No Place for Wolverines

by Dave Butler

  They watched in awe as a collapsed cornice slid downhill, picking up speed and snow. It raced down the slope toward the valley floor. They saw the main mass of snow moving, along with the boiling cloud of white powder that rolled above, in front, and beside it. The speeding mass did not slow as it reached a narrow rib of trees, knocking them down and adding debris to the flow. Thirty seconds later, the monster hit Collie Creek with a roar. Some snow continued down the valley like a serpent, following the course of the creek, while the rest blew up the opposite side of the valley a few hundred metres before finally stopping. The white cloud continued up the hill toward Willson and her colleagues, dissipating around them in a momentary snowstorm.

  “Holy shit,” said Berland, his face dusted white, his eyes wide.

  “That was a solid class four avalanche,” said Willson. “In the Canadian classification system that means it was powerful enough to destroy a railway car, a large truck, several buildings, or a forest area up to four hectares.”

  “Or part of a resort townsite, and the people sleeping in their beds,” said Summers, who’d caught most of the slide on her cellphone video.

  “Exactly,” Willson said. “And looking at this end of Collie Creek, I see few places where avalanches aren’t going to be a problem. It’s going to cost a shitload of money every year to keep this place safe, if they can do it at all.”

  “I agree,” said Summers. “That’s already been raised by our interagency committee, but this video will be compelling confirmation of the risk. We’ve already agreed to hire external avalanche and geotechnical experts to do a full assessment of the valley. Not that we don’t trust what Austin says …”

  “No, of course not,” said Willson, thinking back to Austin’s sales job at the public meeting in Golden. “Have you got all you need up here, Tara? If so, why don’t we circle back to the Mountain Club hut and see who’s around? We can stop there for lunch. Maybe someone has coffee on.”

  “I’m good, Jenny,” said Summers. “Let’s do it.”

  Berland found his voice. “Does that mean getting back in that … noisy contraption that seems to defy all laws of physics …?”

  “It does, Mike,” said Willson. “If you tried to walk out of here, you’d either die in an avalanche or be wolverine food long before you ever made it back to civilization. Why don’t you come back the easy way?”

  “So, I have a choice, then?” he said with a grimace. “Let me think about it for a moment.”

  The next leg of their flight was short and uneventful. Willson watched Berland, despite his earlier whining, taking pictures through his window with his camera in one hand. However, she noted that the other still tightly clutched the edge of his seat.

  They circled once above the Mountain Club hut, saw someone watching them from the front deck, then landed on a flat patch of south-facing moraine that was also melted free of snow. This time, Berland climbed out of the machine like someone who’d done it many times before.

  The four of them carried their packs up a short slope to the hut and were met by a young man who looked surprised to see them. Standing at the bottom of a short staircase, he wore stained work pants, a beat-up Gore-Tex jacket, and a wool beanie. He was about six feet tall with broad shoulders.

  “I’m Tom Yamamoto,” he said. “I’m the hut custodian. Welcome to the Ernst Buehler Memorial Hut, the newest backcountry hut in the Canadian Mountain Club’s network! I wasn’t expecting any visitors today.”

  “Hi, Tom,” said Willson, extending her hand. “I’m Jenny Willson, Yoho Park warden. We’re in the area doing some fieldwork, and because none of us had been here before, we decided to drop in. This is Tara Summers, Yoho Park resource specialist. That’s Mike Berland, a friend of mine. And over there is our pilot, Gerry.”

  “You’re from Parks Canada?” asked Yamamoto, his smile quickly shifting to a scowl. He pulled his hand back, leaving Willson with hers awkwardly held out in front of her. She saw him eye the shoulder patches on her jacket. “Are you here to evict us?”

  Willson raised her hands as if defending herself from physical attack. “Whoa, there, Tom,” she said, “this is a friendly visit. We’re simply here to look around.”

  “What … so you can decide if the hut will become some fancy day lodge for the ski area?”

  Willson was trained to deal with aggressive people who resented law enforcement and whose reactions were emotional rather than reasoned. She saw it almost every day. But this man’s response, his overt agitation, was a surprise in this place. His fists were clenched tight at his sides, his knuckles white. Time to de-escalate.

  “Tom,” she said, “I get the fact that you’re angry at Parks Canada. I understand why. Tara and I are here to gather information so we can advise our bosses on whether the proposed ski area should go ahead or not. I’ll be up front with you, although I’m not really supposed to. Neither of us is convinced it’s a good idea.” She opened her arms wide and tilted her head. “We want to see what you’ve got here so we can communicate its value to the park and its users.”

  “You’re from government and you’re here to help? That’s a fuckin’ joke.”

  “Honestly,” said Willson, “we’d like you to explain to us why this place is special.” She watched a range of emotions flash across Yamamoto’s face. None of them were positive and all of them showed his disbelief.

  “Well, c’mon in, anyway …” He turned and climbed up the front stairs. “It’s not like I can stop you. You’re the landlord.”

  Willson and Summers shared a look that said, This ain’t gonna be easy.

  Before they sat down to eat their bagged lunches, Yamamoto gave them a tour of the two-storey facility. He showed them the upper bunkroom, which slept eighteen people, the downstairs kitchen, communal space, and gear-drying area, the adjacent outhouse building linked by a covered deck. Then he explained how the electrical and mechanical systems worked, and how the hut was powered by solar and wind systems.

  When the tour was complete and all questions had been asked and answered, Yamamoto led them to the communal space and reluctantly offered them coffee. Willson pulled her lunch from her pack and sat on a bench beside a long wood table. Through the window to her left, she could see the des Poilus glacier stretching to the south with the upper reaches of the Yoho Valley below it. Warden cabins and Mountain Club huts always had the best views.

  “I’m sorry if I was rude out there,” said Yamamoto as he poured steaming coffee into tin mugs. “We’re all pissed off since we heard about the ski area. It’s hard not to take this personally. A resort is going to change this whole place. We wouldn’t have built this hut here, had we known. It was a huge volunteer effort — not only the fundraising, but the planning and construction, too. I spent a good chunk of last summer and fall up here. We had smoke from forest fires, a freakishly hot summer, and then rain and snow and inquisitive grizzly bears. We all feel tricked, cheated, like the Club should’ve spent its half-million dollars elsewhere.”

  Yamamoto stood while he talked, the coffee pot shaking in his hand, his anger and resentment translated into kinetic energy.

  “Tom,” said Willson, “it was neither Tara nor I who chose to accept the proposal. That happened above our pay grade. I understand how angry you and your colleagues must be. I’d feel the same if I were you. As I said outside, our job is to figure out what information we need from the proponent before it goes further. We’ll advise the decision-makers on whether the project should proceed or not. That’s the main reason we’re here. As far as we know, Parks Canada is a long way from deciding anything yet.”

  As she spoke, Willson felt her own resentment rising, her cheeks flushing. She hated defending her own organization, even weakly, for acting in a way that was indefensible. She knew Yamamoto’s anger was fully justified and that his sentiments were likely shared by many others. The faceless, nameless processes ran on and on, just as Frank Speer had described them. And the beautiful new hut in which they were sitti
ng could be one of its many casualties.

  “And what about the new highway and pipeline?” asked Yamamoto, banging the coffee pot down on the propane stove. “Are your bosses supporting that, too?”

  “Say what?” Willson asked. She remembered Speer mentioning the highway, but it was the first time she’d heard about it from a member of the public. And had Yamamoto also said something about a pipeline?

  He took a seat at the end of the bench. His voice started to rise again. “I mean the Howse Pass highway,” he said, “and the fact that the road corridor could also be used as the route for an oil or gas pipeline from Alberta. First Yoho Park and now Banff. You guys are out of control!”

  “Where the hell did you hear that?” asked Willson. Past trying to calm the situation, she shifted her gaze to Summers. She was as surprised as Willson. Berland’s head was down while he scribbled furiously in his notebook.

  “My oldest brother, Yas, owns one of the largest road construction companies in Alberta,” said Yamamoto. “With the oil patch slow these days, the prospect for new projects is slim. Yas was recently approached by Stafford Austin, the proponent of the resort project. He told Yas that he’s got a company started to make it happen, and the federal government supports the idea. He gave my brother the impression that if he invested in the project, he’d have a good chance of getting the primary construction contract — one that may be worth tens of millions of dollars. What do you say to that?”

  “I say holy shit!” said Willson. “This is the first I’ve heard of it.”

  “Are you shitting me?” said Yamamoto. “Doesn’t one part of government know what the other is doing?”

  Willson smirked. “You don’t know a lot about government, do you, Tom?”

  “How can I contact your brother?” asked Berland, his head up, pencil poised over the notebook. “I’d like to talk to him.” He missed or purposefully ignored the pointed look from Willson that said, This is one of those things we’ll need to talk about.

  Willson, in turn, ignored Summers’s Who is this guy? look.

  Yamamoto gave them his brother’s contact information. Then they all sat in silence for a few moments, thinking, sipping coffee, staring out the window.

  “Tara, Jenny,” said the pilot, getting up from the table. “We better go. I see weather coming in from the southwest. I don’t want to get stuck up here or have to fly home the long way.”

  The flight back to Golden was absent of conversation as the three passengers digested what they’d heard from Yamamoto. As they approached the airport, with clouds boiling down from the Purcell Mountains, Willson, who was now sitting beside the pilot, spoke over the intercom. “Un-fucking-believable.”

  “Yes,” said the pilot, “it looks like a hell of a storm rolling in.”

  But Willson wasn’t just talking about the deteriorating conditions.

  CHAPTER 21

  APRIL 3

  The server set a plate in front of Austin, turning it slightly so the miso-soy-glazed salmon, framed by kale gomae and pickled vegetable, was closest to him. Ignoring her, Austin looked across the table at Matt Merrix, who was admiring his own entree: a twelve-ounce rib-eye buried in sautéed mushrooms and glistening with a café au lait sauce.

  “Bon appétit,” said Austin, raising his wine glass. Their glasses touched with the high crystal tone of a bell. The sound of soft voices and the gentle clinking of other guests’ silverware at the Terminal City Club’s restaurant, the Grill, filled the room.

  “Thanks for setting this up, Stafford,” said Merrix, a slice of bloody meat pierced on the end of his fork. “I’m pleased that my guys received their first quarterly dividend payments. Despite my assurances, they were still skeptical about the rates of return. But those cheques have calmed any lingering doubts. Nice work.”

  “Good to hear,” Austin said, smiling. “It’s important they’re happy.”

  Merrix talked as he chewed. “I must admit that I was a bit skeptical myself. Mmmm, this is good. In our business, we don’t see these kinds of returns so consistently. If this continues, it’s going to work out very well, for both of us. I don’t completely understand how you do it, but whatever it is, keep doing it.”

  “That’s the plan,” said Austin, nodding his head once solemnly. He hated his own reaction to such overt praise, like a schoolboy getting a teacher’s approval for a correct answer. But it confirmed he was on the right track, that what he was doing was worth the effort. That he was respected and even admired. But this was less about praise than money.

  Austin knew there was magic in his actions, and that he was the illusionist, the conjurer. Across the table, Merrix was his audience, seeing only what Austin wanted him to see. The man believed because he wanted to believe. And when the results matched the promises, like they did now, the audience’s anticipation would only increase for what was yet to come.

  Merrix lifted his wine glass by the stem and let the waitress top it up with the dark Chilean Carménère. “I did, however, get a call from one of my clients yesterday — Jarrett Taylor. He plays in the AHL on a two-way contract with the Flames. He took some business courses this past summer and he’s asked me to explain the fund to him.”

  “What did you tell him?” Austin kept the smile on his face.

  “I explained that while the ski area project was under review, you were investing most of the funds — the money that wasn’t immediately needed to keep the proposal moving — in a range of opportunities. I told him that some are standard investments, while others are approaches that others have missed.”

  “Was he happy with that explanation?”

  Merrix grinned. “It took a while, but I believe so … particularly because I’d just deposited your cheque into his account that morning. He did ask to see a current copy of his statement, though, and he’d like a more detailed explanation at some point.”

  “Not a problem,” said Austin, taking a break from his salmon to make a note on his smartphone. “I can get a statement to him by next week.” He chose not to respond to the request for further details.

  “Thanks,” said Merrix, tipping his glass toward Austin. “But what’s most interesting is that my clients have started telling their teammates about the fund. Based on that, I’m getting calls from other agents asking me if their clients can get in on it.”

  “That’s excellent.” With his right hand, Austin reached for his own glass, trying to calm his excitement. Another toast. He looked at the inflamed scar at the fleshy base of his thumb, the spot where he’d lost a chunk of skin and muscle when he’d been hit by the fireplace fragment weeks earlier. It was a stark reminder of the risks he might face if he didn’t keep the project moving in the right direction, if he disappointed his investors … or pissed off his critics too much. But this was a crucial time for him and his business. Happy customers were the best sales force, pitching his product to people he couldn’t reach. Momentum builds, and investors feel a sense of urgency. This is a club they need to be part of. They don’t want to be left on the outside looking in. “It would be fair to tell them that the fund is still open,” Austin continued, “but it won’t be for long. We’re almost fully subscribed. If they want in, they need to get in soon.”

  Staring at Merrix across the top of his glass, Austin thought about his encounter with the senior politicians in that dark restaurant in Red Deer, the highway project that could become a pipeline, the new doors that could open for him. “If they want to call me, I can give them more information on the fund. Or — and this is something you and I haven’t talked about, but you’re one of the first to hear about it — I can fill them in on a new fund I’ve only just started.”

  “A new fund? Tell me more.”

  “To a degree, it’s connected with Top of the World. But I’ve decided to keep the two as separate investments. I’ll also keep this second opportunity low-key because the investment on which it’s based is not yet public knowledge.”

  Austin watched Merrix move forwa
rd in his chair, eyes bright. As an experienced salesman, he knew he was close to setting the hook in the corner of the agent’s mouth, like a fisherman persuading a cutthroat trout to rise twice to the same dry fly. Despite having seen it many times, he was always amazed at how little it took to transform supposedly sophisticated investors into hungry fish.

  Austin kept his voice low. “I’ve been approached by people fairly high up in government to invest in a new highway through the Rocky Mountains. If built, it will go right past the ski area, so that will solve one of our major challenges.” He surreptitiously glanced around the room as though worried about eavesdroppers. “As I said, this is highly confidential. But there’s no doubt that it’s a once-in-a-lifetime investment opportunity.”

  “A highway?” said Merrix, his eyebrows rising, his upper body moving subtly away from the table. “Geez, Austin. I don’t know much about engineering or construction, but it strikes me that building a highway, a highway through the Rocky Mountains, would be hugely expensive, a massive dark hole you could throw money into for decades. I don’t get it. Why’d they approach you?”

  “I asked them the same question, and they gave me the answer I’ll give you. Because I’m the guy who has already made a commitment to the area and because I’m the guy who’s already built a core of smart investors to be part of it.”

  “Makes sense, I guess. But still …”

  “It’s not just a highway, Mike, not just a thirty-four-kilometre section of new road connecting two existing roads. It’s also … a potential pipeline route from Alberta.”

  “A pipeline? That sounds even more expensive. And not just expensive, but risky. Pipelines aren’t exactly popular right now. And I’ve shied away from them as investments because commodity prices can go up and down like yo-yos.”

  Austin thought again of the meeting in Red Deer and gave Merrix the same answer he’d been given by the PMO staffer, Cummings. It was an answer now bolstered by the results of additional research he’d done since then. “The highway and pipeline could be in the same corridor, which means less land involved in the project and lower cost to make it happen. And if it’s approved, then it’s about the tolls, Matt, all about the tolls.” Austin smiled a knowing smile. “Right now, there’s an average of ten thousand vehicles per day travelling through the Rockies on either the Trans-Canada or the Yellowhead Highway via Jasper. If we assume that 16 percent of the existing traffic, sixteen hundred of those vehicles, will use the new highway initially — a number that could rise to thirty-five hundred vehicles per day in twenty years — and if each of those vehicles paid a five-dollar toll, then the highway tolls alone would pay back more than one hundred million dollars to investors over those twenty years. And if you then add in a per-unit toll on anything moving through the pipeline, say ten cents a barrel, that amount could easily multiply five or six times. If we can make this happen, the current 12 percent return on the Collie Creek Investment Fund will look low compared to what this new fund would pay out.”