Hope and Despair on Great Bear

Boy Gone North : Part I

My Granda was my one and only parent for as long as I remember.

I can't attach a face to a Mom or Dad. When I really try, you know, clench my eyes and strain my focus, I can remember the first time he brought me here.

It was sunny and the windows were down in the '85 Mustang, I was in the back seat. Granda drove along, one hand on the wheel and the other perched by the window, clasping a cigarette between his fingers.

"You'll love it here, kid", he said. I remember his handlebar-moustache and slicked white hair as he looked at me in the rear-view mirror. "Not a worry in the world", he'd say.

We cruised passed a road sign that glistened in the midday sun:

JACKRABBIT ISLAND

THE TOOTH

WATERFRONT COTTAGES

We glided along the coast. Usually I'd cough and wave at cigarette smoke. But the view made it alright. The view made it more than alright. Lush green trees hugged the roadside hills to the left and the landscape gave way to the vast ocean on the right. He pointed to an island in the distance.

"Jackrabbit", he said, letting the smoke ease from his mouth and nostrils "could swim there and back when I was your age". He swung his head around and flashed that homely grin of his, as if wanting me to question his claim.

"Boy if I catch you tryin' that, I'll take you straight to the Trapper". I didn't know what a Trapper was back then, but shit was I scared of it/him/her. And he knew it. He'd use it to discipline me throughout my stay.

You know when a kid misbehaves, the Mom will say "do you want me to call the police" or "Santa won't bring you any presents." Well I got "I'm giving the trapper a call, he lives just around the corner."

Weeks passed and I settled in. Sometimes, Granda would take me to his work at the lighthouse by Desolation Point. He'd make sure the place was up and running. Once, he told me I might just see the sea-monster from the top, but it's gotta be raining, and it's gotta be early mornin'. I never seen it.

The lighthouse paid the bills until it didn't need maintained no more and/or they couldn't afford to pay him. Luckily, he walked right down the road and got a new job at Hibernia Processing. We stood outside the gates one morning, both shivering. He held out his hand.

"Come on in, it's not that bad."

"I don't want to. It stinks from here."

"You're just gonna sit out here all day?"

I nodded.

"You're crazy, kid.".

I watched him walk through the gates and into the building. He was 65 at the time, built like he was 45. Fit as an athlete. I spent that day wandering around. I found a waterfall cascading into the ocean and read the gravestones by the old stone church. Countless trucks drove past, and they honked when I waved.

I kept myself busy on the day's he worked. He kept a tub of tackle and a rod in the bedroom, and I taught myself how to fish. By the cabinet in the hallway were books: SURVIVE THE OUTDOORS! and STAY ON TARGET. Within a few weeks, I considered myself quite the survivalist. I'd light small fires by the docks as I watched the sun dip behind the colossal peak of Timberwolf Mountain. I could hit a tree with an arrow from a fair distance. Sometimes.

However, I needed something else.

"Granda, are there any schools around here?" I asked over dinner one evening.

"School? Ain't you too young for that? What are you now, 10?"

"11, that ain't too young. I could start in September. That's only a few weeks."

He considered this for a moment.

"Sure, kid. We'll scout the school in Milton tomorrow. If that's what you want."

We left early in the morning. The cool sun hung in the air as we drove, pine needles and twigs snapping under the tires. Milton wasn't far, and the teacher was pretty nice. She said I could absolutely start in September. Her and Granda spent an hour or so filling out papers.

"See you soon!" She waved as we pulled away in the car.

"We're going to the Trapper", he said on the way back home.

"I'm not scared of that anymore."

"No, seriously. He's a friend of mine. We'll ditch the car at home and take a hike to his homestead. It's a great walk. "

"OK."

I read exactly what a trapper was in one of his books, but I still had an uneasy feeling in my chest. I shook my head and laughed this notion off.

The walk was tiring. I was out of breath before we even reached the ravine. Midgets bit at my head, bees buzzed in the overgrowth. Granda carried a huge backpack that had his legs trembling on the inclines. The sun rose and fell as I followed him for hours across rock and grass, uphill and down. We stopped and ate a packed sandwich and soda.

"Tastes good", I said.

"You think this is good? What the he'll were those fools feedin' you back home."

We went across railway tracks, through a tunnel and past Carter Hydro Dam.

"Just another 20 minutes, kid"

A flag of Canada flapped on a wooden pole as we passed a cabin. The lake was choppy in the wind. The trees around the shore's edge moaned and creaked, their leaves floating through the clear mountain air. People sat on docks, their trousers rolled to their knees and feet dipped into the water, while children splashed in the shallows, shivering and laughing.

"Let's keep it goin' kid, almost there".

I hauled the straps of my backpack up and continued onward.

And that's the end of the happy memories. I remember each one vividly only because there are so few. In that moment, neither of us knew that the world was about to change forever.