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Friday, August 13, 2010

Bushed





“Look Buddy a trip to High Level is just what you need.” My boss Anthony said when I told him I was planning to take the weekend off. It had been a while since I had been to the outside world. When you live in an isolated town in the north, seeing the same faces; day in and day out, you need to get out once in a while. You go crazy. Bushed. That’s what we called it. Cabin fever they would have called it in the old days. The old days, wow. Think about it. In those days Hudson’s Bay clerks came mostly from the Hebrides in northern Scotland. There was a good reason for this I suspect. First of all we of Scottish extraction are noted for being thrifty. No, not thrifty, what’s the word, oh yeah, cheap. To the HBC cheap was good. “A penny saved is a profit turned.” Was the motto of the day. But perhaps more importantly and only perhaps they were used to isolation. The Hebrides are not exactly cosmopolitan. Life there would differ from life in the far north by degree (and degrees, Brrrr) but not in kind.
I imagine those young men were made of tougher stuff. I imagine them toughing out their three year postings. Three years! Well it could take a month just to get to these towns in those days. Hell there were many older store managers and district managers with accents of the homeland who could tell you tales of getting to their first posting by dog team and canoe or by boat. Believe me in those days the rich tones of mother Scotland were well represented in the company. In fact there was at some point in our evolution a sea change. It occurred when the telephones stopped being answered with a hail “Och Aye Laddie, what can I do fer ye!” to “How’s she going skipper!” That’s right our HR department, ever resourceful, ever vigilant went from snatching young men from the distant Hebrides to impressing young men and women from Canada’s answer to the Hebrides, Newfoundland. There are still a few old timers around mix in the new newfies and you’ll need a universal translator to have a conversation.
Nonetheless I had to admit I was definitely bushed. But the answer to my prayers was at hand. Anthony had with a few quick words granted me my escape. The winter was winding down but the winter road that connected Fox Lake to nearby Fort Vermillion was still open. More importantly Fort Vermillion was on a real road and therefore connected to, well, the world. High Level is a typical northern town. A “corridor” town we call them. It parallels the highway. It is a child of the highway and owes its’ entire existence to the highway. The streets go back in layers from the main road. They tend to be transient towns. With no great history people move to them to work and from them when the work ends or they have earned enough to move on with their lives back where they came from. They were fine, but different somehow. A little less permanent. A little less welcoming. People tend not to want to make friends as readily, they know what is coming and going.
But High Level had everything we didn’t; restaurants, stores, a liquor store and bars. I will repeat that lat one; BARS! To a young man who had just survived a winter looking at the same nine hundred faces it was Mecca, Nirvana and Valhalla all rolled into one. If you’ve ever been there you will know just how badly off I was. Bushed. Now I had been planning out my trip to the bright lights for weeks. I knew where I was going to stay, what and where I was going to eat. I had a shopping list of things I was going to buy. Baguettes, fine cheeses and fresh deli meats. A couple of steaks that had never seen a freezer. Lobster tails. Then there were the other things. The impulse items. I would browse those shelves the way a starving Moose browses a forest of new growth poplars. I would be a retailers dream! I would break all the rules. I was going to throw caution to the wind and shop hungry! That’s right I was going to do the thing that all merchants know you should never do, shop hungry. A hungry shopper is normally asking for trouble. He is vulnerable to any trap a sharp retailer may lay for him. Like a rat to a trap, a trap bated with a bit of cheese. Ahhhh, cheese waxed Gouda perhaps or a bit of creamy brie. Perhaps a sharp chunk of cheddar or a smelly block of blue stilton. I could here the trap closing already. Heck, I shook my head, I owed this to myself.
But perhaps the most important thing of the entire weekend was Sunday morning. Sunday morning I would enact a ritual I had dreamed about for months. I would slip down to the hotel restaurant. Not a fancy place, more of a family diner. But just the place you want for a breakfast. Not just any breakfast but your first real breakfast in months. A long, slow, lingering breakfast. A breakfast with all the courses; eggs, sunny side up, hashbrown potatoes, crispy and brown. Whole wheat toast with real butter. Hot coffee, a whole carafe. Cold juice, preferably apple. And bacon, crisp salty and delicious. Maybe ham too, why not! I would be driving all day the next time I would be eating would be supper. So bacon and ham! Two or three cups of coffee. One while breakfast was being prepared, one with breakfast and one afterwards as I enjoyed the best part of the breakfast. The desert to my great repast. A current newspaper! Not some glossy tabloid cut down rag with a page three girl and horoscopes on the front page, but a real authentic work of journalism. The National Post or maybe the Edmonton Journal. And current! Not some two day old hand me down folded funny and creased from being brought back by a friend from the civilized world where newspapers were like running water. You just opened your morning door and there they were fresh and crisp and unread. The news of the world with comics and opinion for less than a buck, heaven. It was the crowning event of my weekend. A cold beer at the bar was nice, but a crisp newspaper and an hour or more to linger over it, that was heaven. This time of year the restaurant would not be busy. A good tip and a friendly smile would assure that I would have an uninterrupted blissful repast. All of this was running through my mind as I listened to the expected words. My boss was giving me the one thing I needed, permission.
The words were still tricking into my brain, still playing over my consciousness like massaging fingers when he added “Hey, why don’t you take Ryan with you?” In my mind tires were screeching and my plans and dreams were slamming into the dashboard of my imagination. Ryan was the new guy. A rookie who had just arrived in town. He had walked into Anthony’s office just as we had started our discussion. Now don’t get me wrong, I like Ryan, he’s just not the guy I wanted to spend the weekend with. I had not noticed Ryan coming in the room. When Anthony suggested taking Ryan I started a long loud rebuttal “Noooooooooooooooooooooooo!” I said as my head swung in Ryan’s direction. Now; a word about Ryan. Ryan has big round cheeks, the kind that Grandmas just love to pinch. He has eyes that any puppy dog would kill for. They are pathetic and heart breaking. It is impossible to hate the guy but having him along seemed like taking your little brother on a prom date. Our eyes met. I am an old softy. “No problem is what I meant to say.” I said with zero conviction. “Whoo hoo!” Ryan yelled “Road trip!”
The rest of the week was torture. Ryan’s enthusiasm was like salt in an open wound. The night before we left I told him. “Pack a sleeping bag a warm coat and spare socks and winter boots. Ryan had his permanent smile plastered on his face he nodded enthusiastically, but then he nodded to everything. I told Ryan to be up early as we had to get on the road if we wanted to get everything done. The next morning he was at the door in sneakers and some stylish but flimsy coat. “Where’s the sleeping bag and winter coat?” I asked. “I phoned the hotel, they have sheets.” He replied obviously very proud of himself. “And the forecast is for fine weather.” I shook my head. “The clothes and the sleeping bag are in case of a breakdown.” His eyes narrowed. “Oh I see.” He patently didn’t. “I can pack some things.” At the speed Ryan moved spring would be here first. “Never mind, just get in the truck.” We made good time getting to the Fort. The roads were still frozen and the truck was running well. From there to High Level was clear pavement and smooth sailing. We were there by lunch.
Ryan insisted on buying lunch. But he wanted to pick the spot. At my usual haunt there was a steak with my name on it. The place he picked I had never been to before, I have never been there since either. The first five things I ordered elicited a litany of excuses from the waiter. “We aint got any.” Or “The deep fryers down.” I ordered soup and a sandwich. The soup was cold and canned. “This is a great start.” I thought to myself. Ryan got the first thing he ordered. It looked hot and surprisingly good. After the lunch ordeal we started shopping. Ryan wanted clothes and music. I told him where we’d meet and headed for the deli. “You are not messing with this part of my trip.” I said under my breath as he walked away. I grabbed two baguettes whose crusty flesh was just right. I found some Monterey Jack with real Jalapeños. A block of passable Edam and some Gruyere wedges in foil. I got the butcher to shave some smoked meat so thin you could see through it. I picked up some proscuto and black olives. None of this stuff was on the shelves where we came from. At the liquor store I got two bottles of red and some Chardonnay nice Chablis and a small bottle of port, the good stuff. For a small town the liquor store was well stocked.
When I got back to the truck Ron had an armload. New CDs and a bright neon green pirate shirt with billowy sleeves. A bright blue ball cap and a new hairdo. He looked like he was headed to a disco. Too bad he was 15 years and 1500 miles too late. Supper I said “Is on me!” I wasn’t feeling generous; I just wanted to choose the spot. My usual waitress was not there. When I inquired i was told she had moved on. “Oh well.” I thought so long as the service is fast and the steaks are good. The new waitress seemed distracted. I ordered without looking at the menu. The waitress spun on her heel and left. The place was surprisingly busy. Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty. “You don’t suppose she forgot our order?” I said to Ryan. He was listening to his walkman. “What?” He yelled. “YOU DON”T SUPPOSE SHE FORGOT OUR ORDER?” I repeated. “Nah, it’s just busy!” he replied. Well it was busy. By the time forty minutes had passed I was ready to eat the sole of my shoes. I hadn’t seen our waitress in twenty minutes. I flagged another. “We haven’t got our food.” I told her. “The little red head was waiting on us.” I said a little testily. “She was off twenty minutes ago, I’ll check with the cook.” She returned a few minutes later. “He’s got no order for this table you still want something?” I stood up. “Come on Ryan we’re leaving.”
Out side Ryan looked at me. “It’s getting late I wonder what’s still open.” I walked to the gas station across the street and asked the attendant. The first place he named was where we had eaten lunch. “The only other place stops serving at nine, you better hurry.” Our luck held; they were turning off the sign as we closed the truck doors. I looked at Ryan. He was beaming. “I am having the same thing I had for lunch, it was delicious.” Appalled beyond words we returned to the restaurant where the same waiter gave me the same excuses. I decided to have what Ryan had eaten for lunch, it was appalling. No doubt about it we were different people “Delicious!” He said with gusto as he dropped his fork on his plate. “Dessert?” Our waiter inquired. I picked up the menu. “Before you do that we have only got pie.” He was looking right at me. “What kinds?” I asked meeting his stare. “Apple.” Short and sweet. “Can I get a cup of coffee too?” Asked Ryan. The waiter smiled. He obviously liked Ryan. “Sure, you?” he said scowling at me. “Just milk.” I replied. I didn’t want to stay awake for one more hour than I had to. After Pie I drove to the hotel. I took my bag and went to the desk. Ryan was beaming. I was wilting. “You going to the bar?” he asked more a statement than a question.” I think I’ll pass.” I said. I bought a pocket novel and a can of coke at the gift shop and made my way to my small but clean room. Tomorrow was, as they say, another day and morning still had the promise of a gorgeous leisurely breakfast with my treasured paper. I hoped that Ryan would close the bar and sleep in. I just wanted to be alone.
At seven the next morning Ryan was at my door, in the neon green pirate shirt and bright blue ball cap. It was a bit like waking up with a policeman’s flashlight in your eyes. “How was the bar?” I asked. “Really cool, I stayed until three.” Ryan was almost bouncing. His enthusiasm seemed to evaporate my own. “I have to get a paper first.” I said as we headed to the lobby. The white wire rack beside the front desk was empty, every shelf. “Where’s the paper?” I asked the clerk. “Sorry the bus brings the dailies from Edmonton, it hit the ditch near Peace River.” I stared blankly in disbelief. “You must” I said in dead monotone “be kidding.” He seemed not to appreciate the gravity of the situation. “They’ll be here this afternoon.” He added cheerily. I didn’t share his cheer. “They will be here this afternoon, but I will not.” He was doing his best. “We have the weeklies. Weekly World News, National Enquirer, enquiring minds want to know!” I resisted the urge to choke him. “Hey look!” Ryan said grabbing the Weekly World News “Elvis had an illegitimate son with an alien! Looks like him too!” He paid for the paper as I found my seat.
At least the food was good. I skipped the ham but enjoyed the rest. As we ate Ryan regaled me with stories from the paper. Nostradamus had apparently predicted the downfall of Peewee Herman. The big three auto makers were squashing the patent of a car that got a thousand miles to the gallon and Michael Jackson was being haunted by the ghost of Charlie Chaplin. “Good for Chaplin." I said.
As we got up to leave a trucker walking ahead of us put a crumpled newspaper on the top of the garbage can beside his tray. “You done with that?” I asked. “Help yourself.” He said. I looked at the date. Yesterdays. Oh well, I put it under my arm and found my keys. The roads were slushy on the way back to the Fort. Spring was coming to the boreal forest. Already small birds that had been absent for months were returning to the willow groves. Open water was trickling on top of the frozen streams. The sun was starting to have warmth again. When you passed a window it warmed your skin. In Fort Vermillion we stopped at the convenience store for something to drink. We were almost home only a couple of hours of winter road left to go.
Now a winter road is not really a road at all. In summer you would not even be able to walk it. In reality it is just a clearing in the trees. Wherever possible it takes advantage of lakes and stream. They don’t require any brush cutting. Swamps work well too. Early in the winter the contractor starts packing the snow and flooding the river crossings to build up the ice. New ice is stronger and more elastic than old ice. Three inches of fall ice will give and stretch and take the weight of a small vehicle. In the spring six inches of porous, ice full of honeycomb pockets created by melt water will snap and give way with no warning. I never drive on one without taking some basic precautions. “I wish you had brought those spare clothes,” I said to Ryan. “I thought you were kidding. You know; just being dramatic to scare the new guy.” “If I wanted to scare you I’d hold up a mirror.” I said smiling. “Har, Har” he replied. It really was impossible to not like him. I turned towards the Red Earth road and started towards the winter road.
Now there are two winter roads into Fox Lake. One goes from Ft. Vermillion, the other goes from John D’or Prairie a small native community. The road to the Fort was paved back then but the pavement ended a few klicks out of town. It was a longer drive than the way we were going but most of it was on good road and there was only one river crossing; the Peace River. The way we were going was shorter over all but most of it was winter road. There were two rivers to cross; first the Wabasca and second the Little Red. It was hilly and it was wild; but it was beautiful and somehow it always soothed me to go this way. I turned on to the winter road and headed for home.
We were approaching the first river crossing. The sun was beating down on the road turning it to a skating rink. As we started down the river valley I knew we were in trouble. I had no steering whatsoever and absolutely no brakes. At the bottom of hill was a ninety degree turn. I turned the wheel but the truck went straight anyways. In a cloud of snow and a swooshing sound we came to a halt twenty feet off the road in a clump of willows. It had been like slow motion and was so soft a landing there was no question of either of us being injured. I put the truck in reverse but there was no movement. Thinking all we had to do was push; we got out and tried. It was no use. The truck was high centered on the willows and the wheels were not touching the ground. “What do we do? Ryan asked. “We wait.” I said. “Someone will come along.” “It’s not cold why not walk back to town?” He was standing there in sneakers a thin fall jacket and that damn pirate shirt. “It will get cold, long before we reach town. You didn’t bring boots remember?” I was smiling a few minutes ago. Then I was relaxed. Now I was stranded one hundred miles from anywhere with a rookie in a neon shirt. I had to keep two of us alive. “Never leave the vehicle.” I said. “No one is going to touch it.” Ryan protested. “You aren’t in the city now. People don’t steal out here. Don’t leave the vehicle, it makes us easier to find. If no one comes along Anthony will send help in a few hours. The vehicle is dry and we have a full tank of gas that can keep us warm for days.” Ryan looked stunned. “Days! We could be here for days?” He had a touch of panic in his voice. “Don’t worry.” I said. “I have an axe and a shovel matches and a pot and we have food. I’ll make tea and we’ll have a bite to eat, you’ll feel better.”
I packed down the snow in a circle near a fallen tree. I built a fire and got out my survival gear. I had a billy can under the seat. Made from an old juice can it had a clothes hanger handle. In it were some sugar and some tea bags, a lighter and a couple of candles. An emergency blanket and some plastic. It helps to be a former Boy Scout. Ryan sat on the log and watched. “My feet are cold” he said. “They’re wet.” I said. “Put these on.” I gave him my boots. “I can’t take these your feet will get cold.” Ryan said; it was almost a question. “You take them, my feet are dry.” The fire crackled and the water soon boiled. I cut some forked sticks and we toasted some baguette. I ate mine with some of the Jalapeño cheese. The sun set. We sipped sweet hot tea made from ice water. “It gives more water than melting snow.” I told Ryan. “What if nobody comes for us?” He said disconsolately. “C’mon it’s only been a couple of hours. This aint the autobahn y’know.” He laughed but it was a nervous laugh. In spite of the fire he was shivering. I gave him the sleeping bag to put around his shoulders. “I am being a pain.” He said. “Nah, you’re way past that!” I joked. He laughed for real this time. “What makes you want to come here?” H e asked. “Well, look around.” I spread my arms. The night was still and the sky was full of stars. With only the light of our fire you could see millions of stars. “This is a gift. There aren’t too many places like this left.” I said. “If it doesn’t kill us first.” Ryan added. “You worry too much. If we die here it will be our fault.” “My fault, you mean.” He added. “Nope, we are fine. Lie down in the truck and get some sleep. I’ll wake you when someone comes along.”
Ryan lay across the back seat and pulled the sleeping bag up around his neck. I started the truck and ran the heater until the truck warmed up. I would run the truck ten minutes an hour to keep the battery up and the truck warm. Hours passed. Then in the wee hours of the morning a pair of headlights appeared on the other side of the river. The unmistakable sound of a semi gearing down could be heard. I woke Ryan. I stood by the side of the road. The trucker stopped. “You finish that paper yet?” He asked as he got down from the cab. I laughed just the sport section. The habs got a new defenseman.” He looked my truck over. “Out her in the weeds, eh? I’ll get you out of there directly.” He hooked chains to my towing lugs. In a few seconds my truck was in the middle of the road. “Thanks!” I said extending my hand. “Next time you’re in Fox Lake come look me up.” I watched the trailer’s lights disappear. The night was cold now and the road had lost some of it’s’ iciness. We made good time getting back to town.
We reached the trailer about four in the morning. Anthony opened his bedroom window. “You guys had a good time?” He called. “Yeah sure, we just spent 12 hours on the side of the road. You can call off the search,” I replied. “I wasn’t expecting you two until morning. I figured you were drunk.” He said laughing. I shook my head. “Well you got your cure for being bushed?” He asked. “Sure did, I may never leave here again!”
Bushed. What is it? Why do some people get through it and others don’t? I got through it with the help of lot of more veteran northerners. Many invitations to dinner. Many nights spent watching the one channel we got on TV with others. What was on TV was irrelevant. In this case the medium was not the message it was the catalyst. It brought us together and allowed us to interact as neighbors and friends apart from our daily rolls as teachers or nurses of store clerks. If I have any sanity left I owe it to those people. People who I may never have hung around with in a bigger place. Good people, remarkable people. I can’t name them all; I doubt I could even remember them all. So this is my way of saying thanks. I ; like the Beatles “Get by with a little help from my friends.”

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