A trip to the outside

When Pierre Burton lived in Dawson city as a child, he said that people referred to anywhere south as the “outside.” If you weren’t cooped up in Dawson for six months of winter, you were “outside” in the rest of the civilized world. While it is not quite that bad here in Tulita, I can say that seven months in the same small town can get to you. I have felt the first hints of cabin fever, and although I could always get on the internet or turn on the TV, after seven months you need a change of scenery.

We left for vacation of July 7th. 07/07/07. The luckiest day of the year. And I was inclined to agree. I had just spent six weeks running the store, shorthanded. I was burnt out to say the least, and in the last few days before we left, I started to not care that things were less than perfect at the store. My one useless stock boy had buggered off, and the cashiers were showing up late and leaving early. But none of that mattered. I couldn’t even sleep the last few nights. I had finally recaptured that feeling one gets in the run-up to Christmas when one is six. But this was going to be better than Christmas. Christmas is a mere day. I was looking forward to three weeks in the civilized world.

Leaving Tulita is no small feat. One must first board a plane at the airport and fly twenty minutes north to Norman Wells, Imperial Oil’s bastion of the north. Unlike every other nearby community, Norman Wells is a fairly new town. It was founded in the 1940s because of its oil reserves. The Americans built a pipeline to help the war effort. From there you catch a Canadian North flight to Edmonton, with a half hour stopover in Yellowknife to go through proper security. It is clear that the Canadian government doesn’t care what you bring north of sixty on a flight, but god help you if you try to bring anything back.

We got a ride from the Norman Wells airport with Larry, owner and proprietor of one of the local hotels. As we were driving into town, I noticed that the van wasn’t kicking up a cloud of dust.

“What do they use on the roads around here?” I asked Larry.

“Oil.”

“Oil?! Like, crude oil?”

“Oil. It’s better than dust.”

Anywhere else in Canada, if your furnace tank leaks, Environment Canada will come dig up your front lawn and leave you with a $20,000 bill. In Norman Wells, they spray it on the roads.

It was so strange to be somewhere other than Tulita and to know I would be without responsibilities or deadlines for the next three weeks. I picked up a copy of the Globe and Mail. It was the first time I had seen a newspaper that wasn’t at least a day old in seven months. Nicole often brings me back newspapers when she travels to Yellowknife. I hoard them like gold and often read every column and section. Even papers that are a month old have interesting stories. Our store gets only one paper a week. It’s a northern publication called News North, and even that arrives a day late. Sure we have the internet, but it’s not the same as seeing the news in black and white.

We ate at Larry’s hotel (which also has a small restaurant). It was the first of too many meals out. Our flight to Edmonton left at three. We boarded a 737 without even going through a metal detector. It’s still a strange feeling in this day and age.

I thought that my return to civilization would be a bit of a shock. More than one person had warned me that the pace is often too much for people who have spent a lot of time in the North. To me, it was as if I had never left. But it was strange to see a group of people and not know the names of any of them. Working at the store, I know the names of almost everyone in town.

With our luggage checked, we wandered around the airport, waiting for our flight to St. John’s. At one point, a businessman who was walking in front of us suddenly stopped and spun around.

“Hey Michael! How’s it going?”

Nicole and I jumped back and stopped. It was only then that I noticed the tiny Bluetooth headset resting on his ear. We both kept walking and laughed to ourselves. Later, a security guard whizzed past on a segway scooter. The future arrived while I was away.

Our flight to St. John’s was hellish. We somehow ended up in the emergency exit seats. They don’t recline, and since we were in the aisle and middle seats, sleep was all but impossible. There were seventeen empty seats in first class by my count, but the stewardess would not let us sit there.

“I’m sorry sir. I can’t upgrade you to first class.”

I wasn’t asking to be “upgraded” to first class. I just wanted to sit there and sleep for a few hours. But I let it go.

We arrived in St. John’s on Sunday the 8th at ten thirty local time. Nicole’s dad and sister were there to meet us at the airport. Her mom was home cooking up a massive “sunday dinner.” Besides a turkey and glazed ham, we had potatoes, turnips, carrots and cabbage boiled up with salt beef, and too many other sides to mention.

The next morning, five of us climbed into a new Daewoo car for an 11 hour drive across the entire island of Newfoundland. Our destination was Rose Blanche, a small fishing village on the south west coast, near Port-aux-Basques. It is the ancestral home of the Light’s Family, and it is where Nicole and I bought a small house with some of our savings from our first year in the north.

The drive was eventful to say the least, but I promised not to record any of it. These are my future in-laws, after all.

We arrived at our house at nine-thirty that night, just as it was getting dark. Having never seen the house in person, it exceeded all of our expectations. Nicole’s cousins came over and we had beer and pizza. Then we spent the night talking and checking out the features of the house.

The next day was mostly spent visiting relatives. First cousins Dave and Dianne. Then Aunt Marie and Uncle Willie, then cousin Tanya and Aunt Geraldine. And finally, Aunt Rose, who is actually Aunt to nobody. As Farley Mowat wrote in his book, Bay of Spirits, “Aunt” is a title bestowed on respected women all along the southwest coast of Newfoundland. She welcomed us into her house, which was lined with pictures of her children (one of whom is now a doctor). She offered us a drink of whiskey, noting that the doctor had told her a small drink was good for her now and then, as long as it was mixed with water.

“I like to mix mine with ginger ale though,” she said with a false whisper and a big grin.

Although seeing old friends was fun, by the end of the day that feeling of Christmas returned. I had been out visiting relatives when I really wanted to be home, playing with my toys. Only this time, the toy was my home.

The next morning we left for the east coast again. We stopped for a night in Corner Brook to look up old friends, most of whom were not home or had moved on.

The next week in St. John’s was uneventful. We spent our time visiting tourist attractions and going to the mall. I bought a few shirts, but even flush with cash I was unable to bring myself to spend 25 bucks on a shirt or 50 for a sweater. Fashion in the north tends towards the practical rather than the stylish. What I did buy was books. About 15 by the end of three weeks. I walked through Chapters, grabbing anything that looked interesting. It was the one pleasure I refused to deny myself. At one point, while carrying about seven books, a customer stopped me and asked me if I worked at the store. I guess he needed some help.

On Monday the 16th we went downtown to see the White Stripes concert. Although we had floor tickets, and although we started out very close to the stage, the notion of standing for two hours amongst a bunch of pierced and colorful teenagers didn’t appeal to us fogies. Luckily, Mile One Stadium has a restaurant up among the private boxes. We got two seats with a prime view of the stage. Jack White looked kind of small, but we could hear him fine and the beer tasted good.

The next day we flew to Nova Scotia. We spent a lot of time visiting family and friends, and there was more shopping. It was over all too quick. On the way back to the north, we stopped for a night in Edmonton and spent an afternoon at the West Edmonton Mall, once again buying almost nothing.

I will admit, it felt good to get back to Tulita. That really surprised me because I couldn’t wait to get the hell out of here when we left. Too much of anything (or anyplace) is a bad thing. Now I’m ready for another year.

After having spent a year in relative isolation, I’ve compiled a list of things you should not take for granted:

1. Family and friends
2. Bookstores
3. Cold beer with family and friends
4. Long drives to nowhere in particular
5. Fresh meat and vegetables
6. Newspapers (especially the weekend edition)

Everything else you can probably live without.

Flash Happy

When we went on vacation in July, Nicole and I were in an unusual position. For the first time in our lives we had cash, but we didn't need anything. In the past year we had learned that living in the north wasn't exactly roughing it when it comes to getting day-to-day needs, meaning we didn't need to stock up on any items. We could only bring back what we could fit in our suitcases. I didn't want to spend money on expensive clothes that would only be ruined by days at the store. My one major purchase (besides a suitcase full of books) was a new digital SLR camera.

Tulita means "where the waters meet" in the local language. Here you can see the cold and crystal clear waters of the Bear River merging with the muddy waters of the Mackenzie. There is probably a 10 to 15 degree temperature difference between the waters. There is supposedly good fishing on the border of these two waters, although you need a boat to fish there.

The slopes of Great bear rock as seen from the air.

Another part of the rock. The swath cut through the trees in the center of the picture is the winter road.

Bear rock from the airport.

This picture was taken at the dump. This doesn't show how incredibly big these ravens are.

The Mackay Range mountains are a dominant feature of the landscape around Tulita. The first picture was taken from my yard. The second from the airport above town. I'm beginning to wonder when I'll get tired of taking pictures of this scene.



Bears in their natural habitat. (I wish).





Ursus aviation is the local charter company. Their motto is: "Don't be fooled by the orange and brown paint job or the orange shag carpeting in our planes. We do regular engine maintenance!"

Believe it or not, Mac the dog can fly. I have proof in these two pictures.



A chance picture I took one Sunday morning. That's the old Hudson's Bay warehouse where we keep our furniture.

Images of the Norwetta heading south on the Mackenzie. Customers pay upwards of $5000 for a week-long one-way trip up the Mackenzie.

Dangerous Creatures

Last Thursday night I took the dog for a walk on the beach. It was getting late, and I had already driven up to the dump to get some pics of the bears with my new camera. But when I returned, Mackey was jumping around at the door, which is her way of asking to go out for a walk. So I took her down to the beach.

It was an uneventful walk, as far as I could tell. But when I got her back to the house, Nicole noticed something.

“Mackey has a splinter in her tongue!”

Mackey was sitting on the floor, looking up at us. Her tail was wagging and her tongue was hanging out. Sure enough, I could see a bi-colored splinter stuck in her lolling tongue.

“That’s not a splinter. That’s a porcupine quill.”

She was still looking up at us, apparently unaware that she had a huge spike in her tongue. I coaxed her onto the coach,. Then I tried to pry open her mouth and grab the quill. Her happy demeanor was quickly replaced by the scrunched up face of a resisting little child. As soon as I stopped she would resume panting and tail-wagging, her tongue hanging out as if to show off the quill.

The quill looked smaller than most I had seen. It didn’t seem to be in her tongue too deep, and she did not appear to be in pain. Yet I was beginning to worry. I had heard that quills slowly work their way into the skin. I had also heard that they have barbs like fishhooks that make them difficult to remove Throughout this whole ordeal, Nicole was very helpful. She mostly held Mackey’s head still and said things like, “Just grab it! Just yank it out!” Of course dog drool isn’t exactly sticky. It has what you might call lubricating properties. Any time I did manage to grab the quill, it slipped out of my fingers.

At this point, I did what any college educated person is bound to do when action isn’t working. I switched to research. A quick Google search of “porcupine quill in dog mouth” brought up all sorts of helpful links. They all showed disturbing pictures of dogs covered in quills and said things like:

“A few porcupine quills in a dogs face can usually be removed by the owner, but quills in the mouth will probably require a trip to the vet so that the dog can be sedated.”

I got up form the computer in disgust. A trip to the vet would probably cost us at least five hundred dollars. We would have to borrow a kennel, make arrangements to get her on the plane, make arrangements to pick her up. All because the damn dog had decided to see how a porcupine tastes.. I felt like an American parent who has learned their child has done something stupid and will need an expensive trip to the hospital.

The problem, I decided, was that Mac kept pulling her tongue into her mouth whenever I tried to grab the quill. If only there was some way to make her stick her tongue out.

I went to the cupboard and grabbed the extra large jar of peanut butter we had mailed to ourselves last year. I spooned some into a bowl, and then jammed my fingers into the mess.

“Here Mackey!”

Now instead of pulling her head away, her little tongue was darting in and out like a piston. This didn’t make grabbing the quill any easier. Neither did the great globs of peanut butter stuck to my fingers. At eleven o’clock, we gave up and went to bed.

In the morning, the quill was still there. Because she didn’t appear to be in any pain, we decided that there was no rush. Nicole made plans to call the vet for advice. We thought that maybe they could send up a mild sedative that would allow us to get the quill out.

As we were getting ready for work, Mac came in the bedroom and jumped up on the bed. She was lying on her back with her mouth open. Nicole and I looked at each other, and within seconds, she had grabbed the dog and I had grabbed the quill. It came out very easily, and Mac didn’t even flinch.

For Crown and Country

It’s been a long time since I felt like writing. Today is the 21st of June, the longest day of the year. It’s a statutory holiday in the Northwest Territories because it is National Aboriginal Day. The Dene Band here in town held celebrations just across the road from our house. There were barbequed steaks, smoked grayling (a type of fish), an archery competition, and a drum dance. As I barbequed supper out on my deck, I could hear the steady thumping of ten or more drums pounding in unison.

Earlier in the day, as Nicole and I got ready to take the dog for a walk on the beach, we spotted the unmistakable sight of tourists. You can distinguish them a mile away in their shorts, windbreakers, and Gilligan style wide brimmed white hats. As soon as I saw them, I knew that the Norweta was in dock. Sure enough, when we walked out to blueberry hill, we could see the ship tied up at the point, along with a few more white hatted tourists ambling along the dirt road towards town.

The Norweta was built in 1971 as a passenger ship according to the ship’s website. It is now used as a tour boat that makes regular trips up and down the Mackenzie all summer long. Passengers pay upwards of $6000 each for an eight day tour (10 days if you’re going south against the current) between Hay River and Inuvik. From what I’ve seen, the passengers are usually retirees spending their kids inheritance. These rich, polite old folks are always friendly and a pleasure to talk to. We met one nice lady at the foot of Blueberry hill. She asked if the store was open because she wanted to buy another notepad for her travel log. I informed her the store was closed, but invited her to take advantage of the free steaks cooking up the hill.

Nicole and I went down to the beach, let the dog off the leash, and started walking towards the ship. Just a few short weeks ago, the beach was littered with massive chunks of ice after the breakup. I wanted to go down and get my picture taken next to some, but for some reason I never got around to it. Today they are gone and we made our way around and over the dead trees that now litter the beach. When we got to the Norweta, a crew member was swabbing the deck with a broom. He greeted us and we made some polite casual conversation about the weather, but he didn’t invite us aboard. We walked a bit further down the beach and then started back.

On our way back, an older gentleman in a beard was preparing to mount a bicycle to peddle into town. Mackie approached him and we struck up a conversation. He told us he was the historian and tour guide on the cruise. He told us that he had worked as an archeologist for the government, and was based out of the museum in Yellowknife. He had researched and suggested the name change for the town from Fort Norman to Tulita. He said he had just finish telling passengers on the ship the story of how one of Canada’s Governor Generals, Lord Tweedsmuir, had climbed Great Bear Rock with two bodygurads and then drank some whiskey atop the plateau while his two bodyguards were rescued by a team of locals.

As we were talking, we had to get out of the way of a huge yellow grader that was scraping the road. All day today, the town worked through the holiday leveling the dirt roads around town, and spraying them with a chemical that is supposed to reduce dust. We learned they are doing this because Prince Andrew will be in town next weekend (or possibly the weekend after) to set out on a canoe trip. First Leslie Neilson, and now Prince Andrew. We are forever being besiged by our social superiors here in Tulita. I think I will make an effort to get the Prince’s photo if he does show up in town. Oh, and apparently this is supposed to be a secret. And here I am posting it on the internet. Oh bother.

Dog's in the Cradle

Mac the dog turned one on the 13 (last Sunday). I was at work that day, preparing for yet another visit from the bigwigs.







My dog turned one just the other day.
She said "Thanks for the ball Dad,
C'mon lets play!
Can you teach me to fetch?"
I said "Not today,
I got a lot to do."
She said, "Thats ok."

But I swear I heard her say As I walked away,
she said, "I'm gonna eat your shoe
Dad, you know I'm gonna eat your shoe..."

With apologies to Harry Chapin.

Breakup

Friday, May 4

There are different signs of spring in the north than what we are used to in the south. We still look for the familiar “v” of geese in the sky, but instead of robins, we look for the first seagull at the dump. The first day the temperature rose above minus twenty was a big milestone. That was back near the end of march. The days are now much longer than they are short. We go to bed with light peaking in from behind the blinds. The snow is all gone, here in the first of may, except in the shaded areas on the edge of the woods. But until today, the river was still a solid mass of ice.

Last Monday I took the dog for our first walk down on the beach in a year. The ice along the banks of the river was breaking up. Mac was wading into the water for drinks, and she was trying to get up onto the unbroken sheet of ice that covered the river. There were several skidoos parked on the edge of this ice. People who were camping on the far side of the river had traveled home to Tulita, only to find the edge of the ice gone. Danny, one of the fellows I work with, saw people racing their skidoos across this open stretch of water and up onto the rocky beach. If you get a skidoo moving fast enough, it will stay on top of the water for a while. I guess it’s better to run your skidoo on to the shore than have it carried away on an ice floe.

Today, Nicole and I ate our lunch, unaware that the frozen river outside our window was about to break free. As soon as I went in the store after lunch, the boss and his wife took the truck down to “the point” to see the ice breaking. The Point is at the southern end of town. It is where most people launch their boats, and where the barge lands to unload. They came back a half hour later, saying that the ice was cracking and the water rising a bit.

By two o’clock, there was open water in front of our hose. Big pans of ice were slowly drifting past. Everyone came down to blueberry hill, at the corner of our company’s property, to watch the ice drifting. Trucks were roaring back and forth towards the point, and teachers led screaming kids down for the show. We watched as the remnants of the ice road drifted past on a single pan of ice, like some tiny tectonic plate.



























I didn’t get off work until eight thirty, but as soon as we finished supper, Nicole and I took the dog for a walk down by the river. It was a very different scene from what we had seen at lunch. The river was flowing much faster, and the large pans of ice had been replaced by a mishmash of smaller (although still large) chunks. The water had risen again to the point where the beach was covered in ice and tree trunks.



















We stood by the edge of the ice and watched the river rise and fall in quick spurts. Jams miles downriver were causing the water level to rise and fall, sometimes as much as a foot or more. I've uploaded an AVI file to show how fast the ice was flowing. (7mb, 21 seconds)

Sunday, May 6
The elders are right. Within three days of the river breaking, there is always a snowstorm. Ours came . Fat wet flakes. It piled up fast. We got about five centimeters. By suppertime the sun was out and water was dripping off the roof. At times the ice was flowing by amazingly fast. Other times, it slowed to a crawl.

Today we took another walk down to the point. Even more ice had been pushed up onto the shore. Places where we had stood on Friday night were now covered in massive chunks of ice. There had been a large piece of scrap metal down at the point on Friday night. It probably weighed more than a ton. Today it lay twisted among the burgs.





Each piece of ice was unique. most were dirty. Other pieces were bright blue, and stood out among the white and brown. Still other piece were almost crystal clear, with tiny flaws littered throughout.







Now, as I get ready for bed, I can say that there is more water than ice visible in the Mackenzie. In a few days there will be boats in the water where skidoos traveled only a week before.

Salvatore and Giovanni

On Thursday night I was paged to the front of the store just after closing time. Two men were standing by the till and talking to Lina. One of them was wearing a brightly colored ski jacket, the other was in a coat much too thin for this weather. Lina looked at me and mouthed the words “say no” as I approached the counter. I greeted them and Lina said that they wanted to exchange euros for Canadian dollars. I told the men that there was no way for us to do that. I could smell the faint hint of an expensive cologne.
“No bank here?”
“No. There is a bank in Norman Wells. I‘m sure they could do it.”
“How far away is it?”
“About an hour away.”
“One hour?”
“An hour or an hour and a half.”
“One hour?”
“One hundred kilometers.”
This registered with the man.
“Okay. There is bus there?”
“No, no buses. You can fly or drive. Rent a truck.”
“Fly? Too expensive.”

I wondered how two men could get to Tulita from somewhere in Europe (I couldn’t place the accent) without stopping to exchange their money. And if they had come this far, why wouldn’t they pay a few hundred extra dollars to get to the next town? A town with finer hotels and a few restaurants.
Meanwhile, the man’s friend noticed our bank machine in the corner. He called out to him. The man looked at me.
“Your machine work?”
“It may work for you,” I said, not knowing if our humble little cash machine could exchange euros in some European account for Canadian dollars.
They consulted with the machine and seemed satisfied after a while. They then left the store. I would have struck up a conversation with them and asked them what brought them to Tulita, but they seemed fairly mad and unfriendly, so I just let them go.

On Friday morning there was a truck waiting for us outside the store. It was only half a load, but we spilled a pallet of pepsi as it was coming off the truck. It turned a one hour job into a two hour job. A can of pepsi will freeze fairly quickly when it is 20 below.
Nicole called me around 11:00. She was laughing.
“There’s these two guys at the hotel. You’ll never believe this. They’re from Italy and their spiritual advisor told them they have to be in Tulita on Monday morning to receive some good luck!”

If ever there was a story for CBC radio, this was it. I asked Nicole to invite them over for dinner if she saw them. But she didn’t have to, because I saw them first. As soon as I waked out into the store, there were the Italians in their ugly ski-suit glory. I ran over to introduce myself. The man said his name was Giovanni.
“How about you come to our house tonight for supper? Chicken?”
“Yes, chicken? Good. Come here,” he gestured towards the front door. We went over and he pointed at a snowmobile.
“We want to rent one of these?”
I knew locals would rent their snowmobiles to oil companies. I asked a few people, and I got a few names, but after a few phone calls I had no luck in locating a skidoo for them. I told them I would try later.

Nicole, being the saint that she is, cooked dinner for four that night. I left work a bit early, and a few minutes before eight, I walked over to the hotel to get them. Giovanni introduced me to his friend, Salvatore. Salvatore spoke almost no English, Giovanni later explained to us. Giovanni had traveled throughout Europe when he was younger, and had spent several months in England. So his English was ok. Giovanni had asked him along on this trip for that very reason.
Cooking dinner for Italians is probably difficult enough when you have access to fresh vegetables and meat. We apologized for the quality of our humble salad, with its wilted lettuce and mushy tomatoes. The two men puzzled over the Kraft Italian dressing on our table. Salvatore eventually came up with a name for it that Giovanni agreed with. In broken English Salvatore spoke about the high quality of food and fashion that all Italians enjoy.
We learned that the two men work at a car dealership on the island of Sicily. Salvatore was the owner. Giovanni a salesman. He produced a business card that showed logos of everything from Ford to Jaguar and Porsche.
At times, the two men would argue for five minutes at a time in Italian. Nicole and I sat in awkward silence as they gestured and spoke over each other, only to calm down. Sometimes there was an explanation of what they were arguing about, other times, the subject was changed.
Eventually the subject changed to what had brought the meant here. Salvatore spoke while Giovanni translated, sentence by sentence. Salvatore had been consulting an astrologer for many years now. This particular astrologer was highly regarded, and even consulted with Prime Minister Berlusconi himself. His method was different from most. He was able to pinpoint the exact location on earth one should be on their Birthday in order to achieve the best influence from the stars and planets. In past years, Salvatore had traveled to New Orleans, Africa, and Australia to celebrate his birthday. This year, the Astronomer had told him Tulita, Northwest Territories, Canada.
It was clear that Salvatore believed this without a doubt. He was not embarrassed or shy to share this information with us. He had just dropped thousands of dollars to jump on a plane and fly to the middle of nowhere in order to have good luck. This made perfect sense to him.
The two never did get to go for a skidoo ride. I tired calling a few more people over the next few days, but without any luck. Salvatore mostly stayed in his warm hotel room. I dropped by to see them on Sunday. He had managed to find a soccer game on Fox Sports. One of the teams was Italian.
Giovanni ventured out throughout the weekend in his conspicuous snowsuit, but found the -40 windchill too much for his face and hands. The locals were more or less ambivalent to these strange visitors. I would have thought that someone else would have taken an interest in their story and invited them out for some traditional northern food.
Because of their broken English and my own lack of time, I decided not to bother with a radio piece and instead submitted a story about the men to the News North. Apparently they didn’t like my story because they never replied.
They flew out on Monday morning: Salvatore’s 53rd birthday. He only needed to be present in the very early morning, the time which corresponded with his birth in Italy in order to receive good luck. I soon have to write them a letter and let them know that their story didn’t make the cut. They promised Nicole and I that if we ever come to Sicily, we are welcome to stay at their homes. I told them I’d be happy with a test drive in a Porsche.