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.