McSnowWriter's Pamphlet: 3.0 - In the Bush

Out in Minus Forty

Tue, 20 Nov 2007 21:34:29 GMT

Out in minus forty

The sounds of strenuous exertion were getting louder as I shuffled along the darkened road. They were escaping from within a lit-up stage. The sporadic nature of the sounds affirmed the ebb and flow of the epic "event" that was staged within the conical light emitted from a single overhead streetlight. An “ice crystal” haze, that hung over the scene like a fog in still air, muffled the sounds. This illuminated haze defined the boundaries of our venue where we battled for supremacy of the neighbourhood.

It was “street” hockey night in Yellowknife, being played out in front of Jackie Weatherlee’s house on 48th Street, three quarters of a block south of 50th Ave. It could have been anywhere, as we were a group of wild “rambling” adventurers needing only an excuse. The participants came from all parts of the town except old town, where the likes of Steve England lived. He would have had to trudge up the hill with his stick. We also couldn’t claim supremacy over the players from Giant or Con where Billy Smith and Carl Husar lived respectively. Daryl MacLeod came from 46th Street and 50th Ave where he lived with his sister Hilda in the Signal Corp houses. Glenn Weatherby came from 52nd Street and 49th Ave. where he lived with his older brothers Gary and Gord. Lynn Smith came from over that direction also. Jim Albers would run over from his house on the other side of Con Road, stopping first to slide down the small hill across from Bill Sylvester’s house on Con Road. His brother Doug and sister Joan usually slid there with other neighbourhood enthusiasts. The hill was also known as a good “king of the castle” hill. Len Demelt came running from the Giant Road area, sometimes dragging Mike along. I came shuffling from four houses down the street. “Ringers” and older “participants” often infiltrated our game, so we had to be quick to identify them, and enlist them on our side. We even got Dot Cinnamon to play sometimes. She would bring her sisters and girlfriends who would distract us from our play.

The snowy goal posts were hacked out of the snow-banks that were piled high on either side of the road, and the lumps were placed in the center of the street just within the streetlight’s limits. We had trained the local car drivers to miss the snow-blocks with threats of snowballs being flung at them.

The games would start right after school. Daylight had long since disappeared, thus the need for the streetlight was critical. It would continue until the last two players were called or “whistled” in for supper. We were all dressed in parkas, heavy mitts and felt-lined boots or Mukluks to fend off the -30 to -40 degree temperatures. Most wore toques, but ear-muffs were not uncommon, and of course, we used the hoods attached to our coats whenever the need for extra protection was necessary. No pads were required since our parkas accomplished a somewhat similar function. Besides, our game was more about puck possession and stick handling, than long passes and slap shots. When we got tired, the snow-banks provided an excellent “form-fitting” seat and/or bed where we would flop ourselves for a rest. We refereed ourselves as we all knew the local rules.

Of course all this was the prelude for the weekly Saturday morning hockey games that were contested at the Gerry Murphy Arena. The skating and curling complex sat near the shore of Frame Lake, two blocks from the big wooden “Stanton” Yellowknife Hospital. The skating rink, ringed with it’s rickety wooden bleachers, was housed within an un-insulated, wood- frame shell of a building. The front end of the rink was glassed-in to allow the spectators to sit on the bleachers in heated comfort. The curling rink, with it’s four sheets of ice, had a similar arrangement but their viewing area sported “theatre like” seats, and had a “bar” to serve warmth and comfort to their patrons.

No heat in the playing areas meant the temperature inside was only a few degrees warmer than the temperature outside. That placed both players and spectators in freezer-like conditions, often -30 to –40, but without the wind. Hockey Officials have had hockey games cancelled when the inside temperature reached –40. The concern, of the Officials, was the players over exerting themselves and drawing in great amounts of cold air, thus damaging their lungs.

Practice time was necessary and we all went through the required drills, but it was the “game” time that was the most anticipated. Our coach, Mr. Lovell, had us playing well and we won more than we lost. I fashioned my game after Bobby Hull, the Golden Jet. I was even an “ace” on the team. My buddy, Steve England was playing on the same team as me. He was the one who got me started in organized hockey by giving me an old set of shin pads. I scraped around for the rest of the equipment; Dad came up with the shoulder pads. The Minor Hockey League supplied the uniforms. Sometimes, we even had little scrums or brawls after the games if we thought the game was too mild. Nothing serious and it was mostly wrestling.

Lots of fun, however, skating in those temperatures could and did have consequences. We had to pay particular attention not to lace-up our skates “too tight” and what our feet were “feeling” or “not feeling”. I have witnessed many episodes of my teammates, in excruciating pain, moan and sob as they held their frozen feet in their hands while trying to thaw them. The pain of thawing feet was akin to having red-hot pokers and sharp needles constantly pierce all of your toes, for periods lasting fifteen to thirty minutes. I know because it has happened to me more than once. I have stood in front of the washroom’s sinks with one leg hoisted high and my foot fully submerged in hot water, waiting for the pain to slowly subside, then switching position so my other foot could get the same relief. I may have moaned once or twice during those times.

It was fair to say that I thought of taking up another sport while enduring those painful times. Curling seemed to pop into my head, or should I say “feet”. You got to wear nice warm boots and the sport was co-ed. Jim Eis had acquired “ice time” for the school; he and other teachers were teaching us how to play during our extended Wednesday P.E. periods and on weekends.

The attraction of the sport was reinforced by the sounds of the shouted “hurry-hurry-hurry”, mixed with the rhythmic “wap-wap-wap” of the corn brooms striking the ice, as they reverberated throughout the “frost encased” building shell that housed the four sheets of ice. The sight of the players pushing out of the hacks and “holding” their slides, even after releasing the “rock”, required practice and dedication that would lead to consistency and winning. A team’s success was often judged by the number of admiring spectators that sat watching and analyzing their play. Or maybe it was the sight of so many blatant “behinds”. It was also fun to be on the sheet of ice dodging the chunks of hoar frost as they fell from the roof when the building’s inside temperature started to warm up in the Spring.

Then there was the irony of skiing in Yellowknife. We wore parkas with fur-lined hoods to keep the wind away from our faces while we walked around, heck, we even walked “backwards” into the wind to keep it from our faces. So “why” slap a pair of skis on our feet and speed down a hill to create a 25+ mile per hour wind to blow straight into our faces, at –30 to –40 degree temperatures. We didn’t use the term “wind-chill” factor in those days, but we were smart enough to know that it got colder “quicker” with a wind blowing in your face than just standing around or walking. It was normal, at the bottom of the run, to crouch over trying to thaw out our chin, nose and cheeks with our bare hands as they burned painfully from the instant dose of “frost-bite”, however, that only worked if our hands were not already frozen. Fun? Yes, enjoyable, but it still baffles me “why”. Maybe it was because the others did it too. Or, maybe, just maybe, it was like hockey and we liked playing outside.

Tom Cole, Alfred Abel, Steve E and I used to ski down Old Town hill starting out near Alfred’s house and passing behind Smokey Heal’s garage. Peter Frang and I skied on Yellowknife’s first ski-hill that ran out onto Jackfish Lake from its top near the west side of the gravel pit. Peter and I were cocky enough to ski down the vertical slope of the gravel pit. Short and steep. Damn near killed myself there.

Then came the cross-country skiing. It was a lot easier on my face, which really didn’t bother me as I had a face that only a mother could love. Peter and I often ventured out together. Kam Lake, Frame Lake, Back Bay to Giant, Giant to Yellowknife River bridge. All our trips were “day” trips with food and a small pot to boil water on a fire. Ptarmigans and rabbits had to beware because we were “packing”. The wind was never a huge factor as long as we kept the wind at our backs, but of course, we hoped that any wind would “die down” by the time we had to turn around and head for home. Or, find a road and hitch-hike back…….well, it’s got the word “hike” in it so it must be a sport.

Then suddenly, as we strode on with our cross-country skis, a Ski-doo roars passed the dog sled team that was passing us ….. hummm, maybe there is “something” to these winter sports at minus forty…….better go check those machines out, they look like fun.

Flight to Discovery

Mon, 19 Feb 2007 22:59:05 GMT

Flight to Discovery

…..and then there was the time I was sitting around contemplating “what to do for the day” when I got a phone call from Steve England. Problem solved….he invited me to go along on a flight to Discovery Mines, seventy-five miles north of Yellowknife, N.W.T. All I had to do was to get myself to the Khoen Air Service’s float base in Old Town within the next two hours.

I arrived before the passengers so chatted and helped Steve while he went through his pre-flight on the Cessna, then cleaned the floor and arranged the seatbelts on the inside of the plane. The aircraft was configured with four seats and had a stowage compartment behind the two rear seats.

We had just finished when the “44” Taxi swung into the parking area. It backed up to the dock and out poured the two passengers. Both were obviously drunk even though they made every effort to portray that they were sober. They grabbed their small overnight bags from the taxi’s front seat and carried them protectively over to the plane in somewhat of a straight line. The driver walked to the rear of the cab and popped the trunk to expose our cargo….fifteen case of beer.

I shrugged my shoulders and went to help the taxi driver. He passed each case to me while I in turn passed them to Steve who loaded them in the rear side compartment of the plane. He had to stuff a few cases into the stowage area along with the passenger’s overnight bags that clanked to the sound of bottles when being loaded.

It was obvious to me that I was to ride “shotgun” for Steve who had every intention of putting the passengers in the rear seats away from the plane’s controls; thus I became the honourary co-pilot for the day.

With the loud rambunctious passengers safely buckled in the rear seats and the doors secured, Steve cranked the engine over until it caught with a loud roar. Hank pushed us away from the dock and we taxied out into Back Bay. Turning into the wind Steve gave the engine full power and the plane surged forward pushing water over the floats. As we picked up speed the floats got on “step” and we skimmed across the water at an ever-increasing speed. I could see the controls getting “light” in his hands and with a gentle tug on the control wheel the plane lifted off the surface of the lake; just like “letting it climb out of the lake on its own."

Steve went about the job of gaining altitude with the retraction of the flaps, adjustments to the trim and fine tweaking of the engine’s rpm with the throttle. I sat half watching him and half watching the town-site, head-frame and mill of Giant Yellowknife Mines pass below the left side of the plane. I could see my family’s old house sitting on a small bluff overlooking Yellowknife Bay from the river to Old Town.

I looked behind me at the two passengers; both were sound asleep. The thin air at our cruising altitude assisted their desire for a snooze after their “good-times” in the big city. I thought about the cases of beer and mysterious clanking overnight bags. Discovery Mines was a “dry” camp meaning no alcohol permitted on the property anytime. These two guys were flying right into a “having their beer confiscated and probably being fired from their jobs” scenario. I asked Steve and he just shrugged.

It was a warm sunny day, ideal for flying and sightseeing. The time went by fast and after thirty minutes I saw Discovery’s head-frame outlined on the horizon and pointed it out to Steve. He made a minute adjustment to his heading and prepared for our descent to the mine. The moment he adjusted the engine’s rpm the passengers woke up and looked out the cockpit windshield. One of them leaned forward and poked Steve on the shoulder. He slid the headset’s earphone off one ear while half turning in his seat, listened to the passenger and then nodded to the affirmative. He dug his aeronautical chart from the door pouch and then scrutinized it. He looked up and studied the shoreline contours and islands that made up Giauque Lake. Discovery was situated on its western shore.

Steve found what he was looking for and made a 15-degree deviation to his heading that put us in line with the eastern side of a small island in the middle of the lake. We over flew the area to determine the wind direction and any water obstacles then circled into the wind to land. Steve cut the power, extended the flaps and made a perfect landing on the lake. He increased the power to keep the floats on step and taxied closer to shore. At the same moment I saw a motorboat with a lone occupant push away from the island and speed out to meet us. We met 250 yards from the island; the island that hid us completely from any prying eyes at Discovery.

The boat was lashed to the pontoon and the two, now very active passengers, made short work of transferring their beer into the boat. Within four minutes they were standing in the boat waving good-bye to us as they sped off to their island hide-away. All Steve and I could do was look at each other, shake our heads in disbelief and laugh at the proceedings just completed.

I can only speculate what they did with the beer. Chances were that they left it on the island and came back in the evenings and partied. You never can tell though; if someone can smuggle a sixty-pound goldbrick out of Discovery on a plane then others could figure out how to smuggle a few cases of beer into Discovery.

The flight back to Yellowknife was uneventful. We chatted over the sound of the engine for a bit then I watched the numerous lakes pass by below and reflected on the 1920’s prohibition era antics that unfolded that day on my “flight to Discovery”.

Billy's White Hardhat

Mon, 19 Feb 2007 22:44:07 GMT

Billy's White Hardhat

I kept catching glimpses of a white patch of colour bobbing up and down ahead of me in the distance as I struggled through the dense thicket of willow and pine trees. I was sweating profusely from the exertion of climbing over, crouching under and skirting around deadfall Pines while carrying the 75-pound rock drill (plugger) strapped on my back.

The mosquitoes were having a field day feasting on blood extracted from the exposed skin of my face, neck and hands; the black flies were even more victorious as they tore chunks of skin from my body. I had already swallowed a half a pound of them as I sucked in air through my mouth. They were relentless in their attack as they swarmed around my head. The only thing to do was to flail my arms in front of my face with willow boughs and hurry across this stretch of muskeg bog that was sucking on the heels of my boots. The willow branches of the thicket were not helping my progress, as I had to brush them aside to move forward.

I glanced up and saw that the “white patch” was now stationary. I stopped, swatted at the flies and peered through the bush. I could make out the rock ridge crossing my path so I doubled my efforts and emerged out of the lowland northern “forest” and scrambled up the ridge to the spot where I saw the white patch.

Billy was sitting upon a rock outcrop on the spine of the ridge. His shiny white hardhat was still perched on his head. I thought it was pointless to wear one in the “bush” so it became the focal point of my jokes. I think my ribbing reinforced his resolve because, for the last ten days, he continued wearing it everywhere we went; and I kept saying “the only thing that would fall on his head out here was Seagull Shit”.

“Out here” was one hundred miles northeast of Yellowknife, N.W.T. in Canada’s sub-Arctic. We were smack dab in the middle of the Precambrian Shield where the land was made up of thousands of lakes; pockmarked into a land of rock, muskeg and the inevitable Jackpine trees.

“This is a good spot for a break”, Bill said, as a nice summer breeze blew across the ridge, keeping the flies grounded.

Bill or Billy, to differentiate him from his father Bill Heittrick Sr., and I were part of a six-man team out doing assessment work on Trans Mountain’s mineral claims in the area. In order for the company to retain the mineral rights we were to “trench” each claim to show that exploration work had been done on them; thus the rock drill. We had to locate the claim, drill numerous four-foot deep holes in a trench pattern, load the holes with dynamite, blast a trench and pick up fractured rock as ore samples.

My involvement in this particular job started three weeks ago in the Yellowknife Inn’s café when Bill and I were having coffee. He had just got his job with Trans Mountain and said that they still needed another person to fill their roster. I signed up later that afternoon.

A week later, six of us were dropped off in the Gordon Lake area by a Twin Otter aircraft. The pilot taxied straight in to shore and nudged his pontoons onto the sandy beach. It didn’t take us long to unload the six man camp, supplies and associated equipment from the aircraft. The dynamite had come in on a previous flight, as did the canoe and motor (kicker). We spent the remainder of the day setting up camp and getting ready for the following day’s work.

The next ten days were spent swearing and cursing “everybody” and “everything” as we lugged the 75-pound rock drill and cases of dynamite up, down and through the rocky hills and swampy dales of the Taiga; to the numerous contiguous claims that lay beyond the lake’s shoreline.

One of the few times we got reprieve from the flies was when we were actually drilling the holes into the rock, even though the drill oil and dust just aggravated the mosquitoes and black flies The mosquito dope we used was good but was quickly washed away when we wiped sweat from our eyes or face. The rock dust from the drilling would soon find a way to attach itself to the skin and we were constantly wiping it away from our faces. Billy’s white hardhat spent more time on the ground than on his head. It kept sliding off, getting knocked off or just plain taken off from his activities getting around in the bush. The other times we got reprieve from the black flies and mosquitoes were when strong breezes blew through the area. The flies were grounded and you would only see them hugging the ground around your ankles where we were heavily clothed. Life was tolerable if one stayed on high ground or near a lake where breezes could pick up speed.

Late one afternoon, on our way back to camp in the canoe, I asked Bill if he wanted fish for supper. Getting an affirmative answer I scrounged around our backpacks for the makings of a depth charge. A stick of dynamite with a shortened safety fuse, lit by the hot ember of a cigarette, was sent overboard shortly there after. We were 100 yards from the scene when we heard a muffled “whumpf” and a brief disturbance on the surface of the lake. We circled back to pick up our supper. I thought I had finally found a good use for Billy’s white hardhat….a “fish scoop”, but to our chagrin there was no fish, not even a minnow. Nada, nothing, zero, zilch. Instead of being terribly disappointed we hastened our return to camp and asked Cook Magrum to rustle us up a big T-bone steak with the trimmings. Food was good and plentiful at camp. Cook Magrum had made his cooler/refrigerator by digging a pit down into the permafrost and stored our perishables in this natural icebox including our milk that stayed nice and cold.

Early one morning, on our way down the lake to a claim, we came across a moose paddling himself across the lake. It was a joy to experience floating there in the warm still morning listening to the cry of the loons and watching an animal of that stature emerge out of the water, shake himself to shed water and then trot off into the bush.

Today was our last day working on the claims. The Twin Otter was to pick us up sometime midmorning tomorrow so we had to finish off our work today. The ridge that we were resting on was in the middle of the last claim we had to complete. It was getting late so we didn’t have time to drill the 20 holes into the bedrock of the claim.

” Lets look around and find cracks, crevasses or any other spots where we can stuff the dynamite” Bill said. We both knew we weren’t going to lug the unused dynamite back over the hills and dales to the camp, and we knew also that we weren’t going to fly it back to Yellowknife on the plane.

“Good idea” I said as I began searching along the ridge. I returned a few minutes later and continued, “I found a few good spots where I can place some”.

“Good, You take half the dynamite and I’ll take the other half and lets meet back here in ten minutes” Bill said.

I found eleven reasonably good locations for the dynamite within a 150-yard stretch on the ridge. I left the safety fuse at their original ten-foot length and made the ends clearly visible. I returned in time to see Bill crouched over his last placement. His hardhat fell to the ground as he swatted at the flies and worked away at stuffing dynamite down a large crack. He grabbed his hat and obstinately jammed it back on his head again. All I did was shake my head as I sat and watched.

“Are you ready”, I asked as he came walking over to where I was sitting. He nodded his head so I pulled out my package of smokes, lit two cigarettes and handed him one. We had less than ten minutes to lit our fuses and depart the scene to a safe location. We agreed to meet in the middle so we walked in separate directions to the end of our stashes.

I applied the hot glowing ember of the cigarette to the exposed end of the safety fuse; having scraped the end against the rock to get rid of the crimp-down flap that was used when connecting a number of safety fuses to “thermolite” cord. It flared and started to burn. I stood up, located my second stash, hurried over and repeated the same procedure. I had trouble finding all eleven stashes….that happens when you are under time pressures, I guess, so I may have lost a minute of time. Bill was waiting impatiently at our rendezvous so we scooted over the ridge together with him holding a hand on his hardhat as we ran.

We selected a large boulder once we crested the top of the hill. It was large enough for both of us to sit behind with our backs against the rock. We sat down, lit cigarettes and waited for the explosions. We had a total of twenty stashes so twenty explosions. We started counting as they went off. I turned around after 12 explosions to see if anything was coming our way. As I looked up I saw a half a dozen rocks fly high in the air and come falling down in our direction. I crouched behind the boulder again and yelled “Duck”.

Bill, who was just sitting there counting the explosions, cringed and bowed his head in a crouch. Two seconds later a “huge” rock…….. actually the size of a quarter, came crashing down onto the collar of his shirt. He flinched as it startled him. He grabbed his neck to see what hit him. I sat there totally dumbfounded with my mouth open. Then I started to laugh when he turned and looked at me.

I saw the astonished look of disappointment in his face after he realized that the frigging white hardhat that he had been coveting all this time, through thick and thin, had offered no protection when it came to the crunch.

If I had not said “duck” he would have been sitting there, smoking his cigarette and counting explosions, and the “huge” boulder would have gone “boink” on his white hardhat and bounce to the ground………and “that” would have really made his day.

The hardhat made it back to camp that afternoon but it did acquire a few scrapes to its smooth white surface after being kicked down a long rocky hill in the Precambrian Shield. I did see it again being chauffeured around Yellowknife in the back window of a Canadian Propane truck that Bill used when delivering propane tanks around town. Maybe the seagulls were more accurate there.