Christmas has been and gone another year, this time differently than before for me and mine. Mama and I sent Rosie to the kennel and headed to Mexico for the week of Christmas. We laid in the sun, snorkeled, and enjoyed rum punch by the pool. No rain, no snow, no driving frantically from one event to the next clinging to tattered "Christmas spirit." It'll be hard to not make that an annual trip. We're back just in time, as it's apparently raining and storming down there now.
If you're reading this, thanks. I hope you come back. May your new year be blessed with the truly good things of this life.
Monday, December 31, 2012
Monday, December 17, 2012
My first truck
My first vehicle was older than me by a year. One year newer than my parents' old van. I was 18 years old when I bought it from a friend. His dad had bought the truck new and after a dozen or so years, sold it to his father. More years later, my friend then bought it from his grandfather with a mind to fixing it up and got about as far as replacing the alternator. His parents wanted it off their yard and my parents were fine with hosting another vehicle, so I bought it. It was an old faded blue Chevrolet pickup truck: 4X4, big V8, and two fuel tanks to feed it. From my increasingly fuzzy memory of fuel prices at the time and how much money I could spend at one filling, that truck must have carried over 200 litres just in fuel.
Not far from my parents' old house is a mountain with a road that goes right to the top. There are telecom towers up there, so the road is sort of maintained. In our teen-aged minds, the towers were just there for climbing, but I'm sure they served another purpose. A four wheel drive is usually required to get all the way up. It wouldn't be a worthwhile mountain for hiking up, but driving up with a truck bed full of firewood and a half dozen of your closest friends was as close to a perfect Friday night as we had back then.
We met at the end of the pavement so those in smaller vehicles could pile into the trucks that were going up. One guy showed up on his dirt bike with no headlight at the front and his girlfriend on the back. They buzzed on ahead and we started up the rutted gravel. Being 18, faster was better. This was my first time as a driver, one of the the lucky ones with a truck, so I wasn't going to be left behind. I also wasn't going to soften the ride for my passengers. That was the way it was. I had bounced around in the back enough times to know. Looking back, it's surprising the things we did without encouragement of alcohol.
As we jostled up that dark mountain, one of the rowdies in the back decided that my driving was too tame. To entertain himself, he climbed up over the cab and onto the hood of my truck. Then he climbed back up on the cab. I took this as a challenge to find every low hanging branch I could and drive under it. After a few good swats, he decided to join us in the already full cab. Head first. He was laying across the laps of the people beside me, trying to get everything in the window when I found a big puddle and soaked his left foot. Those old trucks were great. Even with rust so bad on every quarter panel that you could put your hand through it, a maniac could still surf the hood without denting it.
I sold that rusty truck at the end of the summer to an old miner. He looked as though he should be taking his daily constitutional around the mall with his wife in matching track suits, but he wanted my truck to get down the rough track through the woods he had carved between his gold claim and the road. It was rough enough terrain he had almost died the year before falling off a log between his previous truck and the creek. 18 year olds are not in a position to give life advice to 80 year old miners, so I listened politely and left with his money. I was just relieved when he didn't try to pay in gold.
Not far from my parents' old house is a mountain with a road that goes right to the top. There are telecom towers up there, so the road is sort of maintained. In our teen-aged minds, the towers were just there for climbing, but I'm sure they served another purpose. A four wheel drive is usually required to get all the way up. It wouldn't be a worthwhile mountain for hiking up, but driving up with a truck bed full of firewood and a half dozen of your closest friends was as close to a perfect Friday night as we had back then.
We met at the end of the pavement so those in smaller vehicles could pile into the trucks that were going up. One guy showed up on his dirt bike with no headlight at the front and his girlfriend on the back. They buzzed on ahead and we started up the rutted gravel. Being 18, faster was better. This was my first time as a driver, one of the the lucky ones with a truck, so I wasn't going to be left behind. I also wasn't going to soften the ride for my passengers. That was the way it was. I had bounced around in the back enough times to know. Looking back, it's surprising the things we did without encouragement of alcohol.
As we jostled up that dark mountain, one of the rowdies in the back decided that my driving was too tame. To entertain himself, he climbed up over the cab and onto the hood of my truck. Then he climbed back up on the cab. I took this as a challenge to find every low hanging branch I could and drive under it. After a few good swats, he decided to join us in the already full cab. Head first. He was laying across the laps of the people beside me, trying to get everything in the window when I found a big puddle and soaked his left foot. Those old trucks were great. Even with rust so bad on every quarter panel that you could put your hand through it, a maniac could still surf the hood without denting it.
I sold that rusty truck at the end of the summer to an old miner. He looked as though he should be taking his daily constitutional around the mall with his wife in matching track suits, but he wanted my truck to get down the rough track through the woods he had carved between his gold claim and the road. It was rough enough terrain he had almost died the year before falling off a log between his previous truck and the creek. 18 year olds are not in a position to give life advice to 80 year old miners, so I listened politely and left with his money. I was just relieved when he didn't try to pay in gold.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
No spray
I have decided not to carry bear spray when I go into the back country. Hikers I know won't leave home without it, and many non-hikers have heard of it and think it sounds like a great, almost necessary idea. I won't have it.
I was maybe four weeks into my second season of planting trees in central British Columbia. We lived in a camp that was little more than a large clearing on the side of a logging road an hour and a half from the nearest town. Each morning we would load our gear into a covered trailer towed by a 4X4 pickup truck and then jump into a big 4X4 SUV to ride to the clear cut we would be replanting that day. The trailer would have an ATV, boxes of trees, our bags, and our shovels. Everything was muddy or dusty, depending on the weather and terrain, but always a constant shade of dull brown.
We had to switch blocks part way through one day, so we all threw our gear in the trailer and bounced up a particularly bad road to the next piece of ravaged earth requiring new life. We opened the trailer and immediately started coughing. One of the thrown shovels had bounced into the heart of the can of bear spray strapped to someone else's bags. My gear was immediately below the punctured can, now covered in angry orange sauce. Once the air cleared, we emptied the trailer. I tried to carry my bags without getting pepper sauce all over myself. We came to a creek, which took care of the worst of it, but after walking up a hillside to the staging area for the afternoon, I realized I had definitely not left all the sauce in the creek. It was burning my hands and my face where I had wiped the sweat off. I was seriously uncomfortable, and no one had a solution for me. Basically, I did my best to work through it, with that stained hip belt rubbing remnants of hot sauce marinating my midsection even through my clothes. I vaguely remember it being a lovely day and a beautiful spot, but mostly I remember spending the day mad.
During my first season in the bush, one of the girls had a black bear approach her while she was working. She did everything right, not screaming, though it was her standard reaction to most events, backing slowly away, not looking it in the eyes, etc. Since it kept coming, she unloaded an entire can of bear mace directly in the bruin's face at close range. Later, she said the only effect it had was to stop the bear from advancing. Once her can was spent, the bear continued moving towards her. Only the arrival of another crew member with another can of spray convinced the bear that he might not be that curious after all. This wasn't some garbage dump scavenging bear long used to human beings, since we were at least a hundred miles from the nearest permanent settlement. Just a big, curious, possibly hungry omnivore.
Next hiking season I'll be carrying a shotgun on my forest forays. It is the recommended practice for the forest service, and I have an idea it'll actually be safer than spray that expires, blows back and can be punctured. I've encountered bears before and never had a problem, so I expect that experience to repeat, but I'll walk more comfortably through the mountain berries if I'm prepared.
I was maybe four weeks into my second season of planting trees in central British Columbia. We lived in a camp that was little more than a large clearing on the side of a logging road an hour and a half from the nearest town. Each morning we would load our gear into a covered trailer towed by a 4X4 pickup truck and then jump into a big 4X4 SUV to ride to the clear cut we would be replanting that day. The trailer would have an ATV, boxes of trees, our bags, and our shovels. Everything was muddy or dusty, depending on the weather and terrain, but always a constant shade of dull brown.
We had to switch blocks part way through one day, so we all threw our gear in the trailer and bounced up a particularly bad road to the next piece of ravaged earth requiring new life. We opened the trailer and immediately started coughing. One of the thrown shovels had bounced into the heart of the can of bear spray strapped to someone else's bags. My gear was immediately below the punctured can, now covered in angry orange sauce. Once the air cleared, we emptied the trailer. I tried to carry my bags without getting pepper sauce all over myself. We came to a creek, which took care of the worst of it, but after walking up a hillside to the staging area for the afternoon, I realized I had definitely not left all the sauce in the creek. It was burning my hands and my face where I had wiped the sweat off. I was seriously uncomfortable, and no one had a solution for me. Basically, I did my best to work through it, with that stained hip belt rubbing remnants of hot sauce marinating my midsection even through my clothes. I vaguely remember it being a lovely day and a beautiful spot, but mostly I remember spending the day mad.
During my first season in the bush, one of the girls had a black bear approach her while she was working. She did everything right, not screaming, though it was her standard reaction to most events, backing slowly away, not looking it in the eyes, etc. Since it kept coming, she unloaded an entire can of bear mace directly in the bruin's face at close range. Later, she said the only effect it had was to stop the bear from advancing. Once her can was spent, the bear continued moving towards her. Only the arrival of another crew member with another can of spray convinced the bear that he might not be that curious after all. This wasn't some garbage dump scavenging bear long used to human beings, since we were at least a hundred miles from the nearest permanent settlement. Just a big, curious, possibly hungry omnivore.
Next hiking season I'll be carrying a shotgun on my forest forays. It is the recommended practice for the forest service, and I have an idea it'll actually be safer than spray that expires, blows back and can be punctured. I've encountered bears before and never had a problem, so I expect that experience to repeat, but I'll walk more comfortably through the mountain berries if I'm prepared.
Thursday, December 6, 2012
Bad Moose
I had been driving all afternoon. Driving from camp to town to drop off the crew, town to the farm to swap vehicles, now on the home stretch from the farm to my home town. Less than an hour to go, nearly midnight. I hadn't showered in a week and I had a phone call to make. Driving, wondering if it would be too late to call. It was a clear night, visibility as good as one could hope for. I still didn't see it coming.
I was cruising around 110 km/h when he ran out in front of me. They say moose always take the easiest path, including using the spot of light provided by vehicle headlights. I didn't even see a proper silhouette, let alone have time to hit the brakes or think about swerving. I remember the sound of smashing glass and having time to think "This is really going to hurt," and then it was over. I had crossed the oncoming lane and came to a stop on the shoulder. A little further onto the soft sand and I would have rolled down the bank to the tree line.
My immediate thought was denial. Maybe I was dreaming. I was probably still back in my tent having a detailed dream. Next up was amazement, as I listened to hoofs running on pavement. I think I even said it out loud, "That bastard got away." I didn't want to move too much in case I was hurt, so I sort of flexed from left to right. At this point I realized I had a death grip on the steering wheel and that somehow during the smashing I had managed to mash my right foot on the brake pedal. In relaxing my limbs, I realized I had glass in my knuckles, but they still worked. I also nearly had a major groin muscle spasm from standing on the brakes so hard. I decided I was not broken, so getting out of the now very broken van was a good idea. I could hear fluid pouring out from somewhere underneath, and I had visions of a Hollywood explosion, even though sitting here typing in the daylight I know that almost never happens.
Understandably, the headlights no longer worked. I don't even know if they were still attached. I went around to the back and was greeted by the sight of a moose corpse on the opposite side of the road from me, steaming garishly in the red tail lights. He hadn't gotten away after all. There I was, 19 years old, all alone on a quiet highway in the middle of the night with a wrecked van and a big dead moose. At least I was hoping it was all the way dead. Growing up in that part of the world you frequently hear of a single moose destroying a transport truck and running off into the woods like nothing happened. Or laying there stunned and then getting up and mauling the nearest moving thing. No one wants to be a cautionary tale.
This wasn't in the days before cell phones, but it was 10 years before I had one. Thankfully, I didn't have to wait long before a truck came by and stopped. The driver was only a few years older than me, also a tree planter. He had a first aid kit but no cell phone. I used his tweezers to pull the glass out of my knuckles and he offered to drive me to the mill that was not far away so I could call my folks. I didn't know if I was supposed to call a tow truck or the police or what, but I figured my dad would know. When I went back to the van to get my stuff, I nearly broke down. I opened the van door, and all of a sudden my heart was pounding and my hands were shaking more violently than I'd ever seen them. I didn't really know what was happening, but in the back of my head I knew I had a choice. I could let it happen and shake and sob there on the side of the road, or I could swallow hard and get in that man's truck. I chose to clench my fists, take a deep breath, and keep moving.
As I was gathering myself and my things, another truck stopped. He nearly hit the moose carcass as he came to a stop. Thankfully, he had a cell phone. I called my dad, told him what happened and where I was. He did just what I had hoped and stayed calm, telling me he was on his way. He confessed later to not being sure what he was supposed to do, other than come get me.
In the mean time, I became the hub of a growing crowd. An ambulance stopped by on their way back to town from another call. They checked me over to make sure I wasn't walking around with a broken neck before carrying on their way. A Greyhound bus stopped because one of the passengers was a paramedic and he demanded to make sure he wasn't needed. Then the police arrived. My dad had called the conservation office, but they don't respond if the animal is dead (mercifully, it stayed dead the whole time). "Call the police" they said. Dad didn't know if the animal was on the road or completely on the shoulder, so they sent a cruiser to make sure. Turns out, a dead animal not impeding traffic is out of any jurisdiction but the crows. By the time Dad arrived, there were vehicles parked on both shoulders, a police car with all the lights on, flares up and down the sides of the road, and me standing there with my bag of dirty laundry, periodically ensuring first aid enthusiasts that I was indeed okay.
I took a week off from planting to let my hands heal and make sure my back wasn't going to seize up. The insurance company wrote off the van, what with the motor off the mounts, the entire front end smashed, and moose hair completely coating the interior. That stuff was everywhere. My dad took me to the wrecker that week to see the damage, and we left without saying much.
I never did have that panic attack that nearly overwhelmed me on the side of that dark highway, but I nearly recreated the experience not two months later. I was driving the same stretch of highway in the daylight when the car in front of me suddenly slowed down. I was annoyed until a big buck darted behind them and in front of me. I missed him by barely an inch. I could see the blood vessels in his eyes, he was so close. I pulled over because I could feel that tightness coming in again. Strange that the closest call I've ever had came within a few weeks of my only actual accident. I haven't come anywhere so near to hitting an animal since, despite continuing to drive animal infested highways at all hours.
British Columbia is a big place. There are thousands of cut blocks and dozens of companies putting seedlings where trees used to be. The summer after my accident, I found myself on the same cut block as the guy who first stopped to help me. The world is a strange place.
I was cruising around 110 km/h when he ran out in front of me. They say moose always take the easiest path, including using the spot of light provided by vehicle headlights. I didn't even see a proper silhouette, let alone have time to hit the brakes or think about swerving. I remember the sound of smashing glass and having time to think "This is really going to hurt," and then it was over. I had crossed the oncoming lane and came to a stop on the shoulder. A little further onto the soft sand and I would have rolled down the bank to the tree line.
My immediate thought was denial. Maybe I was dreaming. I was probably still back in my tent having a detailed dream. Next up was amazement, as I listened to hoofs running on pavement. I think I even said it out loud, "That bastard got away." I didn't want to move too much in case I was hurt, so I sort of flexed from left to right. At this point I realized I had a death grip on the steering wheel and that somehow during the smashing I had managed to mash my right foot on the brake pedal. In relaxing my limbs, I realized I had glass in my knuckles, but they still worked. I also nearly had a major groin muscle spasm from standing on the brakes so hard. I decided I was not broken, so getting out of the now very broken van was a good idea. I could hear fluid pouring out from somewhere underneath, and I had visions of a Hollywood explosion, even though sitting here typing in the daylight I know that almost never happens.
Understandably, the headlights no longer worked. I don't even know if they were still attached. I went around to the back and was greeted by the sight of a moose corpse on the opposite side of the road from me, steaming garishly in the red tail lights. He hadn't gotten away after all. There I was, 19 years old, all alone on a quiet highway in the middle of the night with a wrecked van and a big dead moose. At least I was hoping it was all the way dead. Growing up in that part of the world you frequently hear of a single moose destroying a transport truck and running off into the woods like nothing happened. Or laying there stunned and then getting up and mauling the nearest moving thing. No one wants to be a cautionary tale.
This wasn't in the days before cell phones, but it was 10 years before I had one. Thankfully, I didn't have to wait long before a truck came by and stopped. The driver was only a few years older than me, also a tree planter. He had a first aid kit but no cell phone. I used his tweezers to pull the glass out of my knuckles and he offered to drive me to the mill that was not far away so I could call my folks. I didn't know if I was supposed to call a tow truck or the police or what, but I figured my dad would know. When I went back to the van to get my stuff, I nearly broke down. I opened the van door, and all of a sudden my heart was pounding and my hands were shaking more violently than I'd ever seen them. I didn't really know what was happening, but in the back of my head I knew I had a choice. I could let it happen and shake and sob there on the side of the road, or I could swallow hard and get in that man's truck. I chose to clench my fists, take a deep breath, and keep moving.
As I was gathering myself and my things, another truck stopped. He nearly hit the moose carcass as he came to a stop. Thankfully, he had a cell phone. I called my dad, told him what happened and where I was. He did just what I had hoped and stayed calm, telling me he was on his way. He confessed later to not being sure what he was supposed to do, other than come get me.
In the mean time, I became the hub of a growing crowd. An ambulance stopped by on their way back to town from another call. They checked me over to make sure I wasn't walking around with a broken neck before carrying on their way. A Greyhound bus stopped because one of the passengers was a paramedic and he demanded to make sure he wasn't needed. Then the police arrived. My dad had called the conservation office, but they don't respond if the animal is dead (mercifully, it stayed dead the whole time). "Call the police" they said. Dad didn't know if the animal was on the road or completely on the shoulder, so they sent a cruiser to make sure. Turns out, a dead animal not impeding traffic is out of any jurisdiction but the crows. By the time Dad arrived, there were vehicles parked on both shoulders, a police car with all the lights on, flares up and down the sides of the road, and me standing there with my bag of dirty laundry, periodically ensuring first aid enthusiasts that I was indeed okay.
I took a week off from planting to let my hands heal and make sure my back wasn't going to seize up. The insurance company wrote off the van, what with the motor off the mounts, the entire front end smashed, and moose hair completely coating the interior. That stuff was everywhere. My dad took me to the wrecker that week to see the damage, and we left without saying much.
I never did have that panic attack that nearly overwhelmed me on the side of that dark highway, but I nearly recreated the experience not two months later. I was driving the same stretch of highway in the daylight when the car in front of me suddenly slowed down. I was annoyed until a big buck darted behind them and in front of me. I missed him by barely an inch. I could see the blood vessels in his eyes, he was so close. I pulled over because I could feel that tightness coming in again. Strange that the closest call I've ever had came within a few weeks of my only actual accident. I haven't come anywhere so near to hitting an animal since, despite continuing to drive animal infested highways at all hours.
British Columbia is a big place. There are thousands of cut blocks and dozens of companies putting seedlings where trees used to be. The summer after my accident, I found myself on the same cut block as the guy who first stopped to help me. The world is a strange place.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
Blue lights
I have already established I am a creature of habit. A byproduct of my adherence to daily routine is that I'm a sucker for traditions. My family has historically been one of immigrants and poor people, so our traditions are few and small, but those few carry weight. Christmas is nothing if not a time for traditions, and since we've managed to stay in the same country for going on three generations, leaving poverty behind, family traditions are starting to accrete.
My father claims his father made it up out of convenience one year, and so far between Google and people I've asked, this may be so. Grandpa put only blue lights at the top of the Christmas tree. Whether he accidentally bought a string of only blue lights, a string came from the store with all the blue bulbs at one end, or he only had blue replacement bulbs one year, the reason he gave is the reason we carry on now, more than 50 years later. We put only blue lights at the top of the tree to remind us of the people who can't be with us this year.
My grandfather was born to German-speaking Mennonites in Ukraine in 1920. Stalin ruled the land, and people starved. Through a convoluted series of events I may never get sorted, the end of WWII found my grandfather in Hamburg, his parents, sister, and one brother exiled in Siberia, and one other brother in a POW camp in Holland. After my father's uncle was released from the camp, he was reunited with my grandfather through an improbable series of coincidences. They came to Canada in 1948 on the first civilian trans-Atlantic airline, arriving in Montreal for Canada's Independence Day, which they took as a welcome party. Neither of them spoke a word of English or French.
Those brothers survived starvation and war and more uncertainty than I can comprehend and never saw their parents or brother again. If he did make it up, I don't think Grandpa realized that he had the ingredients of an icon: the act and explanation are simple, the act is noticeable. Of course, he never forgot about that family in Siberia. He was able to rescue the survivors to West Germany in the 1980s via German ideas around ethnicity and citizenship that don't make sense to my Canadian mind. I met Grandpa's sister and sister-in-law before they passed away, as well as several of their children and grandchildren.
My parents' tree always has blue lights at the top, as does my sister's. My aunts and uncles and cousins put blue lights at the top of their trees. Rosie's Mama and I will be setting up our tree on Friday, blue lights on top and prayers whispered for ones who aren't with us.
My father claims his father made it up out of convenience one year, and so far between Google and people I've asked, this may be so. Grandpa put only blue lights at the top of the Christmas tree. Whether he accidentally bought a string of only blue lights, a string came from the store with all the blue bulbs at one end, or he only had blue replacement bulbs one year, the reason he gave is the reason we carry on now, more than 50 years later. We put only blue lights at the top of the tree to remind us of the people who can't be with us this year.
My grandfather was born to German-speaking Mennonites in Ukraine in 1920. Stalin ruled the land, and people starved. Through a convoluted series of events I may never get sorted, the end of WWII found my grandfather in Hamburg, his parents, sister, and one brother exiled in Siberia, and one other brother in a POW camp in Holland. After my father's uncle was released from the camp, he was reunited with my grandfather through an improbable series of coincidences. They came to Canada in 1948 on the first civilian trans-Atlantic airline, arriving in Montreal for Canada's Independence Day, which they took as a welcome party. Neither of them spoke a word of English or French.
Those brothers survived starvation and war and more uncertainty than I can comprehend and never saw their parents or brother again. If he did make it up, I don't think Grandpa realized that he had the ingredients of an icon: the act and explanation are simple, the act is noticeable. Of course, he never forgot about that family in Siberia. He was able to rescue the survivors to West Germany in the 1980s via German ideas around ethnicity and citizenship that don't make sense to my Canadian mind. I met Grandpa's sister and sister-in-law before they passed away, as well as several of their children and grandchildren.
My parents' tree always has blue lights at the top, as does my sister's. My aunts and uncles and cousins put blue lights at the top of their trees. Rosie's Mama and I will be setting up our tree on Friday, blue lights on top and prayers whispered for ones who aren't with us.
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