The Great Extraction

It was 1980 and I was newly married and living in Lindsay Ontario. It had been a long year and many life changing adjustments were underway.

Aylmer and Malahide Telephone Company (later Amtelecom, and later yet, Eastlink), had bought Cambray Telephone Company, just a few kilometres north of Lindsay. Cambray was the last “common battery” telephone company left in Ontario, where you still picked up the phone and an operator was there to assist you in connecting your call.

As a twenty five year old young man, over confident in his abilities, I was selected to manage the transformation. My wife and I moved to Lindsay, and bought a house on Birch St, in a brand new subdivision. The adventure was about to start!

But this story is not about that adventure. I have talked about that part of my life in an earlier post. An Accidental Career in Telecom – Wolfeish Musings

No, this story is about an adventure that included my next door neighbour at the time (Laurie Heatley), my long time friend Rudy Gheysen and my dad Merlyn.

An Early Winter

1980 surprised with an early winter. So early in fact that dad and his hunting crew that year got iced in at their modest hunt camp. I had not gone that year mercifully and missed the fun.

Our hunt camp at the time, was several kilometres in the bowels of the bush. Dad and several friends had acquired a one hundred year lease on an old logging camp, near Big Caribou Lake, a few kilometres as the crow flies, north west of Port Loring.

The only way in at the time, was to drive north on Highway 11, to Trout Creek, travel another 70 km west past Commanda, Arnstein, Loring and Pt Loring, to the Ess Narrows. At that point, all gear had to be loaded into an eighteen foot steel boat, with a 9 horse motor, and traverse the Pickerel River north, to what was then the Preston Camp on the east side of the river.

The steel boat was built to be sturdy and sea worthy, having the capacity to carry a lot of weight – men and gear. Perhaps the most important feature though, was the ability to break ice should the lake suddenly freeze over, which in those days happened from time to time in the late fall.

From the Preston camp, the gear was unloaded once again from the boat and this time packed into a “red river cart”, a makeshift tractor, with steel tracks to help navigate all manner of obstacles, most particularly mud and swamp. It was almost unstoppable.

This trek five Kms into the woods, was a slow arduous process. But on arrival, it was like we had been transported to a castle. A tin shack with no electricity, no running water, no plumbing, none of the comforts of home. For many years this would be home for two weeks. By the early ’80s it had become only one week. But it was paradise personified!

The Hunt

This hunting season began much like most others. The planning, the excitement, the anticipation, the expectation that deer would be harvested. Personal electronics were in their infancy. There was no way to check weather patterns at your whim. You could not look out 14 days to see what weather one might encounter. Weather was a day to day process. Just see it, deal with it and move on.

This year proved to be unlike many others. Several days into the hunt, the weather turned bitter cold, and snow began to accumulate on the ground, in the trees. It soon became difficult to keep the cabin warm.

A decision would soon have to be made.

If they didn’t break camp soon, they might not be able to get out and home safely. There was no way to communicate with the outside world. The cabin did not have a phone, and cell phones were an eccentricity. Few had them and there was no signal anywhere near the cabin. As remote as this was, it would be a stretch to think there would be a signal, even today.

The Shock

The decision was made. The men would break camp at first light and get out before they couldn’t.

Gear was loaded on the red river cart. Windows were boarded up to keep bears from breaking in. Posts were jammed under the rafters inside, to help with snow load and prevent the cabin from collapsing under the weight. An old bed spring was propped up against the outhouse, to keep the porcupines from chewing holes in the wood.

Walking behind the tractor was an arduous task in the heavy snow. Several hours later the procession slowly crawled down the final hill to the awaiting boat and the next stage down the lake……

Except…….the boat was frozen solid against the dock in several inches of ice. They were not going anywhere.

The shock was palpable as they looked from man to man for an answer.

What the hell were they going to do!?!? It was a three mile trek by boat. Walking through the bush, through heavy snow, while carrying heavy gear would be impossible.

One thing was crystal clear – they could not wait much longer. It was only a few hours till darkness would set in.

The boat was broken free of the ice, in an attempt to make a channel out to open water, but it was hopeless. The ice was too thick and the task too dangerous. The alternative was to pull it up on shore, and begin the arduous trek through the bush, to safety.

After a quick discussion, the decision was made. They would have to walk out and take their chances.

All the gear, duffle bags, extra clothing, etc would be left inside the Preston camp. They would have to wait until spring to retrieve it. Personal safety was the priority now.

The truncated hunt had produced but one deer. Sadly there was no way to get it out, so the carcass was hung in a nearby tree , out of reach of animals. On reaching safety they would make arrangements for some locals to retrieve it, to be butchered and consumed for their efforts.

The Trek Out

For those that have never walked in heavy bush, especially along the lakeshore – it is difficult on the best of days. Fallen trees, branches, small rivers of water making its way from higher ground to the lake. Legs get tired in heavy snow, causing you to trip over the slightest obstacle. Exhausting does not begin to describe the effort.

It soon became evident that that was their only escape. So eight men began the exhausting trip back to the ESS Narrows, one step at a time, encouraging each other to keep moving. This was no time to be a burden to one another. Once there, they would have another six or seven hour drive home.

Merlyn Wolfe, Blake Wolfe, my cousins Mike and Lee Chute, brother-in-law Jim Honsinger, Dale Bogart, Bill Jeneraul and Bill Underhill made that fateful trip.

A bright sunny day, despite the cold, it took several hours to make the walk out through the bush. Keeping the lake in sight to their right, they struggled a few hundred yards at a time, taking frequent breaks to gather their resolve. Defeated and exhausted, they finally saw the opening that gave way to the ESS Narrows – and their passage home.

Elated, exhausted and never so glad to walk on level ground, they gathered around their vehicles and planned the next grueling stage of the trip home – the long drive.

Someone Had to Do It

Winter set in at home and life slowed to the pace winter allowed. There was a lot of snow that winter.

During a visit back home to see mom and dad, he and I were reminiscing about the latest hunt and the adventure he and the gang had encountered. Dad was a worrier, and consumed with how to get the gear back from the north.

The solution seemed obvious and simple to me.

“Why don’t we borrow a couple of snowmobiles, trailer them to the ESS Narrows and sled in to get the gear? How difficult could that be? We can make it an adventure. I will bring a couple of friends to help. We can get the gear out of the Preston camp, return it to the truck and then make our way to our hunt camp for the night – returning home the next day.

After a brief discussion around logistics, a plan started to take shape. Dad would bring his snowmobile and ask Ted Beattie to borrow another. I would ask my friend Rudy Gheysen to join us, as well as my new next door neighbour in Lindsay, Laurie Heatley.

I don’t recall the exact date, but seems to me that it was around mid February. We loaded the snowmobiles in the trailer and the four of us headed north.

It would be fun. It would be easy!

Best Laid Plans

Leaving early on a Saturday morning, the trip north was uneventful, arriving at the ESS Narrows before noon. We unloaded the sleds, donned our gear and headed north over the ice and snow, on the Pickerel River, toward the Preston camp, nestled in a bay behind a protective island on the east side of the river.

The snow was deep and glistening under a sun making the appearance of ice crystals over the frigid expanse.

Arriving at the Preston camp, dad was first off the snow machine, heading for the door of the cabin with anticipation. The first sign of something off, was a piercing “for F$%K sake, what a F$%King mess”. Dad never swore – at least in front of me – so something was definitely amiss.

Sometime over the winter, a weasel had found its way into his canvas duffel bag, chewed into his clothes – and the ultimate insult – shit all over everything. Dad was NOT amused. Furious, he dragged his bag outside and emptied everything in the snow, Finding what he was looking for, he took a long, hard pull from a bottle of whiskey. This was going to be a long day!

Rudy, Laurie and I proceeded to carry all the gear outside and to the waiting snow machines. Loading the gear onto a sled attached to the snowmobile, we left dad to clean up the cabin, while we headed back down the lake to the truck with all the gear.

He needed some time to decompress!

An hour or so later, we returned empty handed and ready to head into our camp for the night – another 45 minutes or so through the bush by sled.

But as we rounded the corner past the island, exposing the Preston camp once again, something looked off. It looked like someone was sitting out on the dock.

Sure enough, dad had brought out a rocking chair to the end of the dock. Rocking gently back and forth, in two and a half feet of snow, with a whiskey bottle in is hand, there he was decompressed in all his glory!

I had never seen him drunk (to my knowledge), but he was three sheets to the wind here, “sitting on the dock of the bay”, whiling all his troubles away! It was a sight to behold.

Before we could get started to our camp, we had to take the rocking chair back into the camp. Dad, informing loudly that he had to take a leak. A little tipsy, he did his business in the snow while we the snowmobiles for the next stage of the trip. This would be the second time I heard Dad swear.

A blood curdling “F$%^!!” pierced the air, followed by “F$%^, F$%^!!!”. He had got his penis struck in the zipper of his snow suit! I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I may have been one of the funniest things I had ever heard or seen. Bouncing all over the snow on one leg, cursing a blue streak, he was trying to save his manhood.

Eventually he was able to “unzip” himself, and in much discomfort, we headed to our camp – the Caribou Hunt Club.

The Call of the Wild

The cabin was a welcome sight as we navigated our sleds to the front door. We brought minimal supplies, just enough food to get us through the night and an early morning. The wood stove was stoked, and soon a fire was beginning to warm the cold walls.

Sleeping bags were unfolded and placed over the ice cold mattresses, covering the four bunkbeds. Hamburgers were cooked on the wood fire cooking stove and before long the warmth of the wood fire helped hasten the exhaustion. Before long we were all wrapped snugly in our sleeping bags, the events of the day behind us.

Sometime in the middle of the night, the silence was broken by “listen boys!” – “boys, wakeup – listen!” Our eyes and ears came to attention immediately as the sound of wolves nearby had pieced the silence of the night.

It was soon apparent that this wasn’t just a couple of wolves howling, but a pack of wolves. They were not more than a couple hundred yards from camp and had clearly surrounded an animal – and were summarily killing it and feasting on the remains.

It may have been the most eerie sound I had ever heard. Dad loved that sound of wolves howling and would often try to “call” them in, with a howl of his own. But not this night.

Rudy had to pee, and simply opened the door a crack and peed out through the crack. He was terrified.

At the crack of dawn, and after a very restless night, we were on our way. But first, we wanted to see if we could find the spot that all the commotion had taken place just a few hours ago.

Sure enough, not two hundred yards from camp, what was left of the remains of a deer, lay strewn over the snow.

Nature at is most beautiful and violent.

We got the gear to the truck and back home, but not without a number of memories that I have never forgotten.

The extraction was complete.