The First Ten Days

Flying over the barren landscape toward Hay River, I felt a sense of tension. The butterflies had long left my stomach, and were replaced by something more local: elk, caribou, bison, and magpies, all trampling and flying about with vigor. The wrack of the move had left me somewhat tired and anxious, and now the excitement had begun to well up, bringing me to a state of readiness I equated to “waking up at gunpoint”. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I would soon find out.

To conclude a previous post, I had said upon flying over the town proper, it “looked like home already”. To be honest, it did. It shone with the beauty of the North, ever powerful in its hue, and even before touching ground in Hay River, it spoke to me like a small town. Clusters of small neighborhoods dotted the area, an industrial zone perched upon the banks of Great Slave Lake, and the town district thrust its mighty 6 block heft an awe inspiring 3 stories into the sky (save for one rather out of place 17 story high-rise). It truly seemed like a place in which I would enjoy my time, if not for the people I had yet to meet, than for the new job that waited and the land I was already surveying.

As the plane touched tarmac at YHY (let’s see Neil Peart tap that out), I felt a pang of sorrow deep within me. A few instances on the trip had presented themselves as aforementioned “Holy Fuck” moments, and I was again in the thick of another. I thought of family and friends, a former lover, and even some people I didn’t care if I saw again. It all hurt.

But this was it: this was the end of the trip and the beginning of the journey. December 15, 2009 was a day that will remain vivid in my memory for many years to come.

In the small airport, I collected my baggage and Carter, and thought of my options for getting to town. Having never been here, my first inclination was to rent a car and treat myself to a drive around the area. This was declined by the fact that nobody was working the rental counter because they didn’t have any appointments booked; the small town life begins. My second option was a cab into my new place of work and temporary home, The Ptarmigan Inn.

As soon as I lifted the receiver on the direct line I overheard my own name being spoken, something that catches you quite off guard over 5,000kms from home. My new boss had come to pick me up unannounced. I introduced myself, looking rather well-traveled with a fresh beard of 4 days, a checkered jacket, and a firm handshake. Thankfully, he returned the shake in form, something I always look for in meeting new people. We hoisted the luggage into the back of his F-150, Carter took a spot ever-obediently on the floor of the cab, and we rode into town.

Now, shock and amazement are not words I toss around casually, so I won’t use them here, either. The place didn’t do much outside make me smile and think “well, here I am”. The main street was a cluster of a few department and hardware stores, a grocer, a sportsplex, and a few other scattered offices, and government and town detachments. I thought momentarily that this was an outskirt, than remembered where I was.

As we pulled up to the doors of the Ptarmigan, I was excited. I was going to see my new digs, both professionally and in terms of living. Though I should only be living there until mid-February, it was like moving into a new place all around as the sense of home was out of the hat mere seconds through the door. I met some of the friendly and welcoming staff that I would be working with, shaking hands and wowing them with my charm, took a quick look around the immediate vicinity, then made way to my room.

I realized I needed a few necessities for the suite, so I made my way to the grocery store, The Northmart (creativity stops with the Aboriginal Arts up here), and picked up provisions. After loading up a basket with some bread, milk, treats, and dog food, I lined up for my first purchase in the North. As the dog food slid through the register, the young girl working bet I’d just gotten a puppy, and I noted that I in fact had just moved here.

“Where from?”

“New Brunwick”, I noted, pointing in a direction suggesting my inner compass was more than just moral.

“Wow, I’m from Prince Edward Island, and she’s from Nova Scotia!”

Small world, I thought. I took this as another of my signs that things would be alright: I’d found prospective drinking buddies who survived after moving here.

After settling in with Carter, watching some television and doing a light run of unpacking, I met with the General Manager and my new boss, Curt, for supper and a few drinks. We kept conversation strictly out of shop, as the next day would be the beginning of my foray into management, and heavy on discussions of hospitality. A few rye and gingers (of course), a helping of steak, potatoes and vegetables, and some lengthy debates on the merits of growing my beard back, and it was time to turn in. After two fairly solid days of travel from Saint John to Hay River, I was ready to turn in for my first night in the Great White North.

**

The following morning, I awoke with a start. I had no clue where I was, what was going on, and not a damn thing looked vaguely familiar, save for Carter at the edge of the bed. I was not entirely sure that I wasn’t dreaming as the clock read 8:30am, the curtains in my suite were open, and it was alarmingly dark out.

As I snapped out if it, I rubbed infinite amounts of sleep from my eyes, sat up, and swung my legs over the bed. I sat there a minute, feeling the well of emotions again, and bucked up. I showered, shaved, and suited up for my first day at work.

After a brief meeting in his office, Curt showed me around the property. I was trying to remember some twists and turns in the property, as well as the numerous names I was being handed of the staff that passed by. A lot of this new information would escape me by day’s end, this much was certain, but I was intrigued and therefore retaining most of it, something which surprised me over the next few days.

Those days went by, and it was the usual routine of settling into a new job: getting my desk in order, reviewing files left by the previous person who held my position, and making nice with the attractive girls at work. I hadn’t considered much of my time to come outside the job, but figured it would be a lot of hiking and time with Carter, but the end of my first week provided something I didn’t figure I would see for my entire year away, which was me hosting an open mic night.

Not even 5 days in, I had a second job. I was doing a service here, not only for the offering of my prowess, but because the idea of this open mic night before I showed up was to rent a PA system and a guitar, and leave it under a light for whoever wanted to play. Being schooled in the art of hosting by such teachers as Sean Roach and Brent Mason, I felt it was my rock and roll duty to step up and swing. And so I did. For hours. And loved it.

It was on.

**

I made very little of my time until Christmas outside of getting along to my job. I worked, I hiked, and I took Carter out for several walks along the town trail and on the freeze of the Hay River. There was still a sense of loss within my gait, a shuffle that likely suggested to any passersby that I was new to town, alone, and thinking about the cost of airfare.

Truth be told, I was starting to become somewhat enamored with Hay River. The people were nice, the scenery was amazing, and I was not too dissuaded by the cold. Between Christmas Eve and January 3, 2010, I would find a slice of nature to call my own, meet some great people, and start coming out of my shell just that much more.