The town of Hay River sits aside the waterway of its namesake. Known as the “Hub of the North”, it is set at the South shore of Great Slave Lake, at the mouth of the Hay River. The area is divided into two sections, Old Town and New Town, with the airport in the middle.
Population has varied over the past decade, but the recent number rests near 4,000, with approximately 350 of those residents living on the Hay River Reserve of the Katl’odeeche First Nation. The total Aboriginal population of the town is about 1600, which is made up of First Nation, Metis, and Inuit. While English is the predominant language in the town, other oft spoken tongues include South Slavey, Chipewyan, and Michif.
Hay River has proven to provide an almost city feel while keeping the appearance of a town. The full service H. H. Williams Hospital also houses an ambulance service, and a dental clinic and senior care home are not too far from the property. For those in need, a woman’s shelter and transition house can be found on Woodside Drive, the town’s main drag. A Museum in the Old Town section houses over a century of history, containing information on the origins of the Hudson’s Bay Company in Hay River, and ultimately in the North.
Also in town is a Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment with eight officers. The South MacKenzie Correctional Center is just outside of town, with most of its occupants held on charges of mischief, drug and alcohol related offences, spousal abuse, and one person brought in this year for the murder of a local RCMP officer.
The area has been in use by the Long Spear People, a First Nations tribe, reportedly since about 7000 BC. As to permanent settlements and habitation, there are some discrepancies between the accounts of the Legislative Assembly of the Northwest Territories, and the accounted history of the town itself.
According to the LANT, the first buildings put up were those of the Hudson’s Bay Company in the 1868, followed by a Roman Catholic Mission in 1869, and then an Anglican Mission in 1894. The Assembly also states that the first permanent settlement was founded on what is now the Katl’odeeche First Nation Reserve.
On the other hand, the town’s history contests that the settlement came first, with the ground broken by Chief Chiatlo in the early 1890’s. At his request, the Anglican Mission was raised in 1893, the Roman Catholic Mission a few years later, and then the HBC outposts.
However the origins of Hay River occurred, it seems fair to rely on the history passed on through the town itself rather than that of a distant and disconnected Legislation. At the time, the settlements were more barren and spread out than even now, so the records and relations of those times may be somewhat vague or speculative from a distance. It is also widely stated that some dates may have been inaccurate to an almost purposeful fault for bragging rights, something not strictly localized to this fair town, but rampant across the Arctic and other damning areas of exploration worldwide. When the history still remains in the town, both on tongues and on display, the information seems much more reliable.
No matter which version suits you, it was around 1900 when schools, health centers, and an RCMP detachment began to spring up, making for a true town. Around the same time, on nearby Vale Island, a runway was built by the United States Army Corps of Engineers for the Canol Road Project, a pipeline and road constructed from Norman Wells, Northwest Territories to Whitehorse, Yukon during World War II. The pipeline no longer exists, but the 450 kilometer-long Yukon portion of the road is maintained by the Yukon Government during summer months.
In the mid to late 1940’s, the Government of Canada built a gravel road from Grimson, Alberta to Hay River. This road, which today is known as the MacKenzie Highway, made Hay River the first community in the Northwest Territories connected to Southern Canada.
Since 1959, the Northern Transportation Company has had its main base in town. This has been a major staging point for the annual sealift along the MacKenzie River. An annual trip for cargo ships and tugboats alike, the sealift occurs on the rivers and sea between July and October to deliver supplies of fuel, food, vehicles, and other materials and goods to the isolated communities in the Arctic. Most of these communities have no port or cranes, so the ships and barges have to cozy up to a simple dock, or sometimes ground themselves to be unloaded. Via, Inuvik, Tuktoyaktuk, and other Arctic Ocean communities, the sealift along the MacKenzie reaches as far East as Taloyoak, Nunavut, and West to Barrow, Alaska.
Around 1965, the MacKenzie Northern Railway was laid, with the Canadian National Railway now reaching Hay River from a starting point in Edmonton, Alberta. This made Hay River the northernmost point in North America on the Continental Rail System, a titled held to this day. Although there are tracks in Alaska that have bearings on higher latitudes, they are not connected to the greater system, and are for use mainly within the state.
In regards to its history, some things about Hay River may be up for debate. However, no matter when the first settlement was founded, those unfortunate souls would never disagree with today’s inhabitants on one subject: the cold.
Hay River begrudgingly withstands a subarctic climate, with only 3 months of summer. Winter temperatures almost always remain below freezing, but some relief is offered in that every month of the year will see one day above five degrees Celsius. From December through January, the windchill rarely rises above -30(C), a temperature which can cause severe frostbite to exposed skin in less than half an hour.
Summers in the climate are known for round the clock beauty, and an average temperature of approximately 18 degrees Celsius. The daylight seems to not fade, with the communities enjoying a mere dusk from 3am to 7am, as opposed to the total darkness of winter from 4pm to 10am. A majority of the average rainfall, a lowly 10 inches, comes in the summer months, although rain can be in the forecast year round.
Aside from your humble author, notable residents of Hay River have included two National Hockey League veterans: Rob McVicar, a goaltender for the Vancouver Canucks, and Geoff Sanderson who, among other teams, spent time with the Hartford Whalers, Vancouver Canucks, and Columbus Blue Jackets. A number of Members of Parliament and Legislative Assemblies have also called Hay River home.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Taking Off to the Great White North
When I realized sleep was out of the question, December 14 got going around 5am. The last thing to do was pack my guitars, JoAnne and Jenna, in an oversized box and stuff my bedding in for added security. Having accomplished this, it was time to get the baggage in order and get Carter prepped for the flight. I gave him some drugs to help him relax, and at about 10am, I was off to the airport.
Now, it is important to note once more that this was my first time on a plane that I could remember. Several times I had been reminded that at about 5 months old I flew with family from Saint John to Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, but even though I was sure I took it fine back then, it offered my nerves little in the way of calming now. The only thing I thought that instance and this flight would have in common would be the act of shitting my pants, although I could guarantee that this time it would not be deemed an acceptable practice.
After being sure Carter was taken care of in live cargo, I sat with my father, mother, and step-father, and tried to enjoy a rye and ginger (again, well before noon). Dad, either out of sympathy or necessity, had a Moosehead Pale Ale while we waited for my boarding call. Several hugs, waves, and silent “fuck me” moments later, I was on the plane, taxiing to the runway for the first of three flights that day, this one taking me as far as Montreal.
The best advice I had gotten regarding my trip came from my brother, Andrew:
“If you take any pills to relax, just take one. Don’t drink unless you want the drink. Last but not least, look at the flight attendant; if she’s not freaking out, you’re golden.”
During the engine thrust and lift off, I did feel some slight anxiety. After the climb and the breach beyond the cloud cover, I was fine. I looked in amazement at the world falling away, yet was also drawn in by the landmarks I could identify. Though I felt fairly relaxed, Andrew’s coaching did come into play. I avoided the pills, avoided the drinks, and just focused on the attendant, which helped to soothe some of the unease. I did clue in within a few minutes that I was more looking at her, not watching her. In this moment, I thought “hm, maybe this flying thing isn’t so bad”.
The flight to Montreal took just over an hour. I busied myself with a bit of note taking and reading Bill Bryson’s “Down Under”, but mostly stuck to trying to identify landmarks. I tried to pick out some locations upon take off, but it was merely just to say “well, I’ve not seen that from 10,000 feet before”. One spot I was lucky enough to see was a particular house in Oakland, New Brunswick where I had once enjoyed a meal so filling and delicious that I enquired about rooms for rent. The proof I was right, beyond plainly recognizing the property of my ex’s grandmother, was that barely 2 minutes later we were flying over the windmills near the New Brunswick and Maine border. Other than this cheerful pick, I spotted what I think was the Sugarloaf USA ski hill just after crossing into the States, but had nobody to confirm this. A nameless-to-me lake took the prize on this flight, however; clear through to the bed and just gorgeous from above.
My first take off was half-exciting, but my first landing had me clutching the armrests. Seeing my favorite city in “La Belle Province” from the air was indeed a hell of a sight, but then it started getting closer. And fast. Having the ground come at me like that was different than having it fade away, and I had some feelings in my gut akin to rollercoaster rides, or that momentary queasiness when your car mounts and descents a lolling hump in the road. The landing gear, which was just outside my window, seemed to drift just above the snow on a perimeter field for what felt like miles, kicking up white wisps. The runway appeared at what I am positive was the last minute, and with a minor jolt, I wasn’t dead on my first ever flight.
Being a smaller craft, we walked off directly to the tarmac, and I was lucky enough to catch a quick glimpse of Carter’s kennel being loaded into a waiting cargo truck. I knew I would not have the opportunity to see him proper until Edmonton later that night, so I put it out of my mind and went in search of the gate for my next flight to Toronto and the closest food outlet. What happened next proved to be one of many signs that maybe I’d made the right choice in this move.
I’d found the correct gate, and a deli which served alcohol so I knew I was safe. I was headed to the bathroom for relief and a quick splash of water before lunch, when I spotted someone who looked quite familiar. Thinking that it couldn’t be possible, not in this sized airport at this exact moment, I began to look with more scrutiny. Yes, it was indeed my dear friend Libby who I had not seen in nearly four years.
We exchanged a monstrous hug, kiss on the cheek, a few “no fucking way” remarks, and then hit the deli for lunch. I had a far overpriced chicken and red pepper quesadilla (not in reference to serving, just overall taste) accompanied by a rye and ginger, while Libby opted for chicken fingers and one of the largest draughts I have seen to date. We talked of the old days, when we were dating each other’s best friends of the period, and caught up to present day. A few more hugs, and we were parting ways, perhaps for another four years.
I made my way outside for a quick cigarette, hurried through security again, got a coffee from Tim Hortons, and then I was on my second flight that day (and ever) to none other than YYZ.
**
This plane was much larger, which I’m still not able to decipher the feeling I had as “more safe” or “less at ease”. I had made my peace with flight, but there are points where I get into cars or trucks where I’m not completely convinced of my safety. If I recall correctly, this was an Airbus 319, and everything about screamed “more”.
On the screen in front of me, I followed the flight and statistics rather than watching a movie, for it seemed a little useless on what was to be another flight barely over an hour. At 20,000 feet and an average speed of 700km/h, the whole thing still seemed so new and amazing to me. Perhaps some of you fine readers regard my take on this as rather overdone, but picture the first time you flew, maybe at age 9 or 10, and how insane it was. Well, seeing as how I ceased most non-physical personal development around that age, that’s how I felt now.
This flight left little to take note of, so again, I was focused on helping Bill Bryson make his way around Australia. A few things did occur to me on this flight, however:
First, when parents have children on a flight, it should be explained to the kids that there are other people on the flight, and being loud, kicking seats, and settling disputes that originated at home are all acts punishable by being tossed from the plane.
Second, pilots should understand that a good joke to play on a first time flier doesn’t involve shutting the engines off completely for a few seconds, then trying for a sonic boom when I’m nearing the brink of my bladder’s and sphincter’s threshold for containment under stress.
Third, if you’re Mike Bullard, I don’t care. I wouldn’t have cared years ago, and nobody in the nine directions around you cares either. Shut up.
At 4:20pm, the plane touched down at Pearson International Airport (yes, YYZ), something I considered another sign. While the plane made way from the landing strip to the gate, the burnt out sign at the Sheraton displayed what looked more like “Snor-a-ton”, something I thought would be a decent marketing tactic. I headed off the plane, thanked the crew, and found my gate for my flight to Edmonton an hour later. After calling ahead to the Nisku Inn, and my friend Chad who would meet me on the other end of my next flight, it was time for a drink and a snack.
I found a decent spot called “On Stage” in the airport and took a seat. About two tables away sat a Jessica Alba doppelganger that was being hopelessly chatted up by a fellow who had perhaps just attended a Star Wars convention or Math Club Awards Dinner. The look on her face while this was happening was priceless. I’m not pointing this out to suggest I could have done any better wooing a woman of that caliber, but I guess my advantage is that I know I couldn’t do any better, hence, why I never try.
After a ridiculous appetizer of diced crab and lobster baked in cream and about 10 cheeses, I enjoyed another rye and ginger, relaxed outside with a cigarette, and then made my way to gate 136 to board for Edmonton. I was getting closer to the realization of this whole journey, logging more distance further from home, and becoming more comfortable with the fact that after tonight, I was all alone.
**
I took a seat beside someone who I was certain had to be Peter Mansbridge, but was glad I didn’t ask. He took his briefcase out to gather a few things, and I discovered that, while his name wasn’t what I had originally thought, it was much, much more awesome. I was sitting next to Mr. Jimmy Dean Page, who I guessed either had guitar-shaped sausages or a guitar made of sausage.
As the rest of the cattle were ushered on, one very pleasant bitch decided to remove my bag from the overhead compartment, place it on the floor, put her luggage in its place, and leave my belongings in the aisle. The funniest part of this was that she took her seat about 20 rows back. So, being the kind of guy I am, I moved her stuff about 10 rows in the opposite direction, placed mine back where it was, then smiled and waved to her with a look that to her may have said “no worries, I got this one”, but from me it said “clean yourself with sandpaper next time”.
As the flight got going, Mr. Guitar Sausage took to the latest Dan Brown novel, featuring full chapters in large print that actually faced each other on opposing pages. I usually have preconceived notions that people who read these books are somewhat of the dickhead ilk, but I didn’t even get there. I had been fostering a sore throat and trying to cough as inconspicuously as possible, although this method of soothing still presented itself to be somewhat annoying, even to me. After about my fifth “a....hem”, Jimmy turned to me.
“Are you going to cough like that the whole way to Edmonton?”
I looked at him like we were playing Scrabble, and he’d just put down “if”. “Well”, I paused. “I wasn’t going too”.
He went back to his book, I went back to mine.
The Airbus 321 peeled off the nearly 4 hour flight at 20,000 feet and 750km/h. It was too dark by this hour to spot anything but a few cities and towns, all identified again on my flight screen provided by the headrest in front of me. Watching locations like Lake Huron, Winnipeg, and Saskatoon digitally disappear behind us, I logged the moments again with my book and notes, but also watched a few selections from the media menus offered. We touched down in Edmonton at the cost of my popped ears, and waiting at the gate was another friend I’d not seen in years, Chad.
Chad and I collected my luggage, and waited for guitars that did not arrive, the box having missed the flight I’m sure due to a stint at a pub back in Toronto. We left the airport and headed to pick up Carter at the live cargo storage, all of this being Carter’s and my own introduction to the cold West, which if you’ve felt it you know is much different.
The three of us settled into a room at a place called the Nisku Inn, about 10 minutes from the airport. The room, though somewhat dated in furnishing, was forgotten when I looked out to the indoor courtyard that contained the pool, restaurant, piano bar, and conference rooms. Chad and I took it all in for a few moments, genuinely impressed, then set up shop for a few beers and catching up back at the room. He would only stay for a few hours as he now had a family, something that 16 year old versions of us would’ve laughed at for hours. With a handshake and half-hug, he was off, and I was asleep about 30 seconds later.
The place was really something, or could be if tended too correctly. Sprucing up the rooms wouldn’t hurt, and hiring someone who can prepare breakfast would work wonders. I awoke the next morning to a meal I would equate to dog food, so when I discovered I’d forgotten Carter’s rations at the cargo bay, I was not at all apprehensive about giving him my eggs, bacon, and sausage.
I called a cab to the airport and dropped Carter off to his kennel for transport, which did give me a start when the girl at the counter could not locate my reservation for him. It turns out that this airline does not transport animals unless by special authorization, and I had to move down the counter to someone who didn’t smoke too much pot pre-shift before I was told all was well. Arriving at the airport, I was dismayed to find that Air Canada transferred my guitars to my hotel, something I’d asked them not to do beyond a certain hour that had long passed, and therefore had to make one more round trip between the Nisku Inn and my gate.
Total cab fare over a period of 40 mins: $76 dollars with tips and cargo fee.
After another security check, a final Tim Hortons coffee, and a “Jesus... this IS happening isn’t it?” moment, I was at a gate awaiting my flight to Hay River. I was two hours from my new home, 4500kms from my hometown, and a lifetime away from my own mind.
**
The small Jetstream 31 came to life with sounds I’ve never heard from anything mechanical, electrical, or living, so naturally I was a little put off. However, as it made its way to about 5000 feet and settled in to a ground speed of 400km/h, I got a bit more comfortable.
The captain was a young guy from Newfoundland, and the co-pilot was a younger female trainee from Calgary. There was about 6 people on the flight, and with the cockpit door open, the two would turn and shoot the breeze at intervals with myself and another fellow seated right up front, both of us eager to look at the instruments. Just after leveling out, we were treated to the in-flight meal, consisting of a kindergarten cracker, cheese and ham pack, Kit-Kat bar (Halloween portion), and water.
The guy beside me, whose name I can’t recall, seemed like a nice gent type at first, but slowly revealed his inner jerkoff over the first hour of the flight. He was from the North, but had apparently become so cultured in his time away that he had forgotten it was his home, not just some place he arbitrarily visits because it is a convenient spot to meet up with family. He had made a comment to the effect of “I can’t understand why you, or anyone, would ever move up here... I hate it, it is boring and it is not at all like Europe or South America”. I, being somewhat of a prick myself, acted dumbfounded that the remote areas of the Yukon or Nunavut wouldn’t hold a candle to the likes of Paris or Rio, and begged of more information from his fountain of knowledge. Quickly, I hated myself for asking.
“Last time I was here the place was just dead. No good shopping, cell phone reception sucked, and even my friends seemed to be having a shitty time. Ugh... I can’t even believe I come to visit, but my family wouldn’t meet me in Edmonton. I dread this place, and, well, anything further North than the last 4-star resort.”
I stopped feigning sarcastic interest, and as straight as I could, fed him one line. “Perhaps it has gotten better since you left”.
Emphasis placed exactly where I’ve indicated, I felt I had done the entire Arctic a favor, and that perhaps this asshole would never come back.
About 30 smug minutes later, I saw Hay River coming towards me.
Looked like home already.
Now, it is important to note once more that this was my first time on a plane that I could remember. Several times I had been reminded that at about 5 months old I flew with family from Saint John to Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, but even though I was sure I took it fine back then, it offered my nerves little in the way of calming now. The only thing I thought that instance and this flight would have in common would be the act of shitting my pants, although I could guarantee that this time it would not be deemed an acceptable practice.
After being sure Carter was taken care of in live cargo, I sat with my father, mother, and step-father, and tried to enjoy a rye and ginger (again, well before noon). Dad, either out of sympathy or necessity, had a Moosehead Pale Ale while we waited for my boarding call. Several hugs, waves, and silent “fuck me” moments later, I was on the plane, taxiing to the runway for the first of three flights that day, this one taking me as far as Montreal.
The best advice I had gotten regarding my trip came from my brother, Andrew:
“If you take any pills to relax, just take one. Don’t drink unless you want the drink. Last but not least, look at the flight attendant; if she’s not freaking out, you’re golden.”
During the engine thrust and lift off, I did feel some slight anxiety. After the climb and the breach beyond the cloud cover, I was fine. I looked in amazement at the world falling away, yet was also drawn in by the landmarks I could identify. Though I felt fairly relaxed, Andrew’s coaching did come into play. I avoided the pills, avoided the drinks, and just focused on the attendant, which helped to soothe some of the unease. I did clue in within a few minutes that I was more looking at her, not watching her. In this moment, I thought “hm, maybe this flying thing isn’t so bad”.
The flight to Montreal took just over an hour. I busied myself with a bit of note taking and reading Bill Bryson’s “Down Under”, but mostly stuck to trying to identify landmarks. I tried to pick out some locations upon take off, but it was merely just to say “well, I’ve not seen that from 10,000 feet before”. One spot I was lucky enough to see was a particular house in Oakland, New Brunswick where I had once enjoyed a meal so filling and delicious that I enquired about rooms for rent. The proof I was right, beyond plainly recognizing the property of my ex’s grandmother, was that barely 2 minutes later we were flying over the windmills near the New Brunswick and Maine border. Other than this cheerful pick, I spotted what I think was the Sugarloaf USA ski hill just after crossing into the States, but had nobody to confirm this. A nameless-to-me lake took the prize on this flight, however; clear through to the bed and just gorgeous from above.
My first take off was half-exciting, but my first landing had me clutching the armrests. Seeing my favorite city in “La Belle Province” from the air was indeed a hell of a sight, but then it started getting closer. And fast. Having the ground come at me like that was different than having it fade away, and I had some feelings in my gut akin to rollercoaster rides, or that momentary queasiness when your car mounts and descents a lolling hump in the road. The landing gear, which was just outside my window, seemed to drift just above the snow on a perimeter field for what felt like miles, kicking up white wisps. The runway appeared at what I am positive was the last minute, and with a minor jolt, I wasn’t dead on my first ever flight.
Being a smaller craft, we walked off directly to the tarmac, and I was lucky enough to catch a quick glimpse of Carter’s kennel being loaded into a waiting cargo truck. I knew I would not have the opportunity to see him proper until Edmonton later that night, so I put it out of my mind and went in search of the gate for my next flight to Toronto and the closest food outlet. What happened next proved to be one of many signs that maybe I’d made the right choice in this move.
I’d found the correct gate, and a deli which served alcohol so I knew I was safe. I was headed to the bathroom for relief and a quick splash of water before lunch, when I spotted someone who looked quite familiar. Thinking that it couldn’t be possible, not in this sized airport at this exact moment, I began to look with more scrutiny. Yes, it was indeed my dear friend Libby who I had not seen in nearly four years.
We exchanged a monstrous hug, kiss on the cheek, a few “no fucking way” remarks, and then hit the deli for lunch. I had a far overpriced chicken and red pepper quesadilla (not in reference to serving, just overall taste) accompanied by a rye and ginger, while Libby opted for chicken fingers and one of the largest draughts I have seen to date. We talked of the old days, when we were dating each other’s best friends of the period, and caught up to present day. A few more hugs, and we were parting ways, perhaps for another four years.
I made my way outside for a quick cigarette, hurried through security again, got a coffee from Tim Hortons, and then I was on my second flight that day (and ever) to none other than YYZ.
**
This plane was much larger, which I’m still not able to decipher the feeling I had as “more safe” or “less at ease”. I had made my peace with flight, but there are points where I get into cars or trucks where I’m not completely convinced of my safety. If I recall correctly, this was an Airbus 319, and everything about screamed “more”.
On the screen in front of me, I followed the flight and statistics rather than watching a movie, for it seemed a little useless on what was to be another flight barely over an hour. At 20,000 feet and an average speed of 700km/h, the whole thing still seemed so new and amazing to me. Perhaps some of you fine readers regard my take on this as rather overdone, but picture the first time you flew, maybe at age 9 or 10, and how insane it was. Well, seeing as how I ceased most non-physical personal development around that age, that’s how I felt now.
This flight left little to take note of, so again, I was focused on helping Bill Bryson make his way around Australia. A few things did occur to me on this flight, however:
First, when parents have children on a flight, it should be explained to the kids that there are other people on the flight, and being loud, kicking seats, and settling disputes that originated at home are all acts punishable by being tossed from the plane.
Second, pilots should understand that a good joke to play on a first time flier doesn’t involve shutting the engines off completely for a few seconds, then trying for a sonic boom when I’m nearing the brink of my bladder’s and sphincter’s threshold for containment under stress.
Third, if you’re Mike Bullard, I don’t care. I wouldn’t have cared years ago, and nobody in the nine directions around you cares either. Shut up.
At 4:20pm, the plane touched down at Pearson International Airport (yes, YYZ), something I considered another sign. While the plane made way from the landing strip to the gate, the burnt out sign at the Sheraton displayed what looked more like “Snor-a-ton”, something I thought would be a decent marketing tactic. I headed off the plane, thanked the crew, and found my gate for my flight to Edmonton an hour later. After calling ahead to the Nisku Inn, and my friend Chad who would meet me on the other end of my next flight, it was time for a drink and a snack.
I found a decent spot called “On Stage” in the airport and took a seat. About two tables away sat a Jessica Alba doppelganger that was being hopelessly chatted up by a fellow who had perhaps just attended a Star Wars convention or Math Club Awards Dinner. The look on her face while this was happening was priceless. I’m not pointing this out to suggest I could have done any better wooing a woman of that caliber, but I guess my advantage is that I know I couldn’t do any better, hence, why I never try.
After a ridiculous appetizer of diced crab and lobster baked in cream and about 10 cheeses, I enjoyed another rye and ginger, relaxed outside with a cigarette, and then made my way to gate 136 to board for Edmonton. I was getting closer to the realization of this whole journey, logging more distance further from home, and becoming more comfortable with the fact that after tonight, I was all alone.
**
I took a seat beside someone who I was certain had to be Peter Mansbridge, but was glad I didn’t ask. He took his briefcase out to gather a few things, and I discovered that, while his name wasn’t what I had originally thought, it was much, much more awesome. I was sitting next to Mr. Jimmy Dean Page, who I guessed either had guitar-shaped sausages or a guitar made of sausage.
As the rest of the cattle were ushered on, one very pleasant bitch decided to remove my bag from the overhead compartment, place it on the floor, put her luggage in its place, and leave my belongings in the aisle. The funniest part of this was that she took her seat about 20 rows back. So, being the kind of guy I am, I moved her stuff about 10 rows in the opposite direction, placed mine back where it was, then smiled and waved to her with a look that to her may have said “no worries, I got this one”, but from me it said “clean yourself with sandpaper next time”.
As the flight got going, Mr. Guitar Sausage took to the latest Dan Brown novel, featuring full chapters in large print that actually faced each other on opposing pages. I usually have preconceived notions that people who read these books are somewhat of the dickhead ilk, but I didn’t even get there. I had been fostering a sore throat and trying to cough as inconspicuously as possible, although this method of soothing still presented itself to be somewhat annoying, even to me. After about my fifth “a....hem”, Jimmy turned to me.
“Are you going to cough like that the whole way to Edmonton?”
I looked at him like we were playing Scrabble, and he’d just put down “if”. “Well”, I paused. “I wasn’t going too”.
He went back to his book, I went back to mine.
The Airbus 321 peeled off the nearly 4 hour flight at 20,000 feet and 750km/h. It was too dark by this hour to spot anything but a few cities and towns, all identified again on my flight screen provided by the headrest in front of me. Watching locations like Lake Huron, Winnipeg, and Saskatoon digitally disappear behind us, I logged the moments again with my book and notes, but also watched a few selections from the media menus offered. We touched down in Edmonton at the cost of my popped ears, and waiting at the gate was another friend I’d not seen in years, Chad.
Chad and I collected my luggage, and waited for guitars that did not arrive, the box having missed the flight I’m sure due to a stint at a pub back in Toronto. We left the airport and headed to pick up Carter at the live cargo storage, all of this being Carter’s and my own introduction to the cold West, which if you’ve felt it you know is much different.
The three of us settled into a room at a place called the Nisku Inn, about 10 minutes from the airport. The room, though somewhat dated in furnishing, was forgotten when I looked out to the indoor courtyard that contained the pool, restaurant, piano bar, and conference rooms. Chad and I took it all in for a few moments, genuinely impressed, then set up shop for a few beers and catching up back at the room. He would only stay for a few hours as he now had a family, something that 16 year old versions of us would’ve laughed at for hours. With a handshake and half-hug, he was off, and I was asleep about 30 seconds later.
The place was really something, or could be if tended too correctly. Sprucing up the rooms wouldn’t hurt, and hiring someone who can prepare breakfast would work wonders. I awoke the next morning to a meal I would equate to dog food, so when I discovered I’d forgotten Carter’s rations at the cargo bay, I was not at all apprehensive about giving him my eggs, bacon, and sausage.
I called a cab to the airport and dropped Carter off to his kennel for transport, which did give me a start when the girl at the counter could not locate my reservation for him. It turns out that this airline does not transport animals unless by special authorization, and I had to move down the counter to someone who didn’t smoke too much pot pre-shift before I was told all was well. Arriving at the airport, I was dismayed to find that Air Canada transferred my guitars to my hotel, something I’d asked them not to do beyond a certain hour that had long passed, and therefore had to make one more round trip between the Nisku Inn and my gate.
Total cab fare over a period of 40 mins: $76 dollars with tips and cargo fee.
After another security check, a final Tim Hortons coffee, and a “Jesus... this IS happening isn’t it?” moment, I was at a gate awaiting my flight to Hay River. I was two hours from my new home, 4500kms from my hometown, and a lifetime away from my own mind.
**
The small Jetstream 31 came to life with sounds I’ve never heard from anything mechanical, electrical, or living, so naturally I was a little put off. However, as it made its way to about 5000 feet and settled in to a ground speed of 400km/h, I got a bit more comfortable.
The captain was a young guy from Newfoundland, and the co-pilot was a younger female trainee from Calgary. There was about 6 people on the flight, and with the cockpit door open, the two would turn and shoot the breeze at intervals with myself and another fellow seated right up front, both of us eager to look at the instruments. Just after leveling out, we were treated to the in-flight meal, consisting of a kindergarten cracker, cheese and ham pack, Kit-Kat bar (Halloween portion), and water.
The guy beside me, whose name I can’t recall, seemed like a nice gent type at first, but slowly revealed his inner jerkoff over the first hour of the flight. He was from the North, but had apparently become so cultured in his time away that he had forgotten it was his home, not just some place he arbitrarily visits because it is a convenient spot to meet up with family. He had made a comment to the effect of “I can’t understand why you, or anyone, would ever move up here... I hate it, it is boring and it is not at all like Europe or South America”. I, being somewhat of a prick myself, acted dumbfounded that the remote areas of the Yukon or Nunavut wouldn’t hold a candle to the likes of Paris or Rio, and begged of more information from his fountain of knowledge. Quickly, I hated myself for asking.
“Last time I was here the place was just dead. No good shopping, cell phone reception sucked, and even my friends seemed to be having a shitty time. Ugh... I can’t even believe I come to visit, but my family wouldn’t meet me in Edmonton. I dread this place, and, well, anything further North than the last 4-star resort.”
I stopped feigning sarcastic interest, and as straight as I could, fed him one line. “Perhaps it has gotten better since you left”.
Emphasis placed exactly where I’ve indicated, I felt I had done the entire Arctic a favor, and that perhaps this asshole would never come back.
About 30 smug minutes later, I saw Hay River coming towards me.
Looked like home already.
Friday, December 25, 2009
"Well folks, looks like this is it..."
When I accepted the job in Hay River it was not immediately apparent that the scope of my decision was going to be so massive. I knew full well that this was an undertaking, but the sheer size of the work required to realize this goal did not present itself until I was immersed in it.
There was the duty of leaving the current job I held in Saint John, the sorting and packing of my possessions into piles labeled “to take”, “to leave”, and “to trash”, and the many evenings spent saying goodbye to the many folks I would not see for some months. Packing was done intermittently throughout the two weeks between the acceptance and the departure, and while this went on there were also a few nights of music and send-off parties to be had.
December 4 & 5, 2009 were spent in St. Andrews, New Brunswick, entertaining patrons and friends at the Red Herring Pub, owned by Kevin Simmonds. Alongside my good friend Mike Humble, I belted my final tunes in the fair town in which I had once lived for over 3 years. As the duo “Butthummer”, we rarely (if ever) practiced, but were comfortable winging it relying on one another’s competence and familiarity to my repertoire.
Beginning the weekend in town with my first drink at about 5pm on the Friday, I felt an eagerness to get the events started. Mike showed up to the pub around 9pm, set up, grabbed a drink, and we were off. We tore through about 20 songs per night and as many drinks, and treated the lively crowd to our signature “dulo”, where, upon Mike’s grossly oversized kit, we both pounded out a decent enough drum solo. That evening, we retired to the house of our good friend Dan, who greeted us at 3am by graciously putting on pants and showing us to our rooms.
Saturday, upon waking up, we decided to self-medicate our hangovers and then secure some breakfast. As the coffee ran low and plates were licked, we were treated to an evening at the local Motor Inn by Kevin. I had previously worked at this property a few years prior, and was certain that I’ve never been happier there then when we picked our respectful beds and did something neither of us had done in some time: watch TV.
We spent the day in repose, only lifting our heads when we lifted our bottles, and soon were joined by another great friend, Tyler McGee. He alerted us that in the time since we had checked in, a winter storm began to touch down and a Christmas parade had gone by, unbeknownst to Mike and I. Not that I would have made any effort to watch, for the only thing I detest more than Christmas is a Christmas parade, but I was delighted that I’d spent an afternoon with one of my best friends, completely oblivious to the outside world. That, to me, is proof of the power of a good time.
The rest of the evening gets hazy from there, but I’m positive the Saturday show was better, tighter, and full of admiration from beautiful women. At least, that’s what I’ve told myself and many others in the time since.
As the sunlight trickled through the break in the curtains on Sunday morning, I feared the day ahead. Required of me, in order, was a quick trip the bar for my gear, a drive home to Saint John, then more music and drinking for the remainder of the day. My other musical venture, Virgo-A, was to play its final show before my departure.
Virgo-A was a band made up of three engineers and a former cab driver, playing tight progressive instrumentals tediously written in a helter-skelter method. We would play any riff at least once, and what stuck was used. What failed to make it to a song was never dismissed, but rather tucked away for future considerations. This formula worked well for us, and as a band I always thought we were really on to something. What was more was the fact that I also made three great friends out of the deal.
On the way back to Saint John, I swore to myself that I would wait until reaching the bar before procuring any more alcohol, mainly because the previous nights were still featured prominently in my eyes and on my face. My head still pounded with the hangover produced in St. Andrews, and I felt I may not do so well to begin drinking right away.
Arriving into the West side of Saint John, I swiftly exited at Catherwood Street and headed to the liquor store. After stopping home to deliver my dog, Carter, who had spent the weekend in St. Andrews with me, it was across the parking lot to the fabled 87 where we practiced. Immediately we were in form, tackling our beverages and eight song set with the vigor of a band who knows it will be a while until this happens again. That evening, we loaded in to Peppers Pub, ready to melt some faces.
Peppers had become my second living room over the preceding 6 months, and welcomed our last show with open arms. This was to be another going away party for myself, the third of four, and went off smashingly. Not a huge crowd, not even a lively crowd, but some good friends, good music, and one more memory for the road. For the first time in history, I walked out on a tab after telling our party on the deck that nobody was to leave until all tabs were paid. As the gang filed in one by one, I stayed outside with the remainders and was ushered away without having dropped a single dime on the bar. The debt, along with another incurred at the time, was paid the following Friday.
Monday was a restful, uneventful day. I awoke feeling much better than the amount of booze I imbibed would suggest, packed up some clothes and hitched up Carter for a 2 night stint in Fredericton. The drive would prove to be somewhat languorous as I stuck to the back roads and took in some of my favorite twists and turns one last time.
Arriving in New Brunswick’s capital, I quickly ducked to the back ends of the city limits to drop Carter at his favorite kennel, a lovely spot in Durham called “Fosters Home for Dogs”. Now, Carter never exactly dropped me an email or memo to express this sentiment, but when you visit a place perhaps once a year, and the dog still shits himself in excitement five kilometers away, you know he knows where he is headed, and that he couldn’t be happier.
Once Carter was introduced to two rather lovely Golden Retrievers, I got back in the car, cranked some RUSH, and headed for an afternoon with my mother. While I’m sure we both would have loved a more interactive visit, I sunk low into the couch and took to drifting in and out of a conscious state while nothing at all interesting flashed on the television. The rest of the evening would play off in such a manner, even while visiting a few friends, repeating this process of wink, blink, and nod in their homes.
Waking up Tuesday, many errands were to be completed before a family supper, which was followed by the last of the set parties devoted to my departure. At the Wilser’s Room in Fredericton, I was met for a low key evening by friends from many eras of my time in the province, and managed to actually be told by my brother around midnight that it may be best if I retired for the evening. While I didn’t think he was wrong, I thought he could have at least secured his interest by tendering one last rye for me. No such luck was to be had, and back to mom’s I went via cab, to sleep like several logs.
Wednesday, I was to leave for Saint John and finish the last bits of arranging and packing before I left the following Monday, December 14. However, before I could go, I had one more stop to make, so I stopped at Tim Hortons for two coffees, and landed at my ex’s place at about 1:30.
Now, as mentioned in my first post, I had made an absolute mess of our situation by virtue of my own stupidity and selfishness. And so, it goes without saying I was delighted to even be asked to her place for a visit. For all I knew, she might have had it in for me, sharpening knives since dawn, polishing guns borrowed from her father’s rack back home, or delighting in her last opportunity to give me one swift kick in the balls.
Well, it wasn’t so. Either she’d had a change of heart or just plain forgiven my indiscretions, but we enjoyed a wonderful afternoon, which gave way to an evening of talking and total reconciliation (no, not that kind of reconciliation). The day began with the reuniting of our dogs, Carter and Ralph, who we had picked out while still in the early stages of our relationship some three and a half years before. Following coffee I was further warmed by her invitation for supper, which even if laced with poison, I would have indulged. Her culinary skills are second to none, a sentiment echoed by any whose fork has ever been graced with her prowess.
As the next banks of snow began to settle in, it was apparent that I was to either head home before dark, or rest in Fredericton another evening. As it was beginning to look at tad threatening, I opted for the latter, and was truly glad on all fronts. The evening brought with it the offerings of two people who have truly let the bygones be, and the next morning I drove back to Saint John with the wheels of the car suspended about 40 feet off the highway. I was never so happy to have had a conversation straight through to daylight. In all truth, I’ll miss her more this time around, as a friend, because that was something we had never experienced with each other. No doubt, in my heart the place she filled will remain empty unless tended to by her again, but the way a friendship feels when you have never had it can not be adequately explained.
Back in my hometown, the next days were full of the usual moving mess. Securing flight times, booking a hotel, making sure Carter had all of his provisions for his portion of the move, and a few nights with the boys. One night here, one night there, but all nights saw me in my final moments in the city, saying goodbye to friends I had known since high school or earlier, as well as friends with whom I had forged brotherhoods throughout the year before.
Trying to leave myself some work for the restless night before departing, I purposely avoided some parts of the apartment. Clothes, dishes, and some random scraps of whatnot were still awaiting their fate on the night of December 13, 2009. At about 11pm, with the last boxes taped and labeled, I settled into my bed one last time and had the most dissected evening of slumber I’ve encountered since my most fierce depressions the previous winter.
The next day, I was to board my first ever flight, and begin my journey.
There was the duty of leaving the current job I held in Saint John, the sorting and packing of my possessions into piles labeled “to take”, “to leave”, and “to trash”, and the many evenings spent saying goodbye to the many folks I would not see for some months. Packing was done intermittently throughout the two weeks between the acceptance and the departure, and while this went on there were also a few nights of music and send-off parties to be had.
December 4 & 5, 2009 were spent in St. Andrews, New Brunswick, entertaining patrons and friends at the Red Herring Pub, owned by Kevin Simmonds. Alongside my good friend Mike Humble, I belted my final tunes in the fair town in which I had once lived for over 3 years. As the duo “Butthummer”, we rarely (if ever) practiced, but were comfortable winging it relying on one another’s competence and familiarity to my repertoire.
Beginning the weekend in town with my first drink at about 5pm on the Friday, I felt an eagerness to get the events started. Mike showed up to the pub around 9pm, set up, grabbed a drink, and we were off. We tore through about 20 songs per night and as many drinks, and treated the lively crowd to our signature “dulo”, where, upon Mike’s grossly oversized kit, we both pounded out a decent enough drum solo. That evening, we retired to the house of our good friend Dan, who greeted us at 3am by graciously putting on pants and showing us to our rooms.
Saturday, upon waking up, we decided to self-medicate our hangovers and then secure some breakfast. As the coffee ran low and plates were licked, we were treated to an evening at the local Motor Inn by Kevin. I had previously worked at this property a few years prior, and was certain that I’ve never been happier there then when we picked our respectful beds and did something neither of us had done in some time: watch TV.
We spent the day in repose, only lifting our heads when we lifted our bottles, and soon were joined by another great friend, Tyler McGee. He alerted us that in the time since we had checked in, a winter storm began to touch down and a Christmas parade had gone by, unbeknownst to Mike and I. Not that I would have made any effort to watch, for the only thing I detest more than Christmas is a Christmas parade, but I was delighted that I’d spent an afternoon with one of my best friends, completely oblivious to the outside world. That, to me, is proof of the power of a good time.
The rest of the evening gets hazy from there, but I’m positive the Saturday show was better, tighter, and full of admiration from beautiful women. At least, that’s what I’ve told myself and many others in the time since.
As the sunlight trickled through the break in the curtains on Sunday morning, I feared the day ahead. Required of me, in order, was a quick trip the bar for my gear, a drive home to Saint John, then more music and drinking for the remainder of the day. My other musical venture, Virgo-A, was to play its final show before my departure.
Virgo-A was a band made up of three engineers and a former cab driver, playing tight progressive instrumentals tediously written in a helter-skelter method. We would play any riff at least once, and what stuck was used. What failed to make it to a song was never dismissed, but rather tucked away for future considerations. This formula worked well for us, and as a band I always thought we were really on to something. What was more was the fact that I also made three great friends out of the deal.
On the way back to Saint John, I swore to myself that I would wait until reaching the bar before procuring any more alcohol, mainly because the previous nights were still featured prominently in my eyes and on my face. My head still pounded with the hangover produced in St. Andrews, and I felt I may not do so well to begin drinking right away.
Arriving into the West side of Saint John, I swiftly exited at Catherwood Street and headed to the liquor store. After stopping home to deliver my dog, Carter, who had spent the weekend in St. Andrews with me, it was across the parking lot to the fabled 87 where we practiced. Immediately we were in form, tackling our beverages and eight song set with the vigor of a band who knows it will be a while until this happens again. That evening, we loaded in to Peppers Pub, ready to melt some faces.
Peppers had become my second living room over the preceding 6 months, and welcomed our last show with open arms. This was to be another going away party for myself, the third of four, and went off smashingly. Not a huge crowd, not even a lively crowd, but some good friends, good music, and one more memory for the road. For the first time in history, I walked out on a tab after telling our party on the deck that nobody was to leave until all tabs were paid. As the gang filed in one by one, I stayed outside with the remainders and was ushered away without having dropped a single dime on the bar. The debt, along with another incurred at the time, was paid the following Friday.
Monday was a restful, uneventful day. I awoke feeling much better than the amount of booze I imbibed would suggest, packed up some clothes and hitched up Carter for a 2 night stint in Fredericton. The drive would prove to be somewhat languorous as I stuck to the back roads and took in some of my favorite twists and turns one last time.
Arriving in New Brunswick’s capital, I quickly ducked to the back ends of the city limits to drop Carter at his favorite kennel, a lovely spot in Durham called “Fosters Home for Dogs”. Now, Carter never exactly dropped me an email or memo to express this sentiment, but when you visit a place perhaps once a year, and the dog still shits himself in excitement five kilometers away, you know he knows where he is headed, and that he couldn’t be happier.
Once Carter was introduced to two rather lovely Golden Retrievers, I got back in the car, cranked some RUSH, and headed for an afternoon with my mother. While I’m sure we both would have loved a more interactive visit, I sunk low into the couch and took to drifting in and out of a conscious state while nothing at all interesting flashed on the television. The rest of the evening would play off in such a manner, even while visiting a few friends, repeating this process of wink, blink, and nod in their homes.
Waking up Tuesday, many errands were to be completed before a family supper, which was followed by the last of the set parties devoted to my departure. At the Wilser’s Room in Fredericton, I was met for a low key evening by friends from many eras of my time in the province, and managed to actually be told by my brother around midnight that it may be best if I retired for the evening. While I didn’t think he was wrong, I thought he could have at least secured his interest by tendering one last rye for me. No such luck was to be had, and back to mom’s I went via cab, to sleep like several logs.
Wednesday, I was to leave for Saint John and finish the last bits of arranging and packing before I left the following Monday, December 14. However, before I could go, I had one more stop to make, so I stopped at Tim Hortons for two coffees, and landed at my ex’s place at about 1:30.
Now, as mentioned in my first post, I had made an absolute mess of our situation by virtue of my own stupidity and selfishness. And so, it goes without saying I was delighted to even be asked to her place for a visit. For all I knew, she might have had it in for me, sharpening knives since dawn, polishing guns borrowed from her father’s rack back home, or delighting in her last opportunity to give me one swift kick in the balls.
Well, it wasn’t so. Either she’d had a change of heart or just plain forgiven my indiscretions, but we enjoyed a wonderful afternoon, which gave way to an evening of talking and total reconciliation (no, not that kind of reconciliation). The day began with the reuniting of our dogs, Carter and Ralph, who we had picked out while still in the early stages of our relationship some three and a half years before. Following coffee I was further warmed by her invitation for supper, which even if laced with poison, I would have indulged. Her culinary skills are second to none, a sentiment echoed by any whose fork has ever been graced with her prowess.
As the next banks of snow began to settle in, it was apparent that I was to either head home before dark, or rest in Fredericton another evening. As it was beginning to look at tad threatening, I opted for the latter, and was truly glad on all fronts. The evening brought with it the offerings of two people who have truly let the bygones be, and the next morning I drove back to Saint John with the wheels of the car suspended about 40 feet off the highway. I was never so happy to have had a conversation straight through to daylight. In all truth, I’ll miss her more this time around, as a friend, because that was something we had never experienced with each other. No doubt, in my heart the place she filled will remain empty unless tended to by her again, but the way a friendship feels when you have never had it can not be adequately explained.
Back in my hometown, the next days were full of the usual moving mess. Securing flight times, booking a hotel, making sure Carter had all of his provisions for his portion of the move, and a few nights with the boys. One night here, one night there, but all nights saw me in my final moments in the city, saying goodbye to friends I had known since high school or earlier, as well as friends with whom I had forged brotherhoods throughout the year before.
Trying to leave myself some work for the restless night before departing, I purposely avoided some parts of the apartment. Clothes, dishes, and some random scraps of whatnot were still awaiting their fate on the night of December 13, 2009. At about 11pm, with the last boxes taped and labeled, I settled into my bed one last time and had the most dissected evening of slumber I’ve encountered since my most fierce depressions the previous winter.
The next day, I was to board my first ever flight, and begin my journey.
Let's Start at the Start
In the fall of 2008, a monumental change occurred in my life: through my own misgivings I had lost the devout companionship and unconditional love of someone I held near and dear to my heart. Perhaps it is a slight understated to say I had messed up, but there it is: I had messed up.
Without going into much detail, I had compromised my future. It was not only in the "well shit, now I'm single" sense, but all the plans, ideas, and dreams I had seemed awash. I didn't quite know how to repair the damages I had done to my life, her life, or the lives otherwise effected by the year that was to follow.
Until mid-December of 2009, I could not hold a job or bring myself to a state of personal pride. Being conceited was never something I took to, yet I had held my head high for most of my life, being pleased with my progressions personally and professionally, and proud of my achievements in music and social outreaches. This particular year saw very little for me to speak highly of in respect to myself. Aside from playing in two great bands, making new friends, and keeping out of trouble (i.e., remaining single), I did not have pride in my own being.
Life was proving not be "living". It was merely existence.
Throughout 2009 I lived in a sort of silent depression, taking my private time to heap upon myself the lashings of self-disgust. Several month-long bouts with alcoholism, a dependence on nicotine that could peel paint (and did, in one example), and the want of disconnection brought sadness and emptiness to my door daily.
Where I'd decided to never let this show publicly, neither to friends or family, I saw very little chance of coming out of this state. Anyone who knew me knew I enjoyed a drink, and knowing me now are well aware that I still do. The difference in these personal timeframes was that while a few drinks then was followed by several more alone at home, these days it is a measured endeavor, no matter how many KISS songs I demand on a given night.
Throughout the later half of 2009, I saw the changes as clear as day versus night. I was getting away from the self-destructive lines of binge drinking, cutting back my smoking habit to a respectable lever (however, coffee and alcohol DO require such company), and I was regaining that old feeling again.
Happily, I report that I am now on the up and up.
In all honesty, I can only say the beginnings of personal repair are in the works, as I realize there is much, much further to go. I do not believe love will ever feel to me the way it did, and am unsure that my misgivings and mistrusts to anyone I offended and hurt over the last year will ever be completely patched. My parents unconditional love and assistance throughout that period will never be forgotten and could never be quantified, but the qualifying resides somewhere between angelic and Godly. My brother, with whom my relationship has never been stronger than in the past few years, has always been the last mouth to open, but never an off word has come in my times of need. His support and influence on my life is now, and will ever remain, a pillar of my core being. The person I have hurt most, my lovely ex-girlfriend, has become a great addition to my list of friends, though I would dare say I barely deserve the reconciliation, let alone the exertion it would take for her to, let's say, tell me to fuck off.
I guess, in retrospect, those people whose relations I put in peril have been the very same people who have helped me to get back on my feet. Family, as I have come to know and expect, never turn their backs on you, usually opting instead for the other cheek. Most friends never knew of my personal plight, save for the Reader's Digest version in which I would pass it off as "its just a bad day here and there"; most thought it was business as usual and were unaware that this hint of normalcy was of a great service. The friends that did know were capable of transferring strength beyond the power of any God one could believe in, never gave up on me, and I thank them to the ends of who I am. My ex proved to be the strongest person I have ever known, not only forgiving me, but completely accepting me back into her life as a relied upon friend. This did not go without note, and would prove to be the plateau from which I would jump into the rest of my life.
To paraphrase the year nicely, I had gone from the perfect storm to smooth sailing.
All these things in mind, and with all the changes at hand, my decision to take action on my life was made. After securing a new job mid-December, I said goodbye to family, friends, band mates, a former lover, and the sights and sounds of home in New Brunswick. I packed up the necessities and headed for Hay River, Northwest Territories.
From here on in, you will be exposed to posts of journal entries, local history, scenery, and some rather personal things I would never discuss face to face with about 95-percent of you.
Greetings from Hay River; this is the diary of a hosehead.
Without going into much detail, I had compromised my future. It was not only in the "well shit, now I'm single" sense, but all the plans, ideas, and dreams I had seemed awash. I didn't quite know how to repair the damages I had done to my life, her life, or the lives otherwise effected by the year that was to follow.
Until mid-December of 2009, I could not hold a job or bring myself to a state of personal pride. Being conceited was never something I took to, yet I had held my head high for most of my life, being pleased with my progressions personally and professionally, and proud of my achievements in music and social outreaches. This particular year saw very little for me to speak highly of in respect to myself. Aside from playing in two great bands, making new friends, and keeping out of trouble (i.e., remaining single), I did not have pride in my own being.
Life was proving not be "living". It was merely existence.
Throughout 2009 I lived in a sort of silent depression, taking my private time to heap upon myself the lashings of self-disgust. Several month-long bouts with alcoholism, a dependence on nicotine that could peel paint (and did, in one example), and the want of disconnection brought sadness and emptiness to my door daily.
Where I'd decided to never let this show publicly, neither to friends or family, I saw very little chance of coming out of this state. Anyone who knew me knew I enjoyed a drink, and knowing me now are well aware that I still do. The difference in these personal timeframes was that while a few drinks then was followed by several more alone at home, these days it is a measured endeavor, no matter how many KISS songs I demand on a given night.
Throughout the later half of 2009, I saw the changes as clear as day versus night. I was getting away from the self-destructive lines of binge drinking, cutting back my smoking habit to a respectable lever (however, coffee and alcohol DO require such company), and I was regaining that old feeling again.
Happily, I report that I am now on the up and up.
In all honesty, I can only say the beginnings of personal repair are in the works, as I realize there is much, much further to go. I do not believe love will ever feel to me the way it did, and am unsure that my misgivings and mistrusts to anyone I offended and hurt over the last year will ever be completely patched. My parents unconditional love and assistance throughout that period will never be forgotten and could never be quantified, but the qualifying resides somewhere between angelic and Godly. My brother, with whom my relationship has never been stronger than in the past few years, has always been the last mouth to open, but never an off word has come in my times of need. His support and influence on my life is now, and will ever remain, a pillar of my core being. The person I have hurt most, my lovely ex-girlfriend, has become a great addition to my list of friends, though I would dare say I barely deserve the reconciliation, let alone the exertion it would take for her to, let's say, tell me to fuck off.
I guess, in retrospect, those people whose relations I put in peril have been the very same people who have helped me to get back on my feet. Family, as I have come to know and expect, never turn their backs on you, usually opting instead for the other cheek. Most friends never knew of my personal plight, save for the Reader's Digest version in which I would pass it off as "its just a bad day here and there"; most thought it was business as usual and were unaware that this hint of normalcy was of a great service. The friends that did know were capable of transferring strength beyond the power of any God one could believe in, never gave up on me, and I thank them to the ends of who I am. My ex proved to be the strongest person I have ever known, not only forgiving me, but completely accepting me back into her life as a relied upon friend. This did not go without note, and would prove to be the plateau from which I would jump into the rest of my life.
To paraphrase the year nicely, I had gone from the perfect storm to smooth sailing.
All these things in mind, and with all the changes at hand, my decision to take action on my life was made. After securing a new job mid-December, I said goodbye to family, friends, band mates, a former lover, and the sights and sounds of home in New Brunswick. I packed up the necessities and headed for Hay River, Northwest Territories.
From here on in, you will be exposed to posts of journal entries, local history, scenery, and some rather personal things I would never discuss face to face with about 95-percent of you.
Greetings from Hay River; this is the diary of a hosehead.
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