by Anne Wheeler
“I promise.”
I START OUT FOR HOME in the dark, but don’t make it very far. The snow is whirling. My wipers soon get iced up and only clear narrow arcs of snow off my windshield. I can hardly see the road, which is covered in white, so I can only guess where the centre is by gauging the oncoming traffic. I wish I had seat belts that worked; this would be a time to put them on. Imagining a head-on collision, I pull over and get a room in a bleak motel just off the highway.
Doris Ward’s story keeps plays over and over in my head.
In the morning, I head out. It’s a glorious blue-sky day, with sunlight sparkling off the fresh layer of snow.
Instead of going straight home, I decide to take a long-delayed detour. I head east toward Edgerton — I have an urge to visit the grave of my grandmother and pay my respects to her and to the stories I can only imagine.
As I drive north, I notice the rusted gates and narrow roads that lead to the deserted homesteads that dot the vast farmland. Many old houses and barns have collapsed — the sad remains of hard work and dreams unfulfilled. I pull off the highway to take a picture of a single crabapple tree that remains out in the middle of an empty field. I imagine a woman with a big family, planting a large garden out there, and making crabapple jelly in the autumn — it was a lot of work without much thanks.
I always thought of my grandmother as being a little grouchy. I remember someone saying she was much too opinionated. She didn’t tolerate misbehaviour, so I was always reserved when I was with her.
Most of our visits were anchored by a game of Rummy. We both loved the game and played it fast, without any talking. She was smart — she always seemed to know what I had in my hand.
I never asked her anything personal of course; children were forbidden to ask questions. But when I was about ten, she surprised me with a private exchange. “Anne,” she said, “don’t get married until you are twenty-six and only have two children. You understand? It’s important.” I nodded, though it seemed like such an odd thing to say.
In retrospect, it was the best advice I ever received from an older woman. I avoided her when she was alive, but now I think we might have been friends.
Years later I would discover that she had grown up as a neighbour to Nellie McClung (née Mooney) had gone to school Nellie’s younger siblings. The families stayed in touch and Nellie came down to the farm on occasion to visit Grandma. My mother wasn’t fond of Nellie McClung, because after her visits, my grandparents would always have an argument. That made me laugh. I imagined that the infamous suffragette fuelled my Grandma’s sense of justice. It pleased me even more, that Grandma named her first child, my mother, Nellie.
What would Grandma Carrie think of me now — age twenty-eight and childless, wishing I had known her better? Wishing I had asked her questions, and heard her stories. I know nothing of what she thought or lived. To the world she was Mrs. Donald Pawsey. To the family she was Mom or Grandma. I can’t remember anyone using her first name.
Doris was right. The history of those with power will written down in a way that will favour them, but those who have lived and died outside the documented world are the ones that fascinate me now.
As word got out that we were interested in the personal untold stories of women who were homesteaders, we were overwhelmed by the response. By the time we finished the film, we had a room full of boxes stuffed with family photographs, personal letters, diaries, and unpublished works. We zigzagged across Canada doing interviews from Montréal to Victoria, and in 1975 the documentary film, Great Grand Mother, was finished by the National Film Board of Canada. The film is still available at www.nfb.ca/film/great_grand_mother. A year later a book, A Harvest Yet to Reap, was published, that featured a portion of the collection we had gathered. All these materials were eventually donated to the University of Saskatchewan.
BENEATH IT ALL
Latitude 57, Fort McMurray, Alberta, 1973
FRESH WHITE SNOW shimmers in the moonlight as we enter the pristine forest on our snowmobiles. At nine in the morning, it is still dark this far north. Daylight lasts for only five hours here in January, so we want to set up before dawn breaks.
As shafts of light begin to define the day, we strap on our snowshoes and prepare our film equipment. It’s a challenge to work here. With the snow several feet deep, nothing can be placed on the ground; it will sink out of sight.
This is a mixed boreal forest. Winters last up to eight months, and temperatures plummet to sixty degrees below zero. Life is harsh. Many creatures hibernate or fly south, but the real northerners, the permanent residents, are resilient and resourceful. They are likely watching us now, as we disturb their world with our noisy machines and human chatter. We are miles away from the mine, the work camp, or any other signs of “civilization.” There are no power lines. No roads. No smoke rises in the distance.
It is going to be a bright day with a blue sky and no wind. Multiple animal tracks stamped in the fresh whiteness assure us that life is abundant here. Nature is well balanced after thousands of years of uninterrupted evolution.
We’ve brought two cameras, which we have wrapped up in electric blankets powered by a couple of car batteries. They would not run for more than a minute if they weren’t protected. Today it’s a mild thirty below, and the 16-mm film is brittle and could break with handling. We will have to reload a couple of times — it’s finicky work and must be done with bare hands that quickly go numb. Our coats are bulky, our gloves big and clumsy. It’s difficult to do the tasks that demand any precision, like focusing and using our light meters.
Our little film company, Filmwest, has secured a contract with Syncrude to make a documentary film about the Alberta tar sands. Specifically, we’re looking at the ecological trade offs if the extraction proves to be financially viable and the mining becomes extensive. If the price of oil keeps rising the economic benefits will be obvious, but what about the environment? What will be sacrificed, and what can be reclaimed?
A smaller mine has been up and running for a number of years, harvesting this resource. Now Syncrude, a huge consortium, has entered the race, and they have hired a group of respected ecologists to assess the environmental problems and to come up with solutions. They have also hired us to record the efforts of these scientists — an indication of their openness and commitment to assume responsibility for the impact that a larger mine might have. We have embraced the project, as the research and results could have an enormous impact on our beloved Alberta.
We haven’t decided who in Filmwest will direct this movie, but it is my turn, and with my science degree I’m vying for the opportunity. This pre-shoot is my opportunity to prove that I can keep up with “the boys” in these harsh conditions. But it is a challenge. The snowshoes could double for tennis rackets. With my short legs, I can only take tiny steps, with my feet spread far apart. Waddling about, I lack any sense of dignity or authority. Muscles, in unmentionable places, start aching the moment I strap the snowshoes on, but as the only woman on the team, I will grin and bear it. Having been a kid sister, with three older brothers, I know to keep all whining to myself. If I do end up directing this film, I’ll have to endure much more than this.
Luckily, I’ve always felt at home in the wild. As a young woman I had an Appaloosa pony that I kept at my aunt’s farm north of Edmonton. By the time I was twelve, my cousins and I would take off on Saturday mornings and wander at will on our horses, riding along the railway ditches, across endless fields, along the Sturgeon River, miles from the farm. Sometimes we’d stop and camp overnight — build a fire, heat up a can of beans, or roast some hot dogs we’d brought with us, and then sleep on our saddle blankets beneath the stars. No one worried about us, as long as we were home in time for supper at 6 p.m. on Sunday. Those days of freedom taught me a lot — I took a few falls, learned to care for my mare, got lost, and caught in bad weather, and learned how to find my way home. Mother Nature is a demanding but sensible teacher. I owe her a lot. Maybe th
is film will be my chance to pay back the lessons of my youth.
The mixed boreal forest of Canada is enormous. It covers an area ten times the size of California — but it is here, specifically in Northern Alberta, that the largest known reservoir of crude bitumen in the world lies hidden, just beneath the surface.
The Cree and the Chipewyan have known of its existence for thousands of years. It has revealed itself in various ways, oozing out of the ground or along the eroding Athabasca River bank. Sometimes it has caught fire — spawning legendary tales of the world below.
The object today is to get a variety of shots that reveal the life cycles that exist here, on this land, before it is cut open and mined. We work for hours without talking, knowing the wildlife is shy and wary. Cormorants, snow rabbits, deer, squirrels, and, in the distance, a wolverine are captured on film. We cheat a little and throw out some birdseed to attract some feathered friends; flocks of finches and chickadees flutter down to take our bait before being chased away by the ravens. It saddens me to think that we may be the last to see this little corner of the world as it is now, in its pristine form.
By early afternoon, I cannot ignore the fact that Nature is calling me. Though I have tried to refute the idea that my gender could in any way impede my ability to face the rigors of directing this film, my need is urgent. My bladder is full. What can I do? I can’t even bend at the waist with all these clothes on, let alone squat. Being bottom heavy, I have never been able to squat, even on solid ground. If I do try to respond to Nature’s call here, I am sure I will roll over bare-ass backwards, with my multiple layers of clothing rolled down around my ankles, feet spread wide to accommodate the snowshoes, and my head buried in the snow. Not a pretty sight.
Regrettably, but with as much dignity as I can muster, I announce that I am going to take one of the snowmobiles back to the work camp. They all know why. I’m glad I can’t see their faces — I imagine they are smirking underneath their scarves. I could ask for help to execute my “mission,” but I have decided that it’s not an option. Damn! It’s hard to admit that these three guys can do something I cannot.
“I’ll get back as soon as I can,” I declare, as if it is of great importance. “Just keep shooting without me.” It is past noon and the sun will be gone by three. They just nod. The likelihood of my getting back in time to do much of anything is nil. I mount the snowmobile without grace, taking one mitten off with my teeth so I can get the thing started with one strong pull. Okay, so it takes three attempts before it revs into action.
Last year, the Alberta government, working with Syncrude, announced that they were investing a major amount of money into a special process that extracts oil from the tar sands. Developed originally in the 1920s, it works like this: Massive diggers scoop up raw bitumen from the open pit mine and load it onto gigantic trucks capable of carrying up to four hundred tons. They take it to an enormous processing plant, where it is dumped, then blasted with a mixture of hot water and detergent-like chemicals. The heavy sand in the bitumen separates from the oil and sinks. The oil remains in the froth that floats on top. It is skimmed off and sent on to another plant, probably in Edmonton, for further refinement. The hot contaminated water and sand are pumped into a retention pond, which is really a lake. This first mine will require one about ten by ten miles square — so big that it may change the route of migrating birds, and those that land on it will be in peril, coated with the sticky, oily waste. In the future, larger plants will create larger lakes.
We were amazed when the executives promised to give us full access to the land, the staff, and the plant itself. Since we started our research, they have made no effort to censor us. Nor have they censored their ecological team members, who speak openly about the possibilities. One major concern is that beneath the retention pond — there is porous muskeg that must be sealed in some way or the contaminated water will seep into the earth and eventually make its way to the Athabasca River system that flows into the Arctic Ocean.
I am about to pull out on my snowmobile when Kenny, the soundman, hops on the other sled and announces, “I’m coming with you. I brought the wrong microphone.” I can’t bear to wait for him. I know he will catch up to me, as my driving skills are questionable.
As the clouds roll in, the forest looks the same in every direction, so I’m happy to follow the packed path we made when coming in this morning. In the summer, many streams and small lakes define this region. For more than ten thousand years, the Indigenous peoples have sustained themselves here by fishing, gathering, trapping, and hunting. Now they are fearful that the mine will poison the environment and threaten all life that draws water from the Athabasca Basin.
Syncrude and the other oil companies have promised that the mines will bring prosperity to the region. In partnership with the government, they are offering a variety of training and business opportunities that will give the Indigenous population access to exclusive financial assistance. Tens of thousands of people will be employed, operating the machinery and maintaining the plant. Schools, a college, and a hospital will bring in professionals; retail will be profitable, serving a population that is making good money. Already, Fort McMurray is booming with people moving here from around the world, anxious to cash in. The population has more than doubled in the past ten years to about seven thousand people. That will double again in the next couple of years — yesterday’s newspaper said that five thousand new jobs were up for grabs right now. The pressure to go full throttle is intense. Huge money is at stake, and the government is betting heavily that the future will be financed with the “black gold” that lies just beneath the surface.
Like everyone else, I am guilty of benefiting from this huge exploitation. I have written dozens of proposals, trying to get another personal film financed, but it’s difficult, especially when most of my subjects have to do with women. If I get to direct this film, it will legitimize my career; I will make more than I would ever have made as a schoolteacher. I could afford to devote more time to getting my own projects off the ground.
Syncrude is giving us an ample budget and is showing respect, taking us seriously, it would seem. I hope we are a part of the solution and not just a piece of the propaganda used to reassure people that this will bring a better future. We are not totally naïve — we know that this film could make them look good, especially if there are some scientific breakthroughs.
I struggle to push down my doubts, as the snowmobile trail brings me to a large lake we circled earlier. Feeling desperate to relieve myself, I decide to cut across the frozen water. It is a faster and more direct route to the work camp — and to the toilet.
I look back and see Kenny catching up behind me. Waving and pointing to the lake, I convey my decision, and he waves back in agreement. I roar over the bumpy shoreline and slide onto the icy surface. There are places where the wind has swept the ice clean so that it mirrors the sky, giving me a sense that I can fly.
I can’t hear a thing over the scream of my snowmobile. With the throttle wide open, and the wind blasting against my face, I delight in zigzagging and having a bit of fun as I traverse the glassy expanse. This is so much easier than plowing through deep snow! I stand up, and whoop like the barrel racer I once was — this is fantastic!
Suddenly the pitch of my engine shifts and I am snapped out of my glee. My speed decreases as the roar turns into a low-end whine. Totally confused, I feel the engine choking as I begin to sink into sludge. The ice beneath me gives way and I come to a full stop. The water creeps up onto the ice, freezing as soon as it hits the air.
I stand up on the saddle of my mechanical beast and yell to Kenny to “Turn back!” and “Stay clear!” before he gets bogged down like me! He can’t hear me, of course, but figures out that something is wrong and slows down. Registering the danger, he makes a sharp turn away and stops just in time to see my snowmobile — and me — disappear in one terrifying gulp, dropping into the frigid water.
I have so many clothes on tha
t, at first, I only feel a burning sensation licking at my neck and wrists, where the icy water quickly finds its way to my skin. With my thick-mitted hands, I paw away at the edge of the hole I have created, trying to get some kind of grip, but the frozen perimeter keeps breaking away. I can’t find a place where I can pull myself out. There is no rigid shelf between the water and the surface. It’s just mush.
I can see that Kenny is off his snowmobile, testing the solidity of the surface around him, trying to decide what to do. How close can he get to me on foot without risking his own life?
The cold water is seeping in through the zippers and seams of my clothing now. My boots are slowly filling with water and getting heavy. I can’t decide whether I should kick them off or not.
At this temperature, water freezes in an instant. My mittens are solid blocks of ice. They have no flex; I cannot grab anything. I am in the middle of a lake, far from branches, ropes, or anything else that could be used to haul me out of this frigid opening, which grows wider and wider with my attempts to climb out.
I am flailing now, slowing down, growing stiff, unable to bend — but my mind is racing. What’s happening? Why is the lake not frozen? It’s too bizarre! Am I going to die out here — all because I couldn’t pee in the winter woods? My gawd! This would be a crazy way to go.
Kenny tries to get closer, but retreats when he hears the ice cracking.
