The Critical Factor

In the fall of 1985 I joined the Governor and Company of Adventurers of England Trading Into Hudson's Bay. AKA the Hudson's Bay Co. I knew some of its' history, some of the role that it had played in building this great and wonderful country. MacKenzie King once said that the problem with Canada was that it had "Too much geography and too little history." At least I think he said it, he could have been channelling his dead dog or something. He was a bit weird, but he did not hold a monopoly on that as Prime Ministers go. I guess you could forgive him, that was a long time ago and a lot of water has passed under the bridge. I chided one of my nieces for doing poorly in history once. "I always did well in history." I informed her. "Yeah, well there was a lot less of it back then!" came the reply. Nowadays we would say, don't go there!


But in 1985 I was green as grass and anxious to learn about the traditions and history of the HBC. Before I had left Nova Scotia, I stopped and talked to our neighbor, Mr. Calvin Ruck. He was a social worker and had gone back to school as an adult to get his degree. He was going to Dalhousie University the same time as his son. We would see him in the halls and he would hail us. I think his son was embarrassed but he needn't have been Calvin was an amazing man and had a thirst for knowledge. He won the Order of Canada and was appointed to the Senate. "So you're joining the HBC?" he said enthusiastically when I told him the news. "You are going to be a Factor." "Excuse me?" I said with ignorance plastered all over my face. "A factor! A fur buyer!" he said with a smile. "Oh, I guess so, you think they still do that?" I asked. "I think so, you'll have to tell me about it!"

I arrived in Winnipeg and was given the cooks tour of Gibraltar House, the company's headquarters still located at the confluence of the Red and the Assinaboine. I was then whisked away to get a plane to Edmonton and then an eight hour bus ride to the town of Lesser Slave Lake. My boss picked me up there and took me to Wabasca, my first posting. My boss was From England and had come to Canada to run another small store then had been recruited by the HBC. He was born to work with numbers and was an excellent accountant. He wasn't interested in buying fur a whole lot, so he asked if I wanted to learn how. "The head fur buyer from Edmonton is coming." He informed me. "You can learn a lot from him, he's the best." Duly impressed, I returned to the house I shared with two other "Trainees" as we were known in Company parlance. "I am going to learn Fur buying!" I announced proudly. Darren, who was sitting across from me and patting his belly after dinner, was not impressed. "Yeah, I got roped into that too." he said unenthusiastically. "Look when this guy shakes your hand he'll crush it so be ready." "Big guy, eh?" I answered. "Yeah and he's a tough old Alberta redneck so be careful." This coming from a farm boy from south of Calgary. I was impressed I wanted to meet this legendary man.

He arrived by car, or rather boat as it was one of those late seventies monsters. He was tall and lean and definitely a tough guy. Square jawed and steely of gaze. I was ready when he shook my hand. I have big mitts and our eyes met as he gripped my hand with incredible force. He seemed to smile at my return grip. Darren who had warned me about Joe's prodigious grip was totally unprepared for the handshake and turned away waving his wounded hand in the air. I shook my head. Joe wasted little time and got to work, spreading a makeshift table in the back of the store with a hockey bag full of skins. He tossed a pelt in front of Darren. It was about three feet long and was shaped like an ironing board, long and tapered. "Isn't that the biggest mink you ever seen?" He asked. Darren was in awe. He had already been buying fur for some time. "Wow, that must be a MacKenzie river mink I hear they grow them big up there!" Joe smiled and tossed the pelt to me. I picked it up the leather side was facing out. I flipped it and ran my thumb over the fur. I am a fly tyer and had used many different kinds of fur. While I had never seen one in its' complete form before I knew what otter felt like. "What do you think?" growled Joe. "I think it's a medium sized otter." I said tossing it back. Joe pointed at my chest. "That's right! Not bad for a green horn!"



I felt a little more comfortable. Darren was shifting his weight from foot to foot which he did when nervous. Joe proceeded to go through other species, Lynx, fox , coyote, wolf. We learned how to grade and size the species. We learned of the life cycle of the animals and what made the fur better or worse. " People used to think it was the cold that made the fur good. They used to raise ranch mink in freezers but to no avail, the fur was worse. Then they realized that it was the hours of daylight that determines the quality of the fur. They adjusted the lighting and bingo, the fur was prime." Prime, that was what the fur business was all about. Pelts trapped when they were at their best. Best color, best quality, no damages. There was a market for the less than perfect pelts too, but at much lower prices. The poor quality pelts would become patching material, and fly tying material among other things. Then Joe turned his attention to the animal that built this company and this country. This little rascal isn't on the nickel for nothing. The Beaver. Castor Canadensis The lowly beaver, a member of the rodent family. Trapped almost to extinction. These hearty little guys do one thing well, and that is breed. Soon they were everywhere. Joe spread several beaver pelts on the sheet of plywood that served as our table. He explained how to measure them and how to grade them. "This is important!" He said testily as he noticed Darren nodding off. "I've seen guys lose so much money the blew their brains out!" He had my attention.

Next Joe took another Beaver out of his bag. It was big one. A blanket beaver we call them, an XXL. The fur side looked good. Joe threw it onto the plywood. "Grade it!" He said looking at me sternly. I took the tape measure from him and measured the pelt. "Sizing, Sizing, Sizing!" Joe had said when he had showed us how to grade each species. I measured it. I ran my fingers through the fur as he had showed me. Nice depth of underfur. Good coloring, a prime pelt, I expected to see the same story written in the leather when I turned it over. "You can tell more from the leather than the fur!" Joe had told us. As I saw the leather I winced. I looked at Darren, he had his hand over his face. There were two snaking scars across the center of the pelt or the "Square" as Joe had called it. I looked up an XXL beaver in the tariff, the price book put out by the company. I followed the row across where it said bad damage "N/V" "No Value!" I said as I handed in my tape. "Good call!" Joe said emphatically. "What do you think?" Joe was looking at Darren. Looking in an odd accusatory way. Darren lowered the hand from his face. "I would still give him something for it." He said meekly. "What?!!!" Joe thundered. This seemed to hurt Darren worse than the handshake. "I still think he deserves at least twenty bucks." Darren said, barely audible and very unsure of himself. "You know hat happened don't you?" Darren clearly did not, and neither did I. "He snared him! He set the snares badly and this poor beaver thrashed around till he drowned, slowly, cruelly! We don't encourage poor trapping with money. We encourage humane trapping. I tell you what! If this guy brought a bucket of Spit in here would you give him twenty dollars for it?!!" (he didn't actually use the word spit) Darren meekly replied "No." Staring holes in the floor. "Good!" replied Joe. "Next time he brings a beaver like this in give him twenty of your dollars, not twenty of mine!" There was more going on here than met the eye.



We went on with the lesson and the mood lightened. I learned tons. I grew with confidence as the lesson went on. I thought I was ready to buy fur. When all was over Joe packed up his "Travelling Road Show" as he called it and packed it in the huge trunk of his car. Darren stood kicking gravel in the driveway. Joe gave him a punch in the shoulder and said "Tight Lines! and straight shooting!" Darren faded away. I hing back. "Long drive?" I asked. "Nah, only six or seven hours!" I stuck out my hand and again I met his gaze as he wrung it good. I held my own. "You I like!" he said as he got in the car. I knew he meant it.


I walked into the house. Darren was in his usual chair, the TV wasn't even on. "What's the deal on that beaver?" I asked. "It looked like you'd seen a ghost when he pulled it out." "Aw, I shipped it to him in a parcel last week. He knew I'd bought It and I think he knew how much I paid for it." Ahhhh... things were starting to make sense. " I don't think he likes me." Darren said morosely. "Naw!" I replied. " I don't agree with that." "Really?" Darren replied hopefully. "Did he say something to you?" "Yeah, he said he hates you!" I said laughing. Darren too realized I was making it up and he laughed too. He rubbed his shoulder. "Quite a guy though, eh?" "Yes!" I replied," quite a guy!"


I bought a lot of fur over the years and I made Joe happy with the way I did it. He would call me and ask me what the fur was like before I shipped it. I became a good factor and the next time I talked to Mr. Ruck I could proudly say "Yes we still buy fur and yes, I am a factor!"