In the three months or so that I’ve been in Hay River many things have eluded me: good friends, women, fitness, and style to name a few. However, one thing that made me ache with frustration was the fact that I had not seen the Northern Lights in full blaze.
Day after day I would hear a few people around work say, “wow, the lights were awesome last night”. Night after night, I would either fall asleep early or forget about them while staying up late. The best I had seen at any point was a haze or fog, resting just across the river from my 11th floor deck. I would sit there, cigarette in hand, and wonder why the effects were not in full bloom.
One evening it hit me: light pollution. Here in town there are not a great many lights, but it does not take much to diminish the intensity of this natural phenomenon. In order to see the aurora, I would have to head just out of town to a darker area to enjoy my own private viewing.
Having the following day off, I pegged a Wednesday night as my time for shine. That day was almost like Christmas: I was excited by the prospect of finally seeing all the action, the forecast suggested a moderate-strong showing, and hours passed as though the clock battery was dying. I made it through the work day, and still had about 5 hours to kill before I could head to my decided location. I paced the apartment, walked Carter, played guitar, watched a movie, played some video games, and did anything else I could think of to kill time.
At 10:30pm, I got my necessities together and headed to a small patch on the ice road connecting the Old Town to a back road in the New Town. The ice road itself spans around 1km, and consists of ice, then land, then ice, then land, then ice, then land, as it crosses a channel with a couple of small islands in its midst. I picked the last plot of dirt and high grass, parked the truck and hopped out.
I jumped into the box of the truck and sat on the roof, almost lying back to see the Northern Lights in action. To say I was overwhelmed would be an over statement this early in the narrative, but it was rather spectacular. I was hoping for more of the acid-like effect chasing and flaring that I had heard so much about, but the broad waves of light were too far above me. They stretched to either horizon, looking like someone had painted a canvas of the darkest blue, speckled it with flicks of white from a stiff brush, and then ran several strokes of a green/blue/white mix across the whole thing. It was a beautiful sight, something I would have killed to share with someone else. A few people in particular sprang to mind as I sat in the deafening silence, a tea and cigarette my only company.
After about a half hour of taking in the sights, I decided to head back to home. My initial directive was to continue on through the last portion of the ice road, a small span of less than 50 meters that would land me on the back road into New Town. As my front tires crested the breech from land to the freeze, an audible groan seeped out below me. I patted my stomach and assured that Doritos would be consumed all in good time, but upon looking closer, it was the ice. The last patch of ice was gone, leaving behind it a gaping square the size of a backyard rink, chunky with ice and the visible danger of water. The temperatures had been enjoyable as of late, but I hastened to think they were of such beauty that the road would begin to melt off after only 3 or 5 days.
I now had fear in the back of my head. Knowing I had just traversed the first portion of the ice crossing without incident, I should have had no qualms about having to go back through it again. My front tires were on the fringe of the portion I could not cross, and it was the first time I was happy my truck was rear-wheel driven. Had I spun or caused any added stresses to the ice, I may have ended up with a rather embarrassing loss as opposed to the recent gain of the used truck. I launched back quickly and cut the wheel to heave the back end into the high grass and dirt patch. Half on the road, rear end in the brush, I again punched it and spun around to the direction from which I came and eased the 10 year old Ford back the safety of land in Old Town. As I heaved over the final push, I breathed an embellished sigh of relief.
Figuring the night was through, I was headed back to the apartment to celebrate with three fingers of whiskey over three ice cubes, my newly adored ratio. However, I was to be surprised just two minutes later driving the main drag in Old Town.
Away from most of the city lights, Old Town is dominated by the industrial side of town, and contains scattered neighborhoods. Noticeably darker, this section of Hay River lends itself nicely to viewing the lights, and as I made my way the effects grew stronger. I pulled down a side road to a section of beach, parked, and again perched upon the roof of the truck to see the sights.
With the quiet again steeping me, I felt a desire to liven up my surroundings. I took a minute to jump back into the cab and sort through the songs on my mp3 player, settling on what I deemed the perfect score for all that was unfolding above me. Side 1 of RUSH’s “2112” came alive through my speakers, the bass bins behind the seats punctuating the jagged, yet linear, bursts that announce the beginning of the suite following a spacey intro. (I could not figure out how to loop the intro, for if you know it and could see what I was seeing, you would agree it was near perfect as a soundtrack.)
With Geddy’s high pitched screams, Alex chugging along, and Neil assaulting the toms, the lights seemed to loft just above me, almost close enough to touch. Streaks of green peppered with hues of blue swirled overhead while tracts and tracers of purple and pink raced through the defined mists. I sat in awe, finally playing witness to another attraction in my move North, all the while listening to the pounding of “The Temples of Syrinx”.
Back at my apartment, I poured my celebratory drink and retreated back to my deck to enjoy a sip and a smoke in the crisp evening air. I looked out over the portion of the city that is visible from my deck and felt a momentary mix of emotions. Happiness and comfort warmed me in my accomplishing one more notch in the totem of my time here. Soon to follow were a sadness and loneliness which came from the notion of having nobody to share all of this with. Some days it does feel a terrible waste to experience any achievements here very much alone.
The bed I have made must be slept in, but to retire one night with the Aurora Borealis now engrained forever in my mind soothes all laments... at least for a while.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Yellowknife = Red Eyes
I had decided to take a trip to Yellowknife, the capital of the Northwest Territories. Located on the other side of Great Slave Lake, it was about 500km away on simple two-lane highways, over an ice-road, and through beautiful winterscapes dotted with low hills and endless expanses of woodland, all blanketed thick with fresh snowfall.
At 4:30am on the last Friday of February, my alarm stirred me from a deep sleep. I swung my feet over the side of the bed and headed to the kitchen to start a cup of coffee. Carter didn’t budge from the edge of the bed, still deeply sleeping off Thursday night’s game of fetch on the river. We were out there for about 2 hours in the amazingly beautiful weather, above 0C up until about 8pm. I knew I would need to give him a good run before the five hour drive ahead.
By 5:30 I was topping the truck up with gas, checking the oil, and filling my travel mug at the local gas station. We left Hay River under the cover of dark, and started into the drive through the dark tunnel of trees. The road crews do well to give a 40 foot leeway between the treeline and the road, and because of this a drive toward dawn is not as threatening or potentially as dangerous. They say the buffalo are just as likely to stick to the road as they are the woods, and they can barely be seen until you are right on top of them. Their thick coats hold the snow as insulation, and when seen at night on the road they just resemble a patch of white, their legs invisible against the pavement. Many people have accidents involving buffalo each year, and amazingly, very few become statistics.
Carter began to get a little stir crazy halfway into the drive, and I knew that Fort Providence would provide the perfect midpoint for a break. After crossing the 1km ice road that replaces the ferry in winter, we were at the service station and restaurant in “Prov”. I got out and went in for some provisions (more coffee, some buffalo jerky, water), then I let Carter out for a couple minutes of stretching. A trailer attracted his attention, and soon I found out why. About 10 holes were cut into the trailer, and as Carter sniffed around, 10 heads popped out to see what his fuss was about. These heads were those of sled-dogs, all husky mixes and adorable, but not keen on the “outsider” being near their confines. Before I could get him away, Carter retreated to me, heeding the warnings of their piercing howls.
Back on the road, I was in awe of a few things that made up the rest of the ride. The landscape was simply breathtaking, with miles and miles of frosted woodland, hills which would serve as beginner slopes at any ski resort, and endless photo opportunities. The road itself caused a different sort of awe, something of the “not to be desired” ilk. Straightaway after straightaway, some that went for 10km, sections of potholes that could make shrapnel of most sedans, and “bumps” which were more or less launching ramps. Another awe that found me was in a “lack thereof” sense, where the buffalo I had been so warned about seemed to know I was coming and decided to remain in the woods.
Around 10:30am, I arrived in Yellowknife. I stole away to my temporary hideout near the airport, a liquor warehouse with an apartment on the mezzanine level. The owner of the hotel where I work has many irons in the fire, one of which being a major role in the liquor corporation here in the Northwest Territories. The apartment at this warehouse serves as a stopover for many employees, and for these two nights it would be my hotel room.
I let Carter out to survey the grounds of the lot, and when he was sufficiently emptied of all vital fluids I let him into the apartment, and headed to an appointment I had made at the local clinic. I needed to get a physical done in order to retain my class 4 when transferring my license up here. A few pokes and prods later, a terrifying realization of gained girth that came while on the scale, and a quick pee into a cup saw the end of my scheduled duties in Yellowknife. An hour after arriving, I had no plans for the next 48.
Lunch was on my mind, so taking the recommendation of a few people I decided on Sam’s Monkey Tree Pub. Upon arriving, I was pretty pleased with the interior, finished in the style of a lodge crossed with a pub, crossed with a club, crossed with a buffet. It looked inviting and cozy, and I thought of places like Jungle Jim’s back home if they were to up their motif a bit.
I took a table, left my coat, and headed to the buffet station. I was a static shock away from lifting the first of five lids when the waitress near shouted, “There’s nothing in there!” as though she had already told me several times. I shrugged in the manner of someone who doesn’t understand such a response and went back to my table. The place was empty save for myself and three other patrons, but she still managed to take almost 20 minutes to come to my table.
“What are you having?” she asked me, almost irritated.
“Well, nothing at the moment. I would like a Moosehead and a Sheppard’s Pie.”
“I thought you wanted the buffet, but fine”, such a tone would usually merit my leaving, but I was hungry.
“Well, I thought I should leave the buffet alone. You made it quite clear that it wasn’t for my taking.”
“Well there’s food in there now, but you said Sheppard’s Pie, so that’s what you’re getting.”
“Did you say ‘no tip’? That’s what you’re getting. Cheer up...”
I have to say, even with the excruciatingly bad service, the food was amazing. The entrée was beyond splendid, bursting with flavor and piping hot, doused in gravy and accompanied by the creamiest whipped potatoes in history. Fresh veggies and garlic bread were great additions, and a side plate of Greek salad topped it off nicely, if not a little bit out of palate for the platter. Washing it down with my favorite brew from home took the experience to an unexpected height. All service aside, I would recommend eating here but avoid the staff.
The rest of the day was spent in three stages. Stage one was a trip to Tim Hortons for my first dose in 3 months, and a trip around the city taking in the sights and sounds of a bustling core in the North. I sat in various coffee shops just watching people go about their day, reading my book and taking some notes. I headed to the Pilot’s Monument which overlooks a good portion of Yellowknife, where I conveniently got my truck stuck in the parking lot, walking 10 minutes to buy sand and carrying it back to fill the divots to create traction. After launching out of the spot, I took a last drive around the town before hitting stage two.
This second portion of my day will be referred to as “relaxing like never before”. I had become so tired from the early awakening, the drive, and some of the plodding along through the day that I could almost go for a nap. Naps are rare for me, surprisingly enough considering I hover between 4-6 hours of sleep per evening. I lay back on the bed with Carter at my feet and took in some mindless television. I drifted in and out of slumber, and knowing I would be headed out for drinks that night, I took Carter across to Fred Henne Park for a run. This did not interrupt my relaxation, as I merely sat on a bench while he played with another dog. This dog’s owner looked like I felt, and we sat with coffee and cigarettes, letting the dogs tire out. I then returned to the apartment, dropped a tired dog on the floor, and headed into stage three around 7pm.
To begin the last leg of the evening, I took in the Canada/Slovakia Olympic hockey contest at the MacKenzie Lounge in the Yellowknife Inn. A nice bar indeed, but not a sports pub, which was perfect. I enjoy quiet bars when I am alone, where I can sit by myself and not have to strain to hear myself think. The bar had divided itself in two, or rather, everyone else and me. I watched the game at one end while some obviously affluent groups watched a jazz trio and ordered bottle upon bottle of expensive wine.
With the game over, I went outside for a cigarette and three women from one table came out shortly after. I had had a few ryes and felt two smokes would likely be in order, and just as I lit my second, they lit into conversation in French. While I am not the most adept at speaking our nation’s other official language, I am fairly good at picking up on it and understanding portions of conversation. They had commented on my checkered jacket and how shabby it looked, and the fact that if I shaved and had fashion-sense I would be somewhat desirable. Another comment on my being “in the wrong bar” was about as much bashing as I cared to take, so I stubbed my cigarette and made to order another rye. On my way in, I turned to them and offered the following parting statement:
“Je m’excuse, mais je comprend Francais... merci, jerks.”
They came back inside, red-faced on a rather warm night, and passed my table. One looked apologetic, while the others wore the face of drunken embarrassment which would subside with one more drink. I could have cared less, but I sometimes get a rise out of making some people feel as uncomfortable as they should.
Having had my final rye, I asked the waitress what bars would be good places to check out. She offered about 5 spots, even going so far as to draw me a little map which was more than appreciated. I decided to check them all out having nothing better to do. Her first two suggestions were busts, so I was on to see some local color at a few other bars.
The Golden Range scared the shit out of me. I was the only white guy in what was clearly a bar geared towards Aboriginals. The staff, the clients, and the band were all of Native lineage. I thought that turning tail at the realization I was in the wrong place would be more damning than enjoying a drink first. I ordered a double rye, took a seat near the band, and starting plotting my escape.
My fear was mainly based in the fact that these places have a reputation for being rough, and I vow that no racism was involved. I was rather surprised to find quite the opposite of all these warnings was true. A rather attractive woman asked me to dance (I declined), a few guys saw me sitting alone and brought some shots over (I obliged), and when I got up to leave they bought me another drink (again, I obliged).
With that establishment researched, I went on to the Raven and promptly left. It was a dance club, the sort of place I would avoid anywhere in the world. Outside, hordes of men and women were in varied states of intoxication, fighting with each other and airing a lot of dirty laundry. I decided that this really was not the spot for me and continued on.
The third spot was a place called the Black Knight, which, in fact, enjoyed for about 15 minutes at the end of my night. On my way there I noticed another pub called “Harley’s” that was left off my hand-drawn map, tucked into a basement on the main drag. I walked down the stairs and entered the bar, ordered a double rye and sat alone at a table. For the second time in one night I was asked if I cared for a dance (a record), and being consistent I said a genuine “no thanks”, stating I was not much of a dancer. At the time, I was unaware that my participation in the dance was unnecessary; things came to light rather quickly.
As the rather attractive and scantily clad girl made her way across the bar, I had visions of several more whiskies, the abandonment of my cares, the courage to dance, and an evening of bliss. At this point, these fantasies suggested I may have already had enough to drink, but my gaze followed her as she walked away. As she sidled up to another table I had the notion she was just trawling for drinks and dismissed any idea as to how I wished the rest of the evening would have gone.
I looked around, and upon finding the girl’s form again I noticed I could see more of it... A LOT more. She had gone from a sultry seductress to a naked, sprawling mass on a neighboring table. I almost dropped my drink, tapping the guy next to me and said, “Are you fucking seeing this?” He pointed to several things that had eluded my notice upon entering Harley’s: a pole on the stage, a private area near the back, several neon signs suggesting nude figures, and five giant men watching everything and everyone. I was in a strip club.
Now, I am far from a prude, and I have on several occasions gone to strip clubs. However, I never go to them alone, and it is usually out of affectation (“Hey, we’re in Montreal, let’s go see some strippers!!”). Even in those situations I tire of it fairly quickly, and in the situation I presently found myself, I drained my rye and left for the Black Knight.
I got to the Black Knight in time for last call, and after a quick shot got a cab back to the warehouse. I called Carter down to the door and spent some time outside with him before calling it a night. I was anxious to see what Saturday would bring.
***
Much earlier than was necessary, Saturday began. At around 9am the warehouse below came to life with the hum of forklifts and the clatter of pallets and machinery. I decided breakfast was in order and headed out for the day after giving Carter a brief run once more in the park across the street.
I chose a spot I had seen the day before called “Latitudes”, found in Yellowknife Center, a little mall downtown. The restaurant was beautiful, well decorated and lighted, with the service and food both spectacular. I opened my book, ordered coffee, an omelet, and as much water as the place held. The extra friendly waitress was amazingly quick and efficient in the ¾ full dining room, and the food came quickly, deliciously, and presented beautifully. I would eat there everyday if I could, if only for the service which I acknowledged with a generous tip.
After the gargantuan omelet settled, I went to another coffee shop to do some reading and have a strong cup of coffee infused with an espresso shot. When the pages of the book began to shake and rustle, I knew I needed to move on, and I set about a small shopping spree. I perused the local music store and found a backpack guitar which I knew would come in handy on hiking trips down the road. After that I found some clothes in a local shop, some odds and ends in Staples, and a few items in Wal-Mart. I tried a local, extremely disorganized pawn shop with no luck. When the owner asked if he could help me find anything I replied, “could you find it?” and was certain that I had worn out my welcome.
Back at the warehouse with a coffee, Carter and I again went to the Fred Henne to let him stretch out. I reserved some energy for the evening by not heading out until about 10pm, off again to the Black Knight. A Newfoundland native transplanted here some years ago entertained the crowd with traditional Maritime and Celtic music, allowing anyone to fill set breaks in the “kitchen party” atmosphere that took over the pub. I played nearly an hour between a set break and the night’s end, and was bought many drinks for my efforts. At 2am I was in a cab on my way back to the apartment, wondering why I was doing so. I longed for an after party, some more drinks, more people, and had not succeeded in reaching a point of sufficient drunkenness. It was probably just as well, given the five hour drive back to Hay River later that morning.
At about 10am, I was packed and ready to go. I hit up McDonalds for some breakfast and coffee, got on the road and was now seeing the landscape that had still been somewhat unnoticed on my way up. The last 100km on my way had been in daylight, but focused on the drive I had missed most of it. I kept my eyes peeled for buffalo, but still managed to take in the beautiful scenery all around me. Taking some side roads I saw what looked to be untouched land and spaces so quiet my breathing spurred echoes.
Aiming to be home mid-afternoon, I pegged Fort Providence as my stopping point for gas and a bathroom break for both Carter and myself. With the grease and coffee working magic in my stomach, I decided my choice of rest stop would not suffice. I pulled into the Edzo reserve in search of a bathroom.
The gas station’s bathroom was out of order, the restaurant next door was closed, and there was not an “open” sign to be seen. I was growing increasingly uncomfortable in my desire to find a toilet, so when I saw an arrow with “RCMP” pointing me to a small detachment, I followed. I walked into the station where two female officers regarded me with a “are you in the right place?” kind of look.
“I need a bathroom, and there are none available. Do you know anywhere I could find a place that is open?”
One female officer consulted the other, both returning blank, yet apologetic, stares.
“Perhaps you could point me to a large bush behind which I could crouch?” I asked.
“Well”, one offered, “if you don’t mind screaming inmates, you can use our bathroom.”
I did, and was happy to pronounce them my saviors. When I was leaving they gave me advice which gave me a bit of a start:
“Have a safe drive, don’t stop until you hit Prov, and don’t talk to any locals.”
With a wave, I was gone and headed back to the main road some 10km through the same route I used to enter the reserve. On the way out, I noticed something in a clearing just 20 meters off the road: buffalo!
The creatures are of mythical bulk, or at least seem to be to someone like myself who has never seen one before, let alone so close up. Carter was antsy to inspect as I took some pictures, and as much as I knew a buffalo would never catch him, and for the fact that I have seen him keep his distance from any number of wild animal, I was not about to let him check out these huge beasts. They were as quiet and friendly looking as they were huge, and photogenic to a fault. I snapped off a few shots and continued on my way home.
One stop and 300km later, I was back in Hay River, ready to relax. The journey over, February almost gone and March looming just hours away, I felt I had capped off the month in style. I enjoyed the prospect of new places and people, new things and attractions, and now found myself already contemplating how to make March my own.
At 4:30am on the last Friday of February, my alarm stirred me from a deep sleep. I swung my feet over the side of the bed and headed to the kitchen to start a cup of coffee. Carter didn’t budge from the edge of the bed, still deeply sleeping off Thursday night’s game of fetch on the river. We were out there for about 2 hours in the amazingly beautiful weather, above 0C up until about 8pm. I knew I would need to give him a good run before the five hour drive ahead.
By 5:30 I was topping the truck up with gas, checking the oil, and filling my travel mug at the local gas station. We left Hay River under the cover of dark, and started into the drive through the dark tunnel of trees. The road crews do well to give a 40 foot leeway between the treeline and the road, and because of this a drive toward dawn is not as threatening or potentially as dangerous. They say the buffalo are just as likely to stick to the road as they are the woods, and they can barely be seen until you are right on top of them. Their thick coats hold the snow as insulation, and when seen at night on the road they just resemble a patch of white, their legs invisible against the pavement. Many people have accidents involving buffalo each year, and amazingly, very few become statistics.
Carter began to get a little stir crazy halfway into the drive, and I knew that Fort Providence would provide the perfect midpoint for a break. After crossing the 1km ice road that replaces the ferry in winter, we were at the service station and restaurant in “Prov”. I got out and went in for some provisions (more coffee, some buffalo jerky, water), then I let Carter out for a couple minutes of stretching. A trailer attracted his attention, and soon I found out why. About 10 holes were cut into the trailer, and as Carter sniffed around, 10 heads popped out to see what his fuss was about. These heads were those of sled-dogs, all husky mixes and adorable, but not keen on the “outsider” being near their confines. Before I could get him away, Carter retreated to me, heeding the warnings of their piercing howls.
Back on the road, I was in awe of a few things that made up the rest of the ride. The landscape was simply breathtaking, with miles and miles of frosted woodland, hills which would serve as beginner slopes at any ski resort, and endless photo opportunities. The road itself caused a different sort of awe, something of the “not to be desired” ilk. Straightaway after straightaway, some that went for 10km, sections of potholes that could make shrapnel of most sedans, and “bumps” which were more or less launching ramps. Another awe that found me was in a “lack thereof” sense, where the buffalo I had been so warned about seemed to know I was coming and decided to remain in the woods.
Around 10:30am, I arrived in Yellowknife. I stole away to my temporary hideout near the airport, a liquor warehouse with an apartment on the mezzanine level. The owner of the hotel where I work has many irons in the fire, one of which being a major role in the liquor corporation here in the Northwest Territories. The apartment at this warehouse serves as a stopover for many employees, and for these two nights it would be my hotel room.
I let Carter out to survey the grounds of the lot, and when he was sufficiently emptied of all vital fluids I let him into the apartment, and headed to an appointment I had made at the local clinic. I needed to get a physical done in order to retain my class 4 when transferring my license up here. A few pokes and prods later, a terrifying realization of gained girth that came while on the scale, and a quick pee into a cup saw the end of my scheduled duties in Yellowknife. An hour after arriving, I had no plans for the next 48.
Lunch was on my mind, so taking the recommendation of a few people I decided on Sam’s Monkey Tree Pub. Upon arriving, I was pretty pleased with the interior, finished in the style of a lodge crossed with a pub, crossed with a club, crossed with a buffet. It looked inviting and cozy, and I thought of places like Jungle Jim’s back home if they were to up their motif a bit.
I took a table, left my coat, and headed to the buffet station. I was a static shock away from lifting the first of five lids when the waitress near shouted, “There’s nothing in there!” as though she had already told me several times. I shrugged in the manner of someone who doesn’t understand such a response and went back to my table. The place was empty save for myself and three other patrons, but she still managed to take almost 20 minutes to come to my table.
“What are you having?” she asked me, almost irritated.
“Well, nothing at the moment. I would like a Moosehead and a Sheppard’s Pie.”
“I thought you wanted the buffet, but fine”, such a tone would usually merit my leaving, but I was hungry.
“Well, I thought I should leave the buffet alone. You made it quite clear that it wasn’t for my taking.”
“Well there’s food in there now, but you said Sheppard’s Pie, so that’s what you’re getting.”
“Did you say ‘no tip’? That’s what you’re getting. Cheer up...”
I have to say, even with the excruciatingly bad service, the food was amazing. The entrée was beyond splendid, bursting with flavor and piping hot, doused in gravy and accompanied by the creamiest whipped potatoes in history. Fresh veggies and garlic bread were great additions, and a side plate of Greek salad topped it off nicely, if not a little bit out of palate for the platter. Washing it down with my favorite brew from home took the experience to an unexpected height. All service aside, I would recommend eating here but avoid the staff.
The rest of the day was spent in three stages. Stage one was a trip to Tim Hortons for my first dose in 3 months, and a trip around the city taking in the sights and sounds of a bustling core in the North. I sat in various coffee shops just watching people go about their day, reading my book and taking some notes. I headed to the Pilot’s Monument which overlooks a good portion of Yellowknife, where I conveniently got my truck stuck in the parking lot, walking 10 minutes to buy sand and carrying it back to fill the divots to create traction. After launching out of the spot, I took a last drive around the town before hitting stage two.
This second portion of my day will be referred to as “relaxing like never before”. I had become so tired from the early awakening, the drive, and some of the plodding along through the day that I could almost go for a nap. Naps are rare for me, surprisingly enough considering I hover between 4-6 hours of sleep per evening. I lay back on the bed with Carter at my feet and took in some mindless television. I drifted in and out of slumber, and knowing I would be headed out for drinks that night, I took Carter across to Fred Henne Park for a run. This did not interrupt my relaxation, as I merely sat on a bench while he played with another dog. This dog’s owner looked like I felt, and we sat with coffee and cigarettes, letting the dogs tire out. I then returned to the apartment, dropped a tired dog on the floor, and headed into stage three around 7pm.
To begin the last leg of the evening, I took in the Canada/Slovakia Olympic hockey contest at the MacKenzie Lounge in the Yellowknife Inn. A nice bar indeed, but not a sports pub, which was perfect. I enjoy quiet bars when I am alone, where I can sit by myself and not have to strain to hear myself think. The bar had divided itself in two, or rather, everyone else and me. I watched the game at one end while some obviously affluent groups watched a jazz trio and ordered bottle upon bottle of expensive wine.
With the game over, I went outside for a cigarette and three women from one table came out shortly after. I had had a few ryes and felt two smokes would likely be in order, and just as I lit my second, they lit into conversation in French. While I am not the most adept at speaking our nation’s other official language, I am fairly good at picking up on it and understanding portions of conversation. They had commented on my checkered jacket and how shabby it looked, and the fact that if I shaved and had fashion-sense I would be somewhat desirable. Another comment on my being “in the wrong bar” was about as much bashing as I cared to take, so I stubbed my cigarette and made to order another rye. On my way in, I turned to them and offered the following parting statement:
“Je m’excuse, mais je comprend Francais... merci, jerks.”
They came back inside, red-faced on a rather warm night, and passed my table. One looked apologetic, while the others wore the face of drunken embarrassment which would subside with one more drink. I could have cared less, but I sometimes get a rise out of making some people feel as uncomfortable as they should.
Having had my final rye, I asked the waitress what bars would be good places to check out. She offered about 5 spots, even going so far as to draw me a little map which was more than appreciated. I decided to check them all out having nothing better to do. Her first two suggestions were busts, so I was on to see some local color at a few other bars.
The Golden Range scared the shit out of me. I was the only white guy in what was clearly a bar geared towards Aboriginals. The staff, the clients, and the band were all of Native lineage. I thought that turning tail at the realization I was in the wrong place would be more damning than enjoying a drink first. I ordered a double rye, took a seat near the band, and starting plotting my escape.
My fear was mainly based in the fact that these places have a reputation for being rough, and I vow that no racism was involved. I was rather surprised to find quite the opposite of all these warnings was true. A rather attractive woman asked me to dance (I declined), a few guys saw me sitting alone and brought some shots over (I obliged), and when I got up to leave they bought me another drink (again, I obliged).
With that establishment researched, I went on to the Raven and promptly left. It was a dance club, the sort of place I would avoid anywhere in the world. Outside, hordes of men and women were in varied states of intoxication, fighting with each other and airing a lot of dirty laundry. I decided that this really was not the spot for me and continued on.
The third spot was a place called the Black Knight, which, in fact, enjoyed for about 15 minutes at the end of my night. On my way there I noticed another pub called “Harley’s” that was left off my hand-drawn map, tucked into a basement on the main drag. I walked down the stairs and entered the bar, ordered a double rye and sat alone at a table. For the second time in one night I was asked if I cared for a dance (a record), and being consistent I said a genuine “no thanks”, stating I was not much of a dancer. At the time, I was unaware that my participation in the dance was unnecessary; things came to light rather quickly.
As the rather attractive and scantily clad girl made her way across the bar, I had visions of several more whiskies, the abandonment of my cares, the courage to dance, and an evening of bliss. At this point, these fantasies suggested I may have already had enough to drink, but my gaze followed her as she walked away. As she sidled up to another table I had the notion she was just trawling for drinks and dismissed any idea as to how I wished the rest of the evening would have gone.
I looked around, and upon finding the girl’s form again I noticed I could see more of it... A LOT more. She had gone from a sultry seductress to a naked, sprawling mass on a neighboring table. I almost dropped my drink, tapping the guy next to me and said, “Are you fucking seeing this?” He pointed to several things that had eluded my notice upon entering Harley’s: a pole on the stage, a private area near the back, several neon signs suggesting nude figures, and five giant men watching everything and everyone. I was in a strip club.
Now, I am far from a prude, and I have on several occasions gone to strip clubs. However, I never go to them alone, and it is usually out of affectation (“Hey, we’re in Montreal, let’s go see some strippers!!”). Even in those situations I tire of it fairly quickly, and in the situation I presently found myself, I drained my rye and left for the Black Knight.
I got to the Black Knight in time for last call, and after a quick shot got a cab back to the warehouse. I called Carter down to the door and spent some time outside with him before calling it a night. I was anxious to see what Saturday would bring.
***
Much earlier than was necessary, Saturday began. At around 9am the warehouse below came to life with the hum of forklifts and the clatter of pallets and machinery. I decided breakfast was in order and headed out for the day after giving Carter a brief run once more in the park across the street.
I chose a spot I had seen the day before called “Latitudes”, found in Yellowknife Center, a little mall downtown. The restaurant was beautiful, well decorated and lighted, with the service and food both spectacular. I opened my book, ordered coffee, an omelet, and as much water as the place held. The extra friendly waitress was amazingly quick and efficient in the ¾ full dining room, and the food came quickly, deliciously, and presented beautifully. I would eat there everyday if I could, if only for the service which I acknowledged with a generous tip.
After the gargantuan omelet settled, I went to another coffee shop to do some reading and have a strong cup of coffee infused with an espresso shot. When the pages of the book began to shake and rustle, I knew I needed to move on, and I set about a small shopping spree. I perused the local music store and found a backpack guitar which I knew would come in handy on hiking trips down the road. After that I found some clothes in a local shop, some odds and ends in Staples, and a few items in Wal-Mart. I tried a local, extremely disorganized pawn shop with no luck. When the owner asked if he could help me find anything I replied, “could you find it?” and was certain that I had worn out my welcome.
Back at the warehouse with a coffee, Carter and I again went to the Fred Henne to let him stretch out. I reserved some energy for the evening by not heading out until about 10pm, off again to the Black Knight. A Newfoundland native transplanted here some years ago entertained the crowd with traditional Maritime and Celtic music, allowing anyone to fill set breaks in the “kitchen party” atmosphere that took over the pub. I played nearly an hour between a set break and the night’s end, and was bought many drinks for my efforts. At 2am I was in a cab on my way back to the apartment, wondering why I was doing so. I longed for an after party, some more drinks, more people, and had not succeeded in reaching a point of sufficient drunkenness. It was probably just as well, given the five hour drive back to Hay River later that morning.
At about 10am, I was packed and ready to go. I hit up McDonalds for some breakfast and coffee, got on the road and was now seeing the landscape that had still been somewhat unnoticed on my way up. The last 100km on my way had been in daylight, but focused on the drive I had missed most of it. I kept my eyes peeled for buffalo, but still managed to take in the beautiful scenery all around me. Taking some side roads I saw what looked to be untouched land and spaces so quiet my breathing spurred echoes.
Aiming to be home mid-afternoon, I pegged Fort Providence as my stopping point for gas and a bathroom break for both Carter and myself. With the grease and coffee working magic in my stomach, I decided my choice of rest stop would not suffice. I pulled into the Edzo reserve in search of a bathroom.
The gas station’s bathroom was out of order, the restaurant next door was closed, and there was not an “open” sign to be seen. I was growing increasingly uncomfortable in my desire to find a toilet, so when I saw an arrow with “RCMP” pointing me to a small detachment, I followed. I walked into the station where two female officers regarded me with a “are you in the right place?” kind of look.
“I need a bathroom, and there are none available. Do you know anywhere I could find a place that is open?”
One female officer consulted the other, both returning blank, yet apologetic, stares.
“Perhaps you could point me to a large bush behind which I could crouch?” I asked.
“Well”, one offered, “if you don’t mind screaming inmates, you can use our bathroom.”
I did, and was happy to pronounce them my saviors. When I was leaving they gave me advice which gave me a bit of a start:
“Have a safe drive, don’t stop until you hit Prov, and don’t talk to any locals.”
With a wave, I was gone and headed back to the main road some 10km through the same route I used to enter the reserve. On the way out, I noticed something in a clearing just 20 meters off the road: buffalo!
The creatures are of mythical bulk, or at least seem to be to someone like myself who has never seen one before, let alone so close up. Carter was antsy to inspect as I took some pictures, and as much as I knew a buffalo would never catch him, and for the fact that I have seen him keep his distance from any number of wild animal, I was not about to let him check out these huge beasts. They were as quiet and friendly looking as they were huge, and photogenic to a fault. I snapped off a few shots and continued on my way home.
One stop and 300km later, I was back in Hay River, ready to relax. The journey over, February almost gone and March looming just hours away, I felt I had capped off the month in style. I enjoyed the prospect of new places and people, new things and attractions, and now found myself already contemplating how to make March my own.
February: Dull with a chance of bright patches.
February came and went with very little affair. Work was work, the apartment remained a sort of escape and cell all at once, and the weather made being outside very attractive. My third month here would be full of days resting between -10C and 10C, which in the North is rather nice. On several occasions, conditions here were far greater than home... one aspect of being here had to be, right?
I spent more time on the river and in the woods with Carter throughout February, as well as squeezing in a day of snowmobiling. The great outdoors of the Great White North have called and called again, and most days I’ve answered.
With Carter, the simple pleasures of the outdoors are tended too. We hit the river and get into a game of fetch while we trek a few kilometers to a side trail, then I put the ball in my pocket and we hit the woods. It never fails that for the first 5 minutes he is right at my side, sometimes jumping almost my height in an impatient desire for me to throw the ball again. Eventually he settles down, takes to sniffing the trails out, and just scampers through the brush. If you do not own a pet, you do not know the simple joy of watching your dog just explode with excitement as he discovers a new piece of wilderness. I also revel in finding these little patches, but regard them with little more than a smile and a warming heart.
One day, however, discovery came fast; at times nearing 100km/h on the snow. I had borrowed a snowmobile from the owner of the hotel where I am working, and was extremely excited. I could not hide the growing grin as I suited up, and the twitches of thrill hit my spine here and there as I got ready to go. After a brief re-familiarization with a type of machine I had not commandeered for over 10 years, I set off.
At first, I stuck to the patch of trails around town, stopping for gas and picking up some snacks. Within minutes I was comfortable with the sled and aware of where my limitations of control stood, so I got a bit gutsy. I hit the open river and turned up under the Old Town Bridge, let the machine wide open, and cut along the river branch behind the airport. Not too long after, I was sitting on the expanse of Great Slave Lake, enjoying coffee from my thermos and the greatest cigarette I have ever had. Rarely have I felt such a sense of “being here”, and I could never say for sure I will again.
I then decided to head up river, back away from the lake and explore beyond my furthest point from an earlier excursion around Boxing Day. All along the river, houses and side trails awoke my fancy. I imagined living there, hiking there, and just tried to feel a sense of immersion vicariously through factors I would likely never be effected by. As everything from shacks to mansions flew by in my peripheral, I decided the houses were mere fantasy, but these trails could be tackled today, and so I chose a few.
The first trail was a fairly sheer uphill entrance into the bush. Heavy on the throttle up the initial incline, I let off at the trail’s apex and found myself on a little patch of heaven. What appeared to be woods was actually long, natural clearing which started about 10 meters beyond the trees along the shoreline. The clearing had a trail that ran on either side from the river to a road about 1km along, a generous depression in between, and a small stream bubbling unseen below two feet of snow and ice. I followed to the road, sat there for a few minutes, and then was alerted that possibly I ought to move on. I had actually found myself on the local reserve, and one passing truck slowed just enough for the driver to give me a “you took the wrong fucking trail, boy” look. I turned around, and quickly got back to the river.
Continuing up river, I passed under the Pine Point Bridge, and here came my folly. I wanted to take a few pictures of the bridge, a photogenic maze of metal, and darted the machine from side to side for different vantage points. I crested another steep incline and just as I came over the hump on to flat land, another snowmobile was coming toward me. Wanting to turn around, I saw that the same trail this rider was coming down would suit as a place I could get to an adjacent road to spin back. I pulled into some soft stuff, waved them past, and they continued on without performing the courteous act of assuring I was out of my spot.
With the rider gone, I was very much alone out there and wonderfully stuck. My machine had sunk through some powder onto ice, and also lodged itself on a root. I tried for over an hour to free the sled, wrenching it from side to side, digging around it with my hands, and any number of other tactics. I had decided that after another few tries, I would use what little network reception I had to call my boss to come give me a hand.
Adhering to the “you sweat, you die” mode, I sat on the machine and removed a few layers, taking in the beautiful weather. Honestly, I could not have picked a better day to get stuck. The sun was shining, wind was minimal, and I had a clear mind. I sipped on some juice and started in on a sandwich, taking in the surroundings. About five minutes shy of giving the situation another try, two very large dogs of a Rottweiler mix breed appeared 50 yards away, inspecting me. I love dogs, and having a Rottweiler of my own, do not normally fear unfamiliar canines. These two, however, looked mean. I forfeited my lunch to them, tossing my other sandwich and a full bag of beef jerky to them, and took out my knife to have it at the ready. I pulled out my phone and called for a hand, and throughout the wait for assistance kept a close eye on the dogs until they lost interest and left.
Curtis arrived swiftly 25 minutes after I called him, and he was able to help me free the machine. Back on the river, I shot back to town at a blazing speed, the throttle to the pin almost the whole way. The 600cc engine whined high and mighty, and with the hand warmers on, I was able to make town without stopping in less than 10 minutes. Back within town limits, I stopped at the pub and had a coffee, then scooted around town once more before retiring for the day.
At the apartment that night, I debated what my next adventure would be. Should I take to the trails for a night of winter camping? Perhaps I could procure the machine again at some point and go for a two day trip to a neighboring town? Any option brought excitement as February had been a rather dull month all things considered. Eventually, I decided that while I had hardly had my fill of nature, taking in a town would be more fun. And what could be more fun than a town? Why, a city of course!
To cap off my third month in the North, I went further north. I was off to Yellowknife to see February out and ring in March.
I spent more time on the river and in the woods with Carter throughout February, as well as squeezing in a day of snowmobiling. The great outdoors of the Great White North have called and called again, and most days I’ve answered.
With Carter, the simple pleasures of the outdoors are tended too. We hit the river and get into a game of fetch while we trek a few kilometers to a side trail, then I put the ball in my pocket and we hit the woods. It never fails that for the first 5 minutes he is right at my side, sometimes jumping almost my height in an impatient desire for me to throw the ball again. Eventually he settles down, takes to sniffing the trails out, and just scampers through the brush. If you do not own a pet, you do not know the simple joy of watching your dog just explode with excitement as he discovers a new piece of wilderness. I also revel in finding these little patches, but regard them with little more than a smile and a warming heart.
One day, however, discovery came fast; at times nearing 100km/h on the snow. I had borrowed a snowmobile from the owner of the hotel where I am working, and was extremely excited. I could not hide the growing grin as I suited up, and the twitches of thrill hit my spine here and there as I got ready to go. After a brief re-familiarization with a type of machine I had not commandeered for over 10 years, I set off.
At first, I stuck to the patch of trails around town, stopping for gas and picking up some snacks. Within minutes I was comfortable with the sled and aware of where my limitations of control stood, so I got a bit gutsy. I hit the open river and turned up under the Old Town Bridge, let the machine wide open, and cut along the river branch behind the airport. Not too long after, I was sitting on the expanse of Great Slave Lake, enjoying coffee from my thermos and the greatest cigarette I have ever had. Rarely have I felt such a sense of “being here”, and I could never say for sure I will again.
I then decided to head up river, back away from the lake and explore beyond my furthest point from an earlier excursion around Boxing Day. All along the river, houses and side trails awoke my fancy. I imagined living there, hiking there, and just tried to feel a sense of immersion vicariously through factors I would likely never be effected by. As everything from shacks to mansions flew by in my peripheral, I decided the houses were mere fantasy, but these trails could be tackled today, and so I chose a few.
The first trail was a fairly sheer uphill entrance into the bush. Heavy on the throttle up the initial incline, I let off at the trail’s apex and found myself on a little patch of heaven. What appeared to be woods was actually long, natural clearing which started about 10 meters beyond the trees along the shoreline. The clearing had a trail that ran on either side from the river to a road about 1km along, a generous depression in between, and a small stream bubbling unseen below two feet of snow and ice. I followed to the road, sat there for a few minutes, and then was alerted that possibly I ought to move on. I had actually found myself on the local reserve, and one passing truck slowed just enough for the driver to give me a “you took the wrong fucking trail, boy” look. I turned around, and quickly got back to the river.
Continuing up river, I passed under the Pine Point Bridge, and here came my folly. I wanted to take a few pictures of the bridge, a photogenic maze of metal, and darted the machine from side to side for different vantage points. I crested another steep incline and just as I came over the hump on to flat land, another snowmobile was coming toward me. Wanting to turn around, I saw that the same trail this rider was coming down would suit as a place I could get to an adjacent road to spin back. I pulled into some soft stuff, waved them past, and they continued on without performing the courteous act of assuring I was out of my spot.
With the rider gone, I was very much alone out there and wonderfully stuck. My machine had sunk through some powder onto ice, and also lodged itself on a root. I tried for over an hour to free the sled, wrenching it from side to side, digging around it with my hands, and any number of other tactics. I had decided that after another few tries, I would use what little network reception I had to call my boss to come give me a hand.
Adhering to the “you sweat, you die” mode, I sat on the machine and removed a few layers, taking in the beautiful weather. Honestly, I could not have picked a better day to get stuck. The sun was shining, wind was minimal, and I had a clear mind. I sipped on some juice and started in on a sandwich, taking in the surroundings. About five minutes shy of giving the situation another try, two very large dogs of a Rottweiler mix breed appeared 50 yards away, inspecting me. I love dogs, and having a Rottweiler of my own, do not normally fear unfamiliar canines. These two, however, looked mean. I forfeited my lunch to them, tossing my other sandwich and a full bag of beef jerky to them, and took out my knife to have it at the ready. I pulled out my phone and called for a hand, and throughout the wait for assistance kept a close eye on the dogs until they lost interest and left.
Curtis arrived swiftly 25 minutes after I called him, and he was able to help me free the machine. Back on the river, I shot back to town at a blazing speed, the throttle to the pin almost the whole way. The 600cc engine whined high and mighty, and with the hand warmers on, I was able to make town without stopping in less than 10 minutes. Back within town limits, I stopped at the pub and had a coffee, then scooted around town once more before retiring for the day.
At the apartment that night, I debated what my next adventure would be. Should I take to the trails for a night of winter camping? Perhaps I could procure the machine again at some point and go for a two day trip to a neighboring town? Any option brought excitement as February had been a rather dull month all things considered. Eventually, I decided that while I had hardly had my fill of nature, taking in a town would be more fun. And what could be more fun than a town? Why, a city of course!
To cap off my third month in the North, I went further north. I was off to Yellowknife to see February out and ring in March.
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