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Wednesday, August 18, 2010

My GPS told me where to go

My company has a very long tradition of annual meetings. You can have long traditions when you are three hundred and forty or so. Is it even worth counting anymore? Talk about outliving all you friends whew! I bet the Northwest Company has been to a lot of funerals. I wonder; is there really anything after “Old as the Hills”? We recently took back the original name of the meetings. “The Wintering Partners Conference.” The men and women who run our stores; scattered across four thousand kilometers of the Canadian north are a remarkable bunch. The conference is a logistical nightmare with Managers coming in from eight provinces and three territories on dozens of different airlines. Some take as long as three days to reach Gibraltar House our Winnipeg Headquarters. There are Managers of all ages and levels of experience. Many are old friends who see each other but once a year. It is a week of intense meetings, classes and a trade show. But these Norwesters as diverse as they are have one thing in common. They are coming to the big city from tiny, isolated, far flung communities with little or no amenities.
For most of the last decade I have shared a room with an old friend. We are noted for coloring outside the lines. We are also infamous for getting lost. We have; over the years become familiar with many different neighborhoods in Winnipeg. We have gotten lost there. Shane; who is a bit of a techy and loves his electronic toys. Proudly revealed his latest acquisition. “It’s a GPS.” He said proudly as he whipped it with a flourish from his parka pocket (it can be mighty cold in Winnipeg in February). “Check this out! Color screen, accurate to one meter, it even talks!” He said proudly, tilting it back and forth so I could see the color screen. “Great, now when we get lost we will know exactly where we are lost.” I said sarcastically. “Mock if you must, but this is a marvel of modern technology; listen!” He pressed a button and a woman with a pleasant sounding accent gave his street position. “Pretty Cool!” I had to admit. “Nah!” Shane replied “She isn’t cool, she is HOT!” He was holding the palm sized device over his head like it was the Stanley Cup or something. Shane had rented a car as he often did.
Now, a word about that. Being relatively new to the city we had experienced some “difficulties” in the past. Once, while walking we had gone to the theater to see a movie. In fairness to ourselves we were dog tired and had both dozed off during the movie, we were that tired. We had memorized the route to the theater while on the way. Unfortunately the theater is designed so that you enter on one street and then when the movie ends you are ushered out the side of the building on a different street. It was dark and we got turned around and ended up walking five kilometers out of our way, when we were exhausted. Usually Shane gets a car and a map. As he is driving he is forced to leave the navigating to me. Now I am no dummy, but I am blind. Well, legally blind anyways. Reading a map with a magnifying glass is somewhat more difficult than you might think. Try it sometime. We once found ourselves smack in the middle of Assiniboine Park. On another occasion we found a great shopping spot. It was; however five miles and ninety degrees out from where we set out for. We were definitely not living up to the tradition of our Coureur des bois predecessors. They could travels thousands of miles with little more than the stars and a pocket compass to guide them. We couldn’t get to the mall.
Those days were over now thanks to Shane’s latest gadget. We walked to the car rental lot and picked out the car. Shane proudly mounted the new device on the windshield. As we left the lot he programmed our first destination, the hotel only a few blocks away. In a sweet British accent the lady purred. “Turn left in two hundred meters.” Proceed along Notre Dame for 400 meters.” Shane was in his glory. “Now watch this!” he said with glee as he drove past the hotel. The GPS did not miss a beat. “Recalculating.” She replied. “Turn left in 75 meters.” Shane slapped the dash. “See, she is as quick as she is sexy.” We put the car in the lot and went inside. Our days of wandering the side roads of Winnipeg were over.
The next day we would put her through her paces. We had a number of errands to do. This is inevitable when you live in the middle of nowhere and you suddenly find yourself in the middle of somewhere, the middle of anywhere actually. There was banking to be done shopping, of course and the usual myriad of other things. We set off my high hopes and our invisible companion taking direction from over head satellites to guide our course. In our own way we were using the stars to navigate just like our Metis brothers two hundred years ago. Only in reverse, sort of as we would fill our twenty first century canoe with trade goods.
Now we had not been silent about our exploits. We had taken a lot of ribbing over the years on account of our wayward activities. We sat at the breakfast table Shane had his head in his hands. The Boss and a Vice President approached. The V.P. leaned on the table with both hands. He leaned in, anxious to hear of our latest exploits. “So how did yesterday go? Did you manage to stay out of trouble? Didn’t end up in Brandon?” Shane was rocking his head from side to side not his usual ebullient self. “Not hung over are you Shane?” The Veep inquired. I looked at Shane and realized he was too disconsolate to reply. “The people of Winnipeg tried to kill us yesterday!” I replied vehemently. The group recoiled slightly. “What on earth…?” The V.P. interjected. “I can explain.” I replied and I began the sorry tale of our fall from grace. We had of course fallen victim of our own Hubris. Pride goeth before the fall. Apparently it goeth after the shooting off of the big mouth too.
It had started out well. We were in high spirits. We had a new car, clean and shiny among the slush stained sedans that were stalled in traffic at Portage and Main. Shane took the GPS from his coat pocket. The prairie winter sun had set and the screen cast a glow on Shane’s face as he turned it on. “See this menu? I just choose shopping then select a store and presto, it tells us how to get there!” Shane was fairly beaming. “We are the gods of navigation!” he said cockily. He was reveling in his new found ability. “Marvelous, it is truly amazing what the mind of man hath wrought.” I added. “But shouldn’t we grab a bite first?” Shane raised a finger like Sherlock Holmes. “Just so, my good man!” His thumbs were flying on the touchpad. “Let’s see, restaurants. What do you feel like having?” He asked. “Nothing to frilly froo froo, just some good honest burgers.” I replied. We had not been in civilization for months so everything was new to us. “How about the fare at Ron McDonald’s? Let’s see if our British honey can use her nose to sniff out some Big Macs.” The screens scrolled and Shane worked out in his head which restaurants were closest. He programmed one in and the voice purred to life. We crossed the Red River on the bridge indicated and sure enough we could see the golden arches, tight where our English honey had said. We ate a most satisfactory repast and strutted to the car. We were the masters of all we surveyed, truly masters of the universe.
“Such is the folly of the overconfident.” I warned the assembled crowd. All were hanging on my every word. Shane still had hold of his head. “We next programmed our first shopping destination. We proceeded along one of the main thoroughfares. We were supremely confident. We had the magical box that would talk to the stars in silent binary code and would talk to us in the tones of some beautiful exotic creature. It was then the people of Winnipeg sprung their dastardly trap!” I struck the table with my fist for emphasis. My coffee cup sloshed and my spooned clattered on the arbourite. “Surely not!” The V.P. said adamantly. “Do not underestimate the people of this good city. They were but fulfilling their role in the revenge of the Gods for our Hubris and of course; play their role in the origin of the species. The survival of the fittest. For we should have foreseen the flaw in our armor. We had both read the manual for the cursed device. It was right there in black and white. As we drove the voice, calm, educated and seductive turn right in one hundred meters. Indeed a road appeared in the headlights although it seemed closer than one hundred meters we saw no problem and made a turn. We went along a couple of hundred meters and approached an intersection. Now right away something seemed strange.” Shane was rocking gently back and forth his head was practically in his lap. “The traffic was stopped in the other direction.” I continued. “On Both sides of us at the cross street. I could clearly see the red glare of the traffic light as it reflected on the pavement wet with melted snow.”
Our little group had swollen as other drew around. I looked around as I continued the sorry narrative. “Now we looked and looked hard but there was no traffic light at all for us! We slowed but as traffic was stopped going the other way we proceeded cautiously through the intersection. Horns sounded in both directions. Loud; baring nasty horns. Horns of admonishment. Self righteous horns, if I do say so. We threw up our arms in a simultaneous shrug. We looked at each other as if to say what now? Perhaps the light was not working. Perhaps workmen had taken it down. Damn Winnipegonians, or is it Wonnipegers? Barely a block later was yet another intersection. Incredulously the same phenomenon confronted us. How could it be? Are the city workers of Winnipeg so slow that they can’t fix something as important as a traffic signal? Once again the traffic was stopped the other direction. And once again the blaring of horns greeted us as we proceeded through the intersection. Shane yelled back in frustration that we were trying to obey the traffic signals. If they would just put them up. In a blinding flash it hit me. The realization swept over me why there was no traffic signal in our direction. The people of Winnipeg, in their infinite wisdom and in accordance with the rules of the gods who judge those who walk the earth with excess pride. I yelled to Shane ““Turn right, turn now! Turn into that parking lot!””
The people of Winnipeg in keeping with the rules of survival of the fittest do not put traffic signals up at intersections for those who are driving the WRONG WAY DOWN A ONE WAY STREET! “Shane flung the wheel right and we slid into the empty parking lot. Shane pumped his fist at the GPS “”YOU BRITISH BITCH!”” he cried. “The next day the voice that came out of the device was a man’s. It was a nasty nasally mid-western whine. After all those stupid enough to break the rules take their chances. For in the owner’s manual it did say in black and white “Drivers must obey the laws of traffic at all times.” So why admit to our error so publically? Well like I said pride goeth before the fall. Our pride was definitely gone.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Sun on my heels

I hit Edmonton International Airport at supper time on a Saturday evening. My bag was slow coming; as usual. I got a return ticket for the shuttle downtown. It is a lot cheaper than a cab as the EIA is nearly in Calgary it is so far out of town. I loved the old Muni the municipal airport. It used to be that flights from the north always landed there. It was right downtown. This was; oddly enough where my hotel was. I could see the old airport, now called City Center Airport from my hotel. They are going to close the old place, unless irate petitioners can stop them. I came here four years ago on a medi-vac flight. How long will it take ambulances to get here from the International?
I took the shuttle as I was not in a hurry. My timing was good; one was boarding as I bought my ticket. That would shorten things a lot. I put my bag in the rack and took a seat. It was filling up fast. The baggage rack was packed and the poor driver had to keep moving bags to make room. Eventually he got the bags settled and started to collect the tickets. There was a problem. One guy could not locate his ticket. He turned to the driver “You saw me buy it! You know I paid.” The driver picked up a radio mike and spoke into it. “You saw me!” The guy continued. “Man I am already having a bad day! I had a hassle with the airline too!” His face was flushing and he was pacing the aisle. The driver was polite, but firm. “We need your ticket sir, where did you pit it?” The guy went through his pockets and wallet. Nothing. He started his chant again. “You saw me pay!” People were looking at their shoes trying desperately not to make eye contact. I looked out the window. The lady who had sold me my ticket arrived. “There, she sold me the ticket, tell him!” The guy was practically begging. “Sir the driver needs the ticket to get paid if you can’t find it you will have to pay for another.” She too was polite but unflinching. The guy was losing it. He started t swear then looked around at the children present and apologized. “You know I paid! What if I was a little old lady? Would you still charge me double?” The lady was not budging. “Look in your bags sir if you can’t locate your ticket you will have to pay for the ticket when you reach your destination.” The guy was not a little old lady. He was a big guy. But he didn’t seem violent just agitated. “This sucks! I am having a terrible day!” He started to rifle through his bags. Within minutes he found the ticket and handed it to the driver.
Then he turned and scanned the bus. There were only two open spots left. One was beside me. Now I remember when I was single I used to kill time while flying by looking around the departure lounge. I would wonder who had the seat beside me. I would find the prettiest girl in the room and secretly wish that she had the lucky ticket. Lucky for me that is! Sadly in all my years of traveling it never happened. On the flip side of this I would pick the person I least wanted to sit beside me. “Not the big guy who is already snoring.” I would think to myself; not him! Inevitably I would be sitting comfortably. The flight attendants would be closing the overhead bins. I would glance at the empty seat beside me and think “Well I didn’t get the cute blonde but I didn’t get snoring guy either. Then it would happen. Snoring guy would come hustling down the ramp and stand in the aisle beside me “I think that’s my seat!” I never won these things. Right now I was repeating a silent mantra “Psycho-guy don’t sit here! Psycho-guy don’t sit here!” Too late. He flops down beside me. Our eyes meet. I was truly doomed. We had made eye contact. I had opened the door of communication. He had complete license to give me his life story. He wasted no time.”I am not normally like this you know! I am normally a nice guy! They pushed me to it! These big companies; they always stick to the rules. What about the customer? Where is the customer in all this. Do they ever think of the customer?”
He looked around desperately but he could not catch another eye. People stared at their shoes, busied themselves with their children; pretended to read, fussed with cell phones. “I am a nervous flyer.” He said staring full at me, the only one trapped in his minute but intense sphere of influence. “I had a long day, a four and a half hour flight.” I did not mention that I had been on three planes and would be travelling more than twice that time. “A long day, it could happen to anyone. We’ve all been there!” I blurted. I too scanned the crowd for a sign of support. No one would meet my gaze ether. OH MY GOD! I was becoming guilty by association! I could see the scene clearly in my mind. The shuttle bus pulled over on the Whitemud highway, an Edmonton Police paddy wagon parked behind it, lights flashing, rear doors open. The entire passenger population pointing at me as they lead psycho-guy off in irons. “They’re in this together!” I snapped back to reality “Huh?” I heard myself say. “Well what would you do?” psycho-guy repeated less than an inch from my face. “Ummm; er, ahhhh…” I heard myself stammer. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do! I’m going to write a letter. I’m going to write to the president of the airline and the shuttle company. They may be able to push old ladies around but they can’t push me.” I wanted to remind him that the old lady was a figment of his imagination. I imagined that by the time he finished writing the letter he would have named her and given her a complete back-story.
“I am doing this for all the little people!” He was reaching full stride now. In his mind he was leading a populist uprising against the oppression of the bureaucratic oligarchy. He raised his fist in some sort of Black power salute. No one moved. They continued feigned indifference. He pumped his fist. “I am striking a blow for the little guy.” I looked at him again. He was six foot four and three hundred pounds. “Little guy?” I almost said it. Quickly I looked at the floor of the bus. The driver called out the name of a hotel from the front of the bus. Psycho-guy stopped in mid rant. “Oh, that’s me.” He said to me meekly, almost apologetically. “Here’s good, you don’t need to go up to the front doors. He got off pulling his bags behind him.
I cursed myself as a coward. I should have spoken to him. I should have challenged him. Instead I was just glad he was gone. I should have told him my trick for turning around a bad day. I think back to when I was a child. When I was a child I hated stormy rainy days. I always imagined that bad things happened on such days. I guess it comes from the scary movies I would sneak down stairs to watch when my parents were out. They always take place on stormy nights. I imagined all terrible things happened on such days. When I was about thirteen and was working on the farm of my Mother’s cousin I was loading a trailer with 100 pound bags of limestone from a room in an old barn. There were stacks of it; over eight feet high and row after row. I moved one bag and everything started to move. I was alone in the room and being thirteen and bullet-proof I threw my puny 160 pound frame against the tons on shifting limestone. I thought I would be like Big John in the song and hold back the deluge like a mighty oak. I didn’t. Bag after bag crashed into me onto me and around me. My hard hat was torn from my head, my watch from my wrist. I fell forward and the bags fell on top of me layer after layer. They barked off skin from my face and arms. They tore off my right sneaker and sock. They pinned my arms and crushed my chest. I couldn’t even raise my chest to breathe. In fact I couldn’t move a muscle. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to be afraid but I would have. The bags broke open and fine limestone dust settled cool on my sweaty face. It ran over me like water. Just like water it filled my nose and throat. My mouth was trapped, squeezed open by the weight on my head and I felt the dust settling in my throat and lungs. I remember having only one thought. I was going to die! No doubt about it. So young and so far from my family. My one thought was what is this going to do to my Mother? Nothing else just a flash in perhaps a second all this flashed in my mind. I was dead and what about Mom? I was only a kid but I understood just what it means to die. So many others had died in just such a way as this. So this was death. And then nothing. I blacked out I guess. In my little cocoon world I could see nothing, my eyes were full of lime. I could hear nothing for the same reason. The world faded quickly to black.
While all this was happening to me, my world had shrunk. All my attention had been focused on an event so horrific that it threatened my very being. But fortunately for me other things were at work. When the limestone had hit the ground it had shook the ground so much that dishes rattled in the two adjacent farm houses. My Mother’s cousin was doing laundry when she heard the dishes rattle. They must be blasting she thought. Her Daughter was closer. She knew right away something was wrong. At the same moment as I had been buried a huge cloud of choking dust had come through the barn door. She felt the thud ad knew instinctively I was in trouble. She got her Father and he, in spite of three crushed disks in his back; began throwing 100 pound bags of limestone like they were pillows.
The first that I knew of all this was when I felt sunlight on my right heel; left bare when my shoe and sock were torn off. I don’t have a clue how long I was unconscious or what caused me to regain consciousness. Was it the movement of the bags on my back performing some sort of artificial respiration? All I know is that the feel of sun on my ankle told me that I was going to live. It took further minutes to free me. When I was free those gathered and there were a number of people there helped me to my feet. Mom’s cousin; her husband and son were there. So too were her daughter and daughter-in-law. I was filthy and bloody with one shoe off, no watch (which was still ticking when found, a Timex of course). They asked me if I was alright and I remember saying “Yes.” Then I remember taking one step and crumpling like a rag doll against the barn wall. They carried me inside and put me on a daybed in the sun-porch. I threw up big clumps of limestone and it ran from my nose for days.
The thing that puzzled me is that it was beautiful that day. That is how I felt the sun on my ankle. A bad thing, the worst thing that had happened to me to that time, and I guess it has o be tied for the worst thing until now, because I am not dead yet, had happened to me on a nice day! A nice day like today. Today when psycho-guy had a bad day. I should have told him that story. I should have told him that sometimes; when I am having a bad day, and it is nice like it was today; I take off my shoes and socks and walk in the grass or on the sand. I let the sun fall on my heel, because it hardly ever does. And when the sun hits my heel I am transported back to when a foolish child thought he was bullet-proof. Who thought that bad things only happen on bad days. I like to do this because it reminds me that no matter how bad my day is, it could be worse. And no matter how bad what I am going through is; it could be much worse. It centers me. It reminds me that I am alive! Now it is not a cure-all. You couldn’t do it at forty below or even when it rains. But maybe that guy wasn’t a psycho at all. Maybe he was just having a bad day on a beautiful day. A perfect day to take off your shoes and socks and let the sun shine on your heels and remember that you are alive.

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.”

Sunday, August 8, 2010

The Conservationist


I like to think of myself as an environmentally conscious person. Most likely I am as big a contributor to global warming as any human. But no worse, surely. I do not own a motor vehicle. I use reusable shopping bags. I recycle. We have a low flush toilet, a low flow shower head. We have a front load washer. We get water delivered by a truck so we know we have saved water as the truck doesn’t come as often. We now use less than half the water we used to just a year ago. We turn down the heat at night and when we are out of the house. We do it religiously. My carbon footprint is much smaller than my real footprint which is size 13. But as a species we are not keeping pace with other primates, not even close.
“Hey honey…” I said the other day as I leaned into the fridge, the fridge lighting my face as I stood in the kitchen. “We used to say that orangutans were lazy…” “I don’t recall…” She said closing the fridge door. “Saying anything of the sort!” “Not us personally, I mean us humans.” I said popping a couple of grapes in my mouth which I had snatched as the door was closing. “Why would we humans say such a thing?” she said taking a grape for herself from my hand. “Anthropomorphism.” I replied. “Anthropo-who?” Lina asked popping the grape in her mouth. “Anthropomorphism. It’s when we apply human characteristics to animals, other animals, I mean. Like Orangutans. We think they are lazy because they spend a lot of time doing nothing.” Lina cast me a glance that I could read a lot into. I ignored her unspoken jibe. “It seems…” I continued “that the orangutan has evolved over millions of years; to adapt perfectly to the environment it evolved in. It seems that the rainforest goes through seasonal changes when food is in scarce supply. It seems that the orang has evolved a state of torpor where they can go into a condition which is beyond relaxed. Where they can operate on less than twenty percent of their normal energy levels. You know when their normal diet is not available. It is the ultimate in energy conservation.” Lina was smiling now. “Imagine…” she said distractedly. She was moving away now.
I returned to the fridge as she left the kitchen. “We could take a lesson from the orangutan.” I said the light once again shining on my face. “No doubt you could learn lots from a monkey!” Lina added sarcastically. “They’re not a monkey, they’re an ape!” I added ignoring yet another barb. “I meant that we could reduce our energy footprint by reducing our need for energy. We got any pie?” I called a bit louder now as Lina was busy tidying the living room. “You know we don’t.” she replied. “Hmmm, maybe I’ll take a nap!” I replied. Darn smart critters those Orangutans, way ahead of their time.

Tuesday, August 3, 2010

A Thousand words

A picture, they say, is worth a thousand words. What then are a thousand words worth? Are they devalued by a picture? What is the current exchange rate? Might I wait until a picture would only cost me 997 words? I am a northerner. I am a writer. A storyteller. A wordsmith if you will. I would love to paint a picture of the north for you in flowing colors; with perspective and line and form. But I cannot. I cannot draw. I cannot paint. I can barely make a straight line. Truth be told I can barely write. Were I born three hundred years ago I would not even be able to make my thoughts known as you would probably not be able to read the drunken scrawl that is my pitiful handwriting. But today I accept the challenge and I will attempt in one thousand words to tell you something of what it means to be a northerner. I will paint you a picture without paint. But most assuredly with perspective and line and form.
I once heard a Yukon artist say that when she painted the summer landscape it was almost monochromatic; being dominated by only two colors, blue and green. The blue of sky and water, the green of the hills and the water. She had to look for color. She found it in the foreground, not the far ground. It was there where she least expected it, at her feet. It was in the crevices of the rocks and in the thin and nearly non-existent soil. But it was there. In the form of tiny plants and passing butterflies. In the north life is said to cling. It does not cling. It bounds forth from every nook and cranny. It bounds and abounds, it is verdant, blatant, adamant, even rampant. It does not shirk or cling like some furtive thing. It does not skulk or cringe. It bursts forth. In every spring it surges forth with the first crack of the frozen river. The crack becomes a fissure and the fissure a lead. The pent up force of stream and river cracks and breaks with a force that awes the viewer and the listener alike. The blind would have no less a sense of awe when they witnessed the Mackenzie’s break up. To hear the huge sheets of ice, weighing more than a luxury liner; grating and crashing into each other and the shore. To hear them crushing trees and rolling boulders then size of Chryslers on the river bottom.
For here as anywhere water is the fountain of life; if not of youth. And once unlocked from winter’s grip water transforms the north. It beckons the migrations, the return of Swan and goose. It beckons them back to the land of their birth to once again complete the cycle and bring forth even more life. If you have ever seen the sky full of geese in wave after wave to the distant horizon you would never think that life in the north clings. Likewise the caribou. In herds that pour through the Yukon’s mountain passes like grains of sand through a child’s fingers. Caribou surging through the breaking Porcupine river; so full of the driving force of life that they plunge into the frigid waters amongst the sheets of broken ice, to complete the journey home. I have even seen groups of animals climbing onto an ice pan to use it as a lifer-raft to reach the other shore; in a race to reach the calving grounds before the birth of their young. Pursued to the tree-line by another animal; another factor in the equation of life for the caribou, the wolf. But the wolf itself must find a place to have its’ young.
All the while that the fauna struts and frets its’ brief hour upon the stage the flora is bursting forth. If that artist found summer a monochrome of green; she could find; in the arctic spring a polychrome in just that one color. For in early May the long days bring the sun that unlocks the soil and frees up the trees to paint the hills in vibrant and verdant profusion. In greens that are so bright in the new-found sun that they are almost yellow. Nearly neon in their brightness. When backlit by the morning light the hills themselves seem to glow. Likewise at dusk the hill; like the moon itself take on a light, though not their own. Soon, so soon that the snow has not even fled the field of battle, its’ head bowed by the soft but relentless rains, the crocus appears. I have seen it smother an alpine hill north even of the Arctic Circle. The vibrant hues of magenta as sweet as any orchid in any hot-house. No skulking here. The hills are fairly blushing crocuses apologetically almost for such an ostentatious show of life’s profusion.
As soon as the water pools in the awoken soil the insects return. The air will soon carry the buzz of the bee; feasting on a banquet of bouquets. The air too will be home to the drone of mosquitoes and black flies; not to mention the aptly named bulldog that will bite you through a pair of blue jeans. If you questioned the tenacity of life up here then stand at the edge of a swamp at twilight. You will have more life flying around your exposed skin than you thought possible.
Life does not cling up here. It defies the climate whose extremes would deny it. It flourishes with a flourish. It starts with a bang in the opening act as the house lights go up. And what lights they are; in full glory around the clock. As the lights fade and the stage goes dark the flora and fauna have already laid the seed; already raged against the dying of the light. This is my picture, my thousand words