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.