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October 29 Paulatuk. 1967. A fishing trip to remember.Fall 1967, Paulatuk:
It was freeze-up, an in-between time when travel by boat, sled or even airplanes was dang near impossible. Fall dragged on and on. Each day got a little cooler, the cloudy skies and cooler temps promised snow but failed to produce anything more significant than an occasional flurry. The bay in front of the village already had some ice, but except a few wispy snow drifts in sheltered spots, the tundra remained bare. It was really starting to get boring. The caribou had long gone on their southern migration, so had the wildfowl, I couldn't get out in the boat for a little seal hunting, all was dull and lifeless. The store was set up and all the supplies from the sea-lift unpacked and on the shelves. Because of inclement weather, no planes were flying. I was getting tired of sitting around reading, visiting, and drinking endless cups of tea or coffee with my small group of neighbours.
In those days of paternalistic government, and before land claims had been settled, Paulatuk and its inhabitants were viewed as a problem. Although a Catholic Mission existed there and had for decades, until recently Paulatuk had been not much more than a seasonal fishing camp. Its inhabiatamts, The Inuvialuit of the Cape Parry area, had been semi-nomadic, ranging up and down the peninsular, east, west and as far south as the tree line. In the late thirties or early forties, the HBCo. had established a trading post halfway up the peninsular to serve its and the local peoples needs. Due to an accidental shooting death of a young child and the resulting very bad karma, the HBC Post at Letty Harbour had been abandoned years before my arrival. (A story for another day)
Long after the abandonment of Letty Harbour, construction of the Dew Line began. This offered employment to the local Inuvialuit. Some of these previously semi-nomadic people took what few jobs there were and promptly moved into a shanty town, make-shift village, near the Dew Line site at Cape Parry. Cash money, easy access to alcohol, welfare and a high rate of unemployment meant that all the social problems associated with the aforementioned, blossomed. At Cape Parry, a burden on society and a community of do nothing drunks had been created, or so it was believed by the 'powers that be' in Inuvik. The People weren't happy about it.
Consequently, 'someone' had come up with a relocation plan. Move the people away from Cape Parry and all its evils and into a permanent village where they could resume their traditional subsistence hunting and fishing life style. Paulatuk was chosen as the location. Because of my experience with the 'Bay', a year later I was chosen as the person to assist the locals in returning to their traditional ways. In addition to six new family houses, a Native Co-op was established and a store was constructed, the idea being, the store would be self-supporting from a small Charr fishery and whatever furs the area produced.... Seal skins, fox furs and polar bear hides. All this information, correct or incorrect, was divulged to me by government reps in several meeting in Inuvik.
Personally I think the alcohol abuse bit, was blown out of proportion as I never saw evidence of it. The problem folks seemed to have chosen life in Inuvik and other larger centers, rather than resettle to Paulatuk
Anyway, included in my job description list of duties was the phrase, 'the incumbent will be responsible for the establishment of a native, commercial Arctic Charr fishery'. So, with those instructions in mind I had enlisted a young local Inuvialuit by the name of Joe Ruben to be my guide and partner. The idea was that Joe and I would go to the river, set our nets and start catching bucket loads of fish, thereby setting an example, hopefully one that others in the community would emulate. Our fish would be sold to the Co-op, the Co-op would send them to Inuvik from where they'd be transported and sold in southern markets. From Inuvik our Co-op was paid .19¢ a pound.
http://www.dfo-mpo.gc.ca/csas/Csas/status/1999/D5-68e.pdf In here it states 1968, that is incorrect, it was November '67.
Joe and I made plans to travel over to the Hornaday River and start setting nets as soon as there was enough snow for us to use a sled. It was well into Fall, the autumn Charr run had already begun, but due to the lack of snow cover we were unable to get to the river to get at it. Every day I'd pray for snow, every morning when I looked out the window, I'd be disappointed.
Joe was going to provide a sled and I was going to provide locomotion in the form of an old and broken Polaris Autoboggan. State of the art in those day, all made of steel it weighed a quarter ton at least, was articulated in the middle, had a 9hp Kohler 4-stroke engine, had a track consisting of a tin rubber membrane and massive steel cleats, it had a top speed of maybe 10 miles an hour. Similar to the one pictured below, it belonged to the government, so was mine to use as I wished.
Great! The only problem was it was broken. The engine had a hole through a lug at each corner of the cast iron sump through which a bolt was secured to the engine mount on the main frame. Unfortunately, one of the engine mount/sump lugs had broken off, the resulting uneven torque meant the drive chain kept flying off, rendering the machine unusable.
I really needed that machine as transportation. How to repair it? A day drilling with a brace and bit (hand drill), a sore shoulder and arm, and blistered hands, and I had bored a hole through the small remaining piece of cast iron, close to the engine sump. Hours more drilling a new hole in the engine mount on the frame and I was in business! A quick and short trip over the frozen muskeg and tundra indicated my repairs had been successful.
to be continued.............
Part: The Next.
I almost forgot to mention I had a couple of house guests at the time. Roughly a week before, when we could still easily get the boats out of the bay. Late one afternoon Joe had come over to my house to tell me that a couple of Barren Ground Grizzly had been spotted about ten miles out of town to the west. He asked me if I wanted to go with Adam Gruben and himself to hunt them. Putting down my coffee cup and book, I readily agreed. Being a non native and not allowed to hunt big game in the NWT without a special license didn't bother me in the least. There wasn't a C/O or RCMP officer within 300 miles, and besides if one of the above had miraculously appeared, I was with two native guys who could shoot all the game they wanted. "Honest Officer, I never even fired a shot. This rifle? I'm just holding it for Joe."
I borrowed a .30-30 from someone and we set out along the coast in the famous 'Rebecca Kelly Crofton', a small, green aluminum boat with two 20hp outboard motors. Possibly it belonged to Joe's family. Perhaps the boat even belonged to the Catholic Mission, I don't remember now. Why it was famous and named as it was I have no idea. Anyway off we went, it was overcast and breezy so we were bundled up against the cold. Bouncing along in the spray, we'd gone a few miles from town heading west when I spotted a large freighter canoe, coming the other way with what looked like two people in it. This was a great surprise as in a small place such as Paulatuk, you always knew who was out and about on the land or water. We knew who was where, as far as we were concerned, no one from town was out west of us towards Inuvik which by boat was at least four hundred miles away. Who could these people be and from where were they coming?
As the canoe approached us, we could tell by body shape and dress, these were strangers. Closer they came and I suddenly realized I knew the person driving the kicker. It was Duncan Pryde. Dunc I'd known for years, the other guy, a Dutchman named Erik, I'd never seen before. I snapped some photos as they approached, but unfortunately, the photos were backlit so their faces were not really visible. They were heading towards Paulatuk, we waved and kept on going on our bear hunt knowing Dunc and his passenger would still be in town when we got back.
"That was Duncan Pryde", I said to Joe and Adam. "Who", they asked. So then I had to explain to them who and what Dunc was. They had never heard of him, which really surprised me. Dunc was legendary in the central and eastern Arctic, and in the Hudson's Bay Company, he even made the cover of the Canadian edition of 'Time'. Like myself, he was an ex-Bay-Boy , a gifted linguist, having moderate knowledge of about six languages, and being fluent in Inuktitut, he was also famous for his womanizing and drinking. See: http://www.travelbooks.co.uk/biog.asp?id=33
Oh Crap! I thought to myself, there's Dunc heading for my home and that could mean trouble.
We arrived at the spot where the Grizzly were supposedly sighted and beached the boat. Not a bear in sight, we tromped around for a while looking for bears or sign of them and found nothing. We were either in the wrong spot or someone was bullshipping. As we hunted Joe and Adam were having a bit of personal fun between themselves at my expense. Telling me invented Grizzly lore...."Don't let it see you", "if you shoot it make sure you kill it, wounding it will bring it straight to you", "Bears can tell exactly where the shot came from, it'll straight for you and kill you", etc. Joe and Adam were having a right giggle. I just smiled politely and said something like, "Huh, is that right? Ok I'll be careful" Nudge nudge, wink wink. Seeing no bears and having drank our thermos of tea, we fired our guns at some rocks for target practice, took a few photos, jumped in Rebecca and headed back to town. Too bad, I was really in the mood to bag a Grizzly bear, but it wasn't to be.
Arriving back at home, sure enough there was Dunc and his passenger standing on the beach, by his canoe and surrounded by a bunch of people shaking hands with him. I went up and said hello and was introduced to Erik. Dunc was as surprised to see me as I had been to see him. We had last crossed paths about 3 years previously when I visted him overnight with a medical party when he was still Post Manager at his HBC store down in Bathurst Inlet.
Introductions over, I invited him and his buddy, to come up to my shack for some tea and food. I was not best pleased to see him, I wanted to hear what brought him to Paulatuk. As it turns out Dunc had political ambitions. He had decided to bow to pressure, internal and external, and run for re-election to, as it was known then, Territorial Council. His plan had been to travel by canoe along the Canadian Arctic Coast from Inuvik to Spence Bay, stopping at every Inuit camp and settlement along the way introducing himself and letting his ambitions be known....campaigning in fact.
The trouble was, it's a very long way from Inuvik to Spence Bay by canoe. If one follows the shoreline which he was, the distance is probably more than a thousand miles. He had left his start until too late in the season to complete the trip in one year, he was also almost broke (I later found out). That's why he had the Dutchman with him. Erik was footing most of the bill, in return he got an Arctic Adventure with the legendary Duncan Pryde. Their original plan had been to travel as far as Coppermine, about two hundred miles east of Paulatuk, before calling it quits for the season.
Polite and hospitable guy that I am, I offered them sleeping room for the night in my house. They gladly accepted because they were getting a bit tired of sleeping in a tent on the cold, wet ground. Next day was nasty, too nasty to travel by canoe along the Arctic Coast in October, so I told them to make themselves at home in my shack until the weather cleared enough for them to make the dash to Coppermine. Alas, it was not to be. The weather never did improve enough before freeze-up for them to resume their canoe journey. The two of them ended up camped in my house for the next month before there was enough ice in the bay out front, for a plane to come from Inuvik and haul their sorry asses out of there. There they sat in my house enjoying my heat and eating my grub. What did I get in return? Not a dang thing. In the end ol' Dunc didn't even have the common courtesy to mention my name in the book he wrote about his Arctic adventures. http://www.amazon.co.uk/Nunaga-Ten-Years-Among-Eskimos/dp/0907871631
I mentioned that I thought Dunc's arrival in Paulatuk could mean trouble. My immediate thought upon seeing him was; there wouldn't be a woman, married or single, or over 12, safe with her virtue if he stayed in Paulatuk for any length of time. He was infamous. The trickle down effect was bound to land on my doorstep. As it turned out my fears were unfounded, Paulatuk was a tiny settlement of God fearing folks. Perhaps his experience with George Oaqoaq beating the crap out of him in Perry Island had taught him a lesson about fooling around with married women, perhaps the Catholic Priest had a word with him. Whatever, if he did have any liaisons while he was in Paulatuk, he was uncharacteristically discrete about it and no problems ensued.
Dunc Pryde.
to be continued... Map details of our Winter Road to GreatBear Lake. NWT.CAWell, "Holy Crapman Batweasel"!! Bish tells me I had his 'Bath' in the wrong spot. After 30+ years, sometimes memories get a little fuzzy on the exact locations of incidents and of our routes. I wondered at the time I marked it, however he's the dude that got his feet wet and crapped in his pants, so he should remember where it happened (Second little pot-hole, north of Hottah, he says). However, during hours of discussion with my friend Brian, he and I have come to the general agreement that Bishop's memory is worse than ours.
 "Bishop's Bath" indeed did occur on the second puddle, but on the trail/portage into Terra Mine, not just north of Hottah Lake, as Bish believes.So, yet again I've redone my maps, Bishop's Bath' is now pinned closer to the actual event. I also pinned the spot where Ricky Robinson dropped his tanker through on Conjurer Bay, he was following right behind me when.....down she went. Got his feet wet too, and really crapped his pants!
      ............. Lead truck in a four unit convoy, in the pitch dark I'd just come down off Yen onto Conjurer Bay. Ricky, Bishop and Buddy were following behind. The radio was silent, chatter between us had stopped miles back. I was traveling along minding my own business and thinking about getting through the Narrows up ahead and arriving at Echo Bay for supper and a sleep.
It was a very cold night, in the minus forty range. All of a suden, this 'squawk' comes over the radio! Picking up my mike I asked 'what was that, did someone say something?' 'Squawk squawk!', came the reply. One of the guys behind me says, ' I think it was Ricky and he just broke through the ice.' 'Shit!', thinks I, flipping on my back-up lights, stopping and looking in my mirrors for head lights.
All I could see was a cloud of steam, my back-up lights reflecting off it. Scared shitless, Rick, in a panic to get out of his truck, turned his headlights off and shut off his radio. No wonder I couldn't see his lights and he wouldn't answer.
I thanked my lucky stars for my good fortune in not being the one to sink! I must have been pretty brave, because I turned my rig around and started heading back towards the big white cloud of steam now reflecting in my headlights. I didn't get far before here comes Ricky in his jeans, sneakers and tee-shirt, in an ever spreding puddle of water, hot-footing it towards me. He looked pretty cold and quite upset. All his winter gears including boots and parka were still inside his truck cab. He'd been in such a hurry to get out, he'd left everything behind and wasn't about to go back in for any of it.
Stopping my truck, opening my drivers door, pushing my survival gear up against the passenger's side door and bending myself around the shifters I slid a cheek onto the passenger's seat, and told him to get in the driver's side.
Wrong thing to say I guess. He was totally freaked out, "No effing way I'm getting in that truck!", he says.
"Why not?" says I.
"No effing way I'm driving that effing truck!" he says. He was so freaked out he was vibrating and could hardly speak.
"I don't want you to drive it, I'm just offering you a warm place to sit till we get on the radio to Yellowknife and figure out what to do."
Silly bugger. He stared at me blankly for a few seconds until he finally came to his sences and got in the driver's side.
On the radio-phone, via the repeater at Terra, we contacted Dick in Yellowknife. Dick told us to forget about the truck, take Ricky in one of the two remaining units on the other side, (behind the hole) and drive him into Terra Mine. Terra was closer than Echo Bay. They couldn't get by Rick's truck in the dark anyway. Ricky would wait at Terra while they unloaded an unscheduled fuel delivery then take him back to Yellowknife.
Meanwhile, I'm on the Echo Bay (wrong side) of the hole. Not about to try to get back passed Ricky's truck and around the hole, ..... I am to continue to Echo Bay by myself, which I did without incident. By the time I got unloaded and spent the night at Echo Bay, next morning someone had come down from Terra and plowed a wide detour around Rick's unit. Going home I couldn't see Rick's truck through the ice fog and never did see his 'breakthrough' in the daylight. I was not involved in the recovery.
I'm not 100% sure, but I don't think Ricky ever made another trip that winter. Can't say I blame him.
October 11 It's a bunkhouse, Joan.Reading SnowWriter's story about opening up the Ice Road got me thinking about our sleep shack/caboose accommodation again. Yeah, the one that burned up, on Yen Lake.
Ha.
The original caboose was built for some unknown purpose way back in time when cat-trains still roamed the Earth, men were men and Huskies were nervous. In those days, fibreglass insulation was not invented, thermodynamics not well understood and most folks just made do. The walls were thin, rough two" x four" studs laid flat, with an aluminum skin and plywood interior, for insulation some kind of rock-wool, zone-lite or even newspaper was sandwiched between the studs, no vapour barrier, breezy. The floor contained no insulation at all. Kept the bugs out in summer, kept the cold in, in winter.Rumour had it that the terminal fire was caused by Dave T, who left some of his clothes to dry, too close to our, as SnowWriter euphemistically calls it, furnace.
Editors note.11/15/07.
Dave says: "The story about the Shack burning down wasn't my fault, as all the clothes I had, were always in my duffel bag under my sleeping bag. Hell, I lost a $500.00 brand new 5 star sleeping bag and all my new tools, about $300.00.The only thing I ever warmed up were my felts and I was wearing them, lol." So the cause of the fire will remain a mystery.
To call that thing a furnace is generous indeed. More like a diesel fired space heater in my books. Hooked up to a 250 gallon tank on the front of the caboose, at night the heater burbled along merrily, keeping the shack more or less comfortable. More or less because being left over from decades before it wasn't very well insulated. At floor level the heater kept the temperatures well below freezing, at top bunk level the temperature was in the 90°F region, almost impossible to sleep in. If you were like me, lucky to get one of the bottom bunks, you'd wake up in the morning with your sleeping bag frozen to the outside wall. Top bunk, you'd kick off all your blankets and clothes and sleep in your Jockeys, then wake up with a headache from heat stroke.
Our shack had four bunks. Also included was a propane fired cook stove and propane lights. We had a larger crew than there were bunks for, half of the guys had to sleep outside in their equipment, Bombardier, Beaver, truck etc. During the day when our 'camp' was being moved the heater was turned off. The flame always got blown out by the wind anyway, causing the heater to flood. As well there was the fire danger, we didn't want the heater to tip over accidentally on a rough portage and burn the place down. So, every evening John would relight the heater and fire up the gas oven to start reheating the frozen TV Dinners for our main meal of the day. John was famous for his TV Dinners. But boy, after two weeks of eating three or four every night, we were sick of them. By the time the place warmed up, supper was ready.
About two weeks out, Dick Robinson in his pickup, made a supply run from town. He brought milk and other staples we'd run out of or were low on. Dick also brought a case of T-bone steaks......Oh Man. We were happy to see him! Dick cooked and we feasted on steaks smothered in garlic powder, with baked beans and oven baked potatoes that night. Thanks Dick! You've no idea how that act boosted the morale of the crew. A food mutiny was averted.
An almost permanent fixture inside the caboose was the ten gallon keg of antifreeze. Most people don't realize, at minus forty, straight antifreeze with no water added, freezes solid......hard as a rock. Most of our equipment had been well used before we got it, rode hard and put away wet. The units blessed with heaters usually had leaky ones. We used quite a bit of antifreeze. I have a vivid memory of people with screwdrivers chipping chunks of antifreeze out of the top of that barrel, trying to get enough chunks to add water to. That was only for the first few days until we got smart enough to keep it in the shack and pour boiling water in the bung-hole as the chipped level went down. Because the floor of the caboose was so cold and the little space heater got turned off during the work day, it still took forever for the antifreeze to return to a liquid state .
Actually the 'caboose' was a step up from what we had the year before. Previously as a cook shack and sleeping quarters, we'd had an old 1940's vintage, single axel, 35 foot van. It, had virtually no insulation and was very uncomfortable. I could be wrong but, contrary to what my buddy says, if I remember correctly, when our 'new' caboose burned down I'd already been pullled off the construction crew and was back in my truck hauling the first loads to the mines. I do remember coming up over the top of the Conjurer Bay hill onto Yen Lake and being very surprised by the sight of the burned out caboose. Few people shed any tears over the loss. Next year our accommodations consisted of a lovely new Atco Bunkhouse. Mounted on a hi-boy, it had sleeping room for six (Hughie A. and his wife took up two spaces), a washroom with toilet and shower, and a proper kitchen and eating area.
The pictures below are:
Before and after the caboose fire.
Our new bunkhouse.
A Coleman space heater. |
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