for what was written in them. What I mean is that you can tell so much by the envelope, the way they are written, the handwriting the ink, the very paper itself. Many letters contained no dates, Aunt Edith rarely dated any of her letters but the envelope had the date and very often the time they were mailed and often the place where they had been mailed. The censors mark on Uncle Charles' letter and the way Dad had written the letter from the Army hospital. All these things spoke to me as clearly as that which was in the letters. In this day and age of email and computers I wonder what will survive us.?Will other generations ever read that which we have written? So much of it will have vanished with the stroke of a delete key.What can be told from a keystroke. Would we ever know how ill the person was who wrote it?


In all Dad's papers there was only one letter from his Father. It was written in 1968 when Dad was again in hospital. It spoke of how Grandad wanted dad to get better so he and Dad could go fishing, a bond that they too shared. Grandad lamented the fact that he had not been fishing the previous year although the stream ran only feet from his door. The MacKenzie river runs as close to my door as Moose River did to Granddad's door. I never fished this year either. The apple and the tree again I suppose.

I took it upon myself to sort and file the letters and documents in the box. I copied them and shared them with those of us who remain. I sent my cousin Kevin a copy of the letter written by his Dad in far off Italy in 1944 no so very far from the echos of the guns. I sent my Aunt Kay (Dad's only surviving sibling) a copy of her letter and some of her sisters and brother's letters. I found a diary that Dad had briefly kept in 19454 while he worked at Caines Groceteria in Yarmouth. He often talked of working in the store all day and then spending the evening reading the newspaper or going to the movies with my Mom. Sometimes he spoke of a quiet evening at home and how wonderful it was just spending time with Mom. I thought of our own, often quiet life where we would work all day and spend a quiet evening at home and how wonderful that was. How the simplest things often bring the greatest pleasure. I had begun this project expecting to fill a garbage bag. instead I had found a new appreciation for this man I loved so much. I knew him better and Loved him more. I still miss him. I always will. I am thankful, though for the box, one last gift from my Dad who was just doing what he always did. In that box was something for many of us who loved him. Thanks, Dad.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Out of the Comforter into the Fire...





They said that World War One Ace Billy Bishop had "The Courage of the Early Morning" as he would get out of bed and fly some of his most heroic missions in the moments before dawn. There is something about getting out of a nice warm bed and facing the bracing cold while your body is still half asleep. It's hard enough to function let alone make life and death decisions. Sometimes mere mortals are called upon to rise above their physical challenges and face the thing that confronts us all at those moments, fear.

Fear is not a bad thing, it as natural and as necessary as our other senses, taste, hearing, touch, sight smell. They were all developed to protect us. Smell keeps us from eating rotten flesh or vegetables. Sight warns us of hazards such as predators or physical dangers. Taste can warn us of toxic items, especially if we have not tried something before. Hearing warns us of the approach of danger. Touch can warn us of hot or cold and keep us safe from freezing or burning ourselves. Fear keeps us safe when we have entered a situation that is not safe. It is as necessary as any other sense.

I am a Fire Fighter, Deputy Chief of the local Volunteer Fire Department. I have been a Fire Fighter for about 14 years and I have been Deputy Chief for about seven years in two different communities. I first started as a way to serve my community which was non-political. I was looking for a way to help others that was as noncontroversial as possible. Let's face it everyone likes Fire Fighters. Everyone loves a cop when the bad guy is at the door but are not so happy about him when they see the flashing lights in the rear view mirror. I have enjoyed being a Fire Fighter and have taken on more responsibility over the years. I have seen a fair number of fires in those years, trash fires, house fires, trailer fires, kitchen fires, car fires. I've seen a Fire Hall burn to the ground with all of our gear in it. What a helpless feeling! Standing there burned from fingertips to elbows because I tried to get the burning truck out of a burning hall. I have seen the enemy, the enemy isn't fear, fear is a friend, the enemy is terror.

I've met my old friend fear as recently as this past Tuesday. It was just after 5 a.m. when I was roused from my warm bed into a minus ten night, inky black. Half asleep I heard the wail of an alarm. I thought it was the store's burglar alarm so I ran to the front door, as soon as I unlocked it I knew it wasn't. The school! The alarm at the school sounds the same as our burglar alarm, as I wheeled around I saw Fire Chief Urban Antoine pull into the Fire Hall parking lot, I ran for the truck and pulled in behind him, he went for the door, I went for my gear. "The School!" he said tersely. His voice showed the nervous edge we both felt. The worst moments are these first few, when we know nothing. When the enemy is a swirling mass of activity in your mind. When your brain lacks info it fills in the blanks. Snapshots of the worst things you've seen at a Fire scene flash through your brain like images caught in the flash of a camera. Your brain hates a void so it fills in the gap with the worst images it can find like it wants to prepare you for whatever lays ahead. Adrenalin is coursing through your veins, time is blur seconds are minutes, minutes an eternity. You don't know how you get your gear on and get the truck rolling it is all just habit, practice, routine takes over. That's why you drill so the unconscious brain takes over. I hit the siren as we drive the short block to the school, it's just Urban and I in the truck, but two more members are pulling in as we pull out soon they will gear up and join us.
As we round the corner of the School I get my first view of the beast, the fiery dragon that awaits our watery lances. He is rearing his head above the roof of a porch on the back end of the school. This part was added later. "Exterior fire." The Fire Officer part of my brain tells me. "probably arson". Outside walls seldom catch fire at ten below. The flashing pictures vanish from my mind. Immediately replaced by practical concerns, where to position the apparatus (truck to civilians). I swing from the cab, another Fire Fighter in street clothes approaches. "Deploy both cross lays!" I shout and we simultaneously grab the two nozzles of the 11/2 inch hoses that lie in beds under the pump bridge. "Get the belly out of those lines!" I call as I sprint over the uneven ground, rutted and slippery with the usual objects laying around. As we get the lines tight I call To Urban "charge Red and Orange!" all our lines are color coded. Urban has followed SOP (standard operating procedure) he has put the truck into neutral and engaged the pump, put the truck in gear and swung from the cab to the pump bridge, an enclosed cab where the pump operator can see better and is protected from the elements. I know he is opening valves and raising the RPMs so he can charge our lines. The beast is roaring and snarling smoke is wafting over us in waves, chocking blinding black waves that take my breath away and fill my eyes with water that freezes as it runs to my eyelashes and cheeks. I pull down my visor and curse the flames under my breath which comes out in white clouds, fogging my visor and making me further blind. I don't care I crack the valve and bleed the air from my line, it fills comfortingly I feel it get tight on my hip as I use my body to drag the hose where normally a second firefighter would help me scale the stairs to the porch. I hit the fire with a stream of water and the pressure builds. Waves of smoke, ash and live embers swirls around me as I press forward. I stab the beast in it's fiery belly with the watery lance. my feet slide on the half melted snow as I wrestle the hose which naturally wants to sway around under the pressure. I move ahead and move my lance to work the beast from head to foot. Now two more members are on scene, Roy and James take line two and work toward the bottom of the fire.Up here on the permafrost buildings are built on pilings and are therefore off the ground. The school is skirted with wire, Roy and Jame s strip the wire back and duck under the school, the fire is in the space between the floor and the bottom of the building, "Damn" I think this is going to be an ugly grunt fire. Many hours of work were ahead. I was suddenly mad and then just as suddenly ashamed of my anger. This could have happened when the school was full we had no victims and I mentally thanked God for that. We knocked down the exterior fire but it was soon obvious that this was not enough, the fire was pumping smoke out the ridge line of the roof. The Fire was in the ceiling and cock loft. It was in the sub floor and the siding. We have to ventilate, we normally would go in the door. The door was too solid locked from the inside with far too much flame to let us pass. "We need the ladders!" I yell, Urban nods, he knows it. With the help of some bystanders wakened by our air raid siren alarm, help me lower the heavy ladders and Carry the extension ladder to the wall. I raise the ladder and climb to the roof. It is icy and steep, I climb to the ridge line. It is spongy where the heat has hit the roof trusses, I know they are weak. I scramble to the roof edge where Urban waits. "Your call!" I shout. "Too risky." he says quietly. I couldn't agree more. "I am going to try to ventilate from the inside." i say as we make our way to the ground.
I grab my air pack and make my way to the front door. I am joined by Terry Kunkle. "Turk" as we call him. He opens the front doors as I fumble with my mask. I start into the vestibule which is eerily dark, the emergency lights having failed. My helmet light probes the blackness, as dark as the far side of the moon. I get to the interior doors and open them. I am driven back by waves of heat and smoke. My helmet light is not enough so I turn on a powerful flashlight in my tunic pocket. "Better." I think as proceed through the interior door. This is against every rule in the book and I know it. I shouldn't be in here alone. I shouldn't be in here without a hose or at least a rope. I inch my way forward down a hall where children race with abandon everyday. To me it is Terra Incognita, suddenly it is as if I have never been here before, the darkness and the heat and smoke have transformed this into a whole new world. It is as if I am underwater. I am enveloped not so much with wood smoke as with poison gas. What waits for me on the other side of the Plexiglas shield is a combination of noxious gasses. Carbon Monoxide, odorless colorless is waiting for a gap in my armour, looking to seep in and steal my consciousness, to turn rational thought into cold terror that will take away my breath. Sodium Cyanide from burning plastics swirls about my face. They wait for me to make a wrong turn in the blackness. To run out of air, for my light to fail. For me to trip over a ripple in the carpet and go sprawling. The heat hunts for every gap in my protective clothing. My ears are burning in the heat and I curse myself for not putting on the balaclava in my tunic pocket. Too late now. I press ahead, door after door is locked. In the vacant school the alarm still blares, rising and falling, adding a weird fun house soundtrack to this surreal other worldly place. Reason takes over once again, I remember that there is no one to rescue here, just a door to open. I am accomplishing nothing. I advance a few more yards but I know round ones is going to the beast. I use fear and make the call, I would never ask my men to do this, I start to work my way out. Soon my helmet light catches a familiar wall and I work my way toward the cooler air. My face is a sheet of sweat and I close the valve and take a huge gulp of cool air at the front door. I slip the mask from my face so I can be heard "I need a fan and a generator!" "You got it!" Turk replies and disappears. I turn the corner of the building and meet Rot MacCauley who is now freed up to join me. Pastor Lynn Beurger approaches and asks if we need his generator. I thank him and tell him yes. Roy and I will try again to reach the back doors and ventilate the building. He has a fresh tank of air. I check my gauge and am dismayed to see that there is less than half a tank remaining. I make the call, we go in. Turk is here with the fan as we again go back in. I wonder, what is happening on the other side of the fire!
Round two doesn't go much better than round one, the beast wins again. The smoke and poisonous gas is too thick and the heat is too intense. Too many locked doors not enough light. As we enter I shout into my face piece and grab Roy by the arm "We go in together! If we get separated, STOP! Get hold of me and we go on together1" He nods and we start in. I have him by the coat and we sweep down the hallway to the principals office. It never seemed so far before. Like a mile from the doors which we can't see a few feet away from them. The hallway makes a turn around a pillar by the office and doors go in all directions. My enemy rears it's head. Did I just make a wrong turn. Have I lead us both into a dead end? No hose to follow out, no rope. No radio to call for back up. No Backup would get here in time anyway. I am returned to reality by the blare of my whistle that signals a warning of low air. I have five minutes to get out. I tug Roy's sleeve, he has heard my alarm and knows what it means we turn and I push my terror aside and find a landmark that tells me where we are going. Soon we are in cooler air. The generator is here and Lynn and teacher George Iliopolis set it up. We get the fan going and a plume of deadly smoke starts to billow from the front door. I return to the fire truck and change air bottles. The guys have knocked down the fire around the door so I give water truck driver Bobby McPherson a hand and with a pike pole we manage to tear down the doors and put out the fire in the vestibule. We place a second generator and fan at this end and exhaust the smoke here too. We then send a team onto the roof and start ventilating.
With the worst of the smoke gone it is time for Urban and I to go in again. we proceed down the hallway, Turk has restored lights in the main hall, we still have no lights in any other hallways. The main hall is free of black smoke but is full of choking poison gas. We don our masks and make our way toward the fire scene from the inside. It is dark in the side halls and my helmet light is done. We use hand lanterns and make our way into the bowels of the building. It is still very hot. We encounter locked doors. I look at Urban, he makes a kicking motion so I kick the door in and we move a bit closer to the back end of the fire. we are careful to brace open doors so we do not cut ourselves off from a safe escape route. We get to the teachers lounge but cannot get into the classroom from this side as the floor starts to sag under our feet. we back out of the room and try another way. Another kicked in door and we are in the back of the room. It is ice cold here due to the gaping hole in the wall allowing outside air in. We stare at the destruction, the clock has stopped at 06:30 TV sets are melted blobs of plastic, paint hangs from the walls in sheets. We move the desks into one corner and start pulling down the ceiling. As we open the ceiling sheets of ash and sparks fall on our masks and our jackets. We take the hose handed to us through the wall and spray down the hot spots. We pushed through the hallway and opened the back doors. We had chased the beast from the building. There was still hours of work, pulling down ceilings, removing debris and picking up gear. We returned to the truck and sat on the running boards. Pastor Lynn shows up with coffee and sandwiches. the coffee smells delicious and we fall on it like starving children. My eyes scan the crowd. I spot Lina, my wife standing there at the corner of the building her long hair shining in the early morning sun. She is holding a large paper coffee cup. I go to her, she hands me the hot delicious coffee and I think that nothing has ever tasted so good. I am filthy but I give her a hug anyway. I look back at the blackened doorway. The damage is considerable, but it could have been much worse. We did good, I think to myself. Lina heads off to work and I return to the guys. We eat hot egg sandwiches and survey the scene. I tell them how proud I am of the job they have done. We saved the school. It is a good feeling. The sun is rising over the school and we are all safe. WE finish the sandwiches, sip the last of the coffee and get back to the job at hand. There are things to do and we have to return to the hall and replace the hoses and fill the air bottles. It is noon before we first leave the scene and we have already put in nearly a full days work. We are tired but proud. For Urban and I there remains the investigation, our day will go one for a few more hours, but for now we look forward to one thing, a hot shower. We take of our soaked and frozen bunker gear. We laugh as we realize we are both still in pajamas, my bare feet blistered by the steel toed boots. It will be at least twelve hours before we will again slide beneath a warm comforter and hope that this night we will not have to face the beast again...