Shipwreck

A sailor of sorts returns to his city where everyone he knows has never even seen the coast. At sea, where he was at home, he did great things. He survived storms and waves larger than the ambitions of kings, swallowed salt water and spit fire, carried mountains on his shoulders and beat the odds with brute force, knife-like cunning, and knapsack full of dumb luck.

But back in the city, all these attributes wither. His stories fall on deaf ears and his skills disappear into social norms and traffic laws, mundane realities of the urban populous. Wilderness and survival mean nothing here. You could let yourself fade away here because what you know means nothing. Physical strength, mental fortitude, endurance, instinct . . . is lost. It's not needed. The nine to five and the four to close take over, pay day could never come sooner, and when you're done, the television takes over the rest.

Shipwrecks mean nothing here. They aren't real. They're a plot line for a miniseries for an army of couch surfers who have no idea what it feels like to slam into a rock with a boat, miles from home. To be driving along, lost in your own thoughts, and all of sudden be pitched from the back of your boat to the front, to hear the shredding of aluminum and the insane noises of distress an outboard motor makes when it strikes rock, a hundred pounds of rotating horse power flipping up and down, in and out of the water, and then smashing again and again, your only way of getting home destroying itself on the invisible reef beneath you.

The viewers don't know what its like. Boat sinking, a hundred yards from shore, water temperatures barely above freezing, nothing but thick bush and rugged ridges for miles.

They don't know what it's like to be actually, truly, fucked.

But that's okay. They're good people, they're old friends. Room after room of them, party after party. Reintroductions are pleasant, smiles on all faces, but he still feels like an outsider. He doesn't belong, there are very few commonalities here.

Buildings tower high above, icons of wealth, shopping malls spread outward like someone spilled the development bucket and forgot to clean up the mess, billboards telling you how to be human.

But what happens, though, when being human isn't enough. What happens when you need to be more than human, when you need grow fangs or fur or fins?

What happens when the shipwreck is real?

To the dogs (or whoever)

As my term as dog handler extraordinaire is rapidly coming to an end I'm having a hard time coming to terms with heading back south. Five months on the lake working a remote fly-in fishing lodge and now two months working with sled dogs in an isolated community has left me feeling at home in the open wilderness and more of an outsider than ever to the big city lights.

Will the city take me back? Or do I even belong there?

Indeed I have struggled for some time over whether or not I actually have a place I'd call home at all anymore.

Working and living with nineteen dogs nearly twenty-four hours a day for 60 days has no doubt hurt my social skills but at the same time expanded my knowledge and respect for the animal world. The integrity of some of those dogs rivals that of many people I know.

Sleeping at the dog yard has allowed me to become attached to the dogs in a way I wouldn't have been able to otherwise. Watching the dogs run, and running them myself, and seeing them come back to the yard happy has been incredibly rewarding after working with them so closely. There are few bad moods a happy dog can't reverse.

I've watched them get into shape and adapt to the colder temperatures. I've been able to see certain dogs grow and learn, younger dogs coming up the ranks, learning from the older residents. These dogs are athletes and they love to run. And so they will run.

I'm sad to leave this motley crew of sled dogs and I do hope that I will be able to come back to visit before long. Each dog has its own personality and I liken them to a high school class room. You've got you jocks and your bullies, the class clown at the back of the room, your shy ones and your pretty ones, some who just don't fit in, some who are friends with everyone, and others who you know will go somewhere someday just by watching their intelligence and the way they handle themselves and others.

Some of my best friends in this town are in that dog yard.

By leaving here I feel like I'm trading lives, returning to the inane problems of life in the city. Back to the place where wolves and bears don't matter but cellphones do; where you don't need to know how to use a gun or drive off road but you better know how to navigate a shopping mall; where you dress for looks not for survival. All of the clothes I own right now are useless in that life. They're torn, stained, faded, and that's not acceptable. I've forgotten what it's like to wear clean clothes.

I slept in town for the first time in weeks last night. Too, I had forgotten how comfortable it was sleeping in a heated house, being able to sleep through the entire night without getting up to put more wood in the stove or run gas out to the generator or throw your boots and pants on and stumble outside with a spotlight and a rifle to find all the dogs were barking at was a curious fox.

It feels cushy, spoiled, too easy, not having to wake up early to buck wood or break trail, to be warm, to be dry, to be clean. I suppose I'll even end up trimming the beard before long.

Leaving this behind I feel that I'm cheating myself, like I'm quitting right when things are starting to get heavy. Initially I had dreams of weathering the winter up here and building my own kayak and paddling back south in the spring. Even now I've been looking at ways to continue this northern adventure. There a dogsled operators all over Canada, I'm sure I would be able to find myself a job with one of them.

At the same time I've found that it is best to leave something knowing you will miss it rather than leave because you want out. I know that the new year will bring another season at the lake and a fresh shelf of experiences and stories.

Until then, the next adventure has already been planned, and there is much preparation needed.

To the dogs, or whoever, thank you. I'll see you around.

Edge of the world

We're standing on the rim of the ocean with the waves crashing in front of us like aquatic freight trains hellbent on plowing themselves into the rocky coast. The wind is pushing so hard I brace myself against the stones and hold my hand up against my eyes to block the snow whipping around us in what I imagine is the same way electrons whip around inside an atom.

With the lights of the town visible as a blurred glow behind us, I squint and I swear I can see the edge of the world.

The edge of the world, where gallant naval vessels helmed by bleary eyed sailors venture and fall right off into nothing; where giant beasts clad in claws and fur and teeth breath out clouds of frost; where brave souls go and return changed, if they return at all.

We come here to learn and to grow and to live. Standing here, the foolish imagine themselves heroes, while the apt realize they are mere pygmies among giants.

Surivival and a Metis musher, or, Listening to what she says

He grew up in a place – physically, mentally, emotionally – that most everybody I grew up with would not understand. He talks of families broken like west coast upper crust, alcohol fueled gunfights and storybook wilderness adventure. In one man you find the history of a people created by the continental smashing together of polar opposite cultures – Old and New, Outsider and Native, Explorer and Explored.

There is a wealth of knowledge here, a way of survival that is dying with every resounding thump of the beating heart of the modern world.

Survival is the key word here. So many of us do not understand survival, so many of us have very rarely been faced with situations where we would be harmed, or killed, if we ourselves did not take action. When these situations do arise they become great stories of heroism and often front page headlines; incredible stories of survival and luck. But to others, and most definitely to him, such instances are daily occurrences, just another blip on the radar of a life full of blips.

When cold, turn up the thermostat; when tired, go home and take a nap; when hungry, go to the fridge or, worst case, go to the grocery store. Never mind making a fire, building a bed and shelter, or hunting, skinning, butchering and cooking a wild animal. Those things are so far gone, yet so basic, and it is frightening to think most of us would not have the first clue as how to do many of these things.

We’re consumed with our lives, the work week, the school schedule, the news cycle, Facebook updates and weekend plans. Food and shelter are no longer the forefront of our livelihood but the backdrop to the modern life.

Many might label this thinking prehistoric and survivalist. Perhaps those who do not understand the difference between trophy hunting and hunting to consume might label the gun culture that comes along with the lifestyle as uber-conservative. But in this sense, guns – long guns, rifles and shotguns - are used as tools, for hunting food and for protection against dangerous wildlife.

As for prehistoric and survivalist, these ideas are valid. When you see a moose, a bear, or a wolf in the wild for the first time, watch them move, see them navigate, see their size, hear them breath, the first word that might very well come to your mind is prehistoric. What kind of ancient beast is this? How can this be? And very quickly you realize that this is not your home, this is not where you belong, and firearm or not, you are at a great disadvantage because you can’t survive in this wilderness but everything else around you can. You don’t live here, they do.

Mother Nature has her way of humbling the strongest of the strong, through her weather, her animals, her vastness, or any number or combination of these tests of endurance, skill, and flat out chance. Sometimes she gives you a gift and you make it through but it’s finding that little gift where the skill lies. Other times she’s merciless and it’s dumb luck that finds you home safely. And other times still you’ll never make it out.

But this man, he understands. He knows these things, he’s seen these things, he’s been thrown about and brought to his knees by these things countless times. And he’s taught me to be humbled by the wilderness around me I am humbled by him and the patience his life of hardships has engrained in him. He teaches not with words but with actions. Rarely has he told me to do something and when he does I gather he feels awkward. He’d rather I learn on my own, by observing.

Often I have gotten frustrated with his teaching method but now I’m beginning to understand – I have to make my own mistakes. At times it may take longer to learn and it might cause the student to throw his or her arms up in the air more than once, but once learned, it will never be forgotten.

To him, and to the wild around me, I am listening.

Moose in the water

In preparation for the tourist rush that officially begins this weekend, I've moved out of the house in town to Gerald and Jenafor's cottage at Goose Creek about 10 miles south of town. At first I was a little reluctant to leave to comforts of the house, ie. wireless internet, but the cottage has proved to be a welcome reprieve from the constant ringing of the phone and small town politics. It's a cosy place, with a woodstove and electric heat, a mish mash of building materials, trinkets, and animal furs. We come back to the house for breakfast and dinner anyway, usually spending a couple hours here in the evenings, which gives me some time to check Facebook and the news sites in between running to the hardware store, feeding Thunder and Isobel, and grabbing a few winks on the couch.

We got up early this morning and took a drive down towards the water treatment facility, a road lined with watery brush lush with aquatic plant life; in other words, moose country. Gerald is itching to get his moose this year and we were looking for a potential hunt.

On the way back, having not seen anything but wild chickens and ducks, Gerald proclaimed, "Not today," and picked up speed. A few seconds later we came to a quick stop and he pointed across my lap, out my side of the window.

"There he is."

Sure enough, maybe 250 yards away, stood a massive bull moose. Through the scope on Gerald's 306 I could see the massive rack on its head, and also the grey hairs on his back. He was huge, but he was old. A great trophy kill but not so good for eating: older animals are really tough meat and a moose that large and that old would have passed more for dog food than steaks for the barbeque. Gerald clearly didn't want to take the animal but it was also clear he didn't feel right about anybody else shooting it from the road.

"An animal like that deserves to be hunted," he said, "Not shot from the hood of someone's truck."

He took a couple shots into brush at about a 50 yards, attempted to scare the animal further into the trees beyond. The moose turned its head but didn't seem to care too much about us.

We had to get back to town so we moved on, Gerald talking softly about the giant animal we had just found.

***

We saw a tundra wolf the other night trotting down the road, which was a little disconcerting since it was within a few miles of the dog yard. It was first time I'd seen a wolf like that and I've been thinking about it ever since. Wolf stories run into the near fairy tale land horror stories. One year a wolf was scoping out the dog yard, and even though there was someone staying there, it sat in the trees just beyond where you could see it. It waited there, and watched the person at the yard, and learned the person's routine, when they went out and when they came back in. It waited until a snow storm and until the person in the yard was in the tent and took a dog right then.

Stories like that make them seem unneccesarily evil, like some creature of the night in a child's story book.

***

We got the wood stove in the dog yard tent today. One step closer to me moving in.

Dog yard tent.

Foraging the tundra

It's a different way of living here.

Half a continent away stock markets are crashing and here I am picking wild cranberries until sundown. Jenafor makes all her own jam, jelly and syrup from the blueberries, tundra berries, crow berries and cranberries they pick in the fall. Gerald shoots a moose every fall as well and the meat lasts through the winter, a good value considering the sky high food prices in this town. The neighbors borrowed the quad the other day and brought us some fresh caribou backstraps which will be dinner tomorrow.

There's something to be said for hunting and gathering food. Out picking cranberries by myself today I found myself focused intensely on the act of foraging as I became more skilled at picking the dark red berries, scraping them off their branches in handfuls, depositing them in my bag. In the two hours I was out on the tundra I only stopped periodically to do a give a look around for a polar bear - there have been a few sited around town the last couple days. Although I didn't have a rifle with me I had a cracker gun - a pistol which shoots a noisy shell - and I didn't wander too far from my quad.

I spent some time down on the beach today, watching the tide go out, and collecting rocks for the fireplace that's going to go in the dog yard tent. It was good to get out on my own for a while, away from the house and away from town.

I'm looking forward to start spending more time with the dogs, getting more comfortable with them, and letting them get more comfortable with me. Gerald says I'll be driving dog sleds by the time he's done with me, a prospect that seemed a little ridiculous at first, but after reading more of Bern Will Brown's dogsled adventures in his Arctic Journal it's become more and more of an exciting opportunity, and therefore a possibility. Dogsledding, I believe, is an activity that takes a breakdown of mental barriers, especially for someone who grew up in a city bent on car culture and away from working animals. Last night I broke down some of that barrier when I began to see dogsledding, with Brown's literary help, in an adventurous light. It's a reliable way of getting places in the north, not to mention environmentally friendly. So mush, woah, gee, and haw, bring on the dogs.

Isobel and Thunder.

Returning to Churchill, and, The things that happen

Churchill, Manitoba, Canada.

"I've met many people whose lives were more noteworthy than mine. They had great stories to tell, and did tell them, but failed to put them in print. And now they're gone."
-Bern Will Brown, Arctic Journal

Returning to Churchill.

Four days ago.

After a 600 kilometer late night fuel delivery run from Flin Flon to Split Lake - seven barrels of jet-A rocking back and forth in an enclosed van, twenty more on a trailer behind, cigarette in mouth, coffee in hand, rugged gravel road, but thankfully no flat tire - my flight to Churchill left Thompson in the morning. The hour-long flight was felt luxurious - quiet, safe, snacks were served, and I got to read that same day's newspaper, the first time I'd been able to do so after a summer spent in the bush.

The flight was a thank-you gift and was considerably shorter than the 24 hours it would've taken by train - there are no roads to Churchill. Although the thought of a full day to sit, think, and not have to answer to anybody sounded appealing, the free air travel was welcome.

I was greeted at Churchill airport by my new employer and we drove into town to the tune of smalltalk and CBC Radio. That hour in the air was only thing that seperated my summer seasonal job and my fall seasonal job but the change in scenery gave me a breath of fresh air. The last three weeks I had been working in near solitude at a remote fishing lodge, my summer home that is packed with people during the season but becomes lonely come September, and it was good to see a face that wasn't my own in the mirror.

I had travelled to Churchill in July where I had met my new employers and had been offered a job for the fall. I would only accept the offer several weeks later. At the time of my first visit my mind was a jumble having narrowly escaped a forest fire, with over 20 people I was responsible for, just a week before. But the town, and my hosts, had sent me back to work with a fresh outlook. Returning now felt like I was coming back to something I knew well although I had only visited for three days the first time.

This time I'll be here for at least eight weeks and in that time the temperature will drop significantly, the snow will fly, and I may very well be spending more time with animals than humans - particularily a motley crew of sled dogs who I'll be caring for, but also running after moose and running from polar bears, the arctic beast that people from all over the planet come here to see.

The Things That Happen.

There's a pathology to writing down the things that happen to you. It takes you away from the everyday and puts you in a place that allows you to transcend the present. I find a struggle to believe the things that happen to me are of enough worth to spend the time putting them into words. Perhaps that is just the excuse I use not to write, despite being familiar with the overarching power of the written word and the clearmindedness that comes along with it. I tell people to write everything down that happens to them, whether in a private journal or for an audience, but it's a rule I rarely practice myself. I rarely write down anything that is not meant for an audience and maybe the need to have my words bounce off somebody else is one of my faults as a writer. Brown, who spent over fifty years in Canada's Arctic, writes of the people more noteworthy than him who told great stories but failed to write them down and now those stories are lost. If Brown, whose northern exploits are nothing short of exciting, had the same nagging feeling of his life story not being exciting enough to warrant being written down, then clearly I am not alone. But he wrote anyway, in volumes, and has managed to pass down half a century of history and experience to whoever cares to open his Arctic Journal.

Perhaps we shall write.