YOUR OLD MAN SAYS

MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Table of Contents

2011-12-31T16:51:00.000Z

THE MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB©
A journey up to the Hudson Bay

Table of Contents
Click next to the canoe at the bottom of each page to return to the Table of Contents

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The Journey
Background
Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Day 4
Day 5
Day 6
Day 7
Day 8
Day 9
Day 10
Portraits
Preparation
The North Knife Song
Provisioning

©2011 Eric Pettigrew All Rights Reserved
(images are taken by John Moses)

MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-The Journey

2011-12-31T16:50:00.000Z

Prologue
Winnipeg Airport
16th August 1999

Men don’t ask directions, but having more than a vague idea of where you are going is always a good idea when heading into the wilderness. Thus the first stop in Winnipeg is to the Manitoba Natural Resources and Mapping Center to buy two 1:250,000 (2cm = 5km) scale maps of the North Knife River, our destination. I found out which maps to buy (where else?) on the internet, having been thwarted by just looking at an atlas, where the North Knife was nowhere to be found.

Each province on these Department of Energy, Mines and Resources survey maps is divided into quadrants of 2 degrees longitude by 1 degree latitude. And each of these scale quadrants is redivided into sixteen1:50,000 (2cm = 1km) quadrants. The larger size quadrants are assigned a number and letter for reference. Our maps are 64I (entitled Shetenei Lake) and 54L (Churchill). The level of detail at this size is adequate for our purpose, showing contours, spot elevations, and a host of geographical and geological features (some of which, like rapids, I clearly understand and some like eskers, strand lines, moraines, screes, palsa bogs, and pingos are as yet unknown to me). The symbols for all these are helpfully spelt out in both french and english on the back side of each map, most useful in the event we happen upon Pepe Le Pew.

There are also terms for man-made landmarks on the back, but a quick perusal of Map 1 shows this to be completely unnecessary. There are none. Going through the entire gamut of possibilities in the glossary draws a blank. There are no roads--hard, loose, stabilised surface, or all weather (two lane or four lane), no cart tracks, no railways (single or multiple track), no bridges, tunnels, ferries, towns, villages, settlements, towers, chimneys or similar objects, no campsites, no mines, quarries, levees or dykes. Nothing whatsoever to suggest that anyone has stopped on their way by for any purpose other than to have a look. I can only draw one conclusion from my quick study of this map. There in black and white (and green and brown, to be pedantic) is an inescapable fact. We are heading into the wilderness. Ten days of canoeing down the North Knife River in northern Manitoba in North America, the common denominator being the word north. We are going to head up to the Hudson Bay, finishing our trip near the 59th parallel, a thousand miles north of Winnipeg. To put this north thing into perspective, think north of Scotland (the Orkneys). Think Oslo, Helsinki, St. Petersburg, Magadan (that’s Kamchatka). Think Maine, and add another ten degrees of latitude up thataway. (If you think Alaska, however, you’ve gone too far. The main part of Alaska starts at 60 degrees.)

Still, we are heading into the northern wilderness, and the map just confirms this in numbers and symbols translated from satellite photos taken in 1987. 3600 square miles of wilderness per quadrant, and we will be in two of them.

I wonder what that means.....

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MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Background

2011-12-31T16:49:00.001Z

Paddling the North Knife
A journal of
The Mid Life Canoe Club
August 1999

Background
Or how we decided to go...and who we are...

The MidLIfe Canoe Club at Lynn Lake

Assembling the masses

Up until this moment, this trip has been an abstract thing, like watching a headlight off in the distance on a straight road, not really connecting it with the physical reality of a car until it whooshes past. This trip is not my brainchild, nor have I participated in the real physical preparation other than to send a cheque. I have suggested a name for the venture, The Mid Life Canoe Club, but it doesn’t seem to have taken with our group, though of that I cannot really be sure since I have received no comment by email from the members.

And who are we? We are a group of six, four of us going back 30 years to junior high school, and the other two friends of our organiser and author of the idea, Randy Case. Aside from our leader, we are all in the throes of what is commonly referred to as mid-life. Thus the name.

We are a representative group, though representative of what I don't quite know.

Eric

I am Eric Pettigrew, father of 14 year old son Toby who towers over me at 6’3" and husband of Christina, who saw me off yesterday in Charleston, S.C. and flew back to London, England, where we have lived for the past 12 years. I am at a crossroads in my life, the infamous place to which Dante alluded ("Midway through our life’s journey we found ourselves in a dark wood, having lost the path.") The company I headed until four months ago, a subsidiary of a Japanese bank, is no more. The company which I have begun is still in the petri dish, and will not propagate until after I return from this trip. This confluence of events conveniently happened at the onset of summer, and our northern trek presented itself as a once in a lifetime opportunity to mimic the metaphor. I will be in a dark wood, literally. What I find there, and where I will go afterward, is anybody’s guess.

In this group, I have been designated (or rather have suggested myself) as the scribe.

Randy

Randy Case is the organiser and inspiration behind the trip. He was a camper at Kooch-I-Ching and dreamt of completing a trip to the North Knife for years and years. Randy is a professor at Boston College, husband to Shelley and father of Andrew and Emily. He is my erstwhile doubles partner as a youth, my college roommate (though he eventually transferred from Duke, where both John Moses and I went) and my lifelong friend. If I had to characterise Randy, I would describe him as someone who fears nothing, who is able to pull off brave (and sometimes foolhardy) feats. He is also a Southerner through and through, with a voice that would carry two miles over water and makes him impossible to ignore. He also has a heart the size of a lion.

Dexter

To return to the members of our group. Our leader is Dexter Davison, He is 67 years old, and has been canoeing for 52 years in the north woods. As counsellor and camp organiser of Camp Kooch-I-Ching in Minnesota, he has done more than 100 trips on various rivers, including two two-month expeditions to the Arctic Circle in the Northwest Territories. He is providing most of the expertise and equipment for this venture. Dexter is by profession a math teacher, and taught Randy Case, John Moses, and I about quadratic equations, functions, and series in a galaxy far far away in Spartanburg S.C. during the late sixties. Dexter is a man of few words, I will come to find out, but one whose actions never stop talking. In writing these words after the event, I have come to think of him as a hero in the classic sense of the word.

John

John Moses is a doctor (pediatrician), author, photographer, and renaissance man. During college he took time off and hiked the entire Appalachian Trail at 20 years old. He works at the Duke Medical Center, and has published books on teenage pregnancy and has done many photographic exhibitions. His subjects are studies of real people, and are living proof of Mose’ ability to connect with others. I have heard him described by a patient as a true gentleman. He is modest, discreet, sometimes quiet, and a genuinely good person.

Pete

Pete Vanacore is a friend of Randy’s. An animated New Yorker, Pete runs a Christian organisation helping disadvantaged youths ages 8-18 who have been in trouble with the law. He is married to Diane with three children. He has a New Yorker’s garrulous wit, and at around 5’10" is the shortest of any of us, a fact which belies his overall athleticism and determination. Pete is an avid skier, rock climber, and hiker and has a raft of stories and relevant experiences. He also has a good voice and knows the words to practically any song ever written.

Gary
Gary Schofield, another of Randy’s friends, is a big bear of a man who was a former professional hockey player drafted by the Maple Leafs. Gary is retired at the early age of 46, having sold his successful tree cutting business. He now devotes his life to scuba diving, car racing, and other adventurous pastimes. Married with a son, he comes from a large family of twelve, three of whom are professional hockey players. As the oldest son, he has the quiet air of competence about him, and is someone you know immediately will carry a big weight (literally and figuratively) on his massive shoulders.

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MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Day 1

2011-12-31T16:48:00.000Z

Day 1
Getting there
17th August 1999

We meet at 11PM at Winnipeg airport the day the evening of the 16th. Dexter is already there when I arrive after having spent the day piddling around Winnipeg. In addition to the map purchase, I saw an IMAX film called Island of the Sharks, shot off a reef at the Cocos Island in the Pacific. Watching the sharks and various other predators devour each other in the frenzy of daily life, I am reminded by a quote from Jacques Cousteau: "Dans la mer, il n'y a pas du cruauté, seulement l'angoisse de survivre."- In the sea there is no cruelty, only the terror of survival."). This film, and this quote, strike a chord within me as I wait for the others and contemplate what we are about to do.

Dexter and I talk a little about old times and catch up on what we have been doing since I last saw him over 25 years ago. He looks little different than what I remember, save for grey hair which he admits he dyed until recently. He has the same distinctive gait when he walks, a stride more than a step that sways from side to side. He allows that details on the trip from Randy are a bit vague, but that as far as the arrangements he is responsible for (canoes, food, travel including float planes, trains, and a rental van) everything is ready to go.

The others arrive en masse, though we have to wait for Gary. He arrives with a WWI vintage .3006 rifle, which we have prevailed upon him to bring to ward off polar bears, and is hassled by customs. They obviously disapprove of his cavalier and vague attitude. When asked to provide an itinerary, he replies "We have none." Strictly speaking, this is not true. It is just that none of us (other than Dexter) know what it is. The custom officers think he is some weekend lad off to shoot off a rifle for fun. Eventually they relent, and he joins us all.

We do have an itinerary however, and it begins with a long drive which will last all night until mid-afternoon the next day. The first leg is 765km to Thompson. When asked directions (we will share driving in two hour shifts), Dexter responds to go to the first stop sign and hang a right. He is not kidding of course (Dexter does not kid really). The scale of the truth here in Canada is revealed when we find the aforementioned stop sign 500km later in Pon Ton. We stop for gas there (Rule one in these parts, when you see a gas station you fill up, regardless). In the café, the menu for the day is Denver and Soup. When I ask what this means, the cook says ham and eggs and beef barley, but allows that neither of them are ready as it is 6:00 AM. After seven hours in a well-seasoned van (156,000 on the clock and lacking only the ceiling mirror to make it a veritable pleasure palace on wheels), we still have over 500km to go, including our flight.

The Route: From Lynn Lake to the Hudson Bay

We continue on up through Thompson, where we pick up Jack Crowley, a friend of Dexter's who will drive the van back to Thompson from Lynn Lake, our next destination. He tells us in great detail about river trips (the Seal and the Caribou are his two favorites) and throws in a few bear stories for good measure.

Finally at 3:00PM after lunch, a flat tire, and numerous bumps on the highway due to frost heaves, we arrive in Lynn Lake. The town, suffering the throes of withdrawal of the gold mine which was its raison d'etre, has a dilapidated look. We add to the local economy by buying fish lures at the general store, and I almost buy a mousetrap which has been turned into a cutesy souvenir (Complaints Department, it says. Press this button to make a complaint.)

The local indian youth have taken to wearing LA gang colours. I see only one house with the lawn mowed. It is a depressing sendoff to the wilderness.

We catch our floatplane here from LaRonge Air, a DeHavilland Twin Otter circa 1967 which easily carries three canoes and all our gear inside the plane. After an hour and a half, and low level circling of North Knife Lake to find a suitable beach, we are deposited next to one halfway up the lake, and our journey begins as the Otter takes off in the distance. We immediately pitch camp, getting in practice on the as yet unfamiliar tents.

First Camp: Prepare for Anything

Weather: Unbelievable. 75 degrees and not a cloud. A swim in the lake is refreshing, not nearly as cold as I had been expecting.

Wildlife: Moose and wolfprints on the beach.No sightings however.

Dinner: Beef and noodles and green beans.

Topography: Forget the dark woods. Instead imagine aspen and spruce sparsely placed, countless lakes, a flattish terrain stretching on forever, marred only by the scars of forest fires which are allowed to burn unchecked, proof that it is not only man which is destructive, as they have all been started by lightning.

The road we have come on to Lynn Lake, now almost 150 miles away, must have cost tens if not hundreds of millions, yet serves only 15,000 people in this vast wilderness.

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MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Day 2

2011-12-31T16:47:00.000Z

Day 2
Idyll
18th August 1999

Define contentment. Is it that pleasantly tired feeling at the end of the day, the first 25 miles (or perhaps more) safely under your belt? Is it sitting on an impossibly soft bed of lichen under a spruce by the side of a benign river and even more benign skies?

Is it the sound of nothing but the pen writing and the wind wandering aimlessly through the trees?

North Knife Lake: The Idyll

The only thing missing is not being here with my wife and son, who I am sure would love the end result, if not exactly the paddling part.

That part was hard work, especially up the lake to the mouth of the river (15 miles). Once on the river we moved quickly. The river was very high (contrary to what Jack had told us in Thompson), which paradoxically made the first set of rapids quite easy. Tomorrow might be different.

Randy caught four fish, all Northern Pike, and we cooked two for lunch and released the others.

Dinner: Risotto with shitake mushrooms (courtesy of Mose), air dried tomatoes (Dexter) and freeze dried peas followed by Ghiradelli bittersweet chocolate (Mose) and Southern Comfort (Mose again). Babaloo!

Wildlife: Five bald eagles, two osprey, pike, mosquitoes like Stuka dive bombers.

Campsite: A moss and lichen covered hillock with spruce.

Weather: Superb.78 degrees. Some high cirrus clouds say 2-3 days more of nice weather.

Partner: Pete. We talk of our lives, our reason for being there, of Christianity and Taoism, of our families. This is on the lake, as we are way behind the others (a pattern that for me in any case was to repeat itself). At this stage we have the time and energy to chat.

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MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Day 3

2011-12-31T16:46:00.000Z

Day 3
Reality
19th August 1999

Whoa baby. Forget the contentment rap of the previous day. This was the business. Reality set in very early as Dexter and I capsized in the first rapids after less than a minute of paddling, hung up on a rock. Good safety tip: do not lean upstream. Lean downstream and you may pivot off the rock. Lean upstream and your boat fills with water. Bye Bye.

There was quickly more to come. After we had righted ourselves and bailed the boat, on the second rapids, all three of our canoes went over a big ledge, busted a hydraulic and promptly capsized. A hydraulic is the washing machine-in-reverse effect of water rushing over a flat rock, causing a backwash of immense power. This time, Dexter was carried on ahead by the current, chasing after John's sleeping bag in a clear drybag which had not been properly secured, and eventually disappearing around an island. I stayed with the canoe, clutching my paddle, and watching as my hat which had been knocked off in the hydraulic came floating past me like a dog returning to its master. And a good thing too, as we lost two out of three bailers (not a good move). I righted the canoe on the side, a bit chilly and with good sense belatedly knocked into me.

John in front of a Hydraulic

The others were well downstream, and so after hefting the bags back into the canoe (John's bag by Patagonia, if indeed advertised as a drybag, was anything but, and weighed a ton), I ran down a brief rapids on my own. Eight in the morning, and the adrenaline already pumping full throttle. Live and learn.

We would never again go down rapids without casing them first.

Later in the day we handwalked down one, and at the end of the day came to a real doozy, three shelves which went around a blind corner and then went down either a Class Five cliff or a Class Four series of shelves. In spite of Randy's insistence that he could do them, we chose door number Three: portaging. We set up camp next to the rapids, and then after dinner we dragged the canoes up through the woods over fallen trees. This was my first glimpse of the steady and indefatiguable Dexter. No fuss. No discussion. No time to second guess. This is what we have to do. Do it. And do it today, not tomorrow. Give yourself a flying start at the beginning of each day.

Dexter also portages everything on his own: canoes, food boxes, whatever. 100 pounds or more, and awkward shapes. Very impressive for 67 or indeed any age.

Dexter demonstrates

Distance: Only 18 miles due to capsizing and portaging.

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MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Day 4

2011-12-31T09:11:00.001Z

Day 4
Strategies
20th August 1999

Big day, in every respect. Rapids aplenty. Two major waterfalls. Strategies are now carefully considered before attacking rapids, falling into four categories:

The Randy Kamikaze Approach
The least water approach
The hand held walking-the-dog approach
Portaging (the Last Resort)

All have consequences for now and later and debated, sometimes hotly. Randy has balls the size of Detroit, and went down two decent size rapids with Pete and only swamped once. The second was the worst technical effort, floating straight down the pipe sideways into massive haystacks, yet somehow they managed to get through.

Randy and Pete brave the rapids

The canoes we are using (Old Town fiberglass!!) are built for distance, not speed, and tend to plough through the waves, taking on water with each successive wave. Swamping is surprisingly easy.

The least water is the preferred approach. The first few capsizings were a result of ignoring this at our peril. Basically this involves picking a line with the least flow and the lowest haystacks, and casing out the whole river. Early on we convince Randy that were he to capsize and we were to lose a canoe (plausible given how high the river is running) the rest of the trip would be compromised, and riding three to a canoe would necessitate portaging just about every ripple. So we pick the least water and go. As the trip wears on (or the day) we get more adventurous, at least while the weather is good.

Fishing under some falls

The walking-the-dog method or letting the canoe down the rapids by holding onto the bow and stern lines, works when the drop is not too great (four feet is about max) and when there is room to walk along the side.

Portaging is the last resort. The canoes are heavy, though Dexter, Gary, Randy and even John manage them on their own. Pete and I do not. We also portage once with full canoes, with all six of us lifting at once.

Portaging through the Woods

Today we get to use all methods save a full portage. We portage empty over the two big falls. On the first one, a spectacular twenty five foot drop, we decided to run the rapids on the downstream leg. This involved avoiding a large submerged rock on the left and a huge rock outcropping in the middle right where Dexter had sacrificed a canoe on a previous trip (bowman thought left, sternman right, the canoe hit the outcropping sideways at full tilt, crushing the canoe). Telling us this story tended to concentrate our minds. John and I managed to get our line okay, missing both obstacles, but we wandered too far in mid-channel once past them, caught a couple of haystacks, and slowly but surely swamped. We were able to guide the canoe to shore without capsizing, no mean feat when they are fully loaded and very unstable. In this weather, swamping is acceptable, but as the temperature drops (which it does each day) it will be no fun whatsoever.

The First Major Falls

We decided to camp under some falls which were marked as rapids on the map. Everyone was beat. Portaging takes a lot out of you.

The campsite was on a cliff overlooking the rapids which John and I shot successfully where Dexter handwalked.

I was 100% whipped, retired at 9:00PM, said two words to Pete, and slept the sleep of the dead. Randy and John stayed up late talking and watching the northern lights.

Dinner: Dexter cooked some amazing spaghetti which never tasted better. We all wolfed it down without speaking, always a good sign for the cook.

Weather: Rained for the first time as a cold front moved in. Temperature 40-45 degrees at night, day 60-65.

Distance: 20 miles.

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MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Day 5

2011-12-31T09:11:00.000Z

Day 5
Rock classics

21st August 1999

Started off with a portage where we all six carried the canoe. We then paddled like hell for two hours, stopping eventually where two small rivers joined the North Knife. Randy landed a big fish (3-4 pounds), then Dexter another and we had fish in foil, grilled salami, and peanut butter and jelly. Forget fine cuisine, we need protein and carbos as we burn everything off.

Our objective for the day was to get off the first map, which we did quite easily just after lunchtime. We then continued going east for four or five hours and covered a lot of mileage.

I was paddling with Gary which meant that since we were stern heavy (he weights about 260, or 100 pounds more than me and the see saw principle applies), our prow rode through the haystacks easily and we rarely took on water. We handwalked most of the bad rapids though Gary convinced me to shoot the last ones before camp, which we did although we shipped in some water.

Paddlers

Camp was on a high bluff overlooking the river with little flat ground (it was chosen by Randy who gave it a cursory and hopeful approval since we were all ready to stop). Extensive bush clearing and road scraping was necessary to get the tents down.

The campsite was also just off Animal Interstate 101 going down to the water, but we didn't see or hear any in spite of the abundance of footprints and evidence of constant use.

It rained quite hard. We stayed up until 10 singing one rock classic after another. Pete has a good voice and knows the word to every song (as does Randy, whose voice does not match his enthusiasm. This prompted Pete to relate the quote of the week: "The desire to perform is not an indicator of talent."). We did harmony on Find the Cost of Freedom by Crosby Stills and Nash. Dare I say it, it sounded pretty good.

Dinner: Fish stew with potatoes and onions with the northern pike we continued to pull from the river. Delicious!

Fish stories: I hooked a monster. No really. It was about twice the size of most of the ones we saw (say 6-7 pounds) and bit through the 30lb test line when we tried to land it in the shallows in a net which was about a third its size. Dommage, but if truth be known, I am not much of a fisherman and was really only practising my throw. Randy and Dexter are the serious anglers.

Weather: Cold wind from the east as the stratus clouds move in

Mileage: 30-32 miles

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MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Day 6

2011-12-31T09:10:00.002Z

Day 6
Pain, Bannock Bread, & Red Currant Jam
22nd August 1999

By far the hardest day yet though there were no rapids to speak of. The weather turned colder with a brisk 10-15 knot wind directly in our faces. Our objective was Teepee Falls, about 20 miles away. We should have done it easily, but a late start and a constant headwind made it hard work every stroke of the way. I was with Randy. We started out in high spirits, following on the previous night's singing. We began to pen a song, tentatively called The North Knife. Mainly about wanting to head home. For the first time, I really felt a longing to see Christina and Toby. Of course I think of them often, but this was a physical longing which started deep in my throat and drove me on with every stroke.

Bailing

We paddled five and a half hours with few breaks. After four hours and a rapid, Dexter, whose ability, persistence, and strength is phenomenal told us that the falls were "just around the corner on the left." One hour and a half later, we were still not there and every stroke was a dull ache.

Eventually we arrived at one o'clock, exhausted and ill-tempered. There is an interesting interplay between Dexter and Randy. When Randy's blood sugar runs low, he gets wobbly, and yet when we arrived, portaged our stuff to the bottom (literally staggering along the rocks down the falls) he went off fishing with Dexter instead of eating immediately.

I cooked some chicken barley soup which I had in my pack which the rest of us demolished. Dexter caught ten fish and said we would have fish for lunch. When I indiscreetly suggested the salami/cheese I had been dreaming about on the paddle, he showed displeasure as only a taciturn fellow would, dumping all the salami, cheese, crackers, mustard etc. in a pile at my feet and saying "I guess I alone am thinking if we have enough food at the end."

Of course he was right. I quickly repacked all the fixings, and after a spell we had delicious fried fish (northern pike…supposedly you can catch trout but we haven't seen any.)

We all then retreated for a long nap, in my case two hours, Randy for three, and Gary for four.

On portaging down I happened upon some red currant bushes, drumming up the courage to have a taste (you can never be sure out here and there are no ingredients on the package), and then decided to make some red currant jam. I got some brown sugar and a tin can and began boiling away. Dexter(no hard feelings about the salami, I am sure) cooked some delicious bread in a Dutch oven--one pan inside another--and after our chicken, peas and rice, we had bannock bread and jam for dessert. Aside from the pips, not bad and the first time apparently he had ever had them on a trip.

Bannock Bread and RedCurrant Jam

Physical: My body is being abused by a factor of ten from what I normally put it through. Wearing shorts on the first day was a huge mistake. My legs were beaten up by the rapids, bushes etc. but more to the point they are a mogul field of mosquito and black fly bites which itch like crazy at night, waking me up and forcing me to rummage around for some antihistamine. Let me be crystal clear here. I hate the f******, and no death can be painful enough for them. I kill them with glee at every occasion, flicking them off the tent walls in my no-fly zone. And the black flies (tiny miniatures) suck your blood like no one's business, leaving little tracks that look like smallpox.

Despite my huge inventory of repellents, they have done little good whatsoever against the onslaught of the little buggers. How they figure out that I am such fresh meat I'll never know, but they do.

Paddling: The experience of paddling five and a half hours made me think of the slave galleys. You rely on many different strategies to get your mind off the pain: mindlessness, concentration, closing your eyes and feeling the stroke, chit chat, singing, complaining and grousing, dousing your neighbour, water breaks. After a certain point without the rapids to break the monotony, the stroking becomes a bodily function like breathing or blinking, just another programmable task added to your body's list. The only difference is, your body wasn't designed for this and it hurts, a numbing constant pain.

The word I would use to describe it, as indeed any experience here in the wilderness, is relentless. To get out you must not stop, and all tasks--paddling, portaging, getting firewood, setting up tents, cooking, cleaning, repacking--must become second nature and done without complaining to yourself or anyone else, or indeed without even noticing that you have done them.

Sleeping: An assortment of sounds greet us in the night. Dexter's snoring is truly world class. Randy talks in his sleep, his quotes worth recounting. "The question is: do we work or do we play?", and "Someone born later is part of this change in society." Whaa?

Weather: Nice but getting progressively colder. 40-50 degrees.

Mileage: Just the 20 to the falls.

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MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Day 7

2011-12-31T09:10:00.001Z

Day 7
The Sinking of the Bismarck
23rd August 1999

Before: A Giant Sucking Sound

The beginning to the day would have been laughable had it not been cold and rainy. We had left the canoes on a ramp-like rock at the bottom of the falls. My partner was Pete, and our canoe was placed the furthest right from the others on the rock, literally two feet where the falls ended in a monster hydraulic. The others took off. Knowing that we would quickly fall way behind, without thinking I jumped in the bow like an idiot (let me repeat this, like an idiot) and Pete also jumped in. As we slid down the rock the hydraulic slowly but surely began sucking our canoe sideways. In a few seconds (that felt as though we were in slow motion), it swamped us, flipping us out and driving us both to the bottom in spite of our life vests. It spit the canoe out over (or in my case on) our heads. We surfaced sputtering, in shock, ashamed at our stupidity, and very cold. We swam to the side while the others looked on from down the river, mouths agape at our sheer ineptitude.

When it is 45 degrees, no amount of good natured ribbing can alleviate the gravity of such a mindless mistake. ("Jeez,Eric, what catalogue now?" they said as I removed some goretex gear I had held in reserve, my provisioning a constant source of amusement especially when compared to Dexter, who wore the same cotton shirt, tee shirt, trousers and boots (no socks) for the entire trip.)

After: The Sinking of the Bismarck

Pete and I restarted paddling in serious energy deficit as our bodies were fighting the cold and the wet, and more to the point, our morale at rock bottom (no pun intended).

The rest of the morning was a hard miserable slog, forcing ourselves to try and keep up with the others while fighting fatigue, cold and an unpleasant drizzle which quickly permeated the new layer.

By eleven I blew my whistle for a break, and after catching up with the others found they too were suffering in the rain which had begun to fall steadily. Then almost miraculously we happened upon a cabin whose owner, though having nailed everything shut, graciously left a hammer lying around to ease entry. The cabin was not on my map (near Nowell Lake). We started a fire, ate, and dried out before heading out again.
Oh yes. On the way we saw our first polar bear. From behind Pete and I saw Mose's paddle indicating right river, which usually meant that we should head right to avoid some obstacle. I looked right, and not 100 yards away from us was a decent size bear, his white coat muddied by the water. He looked at us briefly before quickly turning and bounding through the bushes. The strange thing about the timing of this momentous event was that even though it was something we had anticipated, discussed, prepared for, and perhaps even dreaded, when it happened for Pete and I in any case it was an irrelevant sideshow to the wet and the cold which was driving us on. "Hey! A polar bear. Yeah, great, let's get the hell out of here. Stroke Stroke etc."

After the cabin we continued on in the rain. The warming up effect of the fire and the drying out was only temporary, and quite soon we began to get cold and wet again in the steady drizzle as we pushed on.

Any stop meant that the heat generated by the effort of paddling would quickly dissipate, yet paddling meant burning up more of your internal reserves.

The sweat, if allowed to cool in the wind, would quickly overshoot its intended purpose to regulate body temperature and instead would turn into a super coolant, the last thing you need in that weather. Ditto for sipping cold water. A critical mistake, wearing a cotton tee shirt under my polartec, meant that I had cold and wet against my skin.

The Tundra

At one point Dexter stopped us and we walked up the steep bank to look at the changing landscape which had turned into tundra. On this flat treeless plain the wind whips across and exaggerates any temperature change. On this day we were reluctant tourists, and stopped only briefly before returning, teeth chattering to our canoes.

A few moments later we had reached the bend in the river where the North Knife heads towards the Hudson Bay, and Dexter quickly chose a place to stop, one of the last campable places on this stretch of river.

It took a while to build a fire in the drizzle which had abated somewhat. Dexter cooked some beef stroganoff (not enough water really so the freeze dried beef was still crunchy but given the conditions no one cared). We tried as best we could to rebuild our internal fires, jamming down as much food as possible (including chocolate pudding) and standing around the fire to return our clothes to an acceptable level of dampness from their sorry state.

We then repaired to our tents and the only warm place, the sleeping bag.

My carefully constructed strategy of dry clothes in the dry bag, returning my gear each day to a suitable condition to start the next day was in shambles due to the mindless dunking we subjected ourselves to at the beginning of what was a tough day. It today were a fish, I'd throw it back.

Lessons learned:
1. Pay attention to the task at hand. Don't think about paddling when you haven't even started correctly, and consider the consequences of each action, no matter how insignificant it may seem.
2. Cotton is verboten. Get rid of it. It is a liability and could indeed make a dicey situation out of a merely uncomfortable one. Polyester is king.

In normal life mistakes are usually forgiven. You miss the train, so what? Another one will be along. In the wilderness, nature quickly exacts a price for stupidity, and deals with you most severely.

Weather: 40-50 degrees. Wet and windy. Miserable.

Distance: 18 miles

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MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Day 8

2011-12-31T09:10:00.000Z

Day 8
The Bay and Dymond Lake Lodge
24th August 1999

On the map our objectives each day for the most part were rather ill-defined. Basically, we would go until we were tired, had found an acceptable campsite by late afternoon, or were forced to stop by either an obstacle (falls) or by the weather. Today, however, was different. Our target was clear, the Hudson Bay, about 16 miles away through the delta.

We arose to more of the same, a steady cold drizzle. We quickly decided to eat a cold breakfast and press on as a fire would have taken too long and we were going to get wet anyway. Within one hour we were quickly back to the same situation as the previous day, cold wet and miserable. I was with Dexter and we eventually came upon another cabin which belonged to a Cree Indian who had absconded with government funds intended for his tribe. His cabin, in any case a complete dump, provided brief shelter before we decided en masse to go on. We ate some more of the cold beef stroganoff and some apricots and honey and headed for the delta.

At this point I was wearing my last long sleeve shirt (cotton again) which I decided to jettison in favour of the polartec vest and pullover under a goretex shell. Duh! I should have done it long ago. Suddenly I was warm and having stuffed the remnants of the honey pot into my pocket felt infinitely better.

Two miles later we were dodging rocks in the shallows of the delta. Dexter and I had a vague idea of which way to go having consulted the map in the cabin, but practically speaking , once in the delta we just followed the main flow of the water and hoped for the best. With the river as high as it was, it made no difference in any case and we could paddle almost out to the bay. On a previous trip, Dexter had been forced to portage a considerable distance, but as I told him on this occasion, it is better to be lucky than smart.

The Hudson Bay

The Hudson Bay! Few bodies of water are so well known relative to the number of people who have actually been there. From the perspective of the North Knife at low tide, it looked a mirage, a flat glassy pond with rocks dotted as far as the eye could see. They looked to me like nuts on peanut brittle, lumps jutting out of the surface and scattered haphazardly across the horizon.

The weather, as if on cue, suddenly changed. The clouds broke up and from the north rows upon rows of cumulus clouds marched passed us like ranks of soldiers on parade. We emerged from the river next to another cabin perched right on the edge of the bay one hundred yards inland.

This cabin was a rude reintroduction to society, filled with beer bottles, the carcasses of gun cartridges shot off for no purpose, and idiotic grafitti from morons who no doubt motored there from Churchill, whose grain elevators stood as our first real beacon of civilisation 15 miles across the bay to the east.

We Made It!

The tide prevented us from paddling south to Dymond Lake, where we were due to be picked up by Doug Webber, the bush pilot, hotelier, and entrepreneur in these parts (he even has a website) who was going to ferry us and our gear back to Churchill in his floatplane. We had a four hour wait until high tide, and spent it drying our clothes in the sun, looking at what we thought to be a polar bear way off in the distance on the bay. (We later agreed it was probably a rock).

We used our satellite phone for the first time to call Doug, getting his daughter who elliptically told us we would be picked up that evening from Dymond Lake. I climbed onto the roof of the cabin and off in the distance (seven miles away) saw a row of cabins lined up perpendicular to the shoreline about half a mile inland from the bay.

What happened in the next three hours I can only describe as magic, fully realising that this was a result of my perspective, of the rigours of the trip, of my state of mind, and of my reason for being there in the first place.

The Bay on the way home

The sun shone brightly and the wind died down completely. We paddled first north out into the Bay, away from our destination, and then rounded a point and headed south towards Dymond Lake.

I was with Dexter in the lead (a rare place for me) and as we rounded the corner off in the distance were the cabins, seven miles away.

The human psyche is strange. These tiny points of reference in front of me, the period at the end of our trip's sentence, represented a goal, and the goal transfixed me. Of course I was in better shape than I was seven days previously, but suddenly I felt a surge of power, a peace, and a rhythm unlike any of the previous days.

I would pick a rock as an interim way point, and calculate how many strokes it would take me to get there, and then count them off in my mind, a silent cadence of paired numbers that coincided with my strokes: 1,2…3,4…5,6…7,8…9,10…. The rhythm was an elixir. I was no longer tired or cold or unsure. My mind didn't wander. My muscles weren't complaining. The surface of the water was glassy, as if this were some pond, not a sea.

I removed the top layer leaving only the vest, and felt that perfect temperature on the cusp of hot and cold. Each rock shot by as a new target replaced it in the distance. I explained the game to Dexter who took to it with enthusiasm. We became more proficient, hitting two rocks 200 strokes away nearly on the money. We paddled for 75 minutes non-stop on the same side, stopping only when the next rock was actually the shoreline. The cabins got larger and larger as they came into focus, but even at the edge they were still out of reach a half mile away.

I am sure that objectively this was the same sort of work rate of previous days, the same foot pounds of pressure of muscles and paddle against water, the same boat speed, but it felt different.

It was the end of the trip, and I did not want it to end. There was still a half mile to portage, but this seemed a reward, not more work. No longer had we stopped than the wind picked up again, the tide continued to rush in with frightening speed, and the clouds reappeared. As we lugged our gear and canoes towards the cabin, me bringing up the rear with the unwieldy food box, I smelled the fresh salt air and belted out the newly formed words to the North Knife song to an audience of no one, and felt profoundly, profoundly satisfied. It was a moment I shall remember as long as I live.

Instruction from the Master

Even though the paddling was over, the magic continued. The cabins which I had seen from afar were not some derelict cabins abused by drunkards and dopeheads but a thriving hunting lodge run by Doug Webber and his wife. We happened upon dinnertime, and when we found out by radiophone that he could not pick us up that evening as promised, he invited us to stay in a cabin and were also invited to have dinner. It was a delicious meal of goose boobs (we thought they said goose poops, but at that stage we would have eaten practically anything) stuffed with jalapenos, wild rice casserole, and Jeff's (the 21 year old cook) Chunky Mean Ass chili, fresh bread, iced tea, lemonade, apple crumble, and delicious, delicious coffee, followed by steaming hot showers, a game of poker, the writing of the rest of the song, the remnants of the Southern Comfort, and firm dry beds. NEED I SAY MORE!

This was a graph of the day.

State of Mind (from Despair to Ectasy)

Cold Dump1 Dump2 HudsonBay DymondLake

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MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Day 9

2011-12-31T09:09:00.002Z

Day 9
The Bush Pilot, Goodbye, & Life in The Polar Bear Capital of the World
25th August 1999

The highlight of the day was using the satellite phone to call Steens. The first try I only got the answering machine, and the sound of my own voice made missing her doubly frustrating. When I did get her the second time around, she burst into tears upon hearing my voice, and that triggered me. I was standing on the end of dock looking out across the Bay over the spit of land which separated the lake and the Bay and the wind was blowing hard, and after I hung up I stood and opened my eyes as wide as they could go feeling the sting of the wind and my tears.

How fresh these feelings were after 19 years, never to be taken for granted. All those thoughts while I was paddling, silently mouthing Steens, Steens with each stroke.

Instead of just sitting around the rest of the morning, I helped Evan, a young guy putting up some siding (though I messed up the first rip on the table saw and probably did him more harm than good.) He was studying to be a teacher, following in the footsteps of his father, and was a genial guy.

We had another delicious lunch, caribou soup, cheese, pickles, and bannock bread. At five o'clock, Doug arrived as promised in his Beaver floatplane. He strapped a canoe onto the pontoons. We had cut cards to see who would go first, and Pete and Gary had won. Somehow it was only fitting that the Three Musketeers, Randy, John and I, as well as Dexter, veterans of 30 years of various extravaganzas, would remain behind. Gary and Pete went along with a hunter and his wife who were staying at the lodge. The canoe was loaded with the aid of a Dene Indian who worked for the Webbers, a broad shouldered affable fellow by the name of Johnny Bright Nose. When I asked Evan why he was called that, he tipped an imaginary bottle to his lips. Whatever Johnny's predilections, he was as strong as an ox, hefting a fully loaded propane tank that I could barely tip, much less lift. The remaining four of us sat around waiting for the second trip, drinking more of the delicious coffee.

Evan and Doug

The wind was staring to pick up and the Bay had whitecaps in stark contrast to the mirrored surface of the previous day. Suddenly bad news over the radio telephone in the kitchen. The Beaver had a battery problem. Doug would try to jump start it and wanted to get back over that night because the next day the winds were forecast to go up to fifty knots. Two hours later Doug showed up. Getting the canoes secured in the chop was difficult as the boat bucked up and down. He spent a long time tying them down, and our rapidly sinking confidence was not helped when we overheard him say "I'm worried about this one."

The four of us, including Randy in contrast to his bravado in the rapids, told Doug he didn't have to go even if it meant staying an extra day. He said not to worry. We did worry however, and as I watched the wind whipping over the lake I thought just how precarious our little venture was.

Doug told us later that we were the last canoe trip of the season (out of 20 the whole summer, since he has a monopoly in picking them up). We were also the only ones to go down the North Knife, most of the groups favoring the Caribou or the Seal.

The change in weather was no joke. By the end of September it gets cold in these parts, and nature turns mean.

Eventually we were ready to take off. Laden with the two canoes strapped to the pontoons, Doug said the Beaver flew like a barn door, yet the power of the Pratt & Whitney radial engine was awesome. We all wore headphones against the noise.

Once in the air the trip only took 15 minutes, highlighted by numerous sightings of Beluga whales swimming in the mouth of the Churchill River. For some reason they seemed to swim in threes, and far below the plane I would suddenly see a trio of white figures surface in an arc and disappear again.

Crossing over Churchill I saw the railroad line heading south as far as the eye could see, one set of tracks and two adjacent powerlines the only break on the horizon and the only land link to the rest of the world.

Churchill, Polar Bear Capital of the World

Churchill, Polar Bear Capital of the world, is truly the back of beyond, home to 1300 or so hardy and self-sufficient souls who must have enormous reserves of self-discipline to withstand its essential bleakness.

Over dinner at the Lazy Cub Café, built single-handedly by the owner from hand hewn logs dragged over by snowmobile (you get what I mean by self sufficient souls?), Doug regaled us with local history, politics, and flying stories.

He had just finished a long stint as mayor, which he said had taught him a lot about both the good and the bad side of politics. He was, as are all entrepreneurs, fervently anti-socialist and made no bones about it. He was also against tree huggers, as he called them. He gave a persuasive argument how the anti-fur movement, the outlawing of baby seal killing, and the recent protection of snow geese had adverse knock-on effects in far greater proportion to the number of animals saved. I said persuasive, not politically correct.

The loss of the fur trade over time which had been the reason for Churchill being founded had had a devastating effect on the local economy and more particularly the Indians. Any attempts he made as mayor to replace this source of revenue, either by making Churchill the logical port for exporting Saskatchewan wheat via the rail link, or by renting the missile test firing range (a relic of the Cold War to commercial satellite launches), had been blocked by the "Eastern" powers that be. As a community that represented a tiny constituency in Ottawa he had had little luck in pushing his logic, and so had decided to call it a day.

He struck me as a real giant of a man, not in stature (he was pretty short) but in that old style strength of character and pioneer spirit kind of way. A real swashbuckler.

He also had some great plane stories. In one instance, he had left his plane running due to a weak battery (sound familiar?) while on a remote lake, and when he turned his back the plane had broken the mooring and was starting to head away. He ran and dove in, catching the mooring rope and was dragged halfway across the lake before managing to clamber onto the pontoon and get back in the cockpit.

On another occasion he was acting as guide for a group of six Americans, three lawyers and three judges. Having to make a run into town for supplies, he was asked by one of the more obnoxious lawyers for a ride.

To his regret he agreed. On the way back (this was before he had a floatplane) the lawyer, upon seeing the tiny airstrip at Dymand Lake they were trying to land at, asked Doug if it was possible to land on such a small area in such a wind.

"No problem", said Doug, who then proceeded to drop the plane thirty yards short of the runway in the bog, hitting the nose undercarriage first and flipping the plane.

The lawyer, who had minor injuries, made noises about suing until one of his judge friends pointed out to him that it was he who asked to go along and he would stand no chance in a Canadian court.

His harumphing about lawyers and politicians here in the northern wilderness so far from them spoke volumes about the modern world.

After spending a solid week discussing how good our first beer would taste, we were disappointed to find there was no alcohol at the restaurant. Oh well. We didn't need it really, and we certainly didn't need it to fall asleep at the Aurora Motel, where lodging was helpfully provided by another of Doug's relations.

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MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Day 10

2011-12-31T09:09:00.001Z

Day 10
Epilogue
25th August 1999

After a big greasy breakfast I made a fruitless search for a souvenir for Toby. For Christina, in keeping with the Doug Webber motif, I bought a copy of his wife's cookbook, Blueberries and Polar Bears.

I was the only one who wasn't going to ride the 17hour train to Thompson, and so I left the others wandering around in the featureless streets of Churchill while I shared a cab to the airport. The cab driver was a shaven headed woman, who when asked by my fellow passenger "Why the new do?", said matter-of-factly "Cancer", and kept on talking as if nothing had happened (these people are tough in these parts).

The airport was full of mostly Indians heading further north and tourists or workers heading south. I kept to myself and began writing more of this journal on the plane. I arrived in Winnipeg where the weather was still summer, picked up my bags I had left a week earlier in left luggage, and boarded another flight to Minneapolis. My Canadian adventure was over.

The Mid-Life Canoe Club

Epilogue
The trip home took two and a half days, almost one third of the actual journey down the river. I used this time to reintroduce myself to modern life, a bit like the decompression of a diver coming up to the surface.

In my newly unemployed state, the cheapest flight took me from Winnipeg to Minneapolis to Cincinnati and finally to Gatwick. Plenty of time to kill.

In Minneapolis I stayed right next to the Mall of America, the world's largest. I went there on foot, which involved crossing six lanes of traffic and a parking lot the size of my home town. I was there in search of some things to make me smell better and stop itching. They certainly had that, and more.

I ended up wandering around aimlessly in this monument to excess. Depending on the shop it seemed to be staffed like a UN Conference on Development: a few Somalis at this shop, some Koreans down the way, smiling Filipinos at a Japanese restaurant and scowling Hispanic cleaners (who could blame them-what a Sisyphean task).

The ubiquitous Gap People who look like their Limited counterparts who resemble the Abercrombie and Fitch folk who are like Banana Republic citizens who are clones of the Old Navy crowd who copy Nike aficionados were both workers and customers, indistinguishable from each other except for their joint religion of buying and selling the same image.

And boy were there lots of them.

The food, however, was varied, ethnic, good, and cheap. I had some blackened Cajun fish, jambalaya, sauteed cabbage, and a drink for five bucks.

My one abiding memory was asking a girl in a Williams and Sonoma shop if she knew where some other store was. Understandable in a place of this size she had no idea. I then told her I thought it was in the North Sector. Did she have any idea which sector she was in? A blank stare. No idea, even though she worked there.

Having just emerged from eight days of checking my compass, watching the sun's position, ticking off way points, and wondering what the hell we would do if one or more canoes sank and we had to walk out, I realised just how far we have come as humans but how much we have forgotten as individuals in a cosseted world. The survival instinct is dulled by the banality of modern life.

When I arrived in Gatwick a day and a night later, Christina and Toby both said I looked like a survivor. My beard was white (it got a big thumbs down from both) and I had lost about six pounds (I only weigh 169 to start with). Gone the spare tire (and good riddance).

In spite of my showers I smelled a bit, and the wet cotton (remember that!) in my dry bag was festering away.

But the welcome I received and the satisfaction mixed with relief of having made it in one albeit leaner piece made it all seem worthwhile.

The Mid Life Canoe Club indeed. Mission accomplished!

On This Mid Life Thing

There really is something to this mid life crisis thing. I have had plenty of time to reflect on it and I have decided I can best explain it by thinking of life as walking up a seesaw. When you are young, and up until your middle age, you can only climb. And since you only climb, you don't really think about the process. Of course sometimes you slip and fall, but because the gradient is steep you just pick yourself up and resume your daily steps onward and upward.

Suddenly though as you near the middle years which are like the fulcrum of the seesaw, one step forward makes you lose your balance and you can head abruptly downward. Relatively speaking, this very unstable period lasts a very short time, but it is unnerving, even terrifying. You more or less have to jettison everything you have learned and adapt to a new reality. Hopefully you inch your way forward and become comfortable with the inevitability of this new situation, the slow descent to the latter years of your life. Or else you fall, and hard.

Watching Dexter in action had given me a new perspective on this process.

I read a good quote which said that at twenty you don't care what the world thinks of you, at thirty you worry a lot about what the world thinks of you, and at forty you discover that it wasn't thinking of you at all.

It is this combination of instability and the realisation that you are alone in this crapshoot of life that may bring on a crisis from what is, when seen from afar, only the natural order of things. What goes up will always come down. Believe that, and accept it.

The Mid Life Canoe Club was, for me in any case, a watershed event. No one died. No one got hurt except for minor cuts, mosquito bites, and sore muscles. We saw a polar bear, shivered a little, had to improvise a bit and make a few decisions to avert what might have been ticklish situations.

We got along, had a bellyful of laughs, sang and reminisced, and did the obligatory bonehead move or two. We all came from different situations and backgrounds, and had differing skills and abilities, each with something unique to offer.

And though we didn't do anything earth shattering, didn't push ourselves to the limits of human endurance or break a world record, we did achieve something important both as individuals and as a team--something that will endure. For a few days in a northern wilderness, we made some memories and learned some lessons about life, about ourselves, and the world in which we live that will last us the remainder of our time on this remarkable planet.

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Next Chapter-Portraits

MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Portraits

2011-12-31T09:09:00.000Z

Portraits of the MidLife Canoe Club

These portraits were taken by John Moses on about Day 7 of the trip.

Dexter Davidson, Educator and Leader of Men

Randy Case, professor

Eric Pettigrew, the author

John Moses, doctor
and photographer

Gary Schofield-Entrepreneur

Pete Vanacore-Social Worker

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Next Chapter-Preparation

MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Preparation

2011-12-31T09:08:00.000Z

Paddling the North Knife A journal of The Mid Life Canoe Club August 1999	Preparation

Links to Sites to help plan and prepare for your trip Click on underlined to go to sites In any successful endeavor, you must start beforethe beginning. These links will give you a head start. Remember, as Abe Lincoln once said: "If I had eight hours to chop down a tree, I would spend five of them sharpening my axe."

Weather
The weather in Churchill Manitoba Celsius Fahrenheit Convert from Celsius to Fahrenheit and Vice Versa	You must realize that the weather in these parts turns cold quickly and with a vengeance. Thus the trip you plan must be in July and August. Any later, and you will freeze your butt off. Any earlier, and it could still be winter.
Canoeing Outfitters and Relevant Sites
Old Town Canoe Camp Kooch-i-ching	Old Town were the canoes we used. Having never done a similar trip, I cannot vouch for others. Camp Kooch-i-ching in Minnesota is where this started with Dexter going there 50 years ago and Randy following on in the 60s. I never went, but whatever spirit this camp instills in its alumni, I want more of that...
Plane Flight
LaRonge Aviation Service Charter Service/Float Planes Box 940, Lynn Lake Tel: 1 204 356 2457 Contact: Nancy Clark	Flights from Lynn Lake on Dehavilland Twin Otters. The folks at LaRonge will drop you and your canoes off at a lake at the head of the river. The plane is big enough for 3 canoes inside it. The rest is up to you.
Doug Webber BushPilot, Entrepreneur and Adventurer Dymond Lake Air Services Ltd. Box 304, Churchill, MB R0B 0E0 Based at: Churchill tel: (204) 675-8875.	Doug has a Beaver Float Plane. He will take up to two canoes per trip, strapped onto the floats. He is very experienced, and can pick up people at the bay at the end of the Seal, Caribou,or North Knife Rivers and fly you back to Churchill
Town Guides
Lynn Lake	The End of the road...literally. If you are driving up from Winnipeg, this is as far as you'll get. It is from Lynn Lake that you will get a charter flight up to one of the lakes or the rivers(Caribou, Seal, or North Knife)
Churchill	The Polar Bear Capital of the World and the terminus for all Hudson Bay canoe trips
Lodging
Dymond Lake Lodge Webber's Lodges Main Address : Box 304 Churchill , MBR0B 0E0 Canada Phone : (204) 675-8875 Fax : (204) 675-2386	Five star service, five star food, five star lodging, and adventure to boot. Doug Webber has enough stories to let you dine out on your own adventure for months, and knows everything about the area.
Mapping
1.Natural Resources Canada Topographical Maps 2.Map of the North Knife River	Maps are indispensable. The Natural Resources maps of Canada, in particular, not only show your river and the surrounding area, they show elevations and all manners of natural and man made objects They can be used to plot each day's activity and plan accordingly
Outfitting
REI Lands End AmericanEagle SealLine by Cascade Designs® (They also make the Therma-Rest sleeping pads)	All of these links will give you a variety of gear via the net. You are, of course, probably better off just dropping by Walmart, taking your list of supplies, and meandering up and down the aisles with a shopping cart. Less intrepid, but cheaper. Don't skimp on the dry bags though.
National Outdoor Leadership Schools
NOLS website

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Next Chapter-The North Knife Song

MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Paddling The North Knife Song

2011-12-31T09:07:00.001Z

The Song

Most songs written on the spur of the moment last about that long. This one is different, and every time I sing the first two verses and the chorus, I feel the intensity of those few days on the river, and as the old Indian saying goes:
My heart soars like a hawk.

MIDLIFE ON THE NORTH KNIFE
by Eric Pettigrew, Randy Case, John Moses, Dexter Davison, Pete Vanacore, & Gary Schofield
©Copyright 1999 All rights reserved

When you're paddling the river they call the North Knife
And your crewmates are passing the peak of mid-life
When you feel your heart aching for family and wife
And you know you're a long way from home.

When the waters are white and the current is strong
When the wind's in your face and the portage is long
When your mind says JUST QUIT let your voice sing this song
And the river will carry you home

CHORUS

Stroke, Stroke through the wind and the rain
Remember your goal and forget all your pain
Drive, Drive through the waves and the foam
And the river will carry you home.

Now the crew's acts of courage we will now recreate
A few choice tales of woe and some strange twists of fate
Though the essence is true we may tend to inflate
Still the river will carry us home

Now our leader was Dexter, a man of true grit
At three score and seven incredibly fit
Did the work of three men and he never did sit
And we knew he would lead us all home.

Without carbos our Randy was out of his mind
Between courage and crazy he crisscrossed the line
While assuring the crew that it all was just fine
But we doubted he'd ever get home

CHORUS

Now Johnny was typically taking a bath
To appease all our wives was the medical staff
His photos will help us all retrace our path
When we sit in the comfort of home

Both Petty's quick wit and his odours were strong
An embarking one morning went terribly wrong
His flip in the rapids made a chilly day long
But his shivering prompted this tome.

Now Gary was big and he brought a big gun
His thirty-ought-six would give us all some fun
He paddled like crazy and portaged a ton
And we called him the Big Evinrude

And Pete from New York was our resident bard
By paddling with Petty his record was marred
His three tentmates from Duke made his sleeping quite hard
Which produced and occasional moan.

CHORUS

While our loved ones at home were biting their nails
We were sliding down rapids with heads over tails
Re-enacting a ritual exclusive to males
But we still had our satellite phone

Now a midlife in crisis can bring on excess
A floozy and and drinking can make life a mess
But our Mid Life Canoe Club will be a success
If our loved ones will welcome us home.

When the waters are white and the current is strong
When the wind's in your face and the portage is long
When your mind says JUST QUIT let your heart sing this song
And the river will carry you home

Stroke, Stroke through the wind and the rain
Remember your goal and forget all your pain
Drive, Drive through the waves and the foam
And the river will carry you home.

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Next Chapter-Provisioning

MID-LIFE CANOE CLUB-Provisioning

2011-12-31T09:07:00.000Z

Paddling the North Knife

A journal of The Mid Life Canoe Club
August 1999

Provisioning

What to Take, what not to take

PROVISIONING This is a laundry list of what I took along on this trip. I was mercilessly ribbed for being a walking advertisement for Land's End or REI, and for taking anal retention to a new level. However, there is nothing like being dry when it is wet, or warm when it is cold, or digging into a bag and finding some long forgotten snack when you are hungry and at a low ebb, and though I was eventually drubbed out of the Boy Scouts, Baden-Powell did have a point. And maybe this list could help you to be prepared. The items in red are those which I feel are essential and passed muster.
Item	Number	Source/Make	Description/Comment
Dry Bag	1	Seal Line Pro Pack	Without a doubt the most fundamental thing to take on this trip. This rubberized bag is exactly what it says it is, a DRY BAG. A brilliant product!
Small Dry Bag (Clear Plastic)	1	Seal Line SEE5	Ditto. Kept all essential items in this small bag (SEE BELOW FOR CONTENTS)
Life Ves	1	Stearns	Superb
Neoprene Boots	1	Warmers	Essential for keeping your feet warm in thecold water, and the rubber bottom allows you to walk on sharp stones without lacerating your feet. NOTE I SAID WARM ,NOT DRY. It is impossible to keep your feet dry on the river.
Neoprene Sock	1	Chota	Lent them to Randy, so can't comment, but not essential
Boots	1	Timberland	Too heavy, and not essential for this time of year.
Mattress Pad( half size)	1	ThermaRest	Fantastic. One of those self inflating jobs (they dont really inflate, but only expand). Light, tough, the right size (you don't need a full one as you lower back and butt are the most important parts).
Sleeping Bag	1	Mountain Wear	No complaints
Goretex Top and Bot	1	Land's End	One of the best products I have EVER bought, and I use it constantly now (especially since I live in England)
Trousers	3 (1Trek Trousers is enough)	1 Chinos (GAP) 1 Jeans(GAP) 1 Trek Nylon (American Eagle)	FORGET the chinos and jeans. A waste of time. The Trek trousers, with zip pockets up and down the leg and a nylon mesh webbing interior, were BRILLIANT!. They were cool when it was hot, warm when it was cold, and more to the point, dried off after a few hours in camp near the fire, or more quickly in the sun.
Long Sleeve Shirt	2	Flannel	Yeah okay, but I would have probably done better with something which was not cotton.
TShirt	3	Cotton	Again, see if you can get ones which are NOT cotton.
Socks	3	Woolen	Oh yes. Especially at night.Superfluous during the day since you are in neoprene boots all the time.
Underwear	4	Briefs (Marks & Spender)	To be burned at the end of the trip, so buy cheap ones.
Shorts	3	1 Cotton 2 Supplex	Skip the cotton ones.
Waterproof Kayak Blouson with rubber gaskets	1	REI/Kokolat	COMPLETE WASTE OF TIME. EXPENSIVE, DIDN'T WORK. MELTED WHEN I GOT NEAR THE FIRE TO WARM UP AFTER MY DUNKING. A MASSIVE DISAPPOINTMENT AND ANY RIBBING AT MY EXPENSE WAS WELL AND TRULY DESERVED. AND IF YOU BELIEVE THAT ANYTHING IS WATERPROOF, GO DOWN TO THE NEAREST HARDWARE STORE, BUY YOURSELF A 22 OUNCE FRAMING HAMMER, LOCK YOURSELF IN A CLOSET, AND BEAT YOURSELF SENSELESS UNTIL YOU HAVE FINALLY DISABUSED YOURSELF OF THAT RIDICULOUS NOTION.
Baseball Caps	2	Can't remember	Essential for the sun, especially if you have had skin cancer (like me). BUT GET NYLON ONES
Waterproof Gloves (neoprene)	1	Can't remember	See above. Better off with some Polartec ones which might actually keep your hands warm.
Polartec Glove	1	Land's End	Yep.
Stocking Cap(Taboggan)	1	Land's End	Yep, but lost mine in the hydraulic.
Plastic Heavy Duty Garbage Bags	10	Supermarket	What an ESSENTIAL item. These allow you to segregated wet smelly stuff in your dry bag, collect samples, keep yourself dry in a rainstorm. AN ABSOLUTELY ESSENTIAL ITEM, but I repeat myself.
Ziplock Ba	10	Supermarket	Not quite as essential, but useful nevertheless. DON'T COUNT ON THEM TO KEEP THINGS DRY! The dry bag is for that.
Maps	2	Government Map Centre	ESSENTIAL.You would be surprised if I told you that this was almost an afterthought. They are necessary-- not really for navigation (since you are going down a river and rowing up the river is not an option) but mostly because they are essential for planning and more importantly, for morale. Nothing is worse than not having any idea where you are, even if you are 100miles from the nearest anything and no one is going to hear you anyway.
Polartec Vest	1	Lands End	Yep.
Polartec Pullover	1	Gap	Yep.
CONTENTS OF SEETHROUGH BAG			Small Clear Plastic Dry Bag kept in larger Dry Bag
Shades (Sunglasses and holder)	1	Bolle	Get the wraparound ones with the rubber ear grabbers which will stick on your head when you have just been munched in a hydraulic...so don't buy too expensive ones unless you don't mind leaving them as fish food
Waterproof Matches	4 boxes	Walmart	Key.
Magnesium Firestarter	1	Walmart	Never used it, but could have been really important in a driving rainstorm.
AA Batteries	6	Walmart	Flashlight
DEET Plus Insect Repellent	1	Walmart	None of these insect repellents worked worth a damn, but that is not really their fault. There were just too many of the little suckers, who somehow knew we were coming and had planned accordingly. The AFTERBITE stick, which has an ammonia base, stinks like hell but relieved the itching and was a lifesaver in the middle of the night in a tent with literally HUNDREDS of itching, suppurating black fly bites all up my legs. I also brought some Benadryl.
Repel Insect	1	Walmart
Buzz Away	1	Walmart
After Bite Stick	1	Walmart
Hunting Knif	1	Gerber (Walmart)	Nice product
Multitoo	1	Leatherman (Walmart)	Nice product
Flashlight (Waterproof)	1	Walmart	Seemed to be waterproof notwithstanding my above comments, but did not go deep sea diving with it.
Compass	1	Walmart	GREAT TO HAVE, ESPECIALLY IN COORDINATION WITH THE MAP. WHEN YOU ARE TRYING TO FIND OUT WHERE YOU ARE ON A BENDY RIVER, IF HELPS TO HAVE A COMPASS.
Whistle	1	Walmart	AN AFTERTHOUGHT, BUT BRILLIANT WHEN YOU WANT TO ALERT THE OTHERS AND THEY ARE A HALF A MILE AHEAD.
50ft Nylon Cord	1	Walmart	USEFUL. Remember to get nylon as it is stringer.
Sunscreen	1	Coppertone Factor 30	ESSENTIAL. Forget vanity. Get the highest protection factor you can unless you like having parts of your body lopped off from time to time.
Bootlaces	1	Walmart	Didn't use them until after the trip. Since I don't think that boots were necessary, probably a luxury , but I have included them anyway.
First Aid Kit	1	REI	All sorts of useful items (such as the antihistamene for the bites)
Journal	1	Walgreens	ESSENTIAL. You would not be reading this were it not for the Journal, and the DRY BAG!!
Needle & Thread	1	Walmart	Yep.
Medical Book	1	Barnes and Noble	Yep.
Mosquito Net and Mosquito Hat	1	Walmart	A great idea, but the net around the face wasn't really practical when you were on the water, and once in camp, it was too late anyway.
PRE-TRIP BEDTIME READING AND OR VIEWING
NOLS (National Outdoor Leadership Schools) WILDERNESS GUIDE by Mark Harvey	1	amazon.com	Indeed a classic handbook.Makes the Boy Scouts seem obsolete. Well organized and written. Many of the things above were a direct result of this.
Shackleton by Roland Huntford	1	Waterstone's	This tale of the world's most intrepid Antarctic explorer will place whatever WILDERNESS trip you do in its proper perspective.
Into the Wild Jon Krakauer	1	Waterstone's	This book is about what happens when things go wrong. Basically, you die. It is the story of an young American hiker who took on Alaska...and lost. A cautionary tale, but full of good advice.
Undaunted Courage by Stephen Ambrose	1	Waterstone's	The history of the Lewis andClark expedition. Like Shackleton, you will read how REAL men did it
FILMS
The Edge Anthony Hopkins-Alec Baldwin	1		This is an entertaining if ridiculous film that tells the story of how to use your brain to survive. A billionaire (Anthony Hopkins) transfers his predatory life knowledge to the outdoors when his plane is forced down in Alaska and he has to walk out of the wilderness with his wife's lover and a massive grizzly as his companions/rivals The perfect film to calm your pre-trip nerves and reassure your loved ones......YEAH RIGHT.
Deliverence Jon Voight et al (also read the book by James Dickey)	1		Squeal like a pig, boy. The MOTHER of all canoe trips.

Table of Contents

ES COMO ASI

2011-12-23T15:36:00.000Z

ES COMO ASI

Kew Dec 2011

LIFE IS NOT SOMEONE ELSE'S APP

2011-12-18T11:01:00.003Z

LIFE IS NOT SOMEONE ELSE'S APP

KEW

December 2011

In a year when apps became ubiquitous, the theme for our Christmas card......

Merry Christmas to "all those who are flourishing, those who are just getting by, and those who are hanging on for dear life.*

*from a singer whose name I can't remember

THE KITCHEN SINK- A Review at The Bush Theatre

2011-12-08T06:08:00.000Z

The Kitchen Sink, Tom Well's brilliant new play at The Bush's new digs, has everything...not only BUT the receptacle in question but INCLUDING it. If the kitchen is the heart of every home, in this case it is the soul, and the five ensemble members of the cast do a brilliant job of baring both. The play tells the story a Yorkshire family in transition. Each character is very believable, and ultimately, likable. The father (Steffan Rhodri), a gruff milkman whose dilapidated mik float is symptomatic of a business on its last legs, is perhaps the hardest to appreciate, but like everyone else, he sort of grows on you. Son Billy (Ryan Sampson), a gay artist who decamps for London Art College on the strength of his unintended unique interpretation of kitsch (he is a resolute Dolly Parton fan) shines. Sister Sophie (Leah Brotherhead) is caught between the dream of being a ju-jitsu instructor, a past which frustrates her future, and a faltering though earnest suitor, Pete(Andy Rush), an aspiring plumber whose middle name could be hesitant. As in most homes, the glue which holds everything together is mother Kath (Lisa Palfrey), a dinner lady/school crossing monitor with moxie who soldiers on through everything life throws at them with grace, humour, and courage.

The dialogue sparkles. The set is a living set, literally. Real food is prepared, goes into the rubbish bin. Muffiins burn. Pipes spring leaks. There are tears, laughs, words, unspoken truths. Fin bref, as the french say, family life, a pastiche of which almost everyone can recognise despite the family's unique situation.

This play amazes, and effortlessly glides from the singular to the universal. There are a couple of moments of emotional perfection which can only be truly appreciated in a small theatre like The Bush. You don't want it to end, and when it finally does, the only possible reaction was to leap to my feet to applaud.

I can't remember when was the last time I did that.

Go see it.

LEAVING-AUTUMN 2011

2011-10-30T11:36:00.000Z

FIRE IN THE HOLE

Kew October 2011

MONKEY PUZZLE 1

Kew Gardens October 2011

MONKEY PUZZLE 2

Kew Gardens October 2011

YOUR HEART IS THE ONLY PLACE I CALL HOME

2011-08-13T20:34:00.002+01:00

YOUR HEART IS THE ONLY PLACE I CALL HOME

Arbatax, Sardinia

Aug 2011

CHLOROPHYLL

Arbatax,Sardinia

Aug-2011

PINK AND BLUE

Arbatax,Sardinia

Aug-2011

POOLS

Arbatax,Sardinia

Aug-2011

KEW IN SUMMER

2011-06-27T21:45:00.001+01:00

CENTRE COURT

Kew June 2011

BLUE AMPHORA

Kew June 2011

ORANGE SPIKE

Kew June 2011

BLUE STAR

Kew June 2011

DEFENDER OF THE REALM

2011-05-15T20:39:00.000+01:00

DEFENDER OF THE REALM

London May 2011

THE FRENCH DOORS

2011-05-14T16:37:00.001+01:00

My wife, always wary of being the bearer of bad tidings regarding (necessary) household maintenance issues whose existence I, like most males, refuse to acknowledge or notice, approached me with the bad news. The base of the french doors leading to our garden, was rotten and needed urgent attention.

After 30 years together, I know now NOT to disregard such entreaties, and dutifully followed her out to inspect, where sure enough, both corners had reached the state of finger-poking rottenness which, if left unattended, could only get worse.

Hmm, I said, thinking of ££££ signs and shrugging my shoulders. Well, let's get several estimates.

She asked a friend, who gave her the number of a friend's boyfriend who was a cabinetmaker, who agreed to come by.

I, after a chat with a colleague at work whose house had recently been redone (the carpentry work done by a semi-retired 80 year old), got a mobile number (though no company name).

Her cabinetmaker came and said: Madame, the entire frame is rotten and the whole door needs replacing, and gave her the name of a company who would come the next Monday to measure up and give an estimate.

On Saturday morning, after a very brief mobile phone conversation with the number given me by my workmate and some hurried directions, a fellow named Steve showed up at 8AM (certainly no 80 year old), came out and cast a practiced if cursory eye on the door. He poked around, and then announced. Well to tell you the truth, I have seen 100 times worse.

Without elaborating, but wanting him to know that there was competition, I mentioned that the previous examiner had said we would need a new door, and he said, Well he would say that wouldn't he?

No, he said, I can get my fellow to cut off here and here (drawing points with his finger on the frame), replace the pieces, and put in some filler and epoxy and then since I am working in the neighbourhood, I will come by and putty the whole door, prime it, and repaint it.

How long? I asked.

Oh about 4-5 days.

Hmm (thought): How much? (the overarching concern being 4-5 days)

200 quid.

That was a certainly very digestible figure.

Fine, I said. Send me the estimate and we will arrange it for next week.

On the following Monday afternoon, I received a call from my wife at work.

He's here.

Who's here?

Dick, the carpenter. He has already done the work. He is a dear old boy. I didn't realise you had agreed to have them do it.

I didn't agree to anything (thinking to myself, did I?).

(In fact, what had happened was the following. At 9AM, Dick shows up at the front door. I am here to do the job.

What job? my wife says.

Your job. Steve said to come by. My wife, knowing that the other company was due to come at 9:30, sends Dick away. The company then shows up a half hour later to measure up for a whole new door.

She then receives a call from Steve. What are you doing, he says. Well, you never sent us an estimate, she says. I said £200 quid didn't I? I will send Dick back over to start at 12. Er. OK.)

I take this info in.

Oh well, but how does it look? I offer up hesitantly. (This is me scrambling mentally).

Fine. I made him tea and biscuits. He was a lovely man.

Whew.

What about the other company? Well, we will receive their quotation, but it is bound to be a lot more for a new door.

Undoubtedly.

On Friday, my wife announced to me that she had received the quotation for the full door replacement.

Guess how much? , she said.

I tried to imagine the number, thinking £2k.....no £2500. Yeah....£2500, I offered up.

£7 thousand.

WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA?

YEP. SEVEN THOUSAND.

Well, actually £7,018.64, if I want to be picky.

No I am not kidding.

Enter John McEnroe. You cannot be serious.

I arrive home and examine the document. There it is in all its glory. Quotation no 11055105, an 8 page document which is not stapled, but grommeted. Various Certificates (UKAS, IEC), two pages of disclaimer. Six weeks is the estimated time. They have offered up such gems as: We have allowed for brass ironmongery. Doors have espangolette locking with dead bolt and latch. We have not quoted for trickle vents. We have not allowed for cill extension horns. It has been assumed that special access equipment (fixed scaffolding, mobile scaffold towers, cherry pickers) will not be required to complete our works. We have allowed for the use of standard lugs, fixing straps and pellets. Any non standard fixing required may incur additional charge. If we are required to return to site as a result of interruptions or denied access to our work schedule by others (cups of tea? I wonder)- any return visits will be subject to a remobilisation charge of £500 + VAT.

The doors will cost £5,112.56.
Installation will be £1906.08.

Oh yes? Really.

I awoke the next morning, thinking about this little piece of information. I held up my left hand with two fingers. I then hold up my right hand and flash two then five fingers.

My wife, half asleep, says what are you doing?

I, in my infuriating (I know) fashion, say Guess?

Its too early.

This is the bid/offer spread for the french doors.

Bid/offer spread.

Trading room talk. £200 vs £7,000.

I debate whether I should respond to their letter, and begin composing possible alternatives, enumerated below.

Please feel free to join in. Here is what I have come up with so far.

They all begin with the following:

Dear sirs:

I acknowledge receipt of your quotation for replacing our french doors...................

1. I did not realise when I ordered carpentry work I would be subsidising an expedition to the Amazon to source rare tropical woods, and I certainly did not expect to pay for first class air tickets as well.

2. After receiving your derisory quotation, and after wiping the tears of laughter from my eyes, I noticed a pain in my side which I attribute to your (perhaps unintentioned but certainly creative) sense of humour, which manages to meld jocularity with abject pain at the same time.

3. I see you are part of the Performance Timber Products Group. What performances are included in this quotation, and at what venue?

4. You are not, by any chance, a contractor for the Ministry of Defence are you?

5. It has taken the Japanese auto industry one hundred years to arrive at the technological marvel of my car, which after 5 years and 22,000 miles, is still worth £7,000 pounds. Do your doors have heated seats as well? Can I drive it to work?

6. Are you having a laugh?

7. Do I look like I was born yesterday?

8. At your hourly rate (assuming 8 hours a day and 220 working days) you must make £418k a year. To put this in perspective, the Prime MInister makes £250k. Try your little charade at 10 Downing Street, why don't you?

9. I note you are from Essex. Does petrol really cost that much?

10. You wouldn't happen to be John Terry's cousin would you? Or John Terry, for that matter.

11. How much would it be without the espagnolette lock?

12. Does the word RECESSION mean anything to you?

13. There are two chances of me choosing you. Slim and none, and slim just left town.

14. My mother had some carpenters do three weeks of work in North Carolina, and the final bill was presented as some hours x an hourly rate drawn in pencil on a 2x4. You may want to try that instead of grommets, which can only add to costs, I would have thought.

15. I have two words for you and they are not: Let's dance. By the way, Dick did the job for £200. And a nice job it was too.

Thanks Dick and Steve. You are welcome here any old time, and the next time I need something done, you are my first port of call. As for you other folks, try Mayfair, or perhaps the London Olympics.

But you are certainly not welcome here at my door, french or otherwise.

Ever.

HER ROYAL H

2011-05-01T07:37:00.000+01:00

HER ROYAL H

London Apr 2011

THE ONCE AND FUTURE

2011-05-01T07:06:00.001+01:00

THE ONCE AND FUTURE

London Apr 2011

VIEW FROM THE SIDE

2011-04-30T18:53:00.000+01:00

VIEW FROM THE SIDE

London Apr 2011

ST.JAMES PARK ON THE BIG DAY

2011-04-29T14:57:00.002+01:00

Ah Great Britain. You gotta love it.

STELLA VICTORIA

London Apr 2011

OH QUEENIE!

London Apr 2011

THE CROSS, THE TRIDENT, AND THE BULLDOG

London Apr 2011

CUTOUTS AND A CUTUP

London April 2011

ON THE WIDE SCREEN

2011-04-29T14:42:00.001+01:00

Okay, so perhaps I am a bit of a reluctant royalist. I am all for good cheer, let's put it this way, and there was plenty of that in abundance this morning. And call it providential, fortunate, or sheer coincidence, but the second that young woman stepped out of her car to enter the church, the sun suddenly and oh-so briefly came out. You couldn't make it up.

This is the first instalment.

ON THE WIDE SCREEN

London

April 2011

NOUGHTS AND CROSSES

2011-04-27T19:10:00.002+01:00

NOUGHTS AND CROSSES

Kew

Mar 2006

Some moments will never happen again. To you, or anyone else. I know that this won't. Over breakfast my wife Christina said: Oh look, and pointed out the window. I sprinted to catch these contrails.

The contrails (or their pattern anyway) may contrive to exist again. The tree was cut down the next year.

So this moment, like our lives, will pass forever, captured only in this image.

That, I suppose, is a form of immortality.

THE SUN GETS OUT OF BED IN KEW

2011-04-23T07:17:00.000+01:00

THE SUN GETS OUT OF BED IN KEW

April 2011

SIGNS OF THE TIMES: SHUT HAPPENS

2011-04-10T10:11:00.001+01:00

SHUT HAPPENS

Richmond, Mar 2011

FRANCE

2011-03-30T06:26:00.000+01:00

BOUQUET

Paris France

Mar 2011

SUNRISE IN BON BON LAND

Paris France
Mar 2011

3D CHESS

Paris France
Mar 2011
TAKEOFF
Paris France
Mar 2011

LOVE CAN BLOOM ANYWHERE
Paris France
Mar 2011

BLUE STAR
Paris France
Mar 2011

SHALL WE?
Paris France
Mar 2011

CURVATURE OF THE EARTH

2011-03-20T13:10:00.000Z

CURVATURE OF THE EARTH

Tanglewood, North Carolina

March 2011

WORLD LEADERS

2011-02-23T06:57:00.002Z

My! What a cast of characters. Burlesque-oni. The little Emperor. Putin's lapdog. Obamarama. The Asian Emperor. An African potentate. And......

Oops! I skipped one.

The Rap Star and man formerly known as Qaddafi. Now THERE is a man who has definitely, but most definitely, LOST HIS MARBLES.

Power corrupts. And absolute power corrupts absolutely.

MORE IMAGES (ARGENTINA)

2011-02-16T06:22:00.000Z

MUSHROOM LIGHTS

BLACK HOLE

BLACK SHEEP

GAUCHO RACE

REACHING HANDS

When Irish Eyes Are Crying Business: vanityfair.com

2011-02-14T06:20:00.000Z

This is a very good article on what happens when an entire population gets overcome by greed.

When Irish Eyes Are Crying Business: vanityfair.com

THE SKY OF THE SKY OF A TREE CALLED LIFE

2011-02-05T17:08:00.007Z

THE SKY OF THE SKY OF A TREE CALLED LIFE

This is my niece, Elizabeth Pettigrew. She and her brother and sister James and Catherine made an amazing video for their parents Lane and Gloria, based on a poem by ee cummings called i carry your heart with me.

I CARRY YOUR HEART (Large File 70Mb)

i carry your heart with me
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)
i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

ee cummings

THE LONDON BOBBY BILLIES-REPRISE

2011-02-02T22:32:00.000Z

Live at the Orchard Inn for my mother's 80th birthday

Amateurs? Well....hell yeah!

Download and play UP AGAINST THE WALL REDNECK MOTHERS

Thanks to Jerry Jeff Walker

IMPRESSIONS OF ARGENTINA

2011-01-30T10:45:00.001Z

DIEZ

Still an icon after all these years, the ghost of Maradona the young genius bestrides the country, where the drug-soaked obese madman is a constant reminder of the fickleness of modern celebrity and how nature's gifts don't last forever

CALVING

The sound of the the glacier cracking is elemental, primordial... as huge chunks of ice get hived off at the edge

PALERMO FLOWER STAND

Palermo is a trendy up and coming neighbourhood filled with art shops, restaurants and colours

THE GRANDMOTHER DOESN'T KNOW

A cryptic message is the name of this Palermo Restaurant

LAS CREADILLAS DE DIOS

An interesting take on religious hagiography in Recoleta's Cemetary in Buenos Aires

MORE THAN JUST A CROSS ON HIS BACK

This juxtaposition of images made me think that there is a lot of responsibility for the idea of Jesus, as he carries the church, the material world (represented by the solid building) and the universe (represented by the open sky) all on his back...one hell of a load

BRUJAS COLORES

Brujas means witches in spanish, and this close shop is emblematic of the beguiling colours in Palermo

LA CALLE

Sometimes you just get the moment right, when the light and the colours and shadows come together as in the Palermo street scene

PALERMO GRAFFITTI

Colours write large in a back street

PATAGONIAN SKY

There are big sky countries, and small sky countries. Argentina is a big sky country

PATAGONIAN FIELD

This sums up the place. Nothing else needs to be said

Y VOS

And you, what are you doing? I don't know the context, but the message was one which resonated

VIRGINIA INNOCENTE

Every wall is a potential explosion of colour and messages in Palermo

WHEN ESCHER MET MAGRITTE

The angled reflection of the rooftop sculpture garden reminded me of a combination of Mauritz Escher, with his tromp l'oeuil staircase and Rene Magritte with his clouds and trees....

WHITE PANSY

At the end of the day, Mother Nature trumps all for beauty

YIN AND YANG

This field of Patagonian lupins morphed into a blue and white ying/yang symbol in my mind, as if they had lined up by colour on purpose

FACES IN THE CROWD-Buenos Aires

2011-01-29T08:33:00.002Z

The photos were all taken at MALBA, the Museum of Latin American Modern Art in Buenos Aires. The sculptures are all by a remarkable artist named Marta Menuhin, whose works also include large living (ie performance art) projects done in various places around the world over a very long period of time. She is a real ground breaker.

FACES IN THE CROWD 1

EBONY JADE RUBY

RED-FACED

THREE-FACED

THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS

2011-01-26T22:33:00.005Z

Like leading lambs to the slaughter. Meek as a lamb. Sheeple.

All cliches, but true.

I suppose it takes a strange kind of a person who would actually like to watch a lamb being slaughtered.

I am that strange kind of person.

When you are on a working ranch like Nibepo Aike in the Parque de Glacieres, Patagonia, you have a unique chance to see the whole process for yourself. I though it was the least I could do, considering the amount of meat we consumed on a daily basis in Argentina. Cordero is the word for lamb, and my goodness there was a lot of it. Chops. Mollejas (sweetbreads). Shoulder. Rack. Leg. Kidneys. Estofado. (stew). Matambre (meat rolled and stuffed with eggs).

So why not. What the hey? It was all there for the taking, even if the people at the estancia didn't exactly advertise it. I asked if I could watch the sheep being slaughtered. Yes if you wish. This would be done in conjunction with the other morning chores, the milking (ordeñe) of the cows in the morning.

Performing all the acts would be Moncho (short for Ramon) one of the gauchos, whom we had seen several days earlier shearing sheep.

MONCHO, A MAN OF MANY TALENTS

In the evening, we had watched him ride and herd the sheep into their pen, a pen surrounded by an inner and outer fence. The inner one had barbed wire on top to keep the sheep from jumping (a highly unlikely event, it seemed to me). The outer one an electrified fence, as demonstrated by my son Toby who got a slight jolt when he touched it. This one was to keep the pumas out. Apparently a single puma can kill up to a 100 sheep a night. They don't eat the meat, but just suck the blood.

Egged on by Moncho on his horse, the sheep meandered into the pen. I guess if I had to use a word to describe their behaviour in general, it would be acquiescent. I am pretty sure they don't have a sheep language, but if they did, the first word that you would have to translate from English would be whatever..... such is their shrug-their-shoulders attitude towards pretty much everything.

ROUNDUP THE NIGHT BEFORE

The morning of the event, we assembled before breakfast. Moncho sauntered out eventually, jaunty in one of his many gaucho caps. He was a little late, but then it was Argentina. He marched over to the pen, and with the aid of three or four dogs, began to assemble the mass of sheep out of their holding pen into the main area next to the shearing shed. The sheep seemed none the wiser. We of course, knew what was coming.

Once they were all milling around, with the dogs making half-hearted nips at their legs to keep them corralled, with occasional yips and whistles from Moncho, he began to approach them as a cat approaches his prey. The horses and the cows, who had also been summoned from their grazing, looked on unperturbed.

All of a sudden Moncho, who had snuck into the shed and emerged with a leather apron and a knife tucked behind him in his belt, quickened his movements, looking for a likely candidate.

Let's be clear about one thing. When you think of a lamb being slaughtered, you think about some sweet spring lamb, a baby, being led down a dark road to the abattoir. If the lamb in your mind were a person, it would be the equivalent of a cherub, a curly haired three year old. Am I right?

Well, the process is altogether more pedestrian. Don't think cherub, think chav. We are talking about a young adolescent. A pre-teen or even older. A sullen teenager, perhaps, though perhaps inaccurate to say that lambs are sullen. At the very least they are not demonstrative. Five months in lamb life is about right to hit teenhood, and when Moncho started chasing them (they did scatter a bit it must be said), the first thing he did when he grabbed one was to reach down and feel their balls. Apparently this is the best way to ascertain their age and whether or not they are suitable for the chop (it is not a chop, by the way, but more about that later).

He caught a few, and then let them go, kind of like a fisherman tossing away a catch.

And the sheep, or at least the herd, reacted a lot like a school of fish escaping a predator, moving as one every time he approached one of them.

CHOOSING

Eventually he caught one he liked and lifted it up. One of his dogs stood sentinel. The young sheep (already 30 kilos) struggled for a bit (and only a bit) and then Moncho bent over, and with a piece of plastic twine, bound its two back legs first, and then one of it front legs. It was immobilised, and lay there. Supine. And silent.

CAUGHT

The other sheep milled around, watching, or really if truth be known, pretending not to watch. I have to say the sensation as an onlooker was one of fascination that this process, which must go on every day during the tourist season (as there are 300 sheep on the estancia as mandated by law since it is in a national park, and two get culled every day), is so subdued.

TIED UP

The reaction of the sheep is surprising. They seem to ignore their fallen comrade. And not a peep. Not a baa baa. At first they leave the chosen one apart, but by and by they seem to surround him, but not look at him. Was this their brother, cousin? Who knows? Moncho said later that not even the lamb's mother recognises him after three or four months. Can that be possible?

IGNORED

And all the while, the chosen one, a few minutes away from his untimely demise, just lies there. No bleating. No complaining. No reaction. Nothing. We left him and his other unfortunate comrade (or fortunate, considering that life mainly consists of wandering about chewing on grass, shitting, and being sheared or stalked) and went to milk the cows. After briefly showing interest, the rest of the sheep wandered off.

INDIFFERENCE

Meanwhile, we milked a cow, an interlude from the main event. The milk was lovely and warm. Moncho said he couldn't drink much milk. It was too rich, and bad for his heart he said. A skinny latte Pampas man, it appears. I took some anyway, and it left a milk moustache. It tasted delicious, and if it takes a few days off my life, so be it.

MILKY INTERLUDE

We all had a go at milking, not very successfully in my case. If left to us gringos, the farm's milk quota would never be reached. Oh well. Practice makes perfect. Then it was back to the lamb hut.

The hut was purpose built, with a cast concrete floor with a channel to sluice away the blood into a stream, and a small V-shaped bench to lay the victim (candidate, chosen one..etc.) on such that his neck hung over the side, stretching over the channel.

Monche had carried him by the hooves, a task I performed on the second one. The sheep had absolutely no reaction one way or another, as if Moncho was carrying him off to his cot.

Surely, I thought, they must know something. First of all, Moncho's apron had last been cleaned...well...never. And the whole place smelled of lamb. Health and Safety would have had a field day, but it seemed ....uh...organic. But Candidate No. 1 just lay there.

Moncho sharpened his knife, and long sharply pointed instrument which looked like nothing I had imagined. I thought, I guess that he would slash the throat, and that he would have to sneak up on the unsuspecting victim like a solider attacking a sentinel.

Nothing of the kind.

THE QUICK AND THE....

Moncho leaned over and whispered something to the sheep. Its neck, stretched by gravity, presented a perfect still target, There was no angst, no movement really. Moncho felt for a pulse, and then ever so suddenly and with a practiced thrust like a matador, he plunged the knife to the hilt, turned it, and pulled it out. Boom. Two seconds, max.

He was smack on target, and the blood gushed out into the channel, draining completely in a matter of seconds. The sheep, I am sure, never knew what hit him.

Moncho stepped away, and I asked him if that was it. He smiled and said, with him, I cut the throat and the heart, with you I would cut off your gonads. Then you wouldn't have any heirs.

Quite.

RED RIVER

Moncho was a skilled as any surgeon. He later showed us the heart, and he had sliced it cleanly in two. When the job is done like this, there is no gore. A red river, yes. But no gore.

FROM THE TOP

We then chatted a bit. I asked Moncho if he liked to eat lamb. Me, he said? I'm a vegetarian......pause......cue laughter. Another gringo had.

Of course, he said, shrugging his shoulders at the lamb behind him. It's natural.

While he was talking, the sheep's legs twitched, a last involuntary response to giving up the ghost. With that, Moncho got down to work.

The first thing he did was cut off the hooves at the first joint, placing them up on the ledge of the hut along with some desiccated hooves of previous victims. Apparently nothing is wasted. He then peeled off the skin on the back legs, and along with me, slipped in a board between the tibula and the fibula of the lamb. He then motioned me to use the rope to haul up the carcass to the ceiling.

He then got down to the precise work of skinning and gutting the lamb.

And precise work it was.

Working quickly and efficiently, he removed the entire coat (pelt, skin....don't know what you call it). He then cut vertically down the middle, starting from the top, leaving the gonads (the lamb version of prairie oysters). He cut through the pelvis. When he slit the belly, the entire inner workings of the lamb, everything from lungs, stomach, intestines and the various and sundry glands that make up all living creatures slid out in a single connected mass. There was no blood whatsoever....everything having be drained out in the first rush.

SKINNING

The most surprising thing about the whole process was.....how clean it was. There was no mess. You could easily trace how the entire body was a closed system. What colour there was was in three places: a green where you could see the esophogus and the last meal the sheep had had...grass (oh yes, I forgot...somewhere along the line he beheaded the sheep.); the yellow of the bladder, still full of urine, and when he held it up for us to see; a darkish green bile duct. He said that if this had burst, the entire lamb would have been spoiled.

A CLOSED SYSTEM

The entire insides came out in one fell swoop, and he put them in a wheelbarrow. He then cut off the mollejas (sweetbreads, or pancreas and thymus glands....one of the two) and gave them to us to hold.

The were still warm and slightly bloody.

That was the closest we came to active participation, but we had blood on our hands.

And that was it. Job done.

Maybe ten minutes long from start to finish. Moncho was a true professional.

BLOODY HANDS

Now then, what to make of all this?

I went along to see this process, not out of a morbid curiosity, but just plain curiosity. Blood and guts don't really bother me (I once asked to look inside my own body when I had surgery under local anesthetic...human fat looks a lot like chicken fat, by the way), but I thought that it makes sense that if we are going to eat meat, we should at some point see what is involved.

There was the chance that this would put me off meat forever, or at least lamb. I had memories of once seeing a pig slaughtered in North Carolina when I was about seven, and what a noisy, smelly, bloody mess that had been. That had made me swear off bacon for a while.

But this?

This seemed the natural order of things, and I gained a measure of respect not only for Moncho, who approached his task with professionalism, talent, concentration, and no small measure of humour, but for the sheep as well.

Who knows what they know, but they certainly didn't seem to be anywhere near a revolt, either collectively or individually. You can smell fear, and there was none of that. Just the morning sun and a ritual that they must carry out every day where like the grass they chew on or the fields they roam, one or two of them disappear inside the hut, never to return in another facet of the existence they have been allotted.

Unbeknownst to the sheep, los desaparecidos reappear the following day (the meat hangs for 24 hours) on a parilla in the restaurant in a variety of guises, and for each day to follow as the entire circle of dishes are prepared to use everything that Moncho has skilfully supplied.

And this is done calmly...quietly...without any fuss and an absolute minimum of commotion.

There is such a thing, apparently, as the silence of the lambs.

A PATAGONIAN FIELD

2011-01-16T15:39:00.000Z

A PATAGONIAN FIELD

Lying under a Patagonian sky

The silence is loud

A few gauchos happen by

A crowd

The wind sings

As the world passes by.

Distant fields of snow

Paint patterns on peaks

While clouds lay wispy blankets

On glaciers far below

Mother Nature speaks

A lingua franca

Time and space

The whispering of grass

In an empty place.

Estancia Nibepo Aike, January 2011

WOODEN EYE

2010-11-25T22:00:00.000Z

WOODEN EYE
Kew Oct 2010

BARKING MAD NO. 1

2010-09-26T10:04:00.000+01:00

BARKING MAD NO. 1

Kew Sep 2010

THOUGHTS FROM THE BEDSIDE

2010-09-07T11:53:00.203+01:00

As humans, our natural tendency is to take things for granted. This manifests itself daily, as we are barraged with a constant stream of other people's problems, some accessible to our own experience (tales of good fortune and bad fortune, injury and death of close ones) and some which are unimaginable (floods, war, devastation, starvation). Our general default response is to ignore them all, to let the incredible crapshoot of potential outcomes, good and bad, just wash over us. Not me, jack. That is the default response. It hasn't happened to me, so it probably won't.

This is wrong, and stupid, but humans wrote the book on stupid, and the vision of most people doesn't extend beyond the tip of their own nose. The only way, unfortunately, to empathize, truly empathize, with the experiences of others is to have something similar happen to yourself.

Four days. Four days is all it takes to rid yourself of the take-it-for-granted mentality. Laying on your back in a hospital is a great way of achieving this. Why? Because four days is enough to strip away all of the distractions and accoutrements with which we surround ourselves, and reduce life to the five basic impulses (aside from breathing, obviously) which drive us, namely eating, sleeping, waste disposal, desiring, and thinking (either consciously or dreaming). Everything else is irrelevant. All of these activities, most of them involuntary activities, have a common theme which very quickly comes to light when trapped inside one's own body in a hospital bed: they all require some degree of physical or mental mobility. They also require, in order to be effective, some absence of pain, and they all must work in concert in order to ensure survival. Of the five, only the first three are unavoidable.

This morning I heard a doctor say on the radio, commenting on whether a drug cure for obesity would ever be found, that our bodies are great defenders of these functions, that irrespective of our thoughts, the body will fight (literally) to the death in order to preserve them. He said there was no way of artificially altering our basic survival instincts, hunger being one of the most basic.

With today's amazing modern anasthetics and technology, a quick four day stay will give you a quick primer on just how the body (unprompted) will go about this defense. The way this happens is that a cocktail of drugs are used to put a grinding halt to the first three activities, tricking the body to bypass all the early warning systems, internal plumbing overrides, and subconscious user manuals which keep us ticking along. We have been tricked, literally, to enable someone to enter the forbidden zone of our body and do pretty much whatever they like, whilst still at the same time allowing basic functions to continue on.

The body doesn't like to be tricked, and when it finds out, it fights back like hell. All the pain that it was designed to employ when its frontiers have been breached is stored up and has to emerge somehow. And it will.

Somebody told me before my surgery that for each hour of actual surgery time, a month of recovery is needed. I suppose that this is because the body suddenly has to relearn everything it has been taking for granted, the cycle of eating, sleeping and shitting which has served it well all these years. And relearn all this while having a symphony of pain playing constantly. Much like trying to learn a foreign language while having someone scream incongruous babble in your ear the whole time and being unable to get up and adjust the volume or turn off the radio.

In addition, the body has got to go and review whatever the hell the surgeon has done, and to go about fixing, rewiring, and adapting to a new reality.

I tried to read as much as I could about the surgery I was having (hip resurfacing) beforehand, sort of to prepare myself for the pain. I found very little first hand reports of the reality. I suppose it is the same as having a man ask a woman how a natural childbirth was. The look is often one of incomprehension....how could you ever begin to know? Painful experiences are usually forgotten, or at least the true memory of them is.

They are also bonding in a kind of way, because all pain is about the passage through pain, and the cycle that accompanies it: shock, anger, acceptance, relief, and renewal. Pain bonds you to others because it forces you to reassess your view of the world, which is always pretty insular. It forces you to open your eyes to others.

How many people (myself included) , when faced with someone on a cane, ask themselves: Why is this fellow limping? When you are young either you don't notice or you avert your gaze. Suddenly, when you are the limper, you begin to notice just how many other people there are- the elderly, the infirm, the injured. Suddenly the disabled spaces look a whole lot more relevant. So consider this last paragraph a big lifelong mea culpa.

Recovering from hip surgery is a two-steps-forward-one-step-back sort of activity, and if you can't get your head around that, you are bound to be very very discouraged. It is about swapping different kinds of pain for a lesser type as time advances.

The whole reason for doing a hip resurfacing is twofold, to alleviate chronic pain, and to return (if one has had an active life) to the sorts of activities (tennis, golf, cycling, in my case) that were curtailed by the bum hip (but ultimately caused the bum hip). A bit of a paradox perhaps.

And in order to go forward to take upon that old life, you must go backward. Or as the french say: reculer pour mieux sauter. Back up in order to jump better. It is a deal entered into with the end in mind, but perhaps little real awareness of the pain involved, and the road will be a long and gradual one.

Now everyone wants an easy out. A quick fix. That is not going to happen with a hip operation, believe me. For every story of a man running a marathon after three months there is probably one of someone taking years to get back to full functionality.

I am only on day 18, and yesterday I did my first light exercycle. The muscles have atrophied in that short period, but at least the soreness is a soreness with which I am familiar.

But these are all just random self-centered thoughts. Someone once said that fear is a sluice into which all other thoughts are drained. The same is true for pain. So excuse the self-centered rambling.

Just take two thoughts away from this.

1. If you are going to have, or have had, or are thinking of having something done on your hip, take heart. It is uncomfortable, indeed unpleasant, but there is an end, or rather it is a means to an end. All pain is relative (my hospital discharge report said uneventful recovery from hip arthroplasty). For them, maybe. I would have said shitting gravel out of my ass after 4 days was pretty damn eventful, but what do I know? Just take each day....indeed each step...as it comes. Start each day from scratch, and enjoy the miniscule advances.

2. Open your eyes to people around you in pain. It is no great shakes for you, as an able bodied person, to give up your seat, step out of the way, offer to help. One of the most shocking things I have seen is not only the indifference of some people, but indeed their predatory nature. To wit, the lady with a pushchair who cut me up whilst I was hobbling into the chemist. I saw her eyes, the split second decision, and the acceleration which as she almost clattered into me whilst obtaining a crucial (to her anyway) moment's advantage in the race for nappies or whatever. This did not go uncommented upon by me once entering the shop, in an elliptical way. But the next time.....well the cane makes a pretty good crook, or a weapon.

Or at the very least, something to write about.

SARDEGNA 2010

2010-08-15T16:54:00.045+01:00

QUICKSILVER

Spiaggia San Stefano, Villasimius

Aug 2010

OCCHIO

Piaggia San Stefano

Aug 2010

WHEN PLANTS LISTEN
Costa Rei, Sardegna
Aug 20101

SKY ON FIRE

Villasimius, Sardegna

Aug 2010

MOTHER EARTH NO. 2

Piaggia San Stefano

Aug 2010

SEA NUGGETS

Piaggia San Stefano

Aug 20101

MY FAVOURITE COLOURS
Villasimius, Sardegna
Aug 2010

BLUE EYES
Villasimius, Sardegna
Aug 2010

BIRD OF PARADISE NO. 2
Costa Rei, Sardegna
Aug 2010

DARLING BUDS
Costa Rei, Sardegna
Aug 2010

GREEN TEA BLUE FLOWERS

2010-07-26T21:40:00.003+01:00

GREEN TEA BLUE FLOWERS

Holmfield, Wonersh 2010

WILD THING

Holmfield, Wonersh 2010

FOLDS
Goa April 2010

EGG LIGHTS
Stockholm July 2010

SPOONFED
Sunborn Sweden July 2010

2010-07-20T21:53:00.000+01:00

FLEUR DE LIS

New York July 2010

ME SWEDEN

Sundborn Sweden 2010

By Steens

THE WEDDING

2010-07-11T10:21:00.009+01:00

BRIDE IN MOTION

Sundborn,Sweden

July 2010

UNBRIDLED JOY

Sunborn, Sweden

July 2010

BROTHERS IN ARMS

Sunborn, Sweden

July 2010

FROM THIS MOMENT ON
Sundborn, Sweden
July 2010

PHOTOSHOOT
Sundborn,Sweden
July 2010

CARRIAGE
Sundborn, Sweden
July 2010

WEDDING TOAST

Sundborn, Sweden

July 2010