By Peter Christensen

Op-Ed Commentary

The first breath of winter is upon me as I tumble out of the rags of night and carry wood to build a fire, a bite of frost has stiffened the grass, cold rain turns to snow.  I should have put on a heavy shirt.

I build the fire; push back into the old chair I keep by the stove to watch the kindling burst into flames. As the slow morning light creeps in through the big window I recall a story I read last night before falling asleep, about a congregation of farmers who after experiencing a long drought gathered to pray for rain but only one small boy brought an umbrella. One could say the boy had faith, was a believer.

I was a young wanderer interested in writing poetry and making art; I brought my ‘umbrella’ to a university and for three years it rained Fine Arts and Literature. One day looking up past the outer edge of my umbrella I realized the only way I was going  to survive this flood of ideas would be to teach, something I was not cut out for, and so I tossed the shackles of student loans and academia and went to the East Kootenay, formed basements in the hot, hot sun and when fall came put my farm-boy working knowledge of the present into practise by seeking work  with the local Guide-Outfitters, at first cutting trails and making camps and then guiding.

Though my direct experience with horses was limited I was practical and quickly gained horse powered skills: packing and trailing horses loaded with clients and camps through steep mountain terrain. Guiding delivered the chase in a wilderness setting; I sent hunters home with a story, chunks of wild meat and a head to mount on a wall. I enjoyed the foreign clients, their stories; wrangling and guiding became a way of life for the next 15 years. It was a way to spend time in remote wilderness areas, something I loved, and make a few dollars while spending none.

The clients had faith that those of us guiding them knew the country they were set down in; their courage was not unfounded, we knew the lifestyle, the territory, could tell a story and read a map and compass.

Coming to the end of a long season guiding for sheep and caribou in the Bonnet Plume, a territory about two and a half hours by bush plane east of Hay River, Northwest Territories, I was ready for a break.  C flew in with two native cowboys who knew the country, they would drive the horses back to the pullout at Elsa, an eight-day ride south.

As the Cessna landed, I noted the plane’s right hand rear aileron was flapping madly. An aileron is the airfoil that forms the trailing edge of each wing and is critical for controlling the flight path of an airplane. Upon examining the wing, C and I realized that the hinge attaching the aileron to the forward part of the rear wing was broken. Not a good situation when parked on a pond in the valley of the Bonnet Plume three hours from the nearest basic airport.  Satellite phones were not in use yet and there was no radio contact.

I was burned out. Four months of hard work, eating half rotten or raw moose or sheep meat, salty bacon and month-old rye bread had left me worn down. I was lean to begin with and had lost 20 pounds. Determined to get to Hay River, I scrounged around the camp and found what looked to be the right size aluminum tent pole from which to build a sleeve to cover the broken hinge. With my knife I slowly cut a 10-inch length of tent pole and split it so we could slip it over the broken hinge and hold it in place with four hose clamps also scrouged from the old camp.

Satisfied with the repair, C and I loaded my duffle behind the back seat of the Cessna. C fired the engine and taxied down the lake. After a trial run up and down the lake at near take-off speed, he ran the floats onto the shore and we carefully re-examined the repair.  It looked good! I climbed into the back seat and we took off for Hay River, two and a half hours away.

I stared down at the ground and worried that C would lose control of the aircraft if the repair attaching the alerion to the wing failed, but never mind, we were airborne and had assumed the risk. I felt a little like the boy with the umbrella at the prayer meeting who was sure it would rain. I had faith in our repairs. And we did make the flight to Hay River where the plane was parked, repairs made and inspected before going aloft again.

– Peter Christensen is a Columbia Valley based writer and poet.

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