Leslie Nielson is coming to Tulita!
What more needs to be said?
(Okay, he used to live here when he was a kid and his father was in the RCMP)
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Ice Caps
I will admit that at many times I have been an ignorant country bumpkin when it comes to matters of food and culture. I’m still not sure which fork I should use first when I’m given the choice of more than one. But there are times when I am reminded just how far away from civilization I really am up here.
We have, at the entrance to our store, a counter that offers coffee, cappuccino, and kool-aid slushies. Of course it isn’t real cappuccino. It’s the same stuff you get at Tim Hortons: a form of glorified hot chocolate that is 98% sugar and 2% water. The slushies are even worse. They are so sweet that the kids in town complain if we don’t water down the mix.
Just before Christmas, the company sent us iced cappuccino mix. Once again, coffee flavored sugar, only this one was designed to go in our slushie machine. Now here is a tip for all you future entrepreneurs reading this blog. There is no worse time to launch an iced drink product than when the temperature is 20 below. Sales were sluggish to say the least.
One night, just before close, a woman approached me while I was working at the till.
“How much are your ice caps?”
I told her the price and she paid for a large. Five minutes later she came back to the till with two large paper coffee cups in hand.
“I wanted to get one for my husband too. I’ll pay for another.”
“Are we out of slushie cups?” I asked. Most people get slushies in clear plastic cups. The woman looked confused.
“No, I just want to pay for another large.”
I smiled politely and reached for her paper cup. It was warm.
“Those are cappuccinos,” I said. “They’re cheaper.”
“Yes, Ice cappuccinos. That’s another large.”
“No, what I mean is… ice caps are cold. Ice. They come from that machine over there. These are hot cappuccinos.”
I was trying to be polite as possible. Ice caps cost twice as much as regular cappuccinos, and she had already paid for one. But the woman was loosing her patience.
“Oh whatever!” She snapped. “Just ring it in.”
So I bit my tongue and rang in her drink.
The next day she came in again with some other people. I was on till again. I watched as she dispensed two “hot” cappuccinos from the machine. She came to the till. I smiled and said hello. She smiled back.
“Two hot ice caps please.”
“Anything else with that?”
“No, that’s everything.”
I wish I could say I took this one, but it was taken by Nicole through our living room window. Those are trucks driving southward along the winter road on the Mackenzie.Monday, January 01, 2007
Do Bears....?
This story took place in July, although I’m only now getting around to writing about it. It was when Nicole was home in St. John’s, and I was living the messy life of a bachelor. I left work for lunch that day, and as I went out the loading doors at the back of the store, I noticed some tracks in the mud. Tracks I hadn't noticed when I had been out these doors earlier in the morning.
They were huge, and I instantly assumed they were bear tracks. I studied them more closely, trying to make sure they weren’t wolf tracks. Certain prints almost looked like the paw pads of a large dog, but there were too many toes. Some of the prints were a different shape, suggesting front and hind tracks. I made a note to myself to show these to the boss when I got back to work.
I don’t remember what I ate for lunch that day, but I definitely put Mackey out on her leash, as I always do when I’m home for lunch. After about a half hour, I brought the dog in and headed down my front steps and back towards work.
There have been a few select times in my life when, upon seeing something for the first time, I have instantly known what it was. The first time I saw a Picasso painting in Montreal, for instance. I had never seen that particular painting, but I knew from the style that it had to be Picasso.
What I saw that day was, in a word, breathtaking. I was filled with curiosity, amazement, and, in the more primal reaches of my brain, a sense of fear. It was a pile of S#!^ unlike any I had ever seen before. And as soon as I saw it, my brain told me in no uncertain terms, “That could only have come from a bear.”
The logic of this thought followed behind it, like the passenger cars of a train slamming into the derailed engine. You’ve just seen bear tracks over there. It's too big to have come from anywhere else. It's not from a moose. It's not from a wolf.
As I stood there, lost in all these thoughts and emotions, a possibly more profound thought came over me. “How did I miss this on the way home for lunch?” The pile was so huge, it had stopped me dead in my tracks. It was nearly as wide as the two tire ruts from our company’s half-ton. For that question, I had no immediate answer.
I went in the store and found my boss, who was putting something the shelf at the time.
“Do you know what bear s#!^ looks like?”
He grinned in a knowing sort of way (dare I say a s#!^-eating grin?) and confirmed that he did know of the subject. I took him outside to show him the tracks and the pile of feces between the houses. He confirmed what I already knew. He was so impressed that he got his wife and brought her outside to see the tracks as well. I don’t think he showed her the poop.
For the next few days, I was still at a loss to explain how I had passed “the pile” on my way home for lunch. Every time I passed it (I left it there for a few days until Macky tried to eat the remnants of the bear's undigested lunch), I knew it was too big to have been missed on my way home. My answer came one night as I was getting ready to go home. I was in the staff room talking to Darren, our produce guy. He works days for the town and evenings at our store. Occasionally he also works night in the drunk tank. He’s also the only justice of the peace in town. In other words, the man never stops.
“Did you hear about the bear that was in town the other day?” he asked me.
“No, but I think I saw its tracks.”
“Yeah, Ron (the RCMP officer) called me from work to help him chase it out of town.”
“Where was it?”
“Right here by the store. We chased it down by the river. Didn’t have to shoot it thought.”
“What time was this?”
“Right around lunchtime”
They were huge, and I instantly assumed they were bear tracks. I studied them more closely, trying to make sure they weren’t wolf tracks. Certain prints almost looked like the paw pads of a large dog, but there were too many toes. Some of the prints were a different shape, suggesting front and hind tracks. I made a note to myself to show these to the boss when I got back to work.
I don’t remember what I ate for lunch that day, but I definitely put Mackey out on her leash, as I always do when I’m home for lunch. After about a half hour, I brought the dog in and headed down my front steps and back towards work.
There have been a few select times in my life when, upon seeing something for the first time, I have instantly known what it was. The first time I saw a Picasso painting in Montreal, for instance. I had never seen that particular painting, but I knew from the style that it had to be Picasso.
What I saw that day was, in a word, breathtaking. I was filled with curiosity, amazement, and, in the more primal reaches of my brain, a sense of fear. It was a pile of S#!^ unlike any I had ever seen before. And as soon as I saw it, my brain told me in no uncertain terms, “That could only have come from a bear.”
The logic of this thought followed behind it, like the passenger cars of a train slamming into the derailed engine. You’ve just seen bear tracks over there. It's too big to have come from anywhere else. It's not from a moose. It's not from a wolf.
As I stood there, lost in all these thoughts and emotions, a possibly more profound thought came over me. “How did I miss this on the way home for lunch?” The pile was so huge, it had stopped me dead in my tracks. It was nearly as wide as the two tire ruts from our company’s half-ton. For that question, I had no immediate answer.
I went in the store and found my boss, who was putting something the shelf at the time.
“Do you know what bear s#!^ looks like?”
He grinned in a knowing sort of way (dare I say a s#!^-eating grin?) and confirmed that he did know of the subject. I took him outside to show him the tracks and the pile of feces between the houses. He confirmed what I already knew. He was so impressed that he got his wife and brought her outside to see the tracks as well. I don’t think he showed her the poop.
For the next few days, I was still at a loss to explain how I had passed “the pile” on my way home for lunch. Every time I passed it (I left it there for a few days until Macky tried to eat the remnants of the bear's undigested lunch), I knew it was too big to have been missed on my way home. My answer came one night as I was getting ready to go home. I was in the staff room talking to Darren, our produce guy. He works days for the town and evenings at our store. Occasionally he also works night in the drunk tank. He’s also the only justice of the peace in town. In other words, the man never stops.
“Did you hear about the bear that was in town the other day?” he asked me.
“No, but I think I saw its tracks.”
“Yeah, Ron (the RCMP officer) called me from work to help him chase it out of town.”
“Where was it?”
“Right here by the store. We chased it down by the river. Didn’t have to shoot it thought.”
“What time was this?”
“Right around lunchtime”
Sunday, December 17, 2006
And Bingo was his Name-O
Bingo is King in Tulita. It is always played at least once a week, and most weeks they play it twice. Almost every woman in town plays. The men aren’t shy about playing either. The Hamlet (our “town hall“) has a small radio station used for emergencies, and for Bingo. Don’t ask me who puts on most of the weekly bingos or where the proceeds go. It’s a mystery to me.
At least three times a year, a big-ticket prize bingo is held. One around Father’s day, one during the Tulita hand games, and one at Christmas. The Hamlet comes to our store and buys about ten prizes. For the last father’s day Bingo they bought a Skidoo, a TV, and a digital camera among other things.
Last Friday they bought another slew of prizes, along with turkeys and hams. When we went to deliver the prizes at 6pm, half the town was in the Hamlet parking lot. They were lining up to buy their cards. Nicole had already bought her cards at five. $30 for an entrance fee, $40 for a book of ten cards, and $6 for the jackpot card. She knew I would be working late (as usual), so she went down to her boss’s house to play.
I got home around 9:30. At 10:30 I turned on the radio to hear if he bingo was nearing the end. It wasn’t.
In a community of 500 people, I already know most of the adults through work at the store. I could put a face to the name of almost every winner they announced as they drew numbers for turkeys. Nicole’s name was not amongst the winners. At 11:00 I went to bed.
Around 11:45, the phone rang. It was Nicole.
“I won a chainsaw. Can you meet me at the hamlet and carry it home?”
I sort of knew as soon as she told me she was going to play bingo that she would win something useless. I suspected it would be the karaoke machine. Don’t get me wrong. A chainsaw is a pretty useful thing if you have a woodstove or a property with trees. I have neither. So now we have a $500 chainsaw, still in the box, sitting in our porch. It’s a Poulan Pro, in case you’re wondering which brand it is. Technically, I can’t sell it. I’m not supposed to sell anything that the store sells, because that would put me in competition with the store. I’d be stealing sales from the store. But it ain’t my chainsaw. It’s Nicole‘s, and she can do whatever she wants with it. I have washed my hands of the matter.
She has already had a few offers, but none have met the asking price of $400. “I might give you $250 for it,” is a common offer. But it’s a $500 chainsaw. She isn’t about to just give it away. And to get one at a cheaper price in Yellowknife would cost you hundreds in transportation expenses.
Nicole says she’s not going to play any more bingos until the next big prize bingo, probably next June.
In other news, we're dogsitting for a couple who are going home for Christmas. They adopted one of Mackey's brothers, but only after he had been abandoned by his first owners. The kids in town gave him the unfortunate name of "Pizza," and that is what his new owners still call him.
This is a picture of the two, playing nicely. That's mackey on the right.
One of the perks of living in the north is that Santa is always close by. In fact, he lives just up the road. Here is a pic of me and the big guy at his house.
At least three times a year, a big-ticket prize bingo is held. One around Father’s day, one during the Tulita hand games, and one at Christmas. The Hamlet comes to our store and buys about ten prizes. For the last father’s day Bingo they bought a Skidoo, a TV, and a digital camera among other things.
Last Friday they bought another slew of prizes, along with turkeys and hams. When we went to deliver the prizes at 6pm, half the town was in the Hamlet parking lot. They were lining up to buy their cards. Nicole had already bought her cards at five. $30 for an entrance fee, $40 for a book of ten cards, and $6 for the jackpot card. She knew I would be working late (as usual), so she went down to her boss’s house to play.
I got home around 9:30. At 10:30 I turned on the radio to hear if he bingo was nearing the end. It wasn’t.
In a community of 500 people, I already know most of the adults through work at the store. I could put a face to the name of almost every winner they announced as they drew numbers for turkeys. Nicole’s name was not amongst the winners. At 11:00 I went to bed.
Around 11:45, the phone rang. It was Nicole.
“I won a chainsaw. Can you meet me at the hamlet and carry it home?”
I sort of knew as soon as she told me she was going to play bingo that she would win something useless. I suspected it would be the karaoke machine. Don’t get me wrong. A chainsaw is a pretty useful thing if you have a woodstove or a property with trees. I have neither. So now we have a $500 chainsaw, still in the box, sitting in our porch. It’s a Poulan Pro, in case you’re wondering which brand it is. Technically, I can’t sell it. I’m not supposed to sell anything that the store sells, because that would put me in competition with the store. I’d be stealing sales from the store. But it ain’t my chainsaw. It’s Nicole‘s, and she can do whatever she wants with it. I have washed my hands of the matter.
She has already had a few offers, but none have met the asking price of $400. “I might give you $250 for it,” is a common offer. But it’s a $500 chainsaw. She isn’t about to just give it away. And to get one at a cheaper price in Yellowknife would cost you hundreds in transportation expenses.
Nicole says she’s not going to play any more bingos until the next big prize bingo, probably next June.
In other news, we're dogsitting for a couple who are going home for Christmas. They adopted one of Mackey's brothers, but only after he had been abandoned by his first owners. The kids in town gave him the unfortunate name of "Pizza," and that is what his new owners still call him.
This is a picture of the two, playing nicely. That's mackey on the right.
One of the perks of living in the north is that Santa is always close by. In fact, he lives just up the road. Here is a pic of me and the big guy at his house.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
The Winter Road
Last night as my boss and I went to the warehouse to deliver some furniture, we saw the eerie sight of lights out on the Mackenzie ice. It was a clear night and the moon was out, so you could make out McKay Range mountains on the opposite shore. Three sets of headlights were crawling along the ice about a kilometer away. Earlier in the day, plumes of steam or fog were rising from open holes in the ice.
My boss said they go out at night to drill holes in the ice to allow water to come to the surface and freeze. The ice alone is not thick enough to safely support vehicles, so they repeatedly flood the surface to make it thicker. There is always the danger that too much water will come up and melt all the way through. This past week, a man in a town further south was killed when his bobcat broke through the surface of the Mackenzie. He was helping clear ice for construction of the road.
Tulita is a key junction on the winter road. Because of the pocket of dangerously thin ice created by the shallow and swift-moving Great Bear River, the road must reach out over the Mackenzie to detour the thin ice. The road from Tulita south is relatively easy to build. We’ve heard it will be open on December 15th. But to travel further north, the small detour over the Mackenzie must be deemed safe. It won’t be ready until January.
When we arrived in the spring, construction was supposed to begin on a bridge over the Great Bear River. But the twenty-five million dollars earmarked by the territorial government was not enough for any construction companies to make a profit. Now that money is being spent on upgrading the path that is the winter road. I suspect that in twenty years time, one will be able to drive in the summer through the territories all the way the Beaufort sea . One can already go overland through the Yukon.
The sun has just set behind the mountains across the river. It is only 3pm. This morning I slept in, and watched the sun rise as I ate my breakfast at eleven.
One note on the temperature. This past week, it dropped down to thirty five below. It was painfully cold. Today it is only twenty below, with no wind. Believe it or not, it is noticeably warmer. Think of the difference between five and twenty degrees. Now transpose that to the other end of the thermometer. I just took Mackey for a walk, and I worked up a sweat. Sure, I was wearing a parka and long underwear, but I passed locals with jackets and baseball caps. When I was in Yellowknife, it was only seven below on the first night. I didn’t even bother wearing gloves.
A pic of mackey with the old Hudson's Bay Warehouse and the Mackenzie River in the background. Until this summer, the warehouse was used for dry goods such as sugar and flour. Now we use it for furniture.
My boss said they go out at night to drill holes in the ice to allow water to come to the surface and freeze. The ice alone is not thick enough to safely support vehicles, so they repeatedly flood the surface to make it thicker. There is always the danger that too much water will come up and melt all the way through. This past week, a man in a town further south was killed when his bobcat broke through the surface of the Mackenzie. He was helping clear ice for construction of the road.
Tulita is a key junction on the winter road. Because of the pocket of dangerously thin ice created by the shallow and swift-moving Great Bear River, the road must reach out over the Mackenzie to detour the thin ice. The road from Tulita south is relatively easy to build. We’ve heard it will be open on December 15th. But to travel further north, the small detour over the Mackenzie must be deemed safe. It won’t be ready until January.
When we arrived in the spring, construction was supposed to begin on a bridge over the Great Bear River. But the twenty-five million dollars earmarked by the territorial government was not enough for any construction companies to make a profit. Now that money is being spent on upgrading the path that is the winter road. I suspect that in twenty years time, one will be able to drive in the summer through the territories all the way the Beaufort sea . One can already go overland through the Yukon.
The sun has just set behind the mountains across the river. It is only 3pm. This morning I slept in, and watched the sun rise as I ate my breakfast at eleven.One note on the temperature. This past week, it dropped down to thirty five below. It was painfully cold. Today it is only twenty below, with no wind. Believe it or not, it is noticeably warmer. Think of the difference between five and twenty degrees. Now transpose that to the other end of the thermometer. I just took Mackey for a walk, and I worked up a sweat. Sure, I was wearing a parka and long underwear, but I passed locals with jackets and baseball caps. When I was in Yellowknife, it was only seven below on the first night. I didn’t even bother wearing gloves.
A pic of mackey with the old Hudson's Bay Warehouse and the Mackenzie River in the background. Until this summer, the warehouse was used for dry goods such as sugar and flour. Now we use it for furniture.
Friday, November 24, 2006
A Ridiculously Long Post
Last May, when my folks were away on holiday, and Nicole was in St. John’s, I went to a jewelry store in Halifax and bought a ring for Nicole. I knew that I wanted to propose to her, and I was reasonably sure she would accept. What I didn’t know was how long it would be before I would have another opportunity to buy a ring. So in a single frenzied afternoon when I was supposed to be running other errands, I ran from store to store looking for the right ring.
The woman who sold me the ring found out that we were moving north, and warned me not to trust the postal system or even the airlines with the ring. Do not mail it to yourself. Do not put it in your checked baggage. Carry it with you at all times.
My first plan was to just carry the ring in my coat pocket. But in the days leading up to our departure, I started to become paranoid that customs officials would see the ring in their x-ray machine, and they would want to inspect it, thus spoiling the surprise and forcing me to propose in an airport customs line (which would have made for a good story, but not one I wanted to tell if I could help it). Then I thought that I could hide the ring in my sock or tape it to my leg. But then I worried it might set off the metal detectors. In the end, I decided to take the ring out of the box and hide it in a pair of (clean) socks in my carry-on bag.
Going through customs in Halifax was a breeze. They didn’t question anything in my overloaded book bag. It’s a wonder because the tangle of electronics, wires, and my battery charger must have looked like a small bomb waiting to go off.
Edmonton, however, was a different story. You are advised to arrive at the Edmonton airport two hours early in order to get through the long inspection lines in time for your flight. There were so many officials, I was hoping that Nicole and I would be directed to two separate lines. But of course we ended up in the same line, with her going first.
I could tell long before it was our turn that the short-haired woman doing the inspections took her job seriously. She stared long and hard at the x-ray of every bag that was going through her machine, and she consulted with her partner on several items, asking more than one person to open their bag.
Of course, Nicole got through without any problems. I hinted that she should run ahead to find our gate, and that I would catch up.
“No, I’ll just wait here for you.”
“Why don’t you go wait over there. I think you’re blocking traffic.”
“No I’m not. I’ll just be right here.”
Meanwhile, short-haired lady was staring at her computer screen with a frown.
“Sir, what sorts of electronics do you have in this bag?”
Our last minute packing was so frenzied, I couldn’t quite remember all that I had put in there. Already I was getting nervous because Nicole wouldn’t leave.
“Ummm, I’ve got an mp3 player and a digital camera. Oh, and a battery charger. Hey Nicole, seriously, why don’t you go wait over there.”
“Any radios, sir?”
“Oh yeah! I forgot. My radio too.”
She stared at her screen a moment longer, and consulted with her partner.
“I cant figure out what this is here? What does it look like to you?”
“C’mon Nicole, you don’t need to hang around here. Just run ahead and find our gate.
“No, Brodie, I want to wait here with you.”
“Sir, would you mind opening your bag?”
I was breaking out in a sweat now, I could tell my face was turning red.
“Sure, no problem.”
Then I turned to Nicole and spoke to her though my teeth.
“Nicole. Go. Wait. Over. There.”
She furrowed her brow and stormed off out of earshot, but watching from a distance. As soon as I was sure Nicole couldn’t hear, I spoke with the woman.
“Is it small and round? Is what you want to see small and round?”
I could feel my heart racing at this point. I knew I looked visibly distressed, and I knew that the short-haired woman was very aware of my distress.
“No. I see that, but I want to know that this bundle of wires is.”
The bundle of wires was a set of headphones. I started to calm down as she rummaged through my bag. I told her why I was so nervous, and the tension was instantly lifted. She smiled for the first time, and once she located the bundle of wires at the bottom of my book bag, I walked on to meet up with a somewhat pissed-off Nicole.
Proposing is a difficult proposition. I wanted it to be special and memorable. At first I thought about proposing at midnight, with the summer sun still out. At that time we were still living in the log hovel down by the water. It wasn’t the most romantic place. As the summer dragged on, I began to think about proposing under the northern lights.
When the lights finally started coming out, I learned that they are unpredictable. I’d have to wait for the right showing, preferably on a night when I didn’t have to work the next day, and then I’d have to get the ring from the bottom of my sock drawer and drag Nicole outside. The logistics were too messy, especially after she sprained her ankle.
So our trip to Yellowknife seemed to be the best option. We were going to get Mackey spayed. We could have just sent her out on the plane, but Nicole wanted to get out of town for a few days. She timed the trip to coincide with our fifth anniversary. What better opportunity?
We almost didn’t make it out. It is slightly cheaper to charter a flight with the local charter company than to fly with the local airline. I suspect it is cheaper because the charter planes are older, smaller, and have uglier paint jobs than the airline. But on the morning we were supposed to leave, it was snowing, and visibility was poor. Our pilot said he didn’t feel comfortable flying. Luckily, the local airline was flying because they have better navigational equipment. We made it to Norman Wells, and then boarded a 737 for Yellowknife.
On Friday morning, we dropped Mackey off at the vet. We planned to spend the rest of the day Christmas shopping. All day, Nicole dragged me into every jewelry store she could find, dropping hints about engagement rings. Little did she know, I already had her ring in my coat pocket (and it was MUCH more expensive than the ones she was pointing out).
That night we went to a restaurant in Old Town Yellowknife. Old Town is what Yellowknife was before urban sprawl set in. It is down on the edge of Great Slave Lake, and it reminds me of any small Newfoundland town. The roads wind between giant granite boulders, and houses are perched on rocky hills. The restaurant we chose was called Oldtown Landing. Somewhat swanky, but not too stuffy either. The sort of place where you can order a bottle of wine with supper, which we did.
We started with the crab dip. Then I had a buffalo steak (yes, real buffalo) and Nicole had the stuffed whitefish. We were making short work of the bottle of wine. I didn’t know you were supposed to wait for the waitress to come top off your glass.
I wasn’t sure when it would be appropriate to pop the question. Perhaps proposing in a restaurant is just a movie cliché. I chose to propose during dessert, for no other reason than to delay the inevitable for as long as possible. Finally, after Nicole was three bites into her cheese cake, I got up from my side of the table, got down on one knee and took out the ring. I don’t remember exactly what she said, but it included “oh, Brodie, not here” and “did I pressure you into buying a ring today?” To which I replied “No I bought the ring in May. I bought it before we came up here. Now will you marry me?” And she relented and said yes and then we went back to our dessert, except neither one of us could eat at that point.
Oh, I forgot the best part. On our flight from Tulita to Norman Wells, Mackey threw up in her kennel. I took the dog and the kennel outside the Norman Wells airport to clean up the mess, but by the time I got some paper towel from the bathroom, the puke was already starting to freeze solid. You know it’s cold when…
The woman who sold me the ring found out that we were moving north, and warned me not to trust the postal system or even the airlines with the ring. Do not mail it to yourself. Do not put it in your checked baggage. Carry it with you at all times.
My first plan was to just carry the ring in my coat pocket. But in the days leading up to our departure, I started to become paranoid that customs officials would see the ring in their x-ray machine, and they would want to inspect it, thus spoiling the surprise and forcing me to propose in an airport customs line (which would have made for a good story, but not one I wanted to tell if I could help it). Then I thought that I could hide the ring in my sock or tape it to my leg. But then I worried it might set off the metal detectors. In the end, I decided to take the ring out of the box and hide it in a pair of (clean) socks in my carry-on bag.
Going through customs in Halifax was a breeze. They didn’t question anything in my overloaded book bag. It’s a wonder because the tangle of electronics, wires, and my battery charger must have looked like a small bomb waiting to go off.
Edmonton, however, was a different story. You are advised to arrive at the Edmonton airport two hours early in order to get through the long inspection lines in time for your flight. There were so many officials, I was hoping that Nicole and I would be directed to two separate lines. But of course we ended up in the same line, with her going first.
I could tell long before it was our turn that the short-haired woman doing the inspections took her job seriously. She stared long and hard at the x-ray of every bag that was going through her machine, and she consulted with her partner on several items, asking more than one person to open their bag.
Of course, Nicole got through without any problems. I hinted that she should run ahead to find our gate, and that I would catch up.
“No, I’ll just wait here for you.”
“Why don’t you go wait over there. I think you’re blocking traffic.”
“No I’m not. I’ll just be right here.”
Meanwhile, short-haired lady was staring at her computer screen with a frown.
“Sir, what sorts of electronics do you have in this bag?”
Our last minute packing was so frenzied, I couldn’t quite remember all that I had put in there. Already I was getting nervous because Nicole wouldn’t leave.
“Ummm, I’ve got an mp3 player and a digital camera. Oh, and a battery charger. Hey Nicole, seriously, why don’t you go wait over there.”
“Any radios, sir?”
“Oh yeah! I forgot. My radio too.”
She stared at her screen a moment longer, and consulted with her partner.
“I cant figure out what this is here? What does it look like to you?”
“C’mon Nicole, you don’t need to hang around here. Just run ahead and find our gate.
“No, Brodie, I want to wait here with you.”
“Sir, would you mind opening your bag?”
I was breaking out in a sweat now, I could tell my face was turning red.
“Sure, no problem.”
Then I turned to Nicole and spoke to her though my teeth.
“Nicole. Go. Wait. Over. There.”
She furrowed her brow and stormed off out of earshot, but watching from a distance. As soon as I was sure Nicole couldn’t hear, I spoke with the woman.
“Is it small and round? Is what you want to see small and round?”
I could feel my heart racing at this point. I knew I looked visibly distressed, and I knew that the short-haired woman was very aware of my distress.
“No. I see that, but I want to know that this bundle of wires is.”
The bundle of wires was a set of headphones. I started to calm down as she rummaged through my bag. I told her why I was so nervous, and the tension was instantly lifted. She smiled for the first time, and once she located the bundle of wires at the bottom of my book bag, I walked on to meet up with a somewhat pissed-off Nicole.
Proposing is a difficult proposition. I wanted it to be special and memorable. At first I thought about proposing at midnight, with the summer sun still out. At that time we were still living in the log hovel down by the water. It wasn’t the most romantic place. As the summer dragged on, I began to think about proposing under the northern lights.
When the lights finally started coming out, I learned that they are unpredictable. I’d have to wait for the right showing, preferably on a night when I didn’t have to work the next day, and then I’d have to get the ring from the bottom of my sock drawer and drag Nicole outside. The logistics were too messy, especially after she sprained her ankle.
So our trip to Yellowknife seemed to be the best option. We were going to get Mackey spayed. We could have just sent her out on the plane, but Nicole wanted to get out of town for a few days. She timed the trip to coincide with our fifth anniversary. What better opportunity?
We almost didn’t make it out. It is slightly cheaper to charter a flight with the local charter company than to fly with the local airline. I suspect it is cheaper because the charter planes are older, smaller, and have uglier paint jobs than the airline. But on the morning we were supposed to leave, it was snowing, and visibility was poor. Our pilot said he didn’t feel comfortable flying. Luckily, the local airline was flying because they have better navigational equipment. We made it to Norman Wells, and then boarded a 737 for Yellowknife.
On Friday morning, we dropped Mackey off at the vet. We planned to spend the rest of the day Christmas shopping. All day, Nicole dragged me into every jewelry store she could find, dropping hints about engagement rings. Little did she know, I already had her ring in my coat pocket (and it was MUCH more expensive than the ones she was pointing out).
That night we went to a restaurant in Old Town Yellowknife. Old Town is what Yellowknife was before urban sprawl set in. It is down on the edge of Great Slave Lake, and it reminds me of any small Newfoundland town. The roads wind between giant granite boulders, and houses are perched on rocky hills. The restaurant we chose was called Oldtown Landing. Somewhat swanky, but not too stuffy either. The sort of place where you can order a bottle of wine with supper, which we did.
We started with the crab dip. Then I had a buffalo steak (yes, real buffalo) and Nicole had the stuffed whitefish. We were making short work of the bottle of wine. I didn’t know you were supposed to wait for the waitress to come top off your glass.
I wasn’t sure when it would be appropriate to pop the question. Perhaps proposing in a restaurant is just a movie cliché. I chose to propose during dessert, for no other reason than to delay the inevitable for as long as possible. Finally, after Nicole was three bites into her cheese cake, I got up from my side of the table, got down on one knee and took out the ring. I don’t remember exactly what she said, but it included “oh, Brodie, not here” and “did I pressure you into buying a ring today?” To which I replied “No I bought the ring in May. I bought it before we came up here. Now will you marry me?” And she relented and said yes and then we went back to our dessert, except neither one of us could eat at that point.
Oh, I forgot the best part. On our flight from Tulita to Norman Wells, Mackey threw up in her kennel. I took the dog and the kennel outside the Norman Wells airport to clean up the mess, but by the time I got some paper towel from the bathroom, the puke was already starting to freeze solid. You know it’s cold when…
Sunday, November 12, 2006
“Talk of your cold! Through the parka’s fold it stabbed like a driven nail”
It is hellish cold. Winter is here. It started around thanksgiving with the first dusting of snow. At first it would go above freezing in the day. But then it stayed below zero. Pans of ice began flowing down the river. They moved past much more slowly than the logs in the spring. The water level in the Mackenzie dropped significantly as well. The edge of the river retreated twenty feet or more. Now there is more ice than water in the river, although it is weeks away from being solid. Remember that in two month’s time, eighteen wheelers will be driving across the Mackenzie.
It doesn’t really snow here. I miss the big fat flakes of the east coast. Instead it just gets so wickedly cold that any moisture in the air freezes and clings to the trees or falls to the ground in small particles. You don’t need a shovel to clean off the steps. A broom is much more efficient at brushing away the dust. And the powder that forms has yet to pack down. You can’t make a snowman with the snow that is in my yard.
I broke down and bought gloves the other day. God knows we brought fifty pairs with us, but I’ll be damned if I can find any of them now. I bought them after a quick trip to the warehouse to grab a few boxes of Christmas decorations. My fingers got painfully cold very quickly. It was -20 after all. The gloves I bought have a rawhide outside and a fur pile inside. My boss warned me that the fur would get crushed and inefficient before long. He recommended wearing gloves inside mittens. Mittens are a must, because individually wrapped fingers can’t keep themselves warm. But when you do need those fingers, you can take off the mittens and still have the protection of the gloves.
Everyone talks about the “dry cold” of the north. Living by a river that has yet to freeze, I can’t say I know what a “dry cold” feels like. Apparently, once the river freezes, it won’t feel as cold, although it will technically be colder. I don’t care what the humidity is: minus twenty is cold.
The days are getting noticeably shorter now. Even with daylight savings, the sun doesn’t rise until twenty to ten. It seems to come out of the south-west, instead of the east. It then does a slow, shallow arc through the western sky, hanging over the river. It never rises above 45 degrees from the ground. Go outside at twelve noon and it feels like late afternoon. The frost in the air causes sun dogs to form on either side. It then sets in the north-west before five.
At night there is usually a white ring around the moon. The stars don’t simply twinkle; they seem to change color, with flashes of red and blue so noticeable that Nicole and I spent five minutes one morning trying to decide if it was a star or a plane we were watching in the western sky.
While these atmospheric displays are amazing, they are forgotten when the northern lights come out to play. Tonight the lights are a still, green glow stretching towards the north. Two long trails of light merged into one directly over my head. On other nights they look like a shimmering curtain. There’s a line from a song that rings true whenever I see the lights.
“the northern lights give a ghostly glow
It’s hard to tell if they’re really there”
The only adjective for this light is ghostly. Any other light you see at night either comes from the moon, or from man made lights. The northern lights are not tied to either of these. They are visible without illuminating anything else. They don’t rely on the moon or stars for their light. The stars are still visible behind them. You can’t say for certain where they begin or end because they are always moving. All you can say for sure is that they are there. They are indescribable, so I’ll stop trying to describe them. But I will say this: no picture will do them justice.
It doesn’t really snow here. I miss the big fat flakes of the east coast. Instead it just gets so wickedly cold that any moisture in the air freezes and clings to the trees or falls to the ground in small particles. You don’t need a shovel to clean off the steps. A broom is much more efficient at brushing away the dust. And the powder that forms has yet to pack down. You can’t make a snowman with the snow that is in my yard.
I broke down and bought gloves the other day. God knows we brought fifty pairs with us, but I’ll be damned if I can find any of them now. I bought them after a quick trip to the warehouse to grab a few boxes of Christmas decorations. My fingers got painfully cold very quickly. It was -20 after all. The gloves I bought have a rawhide outside and a fur pile inside. My boss warned me that the fur would get crushed and inefficient before long. He recommended wearing gloves inside mittens. Mittens are a must, because individually wrapped fingers can’t keep themselves warm. But when you do need those fingers, you can take off the mittens and still have the protection of the gloves.
Everyone talks about the “dry cold” of the north. Living by a river that has yet to freeze, I can’t say I know what a “dry cold” feels like. Apparently, once the river freezes, it won’t feel as cold, although it will technically be colder. I don’t care what the humidity is: minus twenty is cold.
The days are getting noticeably shorter now. Even with daylight savings, the sun doesn’t rise until twenty to ten. It seems to come out of the south-west, instead of the east. It then does a slow, shallow arc through the western sky, hanging over the river. It never rises above 45 degrees from the ground. Go outside at twelve noon and it feels like late afternoon. The frost in the air causes sun dogs to form on either side. It then sets in the north-west before five.
At night there is usually a white ring around the moon. The stars don’t simply twinkle; they seem to change color, with flashes of red and blue so noticeable that Nicole and I spent five minutes one morning trying to decide if it was a star or a plane we were watching in the western sky.
While these atmospheric displays are amazing, they are forgotten when the northern lights come out to play. Tonight the lights are a still, green glow stretching towards the north. Two long trails of light merged into one directly over my head. On other nights they look like a shimmering curtain. There’s a line from a song that rings true whenever I see the lights.
“the northern lights give a ghostly glow
It’s hard to tell if they’re really there”
The only adjective for this light is ghostly. Any other light you see at night either comes from the moon, or from man made lights. The northern lights are not tied to either of these. They are visible without illuminating anything else. They don’t rely on the moon or stars for their light. The stars are still visible behind them. You can’t say for certain where they begin or end because they are always moving. All you can say for sure is that they are there. They are indescribable, so I’ll stop trying to describe them. But I will say this: no picture will do them justice.
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