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Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Riparian entertainments


Riparian (r -pâr - n) adj. Of, on, or relating to the banks of a natural course of water. There that’s your educational tidbit for the day, kind of a vitamin for the brain. That is of course if you did not know what riparian meant. If you already knew I apologize for being so pedantic. What’s that; pedantic? Oh for Pete’s sake pe•dan•tic adj.: overly concerned with minute details or formalisms, esp. in teaching. Right enough of the Merriam Webster stuff. Where was I? Oh yeah, riparian. I must confess that I have only known the word these ten years past. I came across the word from that sage source of learning and culture Hyacinth Bucket; ah sorry, Bouquet. From the TV series Keeping Up Appearances. In typical Hyacinth fashion she had arranged a “Candlelight Supper” to take place on the river bank. Also in typical Hyacinth fashion it turns into a debacle. But the word has stuck with me. Where you live shapes your life in many ways; both subtle and obvious. You cannot live beside the ocean without it changing your day; your weather and your outlook; likewise the river. The Deh Cho or big river as the various native nations that dot its’ shores call it. Three weeks ago a retired Firefighter from Germany came paddling down the river. He showed up at our store a bit haggard. I engaged him in conversation and he informed me that he had been on the river for two and a half months. During that time he had been attacked by bears no less than six times. His tent was shredded as was some of his gear. He needed to call home and wanted to know if there was a pay phone in town that worked. Our phone was out of order so I offered him the use of my office phone. But first I had a treat in store for him. “Where are you from in Germany?” I asked. He replied that he was from a small refinery town twenty kilometers from Cologne. “I have someone I want you to meet.” I said as I walked him into our staff room for coffee. I introduced him to Gerry our Grocery guy who is a jack of all trades and was born in Cologne. It was like magic. The haggard look was gone. So too was his English which was very good; but not being his mother tongue I could see he was struggling. You don’t get a lot of practice on the river talking to bears. His face lit up as the two men talked. I excused myself and returned to work. I was smiling too. Every now and then I eyed the phone lines to see if he was using the phone. An hour later he still was not. I walked past and knew that the conversation was flowing from him like water. Having no one at all to speak to he was happy to tell someone of his experiences. Even better, it was in his first language.
Eventually he used the phone and talked to his wife. A very different man greeted me when he was done. He was at once elated and energized by talking with Gerry but also chastened by his wife’s concern. He was to have been done by now but the setbacks and bear attacks had cost him time. “How far to Inuvik, please?” he asked. “Well; I think it’s just over 700 kilometers. If you need to do laundry or anything you could use my place.” I offered. “You Canadians are so kind. Since I started in Jasper I could not get over how kind you all are.” He was very grateful. I told him to bring his water jugs and that Gerry would take him and his food back to the river. Gerry went one better he gave the man some warm dry clothes and his own compass as the man had lost his in a bear attack. He would leave by night as the days were still twenty four hours long. That evening I took the dog that I am looking after for a walk on the beach. I spotted his canoe and gear and made for it. Not surprisingly Gerry was there. “You all seem to congregate on the river”, he noted. It was true people in town use the river nearly as often as they use the roads. It is; in the most literal sense, a highway. It brings in the food and fuel that sustains the community. It is also the cheapest way to travel to adjacent towns. The town owes its’ existence to the river; or more accurately to the two rivers; the Bear and the MacKenzie. The community was built as a fur trading post and in those days the Hudson Bay Company chose the confluence of two rivers for purely mercenary reasons. It doubled the traffic and was an easy place to find.
In the evenings and on our days off my wife and I love to walk the banks of the river. Our riparian entertainments change as the seasons change. In the spring there is the breakup. When the river sheds its’ mantle of ice and snow and burst forth with crusting awesome fury. Huge sheets of ice weighing as much as a freighter crash into each other and the shore. The sound of boulders rolling along the river bottom sounds like thunder. The open water brings the ducks and geese and swans by the hundreds of thousands. Life is returning to the north. As we walk the banks we watch overhead as honking flocks of geese sing to us. The banks of the river are at that time piled high with ice. Huge plates blacked with mud soak the strengthening sun and melt into melodious “candle” ice which is ice melted into tapered icicles by the dripping melt water. The elongated pieces are tapered like candles. They break away and fall to the ground with a soothing tinkle. Then before you know it they are gone. About this time the trees begin to bud and the color is breathtaking. More neon yellow than green. Every year I take a hundred photos and none do it justice. One day perhaps I will pick up a paintbrush and try to do it justice. Summer brings wildflowers to the banks and children and pets. The laughter of playing children is music too, The river is shallow here and they play and gambol in the water when summer climes are here.
This season too brings a change of sound and color. The trees will go from the dark green of the arctic summer to the vibrant yellow of fall. The sun begins to set again for the first time in months and the near horizontal light comes through the yellow willows and poplar and gives the banks of old man river a glow that is so enticing that it is hard to resist. Lina and I took a long walk one Sunday and decided then and there to return the next week to spend the entire day on the river. We watched ducks playing amidst the drift wood. We listened as a flock of over one hundred and fifty geese flew not thirty feet overhead. We built a driftwood fire and roasted hot dogs. We lie on a blanket on the sand and let the river; the driftwood and all of our cares go by. We saw boats and barges. We looked up at a contrail in the sky. A rare thing in these parts and we wondered where it was going and dreamt that we were going somewhere exotic. We napped on the cool sand and let the last warm rays of sun warm our faces. Soon the giant that runs beside us will sleep too.
Today our old warehouse which once housed the store rises above the town on the highest ground. This is typical. It offers a great view to trappers paddling the river and was dry in times of flood. Smart guys those early Bay Boys. Even now the communities along the Deh Cho are few and very far between. The old buildings are still there still serving the purpose that there white walls and red roofs were meant for; to mark the existence of civilization. Our German friend was right the river still is the center of activity. I for one shall continue to take advantage of its’ riparian entertainments.

Monday, September 27, 2010

The ovation

District tour. The words struck fear into the heart of a Hudson’s Bay clerk. The district tour was the semiannual time for the big boys to visit the chaps out in the trenches. We imagined them descending from ivory towers in the clouds to join us muddy footed peons at the front lines. The tour was their chance to see if we were toeing the line. Now I may be biased; but I feel we were toeing the company line. Whether they would have seen it that way depends on where in the sand you think that the line is drawn. We worked hard. Long hours in trying conditions. Doing stock checks and inventory in unheated warehouses for hours on end at minus fifty five. It was mind numbing work at hand numbing temperatures. Unloading freight planes on windy winter runways. Going home to ancient housing where the furnace worked when it felt like it. Putting up with power failures and brown outs; being eaten by flies; while you were working indoors! They; of course saw none of this. To them we spent the days skylarking; young slackers wet behind the ears. Not like in their days when it was ten miles to work; uphill both ways; blah, blah, blah…
Now of course while we were doing all this; unloading planes, putting together snowmobiles, bikes and BBQs. Delivering sofas to houses with doors too small to get them through. Carrying refrigerators up two flights of stairs that hadn’t seen a snow shovel all season. Doing all this in dress slacks, dress shirts and a smart tie. At least according to protocol. In fact; the first day on the job I had my best dress shirt practically torn off my back by a swinging door in the grocery department that had a jagged piece of sheet metal covering it. On another occasion the door tore the shoe off my foot. All I was left with was the laces tied round my ankle. The District Manager had been partly responsible for letting the door go when I had an eighty pound television in my hands. He did tell me to go charge out a new pair as it was the only pair I owned. I was making the princely sum of $10,500.00 per annum. No we were supposed to buy fur and mop floors in a shirt and tie. You know from the way I said it that we bloody well didn’t. But here’s a trick. Taught me by a canny older Manager whom I held in some esteem. You do wear a shirt and tie occasionally, randomly not every day; but perhaps on a day when you are not busy. You do it for a reason. You do it so the customers see you in them often enough that they do not walk up in the middle of district tour; in full earshot of the high and mighty and say “What the hell is that around your neck? Are the bosses in town or something?” Nothing changes the demeanor of a tour like such an event. Hours of waxing floors and filing paper can be flushed away in a minute by so hap hazard a remark. You must; in life, endeavor to learn from the mistakes of others so you do not have to suffer the feel of the lash yourself. The lash I refer to is not literal; but rather apocryphal. Although I have heard rumors…
You must remember that the Hudson’s Bay Company (or to be precise: The Governor and Company of Adventurers of England trading into the Hudson’s Bay) has a long and storied history. With that history comes a lot of baggage. Bags and more musty old bags full of traditions; protocols and precedents. The managers ate on red chine, the clerks on blue. You couldn’t fly the company coat of arms unless the Governor had visited your post. There were many rules going back into dusty antiquity. The district tour was no exception. There was a definite pecking order to these things. The lead would be taken by the Vice President, who was to be referred to by the affectionate moniker of “Mr. Vice President”. Next would be the General Manager who could alternately be referred to as “Mr. General Manager” as his wife did; or Mr. Insert last name here. The District Manager was likewise referred to as Mr. So & So. Then came the Store Manager; in those days a position of some importance and respect in the eyes of the locals but not in the eyes of head office to whom you were just Ralph or Peter or whatever. Me; I was at the bottom of the pecking order and was generally not referred to at all. Now there is a saying in plumbing; stuff runs downhill and pay day’s on Friday. Believe me the stuff really does run downhill.
The V.P.: as I will call him to save time, would turn to the G.M. as I will call him to save time and say “Wah Wah Wah.” (just think of it like the muted trombone sound from a Charlie Brown cartoon). Then the G.M. turns to the D.M. as I will call him to save time, and says (even though we all heard the V.P. as we are all five feet away) “Wah Wah Wah!” . The D.M. turns to the S.M. as I will call him to save time; and says “Wah Wah Wah!!” (Even though we already heard the V.P. tell the G.M. and the G.M. tell the D.M.)Then the S.M. turns to me whom I shall call me to save time and to protect the innocent; and says “Wah Wah Wah!!!” Even though we already heard the V.P. tell the G.M. and the G.M. tell the D.M. and the D.M. tell the S.M.) I then turn around and as there is no one lower than me on the totem pole I say nothing. There you have now experienced a District Tour of The Governor and Company of Adventurers of England Trading into the Hudson’s Bay whom I will call the H.B.C. to save time.
Now I remember one particular time when we were being graced with the presence of the V.P. on a district tour. Some days prior to the tour starting the D.M. (not to be confused with the G.M. or the S.M.) was visiting the store on routine business. We had an elderly gentleman who ran the gas station. It was the perfect job for an elderly gentleman. The hours were short and the pace was slow. Now I should give you a little background on this gas station. If you were thinking concrete with a roof and fancy pumps; forget it. The gas station was a flat space in front of a fenced tank farm. It featured a tiny shed big enough for a cash register and some oil. Inside that shed on any given afternoon were half a dozen elders. They sat on cases of oil and smoked (yes smoked) and played cards. The number of cases of oil on inventory in that shed had everything to do with the number of men playing cards and nothing whatsoever to do with sales. Around this on all sides was a morass of mud. Wheel ruts more than a foot deep carved through it. In spring and fall only the bravest or most fool hardy ventured in there on wheels. Most sensible folk carried gas cans in and filled their rides themselves. Silas our venerable old gas man frequently wore hip waders to work at this time of year. Oddly no one complained. It was how things had always been done. Now that evening when the D.M. saw Silas making his way into the back door of the store with his cash drawer to make his closing deposit he thought he would lift Silas’ spirits with the words he was most likely to want to hear. “We will be here next week for District tour!” The D.M. piped cheerily. Stony silence greeted him. “Don’t forget to dress for the occasion!” The D.M. meant it as a joke. But it is hard sometimes to frame a joke when you lack one crucial ingredient; a sense of humor. Silas turned in his deposit and left without a word.
On the appointed day the V.P. the G.M. and the D.M. arrived in the morning. They did the usual tour of the facilities. When we were ready to tour the outside of the property we filed out V.P. followed by G.M. followed by D.M. followed by S.M. followed by me. When we got there we were greeted by a sight that none of us would ever forget. There was Silas; all six foot four of him resplendent in a three piece blue serge suit with white pinstripes. A gold watch chain draped from vest pocket to vest pocket. On his head was a black homburg hat. On his legs was a pair of filthy green hip waders! He was slogging through the mud with a full Gerry can of gas in each hand. The suit on closer inspection smelled of camphor and I fancied I could see the bulge of a couple of mothballs in the breast pocket. I fancy that it was his demob (short for demobilization) suit that was given each vet when the returned to civilian life after the war. What could they do? The V.P. stood without so much as a “Wah Wah Wah!” He in his blazer and tie was totally outclassed. Silas would not have looked out of place on the cover of Gentleman’s Quarterly (albeit the 1946 edition). He was a magnificent sight. With his erect posture and grey temples he looked like a bank manager (from the waist up). Then the strangest thing happened. The V.P. looked at the G.M. and began to clap his hands. The G.M. looked at the D.M. and although the D.M. could hear the V.P. he too began to clap. The D.M. turned to the S.M. and although he could hear the V.P. and the G.M. he too began to clap. Then the S.M. turned to me and although I too could hear the V.P. and the G.M. and the D.M. he too began to clap. As there was no one else to look at and as the V.P. and the G.M. and the D.M. and the S.M. were standing there clapping I made it unanimous. Silas got the first standing ovation in the long and now even more storied history of the Governor and Company of Adventurers of England Trading into the Hudson’s Bay.

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Taken for granted

The things that you take for granted always surprise you; because, well, you take them for granted. Gumball machines for example. When I was growing up they were everywhere. Every grocery store had them often a small bank of them. They also popped up anywhere that people had to wait. The Canadian Tire had one in the service department where the auto bays were the room smelling manly like grease and cigarette smoke. I remember dad giving me a nickel to get a shiny blue gumball while we got the winter tires put on the Austin one year. There was one at the KFC except they didn’t call it KFC in those days just Kentucky Fried Chicken.; the advertising gurus had not yet thought up that nugget. You could stare at the brightly colored gum while waiting for your order. The Koolex Cleaners had twinned ones that had peanuts in it; barbeque and regular.
I remember once when I had found a dime in the K-Mart parking lot. Not a bright shiny dime, but an old dirty one with sugar from cotton candy on it, that is why everyone else failed to see it. Now a dime was a lot of money back then. My allowance was a dime twice a week. One on Dad’s payday; for he was paid every week, and one on Saturday so I could go to the corner store after baseball or road hockey with my friends. So an extra dime was a fortune to me. Plus it was found money. Now your weekly allowance was like your weekly wages; hard earned money anticipated for days. You had spent it many times in your mind; imagining how good the Popsicle or bag of chips would taste. Your allowance had to be spent on something of substance. Maybe the tiny black licorice flavored jaw breakers that were three for a penny at Leo’s store. Never around the corner where the other store only gave you two. What a rip-off! Mint leaves were two for a penny. Mojos; the tiny ones were three for a penny too. A licorice pipe was two cents and was a special treat when you were really flush like when you had a quarter. Those were rare times.
We could raise extra money by combing the ditches for pop bottles. Two cents for a small one a whole nickel if you struck the mother lode of a quart bottle! But found money was a different thing altogether. You had carte blanche! You were free to spend it foolishly; even morally obligated to use it for something you would never normally buy, not with your own money anyways. When I looked up the filthy, sticky dime in my hand I saw them, shiny chrome; glass and red painted metal. A bank of maybe six gumball machines. But not just gumballs. There were toys. Toys in tiny cunning capsules small enough to fit through the chute with the chrome door that read “Thank You” on the front. I made a beeline for the machine before my Mom could get through the checkout. She would not approve; would not understand the moral imperative of spending found money foolishly. She had grown up in the depression and knew the value of a dime. I dropped to my knees in front of the capsule machine and stuck the filthy dime in the slot. The machine had a picture of its’ contents on a cardboard card. There were soldiers and cowboys, plastic cars a lucky token and a tiny baby bottle. I turned the mechanism and opened the door expecting my treat. At first nothing came out so I began to jiggle the knob. The door was supposed to be closed to allow the toy to slide down. I did not understand. I began to turn harder and the wheel began to spin I kept turning. Nothing! I was appalled. My face got hot and I dropped the “thank You” door. I heard a clink as the toy hit the door and I opened it and removed it; stuffing it in my pocket without a look. Then I heard the same sound. I opened the door and another capsule was sitting there. I stuffed it in my pocket too. This happened perhaps a dozen times my pockets bulged with the booty.
I stood up and my conscience smote me. I went into the entrance where a lady stood behind a dais stapling shoppers other bags as they entered to prevent shoplifting. I stood there politely waiting until she was free. “I think your machine is broken!” I said with as much authority as I could muster. “That one!” I said pointing. The store was busy and she had more adults waiting to have their packages stapled. “Thank you dear.” she said patting my head. “I will put a sign on it when I get a minute.” I was frustrated; I stuck a hand in my pocket to show her all the capsules full of God only knew what. Before I could protest I heard my Mother. “Come on your Father’s parked out front.” She wasn’t mad but she was serious so I slipped away from the smiling lady who was waving at me. I put my hands into my bulging pockets to hide the toys.
It was like I had won the lottery, if they had lotteries in those days. My best friend Jed was totally jealous. There was a car and a truck a plastic ball glove of leather colored plastic with a baseball on a beaded chain that was for keys. I shared the duplicates with Jed to buy his silence not that he would have ever squealed. We were in hog heaven. We filled the capsules with fine dust and threw them at each other like they were grenades. The puff of dust like a puff of smoke. We had hours of fun.
So when we got the first gumball machines in the store in Fox Lake I wasn’t ready for the reaction; even madness that ensued. When the salesman called we placed what we thought was a big order. The machine arrived on the winter road. We bundled it into the store and set it up right in front. It was huge! Six candy machines and four capsule machines. We filled them all. There were gumballs and jelly beans and hard candies. There were capsules with toys and rings and one mix which contained digital watches. This was the most popular. Our office was overwhelmed with kids wanting rolls of quarters and dimes. We had to empty the machines sometimes three times a day as we ran out of coins. We spent hours wrapping and counting coins. At the end of the first day our janitor swept the empty capsules into a pile and filled a garbage can with them using a snow shovel. You were wading through empty capsules ankle deep. I watched stunned as an elder kneeled in front of the machine and fed quarters in until he had the digital watch for his granddaughter; it was like watching someone play a VLT.
After school the first day the teachers came to the store en masse to see the phenomenon for themselves. All day they had heard the stories of the wonderful new machines. Even the Nuns had to see it for themselves. The whole town was talking about the life changing event. By the second day we knew that the six month supply of candy and capsules would be gone before the end of the week so we placed a much larger order. The six month supply was gone in three days! It took more than a week for the fresh supplies to come. I thought that the ardor would be gone by then but the initial taste and the sudden famine only whetted appetites for the craze. But when supply kept up to demand the demand eventually slowed. We enjoyed the ride but were secretly relieved when the machines took a back stage to normal retailing.
The first week we got phone calls from head office asking why sales were up so dramatically. Imagine their disbelief when we told them it was because of a gumball machine. Until they processed the invoices I still don’t think it sank in for them. But like the hula hoop and the Cabbage Patch kids this fad too subsided. Shortly before I moved a year later I heard a local youngster talking to a kid from nearby Garden River. “Oh wow! A gumball machine. When did you guys get that?” the out of towner asked. “Oh; that?” replied the homey. “We had that since I was a kid!” Like I said its funny the things you take for granted.

You have to be lucky.

It is the old argument; nature or nurture. Are true fishermen born or are they created? I have known both. I myself was born with a spoon in my mouth; not a silver one, more likely a Len Thompson #4, probably a five of diamonds. My Dad had me fishing as soon as I could walk. I was; pardon the pun “hooked”. But not all men and women are so lucky. Some were so deprived as children as not to be raised as piscators. (Pis`ca´tor n. A fisherman or angler) It has been my mission to convert some of these heathens, to bring some of the unwashed, the unholy into the inner circle of true anglers. To bring them to the light. But one must handle the unsaved with care. For if you leadeth them upon the waters of the Dead Sea (or dud sea) where the fish do not see fit to bite; you risk losing them as a convert.
Gerard was one of my fellow employees at the restaurant. He was young and enthusiastic. He came from a large family and I had known all his siblings who had cycled through the place over the years. I; being somewhat older than Gerard must have cut a more senior figure. A wise old veteran. A Yoda-like figure. He was as clay and I was the potter. I did not choose some easy venue for his first outing. I chose a lake I had found while researching gold mining in my father’s hometown of Mount Uniacke. The lake had appeared on several aerial photos I looked up in the science library. I found it on a map. “Any fish in there?” I asked my Dad one day. “Lots, I used to fish for them when I was floating log booms down the lake to the mill; there.” Dad said pointing to a foot shaped cove at the south end of the lake. “Looks pretty remote.” I said. “Batter fishing. We built a corduroy road back to it in the thirties” I studied the map and figured it a good seven mile hike. The only thing that worried me was a series of lateral lines with three vertical lines splaying out of each. Designed to look like lily pads the indicated a swamp. The road ran straight through it. “Bound to be fish. No one goes there.” Dad said reassuringly.
I planned the trip for late April, after exams. I thought it would offer a good chance of him getting his first fish. “You have had a deprived childhood. Depraved really. Your father never took you fishing! I should report him to child protective services!” Gerard’s father was in fact a fine man. A school teacher who went on to become school principal. ”Will we get fish?” Gerard asked wide eyed with anticipation. I tried to appear sage and inscrutable. “Ah well; there are no guarantees you know. Fishing is a sport of luck as well as skill. Even the best sportsmen are sometimes skunked.” I think I saw reverence in his eyes, but it could have been caused by the cigarette smoke in the break room, everyone smoked in those days. “Pack some garbage bags to keep your clothes and stuff dry. I had lent him a pack as he had none. How does one reach adolescence and not own a decent rucksack?
We left super early. The sun was still abed when we took our gear out of the trunk. It was a perfect day for a hike in the woods. When the sun rose on a clear sky the horizon was pink as a salmon. “I don’t like the look of that.” I said to Gerard, pointing to the horizon. “There’s not a cloud in the sky.” He answered cheerily. “Red sky at night is a sailor’s delight. Red sky in the morning and the sailor takes warning.” I said sagely. The day stayed clear as we trekked our way along the trail. The old mine road was firm and good going being built virtually on the bedrock. When we turned off it the terrain began to change. What had appeared on the map started out as a broken line which indicated gravel road. This part was a dotted line which indicated a trail. The lily pads on the map soon became a full blown bog. Dead trees stuck up out of it. The place had strange echoes and one could see why swamps figure so prominently in horror movies. You could hear birds calling but never saw them. Every once in a while a great splash; just beyond your vision. There was no question of pursuing the splashes as stepping off the trail by so much as a foot meant sinking to your chest as we both soon found out. The old corduroy road; a road made by laying tree trunks across the roadbed had long since been claimed by the mire. Beavers had dammed streams and the water covered the old road a foot or more deep. What was left of the logs was slippery and rotten so they often broke underfoot and caused you to slip and slide. We were soon soaked.
Gerard was a trooper he pushed on with no complaint. In fact I began to have remorse for dragging so innocent a young man on what was looking like a fool’s errand. I began to think of my act as the wise veteran and was racked with self doubt. But still the lake was there and we were going to make it. Eventually the road became higher and drier. We stopped and changed pants and socks. “Use the garbage bags for the wet clothes.” I told Gerard. We made good time the rest of the way and arrived at the lake before lunch. Gerard was keen to fish but there was something I did not like in the wind that had picked up. Nearly all the new leaves were upside down; a sure sign of rain. And there was something in the way that loon was calling that made me think rain. “Let’s pitch the tent and put up some firewood first.” I said. “The sky is clear, not a cloud.” Gerard said chipper as a schoolboy. He was in fact a schoolboy. Truth be told so was I; being a university junior. Gerard stood staring at the lake; an idyllic scene, water so clean you could drink it. Loons were swimming and diving in the cove. Beavers were carrying alder limbs to and fro. I unpacked the tent and put it up by myself. It was a poor excuse for a tent. One I’d had since junior high. Patched with thread it leaked like a sieve. The skies darkened as I finished. Gerard was not as chipper as he approached. ”You were right it looks bad” he said; a little quaver in his voice. “There’s a saying about Mount Uniacke weather. If you don’t like it; wait fifteen minutes. It will change.” I offered. We stored the gear and began to gather firewood as the rain started. It came down in sheets. We put what little wood we had under a tarp and went into the tent. We put on our rain gear and opened the food. “How about a cold lunch?” I asked. “We’ll build a fire when the rain eases and have some fresh trout!” Gerard brightened. We ate and made our way out in the rain to fish. We used floats but found the rain was hitting so hard that you couldn’t even see them so we just took to casting. The wind unfortunately was in our faces so the casting was impossible. We retired to the tent.
I produced a deck of cards and we played cards for a few hours. The rain lashed the tent mercilessly and the walls began to flap in the wind. It was hard to hear yourself talk. Water was constantly seeping in and I used a towel to mop it up. “Make sure all your dry clothes are in a good garbage bag.” I told Gerard. I began to regain some of my confidence as a woodsman. We used sterno to cook the supper as the wind was too strong for a fire. The warm food hit the spot and we lay out on our sleeping bags. The early start and long hike made for a good sleeping pill. We were soon asleep.
I awoke with a start as peals of thunder rent the skies. The tent floor was wet and so were the sleeping bags. I mopped up and went out and tightened the guy lines. The lightening lit the sky steadily. “Right over head!” I yelled as I re-entered the tent. “No space between the thunder clap and the lightening. There would be little sleep now. The storm went on for hours. The lightening quit before dawn and the rain slackened to a steady heavy drizzle. I used the sterno to cook eggs. “Sorry the bacon is rubbery.” I said as I handed Gerard his plate. “Sorry about the weather too.” I added. “Just wait fifteen minutes it will change.” He added smiling. What a trooper I thought, “Let’s fish!” I said and grabbed my rod. I baited up and cast my line. The lake was calmer now and my bobber hits the water with a splash. The line dropped and tightened as the bait descended. The float slid across the surface as the weight of the bait pulled it directly over the line. But the bobber kept sliding across the surface. I raised my rod tip and yelled “FISH!” Gerard came running. I was into a good fish and the water boiled. When I finally landed him I put him in Gerard’s hands. We stood over it like it was the crown jewels. “Look at that! Did you ever see anything more beautiful?’” I could tell by his eyes he hadn’t. It was a symphony of color. Its’ back so green it was nearly black. Its’ upper sides green yet gold at the same time, smattered with those dots with the iridescent blue rings like inset semi precious stones. The belly creamy with two fins at the throat as white as alabaster and tipped with blood red. What a sight! Three quarters of a pound of animal fury. So electrifying as to make all this worth it. A pang of guilt hit me. “This should have been your fish.” I said as I lay it in the creel. “There really is a lot of luck involved.” I said to reassure him. Not that there isn’t skill. The way you cast, where you cast. How fast you retrieve. What lure to use, what line to use. There are a thousand factors. But I have seen expert fishers with ten thousand dollars worth of gear bested by a kid with a willow pole and a bare hook with a piece of bacon on it. Go figure.
“Luck is huge. Without it; nothing, nada, zilch. Two guys fish together and one guy gets them all, the other guy often gets nothing. Even with my regular fishing partners. Same gear same technique, different results,” Gerard looked at his line hanging slack in the water. “How do you change the luck?” he asked. “I don’t believe in rabbit’s feet, the rabbit had four of them and look how he finished up! No; you want to change the luck? Spray fly dope on the other guys lure when he’s not looking. Step on his reel accidentally of course! Break his rod tip off in the trunk. Budda boom budda Bing; his luck changes!” I said this last part in a very bad Italian accent. “Thanks Don Vito but I meant how do you change your luck?” He was still laughing. Good kid. “There is one secret to fishing. You can’t catch a fish if your line is not in the water so keep casting.”
He did but his luck didn’t improve. Mine did I got a couple more. As darkness fell I put the truth to him. We had planned another night but I knew we were running out of dry clothes and sterno. “We gotta make a call. Do we leave in the morning?” I asked. “I have one more set of dry clothes thanks to the garbage bags.” He said. “Told you! Well we’ll see hat morning brings.” The rain stopped sometime in the night. We slept like babies. The lake was like glass when we awoke. We put on our dry clothes and flaked the wet ones on some bushes. I scoured the shore for beaver wood, stripped of bark it dries faster. I smeared some of the remaining sterno on the soggy wood and lit it. “An old boy scout trick.” I said. “Really?” he asked incredulous. “Yes, as soon as the scoutmaster turns his back!” U said with a chuckle. I soon had a lovely fire going. Hot food and hot coffee further buoyed our spirits. We finished the trip and still no fish for Gerard. I felt I had failed him. We took staffs of beaver wood and made our way home.
A couple of weeks later I suggested another trip, this time to a few places I knew not far from the highway. Gerard gratefully accepted. That morning at the first pool we reached he landed a lovely half pounder. As beautiful as any I had seen. I showed him how to clean it said “You are now a member of the fishing fraternity.” I didn’t need to ask him how it felt it was written all over his face. “See, I got nothing, all luck!”That afternoon we drove down the highway until I came to a place I often catch fish. It is literally right on the highway. There was an old man standing there with a piece of bamboo with an old rod tip jammed into it. He had tied thirty feet of line to the tip. At his feet was a bucket full of fish. “How many can I keep?” he asked when I stopped. I looked at the bucket. “Not that many.” I said. “Damn I am going to give these away. I will be right back, watch my rod!” He vanished with a shambling gait. The water looked unusual like it had been stirred up. The old man quickly returned. “What’s the deal?” I asked. “Lands and forests was just here they dumped a whole tanker truck full of stock trout. They are confused and the cove is full of them. I get one every cast, can you spare some bait?” I obliged and Gerard began to cast. It was like magic he had one every cast. We tried every lure in my box and got fish on all but one. I even tried the old man’s rig, at his insistence and caught fish. We had a magical afternoon and Gerard learned a lot about setting the hook and fighting a fish. On the drive home I thought I would drive home the point I had been making. Our success had re-inflated my ego. “See what I told you, all luck.” He looked at me with a new look in his eyes not of a student but of a peer. “What luck, it was like shooting fish in a barrel, literally, all we had to do was cast.” He thought he had outwitted the old master. “Nah, I've been to that spot a hundred times and this is the most I ever caught. Showing up right after a hatchery truck, now that’s lucky!”

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

O Christmas tree

“YOU ARE TELLING ME…”
My friend said in disbelief. “THAT YOU; MAN OF THE NORTH, LIVING THOUSANDS OF MILES FROM ANYWHERE, HAVE AN ARTIFICIAL TREE?” I was showing him photos of life in Old Crow during my annual holidays. “An honest to goodness, painted, piece of Chinese imported plastic? You gotta be kidding me. Aren’t you surrounded by thousands of trees? Real ones?” He was right there were trees out there, thousands but there was more to it than that. In my childhood it had seemed simpler. I suspect that most things do.
When I was a kid my Dad and I would venture forth to pick the perfect tree to decorate the house for the festive season. Like most rituals its origins were lost in ancient mystery. What was involved was the donning of the dreaded winter attire; layers of scratchy wool. Wool sweaters, wool socks and hand-made wool mittens. By the time we were ready to go I was bundled up like an Egyptian mummy. We would head down the highway for one of Dad’s hunting spots where “I know there a good one!” he would assure me enthusiastically. We would drive down some icy snow covered country road that had never seen a snowplow. We would wade through drifts up to my chest. We would shake the snow from tree after tree until we found the one we wanted. The amazing thing is that there was actual magic involved. No seriously. For when we picked the tree, flushed with fresh air and brilliant sun the tree appeared perfect. An archetypal Christmas tree perfect in every way; devoid of flaw. However when it arrived in my parent’s living room to be presented to my little brother and the women folk who formed the judge and jury a transformation had taken place. The tree no longer seemed perfect. A bald patch or two appeared, the trunk seemed bent. The top askew. “That…” my Mom would say “is the best you could do?” Now I swear that it looked different when we tied it to the roof rack. Maybe more snow had shaken loose or maybe we had been victims of some state of euphoria brought on by the clear air and the exertion of the chase. In any case there was little doubt this was not the tree we thought we had.
Now if tree hunting in the south had its’ drawbacks the search for the perfect specimen in the boreal forest was another kettle of fish. I remember my first Christmas in the Northwest Territories. I borrowed a snowmobile and toboggan from a trapper friend of mine and set out to comb the hills for the quintessential Christmas tree. I found a beauty. Eight feet tall if it was an inch. I tied it to the toboggan and made a beeline for home. Now I’m sure that to people from the southern hemisphere the snowy hills may appear to be white fluffy clouds of cotton candy. In fact they are frozen hard as cement. When I arrived home I was the proud owner of an eight foot stick. It was nearly bereft of needles and the canvas skirt of the toboggan was full of them. The tree, seared by the forty five below zero cold and the constant pounding of the trail had shed its’ beautiful fir coat (pardon the pun). Hi I’m not only the president of the hair club for bald trees but I’m a member too.
I once cut down my Christmas tree with a rifle. No I didn’t beat it down with the butt. I was driving a winter road in Northern Alberta when I came across the most beautiful tree. There were two small problems first I had no axe. Second the tree was thirty feet tall. I sure wanted that tree; though. It was splendid. It had grown up taller than the trees around it which allowed it to be fuller on all sides. I coveted this tree. I knew if I did not grab it now I would probably never find it again. I searched my truck and racked my brain. Then it hit me. My rifle! If I started on one side of the trunk O could shoot the tree down! As a bonus I could shoot off only the top seven feet or so. I had only the shells in the clip but with a few good shots the top fell just as I planned. It must have been meant to be. As an additional bonus; without even additional shipping and handling, the tree was covered in cones. They looked great when the tree was decorated and people thought I added the cones.
But the further north you go the harder it is to find the perfect tree. Life is hard up here. The arctic is virtually a desert in winter cold and sere. It stunts the trees. They work very hard to cling to life. It takes them many years longer to reach the size that you would drag home and stand in your living room. A Christmas tree sized northern spruce or pine could be one hundred and fifty years old or more. Imagine cutting down anything that old to put up in your living room for a week. Sorry but it just aint happening. Yes I may be surrounded by trees but I would also like to stay that way. I do pick out a tree each year; though. I look for it when I am out walking. I find a nice one; whose imperfections are smothered in snow. I just don’t cut it down. I just watch it where it stands and think of what the Christmas tree once stood for. Originally the evergreen tree was associated with the celebration of the winter solstice not the later Christian celebration which adopted the symbol. It was chosen to represent the time of year when the days would start to get longer and life would return to the hibernating winter world. It was chosen because it was green and full of life when all the trees of the world were brown and apparently lifeless. Now we kill them and drag their carcasses into our living rooms and then throw them out with the trash. My living room may have a plastic tree but my real Christmas tree will still be alive next year and the year after. She may not have the curves of your southern manicured tree farm models; but she looks pretty good for her age. She may be one hundred and fifty but she doesn’t look a day over a hundred and twenty!

Monday, September 13, 2010

Speciesism.

Spell-check does not recognize the title of this piece, speciesism. In fact I thought I had invented it. But alas when I turned to my favorite righter of wrongs and oracle of truths, Wikipedia I discovered that I was not so original a thinker as I might have dreamt. In fact the origin is attributed; by the aforementioned sage, to a British psychologist named Richard Ryder who in 1973 coined the word to mean: the assigning of different values or rights to beings on the basis of their species membership. How on earth you may ask did I come to have delusions of original thought? It happened as so many of my musings do while I was out for a walk. There must be a physical pathway from the feet to the brain; or more to the point, my feet to my brain. I seem to have many reflections or musings whist I am walking. Perhaps the blood flows better to the brain. My wife might argue that my brain is starved of oxygen but nonetheless I get some great ideas while walking. I once walked, albeit on a fine July day the very route that Pierre Trudeau chose for his now infamous walk in the snow. There was a man who knew the effects of a good walk on the cogitative facilities. If it was good enough for Pierre it is good enough for me.
So what occurred to me while I was walking was the old expression that a day was “Fit for neither man nor beast.”In fact the day was rather cold and wet and unseasonal. It may not really have been unseasonal but it was at least a preview of the coming season. Although here in the arctic it is already fall. I thought about that expression “Fit for neither man nor beast.” And it dawned on me that man is a beast. Not in the pejorative sense of the word beast but in the flora and fauna sense of the word. Man is an animal. What makes us better than any other beast? Why would weather that was fit for a beast not be fit for us? It is a small indicator of the way we humans think. In gambling they call it a “tell”. It is a Freudian slip. That old Sigmund, do you suppose he really did wear a slip? Might explain a lot. Anyways; we do have a sense that we are better than the other animals. We are speciesists. Not easy to say and not easy to admit either. Just as racism is wrong, so folks is this one. I remember once I waded in on the issue of drift-net fishing on CBC Radio’s As It Happens. I called them in answer to another caller’s remarks about fish destroyed by these nets “Not being on the endangered species list anyways.” A foolish and destructive attitude I felt and I let my feelings be known. “My regard for the protection of another species,” I said testily “is not restricted to their position on some arbitrary scale of their relative order in the chain of animal extinction.” Or irate words to that effect. My blood is warming up just thinking about it and that was probably ten years ago.
The point is equally valid today. Other species are not ours to dispose of as we please. We have a place in the food chain, but we are not at moral liberty to destroy the whole chain. We need not all become vegetarians, but I respect those who do. I understand their feelings and I respect their commitment. If it weren’t for bacon I might be right there with them. Ahhhhh, BACON! Still we think that opposable thumbs and bipedal locomotion makes us better than the next guy. Even if the next guy is my neighbors German shepherd cross who eats my garbage I am not better than him. If we had more respect for the other creatures we share this planet with then we would be better custodians of it. I have heard the argument many times; what is it that separates man from other animals? All the usual answers too; bipedal locomotion, tools, fire, opposable thumbs etc. You know what I think separates us from other animals? Not that we are the only species that could make all life on this planet extinct but that we are the only species that would make all life on this planet extinct! End of rant! (At least until my next walk)

Saturday, September 11, 2010

War Stories

“Hey, hey, hey if you’re going to tell my war stories then get it right.” I said as I entered the conference room. It never fails when you get a room full of firefighters the stories start. Now first responders do not have the same sense of humor or lack the same filters than normal folk use when having a conversation. The term for it is Black Humor and outsiders would miss much of the humor of it. It is, however a very necessary thing. It is a coping mechanism. First Responders have to deal with situations that would level most people. Imagine not only having to deal with a grievous injury to a child but having to stay calm and dispassionate and still do your job. Not easy on a caring person. I don’t think that people migrate to the fire service because they are uncaring and naturally dispassionate. I think it is quite the opposite. I think that men and women migrate to being first responders because they care. We call them war stories. War stories are something that firefighters know well. They are a way of sharing an experience with others. Others who know what you are dealing with. Others who know what it means to be woken out f a sound sleep at three in the morning. At three in the morning on a night that is thirty below and to be plunged into a life and death situation before you are even fully awake. I have never been to war. But I have an appreciation, not of what it is like, but I have a greater than normal gratitude for what they have been through. I hope that they can forgive our appropriation of the name.
As I made the exclamation Victor spun on his heel and faced the doorway. “How the hell are ya!” He said extending a hand the size of a baseball mitt. It was a hand I knew well. Vic and I go way back. Nearly twenty years ago he brought the freight to the tiny store I ran in Ft. Resolution. He would make the five hour return trip from Hay River our nearest large center. He was a big guy with a great sense of humor and a willingness to try anything that made him invaluable to his employer. It also made him invaluable as a volunteer firefighter. Vic had joined the HRFD long before he was old enough to be a fire fighter. He hauled hose and filled air bottles and did all the inglorious jobs that are so forgotten by the public who see people showing up on a shiny truck and forget about the hours it took to polish that truck. They never see the guys scrubbing filthy hose or pouring over text books and spending weekends practicing in layers of sweaty bunker gear and clammy rubber face masks. Vic was a yeoman. He was the real deal. We knew each other quite a while before we found out that the other was a firefighter.
It happened just after the events that Vic was relating to a room full of territorial firefighters in Yellowknife for a course. Now I can’t blame someone for telling this story, even if it was rightly mine to tell. It was a great story. It wasn’t everyday that a fire hall burns to the ground. That’s right; I have a hard time believing it too and I was there. I imagine Vic had told the story before, he was a good storyteller. I have no doubt that he has told the story many times since. Vic put an arm around me and introduced me to the Fire Service members in the group. Some were in uniform, some, like me were in plain clothes. I shook hands all round. It was in just such a situation that we both found out the other was a Firefighter, over a handshake. With only a slight prompting from Vic I began to tell the story.
It had begun; as so many Firefighting stories do at three in the morning. Three o’clock of a frosty Easter Sunday morning. I had been deeply asleep when the wail of the fire siren sent me scrambling. This was not supposed to happen. The fire siren, an air raid style siren mounted on top of the fire hall was activated inside the fire hall. We were supposed to activate it after we arrived. What was supposed to happen first was that the fire phone was supposed to ring. The fire phone was a special modification to your normal phone. It was one long ring that rang until you picked it up. We were supposed to be able to activate the alarm from our home phone but that feature never really worked. It had to be pushed manually. At three a.m. there was no time to figure it out. I sprang from my bed and hurried down the hall toward the back door.
Standing on my back landing was the RCMP Corporal and the Nurse. I knew one thing for sure, this wasn’t a drill! I flung open the hall door to grab my parka. It had fallen down the basement stairs. There wasn’t time to get it now. I pulled on my boots as I opened the door. Since the nurse was there only one thing occurred to me, that someone was hurt. What greeted my ears was almost as hard to comprehend. “It’s the fire hall!” the Corporal said. If it wasn’t 3 a.m. I would have thought he was joking. As we dashed to the RCMP Suburban I looked toward the fire hall, I could not see any smoke. “I had a look, I don’t think it is too bad,” The Corporal said as we made our way to the hall. When I reached the door I put the back of my hand against it the way I was trained. Warm but not hot; I thought as I planned what to do next. No other firefighters had reached the scene yet. I crouched and opened the door. A wave of heat and smoke belched past my face. I stuck my head into the hall. Blinding smoke made my eyes water. I surveyed the scene and closed the door. Everything I could see was ablaze. Smoke was layered down nearly to the floor. The heat was terrific. The Corporal stood over my shoulder. I looked back “What is your definition of a bad fire?” I asked sarcastically.
A million things were going through my mind but one thing was apparent. I needed to get the truck out of there. If I did I could fight this fire. If not; the hall, the truck and all our gear was toast. Literally! I looked into the Corporal’s eyes. “I am going in. I gotta get that truck out,” I said in as calm and steady a voice as I could manage. “I’ve got to set up a perimeter.” He said. A towns’ person had stopped. I looked him in the eye. “I am going in there. Do NOT let this door close, you hear me? If it closes I am dead.” I tried not to let my voice betray my fear. He told me he would not let me down. I crawled in on all fours. The smoke was choking and the heat was reminding me of my bare arms and face. I crawled to the center of the hall. I knew without my personal protective equipment or PPE as we call it; I couldn’t stay ion here long. I felt naked. Normally when we crawl into a burning building we have layers of special fabric, we have masks and air packs and helmets and gloves. In my track pants and T-shirt I felt very exposed. I turned to the rack where I knew all that good stuff was hanging. It was all in flames. The gear was alight and the boots were dripping flaming drops of molten rubber on the floor. No help there I thought. I turned back to the task at hand. The tears were running down my face from the acrid smoke. As my eyes passed where the open door should have been I could see nothing. “Keep that damn door open!” I yelled. “It is open, Greg!” came the timid reply. Crap, I thought. I am in big trouble.
I made it to the pillar that separated the two bays of the hall. I stood up and took the chain that opened the door in my hands. It was oddly sticky as though coated in glue. Perhaps some sticky byproduct of the fire I thought as I raised the door. A welcome blast of icy minus thirty air hit me as the door came grudgingly up. I got the door to shoulder height. But it would go no further. I put my shoulder under it and heaved. No dice. I was out of air and my lungs were burning. My eyes were useless. I could see nothing. Nothing at all.
I knew I had to get out of there. Having gotten the chain out of the holder I knew I could close the door and still open it from outside. I reluctantly let the door close and grabbed my breath. I reached down and took the door in my hands again and lifted it to the shoulders. Still it would not open. I could see very little due to the smoke. It was then that things started moving in slow motion, the way they do in those Lethal Weapon movies. In slow motion I saw the Corporal running towards me. He grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled. As we were rolling on the icy surface of the parking lot I saw sheets of flame come down the inside of the garage door. As the door dropped the flame reached the ground and shot out towards us. The all hell broke loose. I had seen something parked in the usually empty bay of the fire hall. In the smoke and flame, even though I had passed within six feet of it I could not tell what it was. I had assumed it was the Hamlet truck, a five ton flatbed. It was in fact the Zamboni from the arena a block away. An ice cleaner. It was a tractor that towed a box and cleaned the ice. As the door closed I could see, through the three large windowed panes the tractor shot into the air. At the same instant the door started to buckle and the panels of the door began to idly towards us through the air. The Corporal and I scrambled on the ice, slippery and wet from the heat a huge mushroom cloud followed us down the driveway. Pieces of door flew past us through the air like tinfoil, twisting as they went. As the door vaporized the flames shot skywards thirty feet over the roof of the fire hall. We landed in a heap on the street. As we looked back it was obvious that there was no way to save anything. I looked at the Corporal, “We have to get the water trucks.” I yelled. “We have to save the surrounding buildings.”
Water is delivered in small northern towns. The water truck acted as back up to the fire truck. They have nozzles too. We found the water truck contractor awake and already in action. I positioned the trucks so as to protect the exposures. The rest of the firefighters were arriving and soon we had the situation under control. The Corporal showed up with an RCMP parka which he draped over my shoulders. I had forgotten how cold it was. “I’ll take you to the nursing station” he said. I was puzzled. What for? I asked dumbly. “Look at your hands.” He said nodding at them. I looked down. My hands were covered in black soot and angry red blisters were visible on all surfaces of the palms. They did not hurt at all. I tried to make a fist. No dice. The fire chief nodded and told me to go. I sat in the nursing station while a friend who was a male nurse worked on my hands. “I can’t get the black off. It’ll tear the blisters and it will get infected.” I looked at my arms. The palms of both hands were burned. Every joint was blistered on every finger and large patches of both forearms were one giant blister, from wrist to elbow. The areas that were not blistered were red. “Contact burns to the palms. Radiation burns to the forearms he said writing notes on my chart. “You must have grabbed something hot!” He added. “The chains, I guess.” I said. “No wonder they were sticky. They were red hot.” It was beginning to make sense now. “When the adrenalin wears off those are going to hurt. I am going to give you something.”
I left the Nursing station and walked back to the scene. “Get some sleep.” the Chief said “It’s going to be a long day.” Things had been moving way too fast. In my living room they were moving way too slow. I began to pace as the adrenalin indeed wore off. I suddenly felt intensely tired and I hurt so much. I did the only thing I could think of to do. I called my Mom. It made me feel better to talk to her.
Later that day we sat around the RCMP detachment debriefing. It was here that I got brought up to speed on what had happened. It is funny how little you know even when you are in the middle of something. The one thing that puzzled me the most was what had started a fire in the building that was essentially a big concrete slab. It seems that two young men had been siphoning gas out of the fire truck. They had two full five gallon cans of gas siphoned when one of them knocked one can over. They were; of course smoking. The flames shot in every direction at once. One of the guys had beaten the flames with his leather jacket, burning it badly. This is how they got caught. Meanwhile at three a.m. Easter Sunday morning the Nurse’s boyfriend was upstairs in the bathroom with a girlfriend who was not the nurse. They kept quiet until the guys who set the fire left and then they went and got the nurse and the nurse the Mounties and so on.
The Fire Marshall confirmed all this when we sifted through the wreckage later that day. I felt a little better. The fire had started under the fire truck and there was never any chance of my getting the truck out of there. I needn’t feel guilty. Later in the week the Hay River Fire Department agreed to lend us an old truck. They were parked in the parking lot of the Hamlet Office when I arrived. There was Vic walking towards me in a HRFD jacket his hand outstretched. I slid my bandaged mitts out of my sleeves and held them up like he was holding a shotgun. He laughed and gave me a chuck on the shoulder. The boys of the HRFD could not help but give us a ribbing. There were more than a few snide comments. The Fire Marshall, who knew what I had been through smiled but notably did not laugh. The Hay River Firefighters walked us through the operation of the old truck. My Chief walked up to me as I was talking to Vic afterwards. “Treat him with respect Vic he’s my new Deputy.” Vic laughed. “Try not to burn our truck down O.K.?” He said and automatically he extended his hand to me to say goodbye. Once again I slid my bandaged hands out and held them up. Vic instantly snapped to attention clicking his heels and raising his flattened hand to his cap brim. I raised a bandaged hand to my brow. Our eyes met and there was more in that moment than a conversation of an hour could convey. An understanding of one firefighter to another. Of one human being who knows what happens when you go into a burning building. Of someone who knows that there are no such things as heroes. No heroes who are invincible and brave beyond belief. Just mortals, doing what they know is right. Just neighbors who are doing the only thing they can do. The best that they can.

Nukon of the Yukon

He was standing in the aisle his left hand rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He was holding an aluminum pot and turning it over in his right hand like he was looking at a pot for the first time. “Dick!” I said “You look puzzled. Can I help you with something?” Dick was a Gwitch’in elder. Over seventy but it was hard to say by how much, they are healthy people in Old Crow, an isolated community in the northern Yukon. Dick cocked his head and looked at me for a long moment before he spoke. Time is not in scarce supply in this part of the world and Dick was old and wise enough to know there was no real rush. “I need a special pot but I’m not sure you will be able to find one.” He said. I totally missed the twinkle in his eye. “I don’t know Dick, I’ve been doing this a while. Maybe I can help?” I was new to Old Crow, though. New enough to be grist for Dick’s mill. “I need a pot about one foot wide.” He said smiling. “About one foot wide and thirty feet long, I’m making Giraffe neck soup!” The sparkle in his eye was impossible to miss. “I set snares for them.” He added without even a trace of change in his voice. All right, I thought, I’ll bite. “Where do you set the snares?” I asked. “In the tops of trees of course!” He replied with a laugh. I had just met Dick, but I liked him already. “If I get a really long bowl can I have some?” I returned, showing that I could take a joke. Dick was bent double and was holding his sides now. He slapped my back.
I knew now that I was going to like my time in Old Crow. As people go, I have never met better. If laughter was the best medicine then Dick should live to a thousand. He had a sense of humor that fit him like his skin. He took life with a grain of salt. He was a sort of philosopher. Every time he walked into the store he made my day. I think when your life moves more slowly you have time to notice the humor of it. Sometimes, in the rush and distraction of modern life we lose sight of the little things. We not only forget to smell the roses we forget to have a darn good laugh too. While the pace in the lives of the locals was sedate: running the town’s only store, only Post Office and only Bank was not. There were order deadlines for produce and groceries, meat and hardware. There was payroll and cash to order. Mail and freight arriving at all hours. Mail that needed to be sorted and perishables that had to be put away even at eleven at night. Dick would shake his head and cluck at me. “You gotta slow down.” He said one day when I bumped into him at the airport. “I’m picking yup the mail.” I said. “Your pension check is in here.” His eyes widened and he rubbed his chin. “Yep, first thing tomorrow you should slow down.” We both laughed.
One day I was driving the company truck past Dick’s Cabin. Our company truck wasn’t much to look at and rather less than that under the hood. Prior to my arrival someone had taken it for a joyride and left it in the Porcupine River. The engine only ran when the steering wheel was tilted at a certain angle. The engine could not be cut by turning the key; you actually had to unhook the battery. Not much to look at, not much to drive. But in a town where the only way in is to fly vehicles were at a premium. Here this was a Cadillac. The speed limit in Old Crow is 30KPH except of course in the school zone. You could not have people screaming through the school zone at thirty Kilometers per hour. No sir, you must slow to fifteen Kilometers per hour in the school zone. You also have to watch out for kids passing you on their bikes. Life does; quite literally move at a slower pace in Old Crow.
Dick flagged me down. “Have you got time to take my boat to the slough?” He asked. “Sure!” I said swinging out of the cab. Dick was standing next to a beautiful Scott canoe. “Nice boat!” I said as I slid onto the seat beside him, having put the canoe in the bed of the truck. Dick was grinning ear to ear which was his usual state. He gently elbowed me “Have I told you how I got the canoe?” He asked with an infectious giggle. “No. Please tell me.” It was only a short drive so I slowed down intentionally, which was a very natural thing to do when in Dick’s company. You always want to slow down to his speed but seldom get there.
“One day I was standing on the bank of the river when these guys paddled up in that canoe. They were two guys from Europe. You know, over there.” Dick waved his hand vaguely in what he supposed was the direction of Europe. I had no reason to doubt his sense of direction. “We talked a while. They were very tired and asked me how the river was from here to Fort Yukon. I told them that once they got past the falls it was clear paddling. They said their maps didn’t show any waterfalls. I told them that the old maps don’t. They asked how far the portage was. I said only twenty miles.” His face was beaming and his eyes shone as he told the tale. “Dick.” I said. “You are a very bad man! You know there are no waterfalls on this river.” His smile split his face in two. He slapped his knee as he said. “I got the canoe for a hundred bucks and they were on the plane the next day!” He was in hysterics and it was impossible not to catch the bug. I was still laughing as I lowered the bright red canoe into the water.
Dick was a consummate prankster and only once have I seen him bested. He is the first to acknowledge his defeat. I first heard the tale on a beautiful spring day. Lina and I were on our way out of town for holidays. I had handed the keys of the store to my locum and was feeling very light indeed as the weight of those keys lifted a ton of responsibility of my shoulders. Dick was sitting on the boardwalk of the tiny airport terminal. He sat in the sun. The plane was late as usual. I had no connecting flights that night just a hotel room waiting in my beloved Dawson City and a dinner at Klondike Kate’s with my name on it; not to mention a nice cold bottle of Alexander Keith’s India Pale Ale. Dick patted the plank next to him. I slowed down to his speed as I sat down next to him. Lina smiled as she saw me relax.
“Dick, my friend. How are you?” I asked as I sat down. He was dressed as he always was in a pair of work pants, a faded plaid wool shirt and a ball cap; tilted back in spite of the sun. His weathered face looked wistful; even peaceful; almost beatific. He reclined back on his elbows. “See; I told you to slow down. You’ll live longer.” The spring sun was sublime. I was shedding layers of care by the second. The plane could take its sweet time my holiday was starting right here. “Longer than you?” I asked. Dick laughed. “I’m not perfect you know. I played a joke on that young teacher at Christmas time.” He paused in his conversation and cast me a long glance that spoke volumes. “Oh yeah? The curly headed kid?” I asked. Dick laughed again. “That’s the one. He sure is a funny guy.” Dick was hitting his stride. “He is so uptight. He was standing in there.” Dick pointed to the terminal with his hat brim. “He told me he had weighed all his baggage and was just under the weight limit.” The local lady who ran the terminal for the airline was a fanatic. She charged you if you were even one pound over limit. “He went into the washroom. I took a big rock and put it in his pack sack.” Dick was howling as he recalled his treachery. “I put the bags on the scale. You should have seen his face when she told him he owed sixty bucks in overweight charges.” Dick’s sides convulsed as he relived the moment.” I thought I had the last laugh.” Dick was shaking his head now. “When a C.O.D. showed up a few days later, I had no suspicions at all. It was Christmas. I thought one of the girls had ordered something for a present. I took the box home and unwrapped it on the table. There sat my rock! I had just paid sixty bucks for it!” He leaned on one elbow as he spoke. He looked into my eyes. I was smiling like a fool. “You know, it was worth every penny!” He laughed again.
Now I don’t get to travel the road of life at Dick’s speed very often; but when I do I enjoy the ride. Dick Nukon is one of those true Characters that seem to populate the north. Some; like Dick are born there. Others migrate there. Whether the north calls them or whether they are floating along in the ebb and flow of the world and are simply collected there in the backwater like some flotsam; I don’t know. But the north is full of them. So long as the north is full of these characters I will be there for I prefer there company to all others. They are true human beings. The way nature intended man to be. Maybe we can’t slow down to Dick’s speed all the time, but there should be stretches of life’s highway that are clearly posted with speed limit signs with Dick’s smiling face on them.

Of mice and men and well… more mice.

When you live in the north you live somewhat closer to nature than most people. I am about as likely to see a bear as most city people are to see a neighbor walking a dog. On any given day I can see eagles and wolves a fox or a beaver. These don’t bother me. I admit you do make adjustments in your lifestyle. You are cognizant of the bears and you make noises as you walk through the bush so as not to surprise them. You watch the foxes as they can have rabies. But life goes on and you accept these as part of life in so remote a place. In fact I revel in their presence. I love to see a moose across the river. I love seeing a rabbit scurry across my path when I am out for an evening walk. This is one of the things that make life up here special. This close bond, this living side by each with the wild creatures of nature.
This is because we have a special love of cute furry critters. Or large majestic creatures like moose and caribou and wood bison. There is something breathtaking about watching a bison the size of a compact car cruising through the long grass only its’ head and humped shoulders separating the grass like a surfaced submarine. Or the sight of a moose sedately munching water plants at the edge of a northern pond, the morning mist making him look surreal in his ungainly glory. But what of those other creatures? Those critters without publicity agents and spin doctors to create warm fuzzy feelings when they cross our paths? What about the creatures who scurry and hide? Furtive and, well scary creatures. Creatures that not only share our world, but often share our house and God knows what else.
Ron was just out of the city. He was new to the north and was out on his own for the first time in his life. A fledging just pushed from his parents nest in Moose Jaw Saskatchewan. Young and still wet behind the ears. Thrust into the boreal forest in northern Alberta, as far north as you could go and still be in Alberta. This was throwing someone in at the deep end. Sink or swim. Fly or fall. When plunging from the nest to the ground the wind sailing past you as you fall that space behind the ears can dry pretty fast.
“Whaaaaaaaaaaaaayoweeeeeeeeeeeee!!!” Ron screamed as he shot into the living room. It was three in the morning and I was instantly out of my bed at the opposite end of the trailer. Ron was standing in the middle of the room in his Toronto Maple Leaf pajamas. He had his hands folded over his chest like he was shivering. He was shivering. “What’s up? Are you O.K.?” I blurted. Ron was stammering and looked like he had seen a ghost. “No I am not O.K.!” He said angrily. “I woke up and it was right there, staring me in the face!” My mind raced. What could have instantly struck terror into this young guy? What kind of beast had bared its fangs, roared in his face? What could strike terror into a grown adult male? There were no shortage of options, from grizzlies to wolves, from wolverines to coyotes, “There!!!” He yelled and pointed behind me. Oh my God, I thought as I turned, I hadn’t even had time to get my gun. As I spun I crouched spreading my legs so as to bear the weight of whatever might be about to set upon me. I eyed the knife block on the counter. Pe3rhaps I could get a few slashes in before it leapt. But when I stopped I saw nothing. My eyes were not fully adjusted to the darkened room. “Hit the lights!” I yelled and Ron sprang to the switch. The room burst into light. Then I saw it as it shot across the floor and ran along the base board. It disappeared down the heating register. “A mouse!” I yelled. “You woke me out of a sound sleep for a mouse?” I looked Ron right in the eye. “He was on my chest when I woke up! He was staring right into my eyes! I freaked!” He was still shaking.
I began to feel bad for him. “Look Ron, you are always eating in bed. The crumbs attract them. Don’t leave a half full bowl of cheezies or chips on the dresser. Put them away and you won’t see the mice. Not on your chest anyways.” Ron was calming down now. “Not see them? Does that mean they will go away?” He was pleading. “No that does not mean that they will go away.” I answered. “We live in a warm place, full of holes and nooks and crannies. They come from outside where it is forty five below zero. Where last falls seeds and nuts are covered in four feet of ice and snow. Where would you go?” Ron looked stunned. He looked like I had just told him I was from Mars. Obviously it had never occurred to him, not in his worst nightmares that he was sharing his home with a swarm, a flock or whatever a gaggle of mice is called. “I’ll never sleep again!” He said dejectedly. “Good luck with that.” I said flatly, turning to go back to bed. “Put out the lights.” I added as I walked away. “Wait! You’re not leaving me?” He said in a panic. “Yep, I’ll leave you my gun and I’ll sleep with my hunter orange vest on in case I have to use the bathroom in the night!” Ron was looking at me with a look that was somewhere between despair and rage. “Don’t look at me in that tone of voice.” I pleaded. “What am I supposed to do? Hold your hand?” Ron’s hands were on his hips now. “No, help me catch the mouse or whatever you do with mice.” I winced. I was tired and a little peeved. But obviously I wasn’t going to get any sleep until I helped Ron.
Mice are a fact of life in the north. I had accepted this a long time ago. Ron would have to accept this too, eventually. They were everywhere. They were, in fact amazing. I remembered when I fist started with the company. One of my departments was footwear. I was working in the basement of the old store in Wabasca Alberta. I was doing stock checks on rubber boots. I had to record the sizes in a brown binder with fake wood-grain covers. Boots, Rubber Men’s 18” red sole size 8. I had turned to boot over to see the size on the sole. As I did a cascade of stuff fell on the floor at my feet. There were M&Ms, sunflower seeds, grains of rice, popcorn kernels and other stuff. Lots and lots of them. The boot had been a third full. I stared at the pile in awe. “What the heck?” I said aloud. Lena the marking clerk stuck her head around the corner. She laughed. “A mouse’s winter stores!” She said. “They always use boots!” I stared. “How to they get in and out?” I asked. “I never really thought about it.” She said. “They’re mice they go where they please. I swept up the mess. I would repeat this over the ensuing quarter century many, many times. Usually boots, occasionally shoes or boxes. Amazing amounts of stuff. Always something that would not go bad over the winter. Seeds, candy, cereal and an amazing variety of things. Remarkable creatures. Still Jack the Ripper was remarkable and not too many people like him either.
Over the years I have tried all the methods of catching and disposing of mice. Patent and home remedies. Many work, most don’t/ One method I was assured was fool proof was to put a foam tray, the king meat and produce come on, on the floor and fill it with corn syrup. The mouse is attracted by the sweet mess and becomes mired in it and drowns. I am not sure how humane this is but it works to a degree. But if the tray sits out more than a day or two the syrup scums over and the trap becomes a feeding fest for the mice. Another one that worked was one a friend told me about. You take a bucket. tape the handle so it is erect. Lean a stick like maybe a chopstick against the handle, balanced on the rim of the bucket. Bait the end of the stick and the mouse will climb the stick and fall into the bucket which you have partially filled with water and drown. This worked so well I once had five mice in the bucket after one night. Unfortunately the next night I tripped over the bucket on the way to let the dog out. I have used patent traps of all descriptions, big steel boxes with a wind-up wheel in it that spins the mouse off into a live hold part of the box so you can catch and release. However a biologist friend said that if you release an animal that winter on stored food far enough from your house that he won’t come back; he will starve to death so you might as well just kill it. So much for the humanitarian approach. I have used commercial sticky traps and had the mice humping around the house, freaking my Wife out. I have used a trap that looked like a big metal clothespin which basically closed on the mouse’s midsection with such force it nearly cut the poor thing in half.
In my experience the best method is the old tried and true trap. The one we are all familiar with the rectangular piece of wood with the coiled spring. The one you always see in the cartoons. Unlike the cartoons however; do not bait the trap with cheese. Cheese is useless. It dries out in a day or two and becomes odorless. Mice may have big eyes but they use their noses to find their food. You need something that stays soft and smelly a long time. There is but one true mouse bait. Make no mouse stake. It is peanut butter. Mice can’t resist it. They will fall on it no matter how many weeks it has been waiting for them. Trust me. I have been on the trapline for years.
So it was that when Ron shamed me into helping him. I dug under the kitchen sink and pulled out a small box of traps. I showed him how to bait the trigger with just the right size blob of peanut butter. We set the traps along the wall; in corners and anywhere we had seen a mouse. We set about six traps and then went to bed. I hadn’t even fallen asleep when I heard a snap. Ron was up in an instant. “Hey, I think we got one.” He was as excited as if he’d gotten his first deer. It was the one closest the door and I bent down to retrieve it. The mouse was dead alright, the bar had caught him on the head killing him instantly he did not suffer. “Aw, he’s kind of cute.” Ron said as I took the mouse from the trap. “A few minutes ago you were ready to kill them all.” I reminded Ron. Then we heard another trap snap closed. Ron jumped. “You want a chair to stand on?” I asked sarcastically. “How many mice are there?” He asked. “No more than a hundred.” I said as I returned the first trap to the floor where it had been. I looked under the bed to retrieve the second. “A hundred? Did you say a hundred?” Ron was nearly frantic. I fished the trap out holding it up by the mouse’s tail. “Well ninety eight now.” I said with a laugh. “Are these things going to be going off all night?” Ron asked with resignation. “Just put them away. I’ll never get any sleep at this rate.” He wheedled. “I thought you were never going to sleep again?” I said my voice dripping with mockery. “Well I’ve been living with them this long; I guess that I can live with them a little longer. They are kind of cute.” Acceptance. It’s the final stage of grief. “Oh Ron, before you get too attached remember the company policy on pets!”

Friday, September 10, 2010

Building Bridges


Bridges are amazing things. It is no surprise that they have inspired so much wonder. Take the Firth of Forth Bridge for example. Built in 1891 it is a Unesco World heritage sight. When it was built it inspired souvenirs. There were ashtrays and salt and pepper shakers; postcards and books. It is a truly impressive structure. Lina and I crossed the road bridge over the Firth of Forth in 2008. The bridge spans the Forth River and joins Edinburgh and Fife. You might say that we took the Firth of Forth to Fife where I bought a Fifth of Scotch (my Fourth). Sorry about that, I just couldn’t resist. Confederation Bridge which spans 12.9 kilometers from New Brunswick to Prince Edward Island. Do you think they cut a hundred meters off the bridge to keep it from being 13km long? I wouldn’t be surprised. It too has spawned many souvenirs. I understand the fascination. These are true marvels of engineering and rival even the pyramids as mega-structures.
I bring up the subject of bridges because I was watching the Antiques Roadshow the other night and they featured some souvenirs of the Forth Bridge. I remember how awed I was by the sight of it. I remember too how awed I was the first time I crossed the Confederation Bridge. I remember being surprised that it was not straight. I had expected the swell in height at its’ center where in goes from 40m high to 60m high to allow sea traffic to pass under it, but I had not expected that it would curve as well. Great bridges spanning great bodies of water. The span is what caught my attention. I had been thinking about my grandfather, Otis Larkin. My mother’s father. I did not know him. That is not surprising; neither did my mother. Otis died when she was only a year old. They say that no man is an island. But to me he was exactly like an island. A mysterious island to which there was no bridge. He was an enigma.
Frustratingly my Mom could be of little help. I knew some things about him. I had seen photos. I knew what he looked like. That he was tall and handsome. That he had huge hands and size fourteen feet. I knew that he was a Chef at Yarmouth’s Grand Hotel. He was, like most men raised in the south shore Nova Scotia town of Shag Harbor; a fisherman by trade. And sadly like most fishermen of his day he could not swim. It was this fact that caused his death. He had been fishing for lobsters for a dinner he was catering for the Oddfellows Club. Now I say that he couldn’t swim, but in the North Atlantic in March I doubt this contributed a lot to his death. These facts were known to me. I never thought to ask my grandmother about him until too late. Luckily for me I had a bridge. A human bridge. But believe me no less amazing than the twp bridges I have already sighted.
My bridge or actually bridges were sisters. Two entirely remarkable ladies; my Great Aunt (in every sense of the word) Marguerite Larkin and her sister Clarisse Hill. Aunt Marguerite lived to be 98 and Clarisse if memory serves 96. Two very remarkable women indeed. After my Uncle Mitchell passed the two ladies lived together, on their own until Marguerite was 96. Ill health and a broken hip forced them to move into a senior’s home. But don’t think for a minute that the years dimmed their senses. Not a bit of it, I would marvel at how the two ladies would argue over the minutest details. They would be discussing how some relative had visited just two weeks ago; “Why they stopped for lunch.” Clarisse would say. “We had a chowder (pronounces in the south shore accent “Chowda”) with some rolls.” Marguerite would add. “Now you see they-ah she’s losin’ it I tell you! Clarisse they weren’t rolls they were biscuits. She’s losin’ her mind I tell ya!”
I assure you neither of them had lost as much as one iota of their minds. They could talk in detail for hours of events that had happened years before. I loved to visit them and never missed a chance. Clarisse had been a school teacher and was very learned and well read. Both women were very articulate. I adored their accents as much as I adored them. I remember once arriving at their home to find out they were at a quilting bee at the local church. We tracked them down there. They were in the hall. “We have some foreigners here today.” They informed us. “All the way from Cawk’s Hawba” To the unmitigated that is Clark’s Harbor. Maybe five miles down the road. You could forgive them for thinking this was a long ways away, they could remember a day when no one had a car and the road was nothing more than wheel ruts in the rocky ground.
Aunt Marguerite once told me of the day my Grandfather died. It was not great day weather wise. Typical March weather in Nova Scotia, windy, choppy a cloudy sky with little sun. Nothing new to men who had taken a living for their families from the sea for generations. Staying home was out of the question. Otis had gone out alone as soon as it was light. Marguerite was making lunch when someone came up from the dock with the news. News that Shelburne County women had heard for two hundred years. An empty boat found adrift on a stormy sea. The community gathered round my grandmother and the family. Five long days would pass. No one would dare mention what they all knew. He wasn’t coming home alive. But at least they found him. Widows were common in those days. The sea gave but she also took.
Years would pass before I thought to ask for more detail. Marguerite too passed away. I wrote Clarisse and asked her a question that had haunted me. I know who he was, I know how he died. But what was he like? What made him tick? Was he serious, did he stutter? Tell me something, anything about him. Clarisse wrote back. In her typical school teacher perfect grammar she told me a little about my grandfather. No he was not serious. In fact he had a great sense of humor. He was hard working, and that is what drove him out in a dory on March seas. He was a big man but a very gentle man. He stood Six foot four which was tall in those days. He had hands the size of bread plates. He was a dreamer and he wanted better for his family. Better than the life of a small town fisherman. He had done well as the chef at the very Grand Hotel in Yarmouth. In fact he had won a coveted spot as the chef on a cruise ship in New England for that summer. He was filling in the days until he could take his family away to what he thought would be a better life. It was not to be.
I guess if he had taken my Mom away she and my Dad would not have met and I wouldn’t be writing this now. So many “what ifs”. I thanked her for the letter. She wished it was more. She had been quite young when it all happened. I looked at his picture as I read the letter and I thought I could read more in that face now. Perhaps a twinkle in the eye I had never noticed before. Maybe a laugh line I had overlooked. There was always a reserve in posed photos in those days. Long exposures meant that you had to hold the pose somewhat stiffly. You had to say more with your eyes. If he’d have known he was going to die maybe he would have written a letter to future generations. That is a bit presumptuous of course. Clarisse is gone now too. I miss them both. But before she left she gave me back a grandfather I never had. She bridged the gap between us. It is marvelous that we may meet people who lived long enough to bridge the gaps in our lives. I am old enough to have known veterans of the First World War and they were old enough to have known people who were alive for confederation. It was in just such a way that aboriginal cultures kept track of their history with remarkable accuracy. Stories passed from generation to generation. Who in your life spans the generations? It may be time to ask them some questions. Maybe to listen a little harder to those stories they tell. I am thankful that Clarisse and Aunt Margeurite were there to bridge the gap between m grandfather and me. I got a piece of him back. When I look at his picture I have a few less questions. No man should be an island.