by David Ward
None of these inconveniences is the end of the world, of course, but the lack of support regarding essential services can wear a person down after a while. All rural Canadians are marginalized in one way or another. They feel insignificant when the system is unaware of their plight and unworthy when others aren’t motivated to think outside the box on the rural resident’s behalf.
While far from perfect, I try to be aware of the day-to-day damage that results from my resistance to seeing the world in new and equitable ways, and I occasionally make an effort to initiate personal behavioural modifications in response. I say that “I occasionally make an effort” to change because doing so is always ultra-difficult. That’s why I don’t make New Year’s resolutions, because I find them too hard to keep. I think that recognizing the end of one year and the start of another helps me to count my blessings and consider my future, but if I wish to implement meaningful change, I don’t see the good in starting such a rigorous journey on a culturally assigned day. I believe that the best time for me to act on my ambitions should be based on my needs, not some calendar date that coincidentally arrives on one of the darkest days of the year, after a lengthy period of time when many of us have consumed insane amounts of food and alcohol and thrown away any semblance of healthy sleeping habits. I’ve learned that by establishing January 1 as the day to begin important projects, I won’t be in a good position to face the real possibility of needing to get on and off the wagon several times throughout the process. The date I set to spark change has to help me find all the stick-to-it toughness that I can assemble, if I hope to have any success at all.
I do, however, use the changing of the calendar year to reflect on my Newfoundland lifestyle, like how much I enjoy the many hours I spend alone reading and writing in my little McCallum home. I recall the fear that came with moving here, and I smile at the thought of all the supportive calls and emails I receive from those I care about on the mainland. I remember the McCallum folks who frequently feed me, and I dream of further travelling Newfoundland, continuing to use this community as my basecamp. From Stephenville to St. John’s, up and down the Northern Peninsula, all along the northeast shore, and south to St. Pierre, I’d never have seen what I have without the stability that McCallum provides.
More than anything though, I smile at the thought of all the days I spend at sea, because that’s a large part of what my Newfoundland life is. I love the open ocean. As physically punishing as ocean excursions are, they bring me extreme joy. A rough and tough boat ride makes me feel very much awake in this world. I’m convinced that my time on the North Atlantic Ocean will be one of the more satisfying things that I think about while lying on my deathbed one day.
But with an awareness that I won’t always be able to take the beating that comes with life on the sea comes the conscious knowledge that I’m nowhere near willing to give this adventurous world up. So while I resist New Year’s resolutions, I do believe in recurring commitments, including one that I have to consistently maintain and continuously improve upon — the need to take care of myself. It’s always been day-to-day for me. I’m an excessively greedy eater. If there is fat, salt, or sugar in my home, I’ll inhale it. Yet taking the pounding that comes with life at sea requires a strong back, a healthy heart, loose limbs, and an alert brain. Achieving these qualities requires regular exercise, good food choices, and a curious mind — a way of living worth nurturing because I dream of participating in bodily challenging adventures for as long as life will let me.
In fog thick as motor oil, no one knows where we are. I ask the man who does the driving why we aren’t carrying a compass. “The man who does the driving” is Junior Feaver, husband of Sharon, McCallum’s previously noted postmistress. Junior and Sharon are not thrilled at the thought of seeing their name in print, so I do what I can to respect their concerns, without it costing me my story. This modesty that the two of them demonstrate is not uncommon in McCallum. Lloyd and Linda Durnford share a similar refrain, as does Sarah Fudge’s husband, Matt. So, know that despite my occasional underuse of certain individuals’ names, these people are incredibly important players in my narrative.
“The swell is always from the sou’west, so I know where we are,” Junior patiently points out. “I just don’t know where we are.” I take this to mean he could easily find land if he had to, but he can’t guarantee where along that coastline we currently are. So, as we move through fog towards unidentified terra firma, no one knows what dangers sit below the surface. Given the seriousness of the situation, I decide not to ask how anyone can possibly read what direction the swell is coming from this morn, because with the sea so incredibly calm, the roll of the ocean is unreadable.
Junior cuts the engine and signals for quiet. He wants to see if he can hear water flowing against or over any rocks that might be too close for comfort. He can. But that critical realization is temporarily shelved when he spots me peering into the fog beyond the port side. “See something, Dave?” he asks.
“I thought I did,” I reply. “But perhaps I am wrong . . .”
Then it resurfaces — a forty-ton humpback whale, its hump a whole lot higher than me. Its massive tail, as it gives us a great wave, is a stunning mosaic of whites and greys. I dream of such sightings, and I’m excited that I’m the guy who spotted it first, because both events are rare; I simply don’t understand aquatic ecology like the rest of this gang does. They know so much more than me about where to look for action.
“Whoo-hoo!” I scream, and throw my arms in the air. But my quick-thinking, fast-acting, early forties skipper isn’t so thrilled. These fifty-foot marine mammals and the way they so suddenly fill the surface of the sea can easily flip a twenty-two-foot fibreglass boat and everybody in it. “You won’t be whoo-hooing if we hit her,” Junior firmly informs me as he efficiently works to move our vulnerable vessel out of harm’s way. “No sir, you won’t be so happy if we hit her.”
Then another appears. Another humpback. This one astern of the starboard. It is Junior who first sees the second one. Slightly smaller, but right alongside our boat, the possibility of disaster is no less unsettling. We’re surrounded. If I didn’t have great confidence in my captain, I’d have good reason to worry. Instead I am having fun watching sea monsters in the Gulf of St. Lawrence.
Opening day was another eye-opener. It felt like I was staring down the devil. The roar of the sea was thunderous, and the suck of the landwash awful. It was the worst weather I’d ever been in. As one veteran seaman from another crew kindly told me at the time, “You probably won’t see worse unless you get caught in something, because we don’t go out in worse than that.” In fact, if it hadn’t been opening day, I don’t believe we would have gone at all. We had a lot of pots to put in, and catching lobsters is competitive. So much so that if we fall behind, we’ll even work the occasional Sunday, an otherwise blasphemous act.
People from away don’t realize how small our boats are. They think we steam around in large longliners instead of little open motorboats. When it’s really rough, we travel in pairs — two boats keeping an eye on each other, just in case. That’s when I see what we’re up against, when I look over at our neighbour’s boat beside us and note that the only components touching the sea are their two heavy outboards and a couple feet of fibreglass while the rest of their vessel hangs ten off a fifteen-foot wave. So it’s easy to imagine that our boat is doing the same.
The wave action throws me around like I’m a tiny bag of lobster bait. But I’m not scared. Not that I’m not careful or aware of what could happen. Just that I think there is something that occurs in a physical crisis where my mind recognizes that panic is not going to be of any assistance and tells my body to get down to business. It’s only when I reflect a week or two later that I allow myself to realize what a wild time I’ve just lived through.
It is quite an operation — a father, four sons, and a mainlander, while Mom makes sure there is pea soup wa
iting when we get home. Or, as the old folks say about eating pea soup on Saturdays, we celebrate the devil’s birthday — a tenet I don’t trust, because I saw the devil that day, and he had no interest in partying. All he wanted to do was stir up trouble on thunderous seas and introduce me to a new level of danger.
There was a time in my Ontario life when I climbed trees for a living, carrying a running chainsaw with me as I went. I’ve assisted with the recovery of avalanche victims in Alberta and lowered skiers from dangling wires and tall towers when their gondola blew off in big winds. I worked at Ground Zero, New York, after the World Trade Center fell and everyone was still sensitive to the potential of another terrorist attack. Still, I believe commercial fishing is the most dangerous job in the world.
Police and firefighters have their moments where they see some horrible things, and, according to injury compensation claims, stevedores and demolition workers are frequently hurt at work. But braving the open ocean is clearly the riskiest job I’ve ever come across. For men and women to take on tasks that don’t pay enough to buy the best boats, technology, or safety wear is ambitious and brave. To go out in unpredictable weather over water so cold that, even if the fishers could swim, would kill them quite quickly is courageous.
I tell Junior, when he crawls out over our outboard motor to remove an errant rope from the propeller, “If you slip overboard, don’t worry, because I’ll have a gaff stuck in you before you know you’re wet. I’ll jam that sharp hook in your neck, kidney, or crotch,” I insist, “and I’ll pull you back on this boat before anyone notices you’re gone. So don’t you be afraid, old buddy — you’ve got the feller from away watching out for you.”
Nine
Jupiter’s gone missing. Not the planet — the dog. Jupiter is an orange and white Brittany. Some say Brittany spaniel, but the breed has more in common with a pointer than a spaniel, so people who know more about dogs than I do refer to Jupiter as a Brittany.
We’re walking Facheux Bay’s eastern ridge, a gorgeous stretch of coastal hills, ranging from 700 to 950 feet above sea level. We’re partridge hunting. Ptarmigan, actually. Me, Jupiter, and Jupiter’s master, Junior. This is a new experience for me. Hunting, I mean.
As long a distance as we’ve walked, Jupiter has instinctively run ten thousand times farther, simply doing what bird dogs do — searching for birds. Only a fool would be angry at him for getting lost, assuming that’s what’s happened. But Jupiter isn’t lost. He has two birds in his range and is staring them down, and probably has been for fifteen minutes. It feels like it has taken forever to find him, but Junior has spotted Jupiter on the horizon, among thousands of tiny patches of snow and thousands of big boulders.
Having walked so far already, neither of us is terribly excited about the distance and the technically difficult terrain that stretches between us and this dog. That’s why Junior says with a sigh, “You stay here, old boy, and I’ll go see what he’s got.” But I don’t want any part of any plan that leaves me behind. I believe we’re all in this together, and I tell Junior this. To which he says, while handing me his half-choked, un-cocked, twelve-gauge shotgun, “Then you go. And I’ll stay here. Just don’t shoot Sharon’s dog, Dave.”
How long it takes for me to reach that dog and the two partridges he’s pinned, I have no idea. My heart is in my throat, so it seems like seconds to me. And sure enough, Jupiter is right on top of his prey, leaving me no choice but to stir up those birds and fire on the fly.
One lucky shot, one not-so-lucky bird, one special memory. Thanks to the efforts and patience of one talented dog.
It reminds me of a time when I had a dog of my own — a Landseer Newfoundlander. Rudyard was a sweet, handsome, hundred-and-forty-pound pal who loved his walks and swims as much as any canine could. One winter day, the two of us were strolling along the eastern shore of Central Ontario’s Sturgeon Lake when I fell with a thud on some thinly snow-covered ice. Slightly winded, I laid there for a few seconds watching Rudyard unwittingly sniff his way through snowdrifts about 100 feet in front of me. Then I thought, because the Newfoundland breed has a reputation for being a rescue dog, it will be interesting to see how my big buddy responds to any indication that I’m incapable of carrying on. Suddenly Rudyard saw me lying on that ice, ran back as fast as he could, and straightaway started humping me.
East Bay by daylight — that’s our goal — and then we’ll walk as far as Salmon River, which, I learn upon arrival, is not a river at all. It’s a freakish site — a long, wide clearing of weathered rock and nothing more, the river killed off decades ago by the province of Newfoundland when they dammed it for hydro.
I’ve never seen anyone lust for a love affair with large hydro like a Newfie politician does. Newfoundland leaders can’t seem to learn from their own history. Like the way they insist on continuously selling off their natural resources at reduced rates, all the while locking themselves into Hoover Dam–like debt. They seem stunted — like an elected official from another era. Maybe they’re insecure. It’s not difficult to see how they’ve been taken advantage of over the years. I’m sure many businessmen from the mainland find the Newfoundlanders’ vulnerability comical, and profitable, while the ratepayers of Newfoundland and Labrador lose their shirts and their ancient rivers, and salmon lose their lives — billions of salmon that were genetically programmed to swim to the bottom of East Bay but no longer do, because of dimwitted politicians.
We’re searching for moose — another Newfoundland staple — but all we’ve seen is an enormous black bear, a lot of mergansers, and a dead porpoise that’s drifted ashore. I get excited about this skeletal discovery, which annoys Junior when I audibly express my joy. “We’re here to hunt moose,” he quietly scolds me. “Not scare them away.”
I don’t know how anybody can call what I’m doing hunting. The entire time I’m on the hills, my eyes are focused on my feet. I can’t stop staring at the uneven ground on which I intend to place my next step. One foot in front of the other is all I can concentrate on. The moose I am supposed to be looking for might be right beside me, but I wouldn’t notice because all I can see is the next hazardous rock, treacherous tree root, and slippery mud puddle.
Something directly beside me that I deliberately don’t pay attention to is the steep drop towards the sea. Yet I am the only one overwhelmed by my whereabouts. Clyde Feaver has seen it all before — today is just another wonderful walk in the woods for that delightful man. An enviable blend of ancient adult wisdom and childlike joy, Clyde is like no one I’ve ever known, in the woods, workshop, kitchen, on the sea — a career fisherman, ask Uncle Clyde what he enjoys doing in his spare time and he instantly answers, “Fish.” (In Newfoundland, the term Uncle, when used by a non-relative, is done so with the intent to bestow the highest amount of respect on the designated male.)
Junior and Sharon — Clyde’s son and daughter-in-law — aren’t concerned about our daunting environment either. Junior is always up for a hike, and Sharon, with her long blond flow tucked tightly up under a pink Ducks Unlimited cap, is quite content to be cradling her rifle. It makes me laugh, the way people who have never seen Sharon react when I share a photo. “Oh . . . she’s g-g-gorgeous,” they stammer. Like women who hunt aren’t supposed to be beautiful. I wish they could see how badly this mother of one wants to help her extended family get the moose that the licence in her pocket entitles her to. A possibility that lurks every time she’s on the hunt, because Sharon’s a strong hiker, a tenacious tracker, and an extremely accurate shot.
I’m high on the hill. He’s deep in the valley but walking straight at me. I can see him through my spyglasses. His antlers alone probably weigh forty pounds. I can’t fathom carrying such a load on my head, or trying to fit that large rack between trees. The flap of skin and tuft of hair that hangs from his throat is also quite pronounced. His muzzle and body are black, but I suspect his coat appears much darker than usual because he’s just slipped out of t
he water, an action he accomplished with ease. That’s my biggest surprise — his light-footedness. A male eastern moose can weigh fourteen hundred pounds and stand six feet at the shoulder. This critter is clearly in that category. I didn’t expect him to be so agile.
His front legs, longer than his back, render him capable of clearing fallen trees — another feat I watch him painlessly perform. I’m surprised at the distance he covers in such a short time, but I shouldn’t be — he is on a hunt of his own. He’s looking for a cow, and it’s not hard to figure out what he wants to do when he finds one. It’s all about his biology, and today it’s ruling him. So much so that he won’t feed — he’ll spend his entire time searching for a sweetie-pie. But bulls don’t pair-bond permanently. They stay with the cow only long enough to breed before going in pursuit of another partner.
My teammates estimate this animal is twelve years old. I can see how he might have survived such a long time — he blends in with the fall shadows found in deep gullies and along crooked brooks. Many a hunter could have missed him.
While moose can live to be twenty, it’s still remarkable that this one is as old as he is, because there are several ways that a moose can die before he reaches the size of this sucker. Black bears are significant predators of moose calves until the calves are nine weeks old, and there are a lot of black bears in Newfoundland. There are also a lot of foolishly fast drivers who hit huge numbers of moose every year.
Given the province issues thirty thousand moose licences annually, twelve years is a long time for a moose to avoid being cut down — a fate this beast seems destined to meet today, until he suddenly turns back into the brook and heads up the hill away from us. Junior thinks that this handsome male caught whiff that not only are there are no fertile females for him to frequent, but there is an ugly old Ontario guy sitting high on the hill.
