He made his way to the motel office. A light in the office and another beside the screen door welcomed weary travellers.
He opened the screen door and the wooden inner door to the Rim Rock and entered the lobby of the motel. A woman stepped out from the back office. She smiled at him and said in a friendly, sing-song voice, “Good evening.”
Cole Blackwater guessed she was about forty, though he wasn’t very good at placing a person’s age, so she could be five years on either side of that. She wasn’t the sort of beautiful that Cole Black-water scoped in the Cambie on Friday nights. She could be the mother of one of the girls that flitted about that joint. But he was taken with her strong features, clear blue eyes, and sandy blonde hair that hung loosely to her shoulders in waves.
He signed in and she handed him a key. “You’re in room 232,” she said. He took the key and jammed it in his pocket. “Thanks,” he said, and then, “What’s your name?”
“It’s Deborah, Deborah Cody. My husband and I own the motel,” she said, extending a hand.
He shook it. “Well, it’s a pleasure, Deborah,” he said.
“Pleasure’s all mine,” she said with a sly smile. He watched her eyes, which for a moment locked on his.
“Is there a place to get a drink nearby?” he said as he turned toward the door.
“Right next door.” She gave him directions to The Quarry. “You’ll find George behind the bar.”
“George?”
“My husband.”
“Right,” he said and stepped out into the night.
Cole found his room and dumped his bags on the bed, then felt his way to the bar. It was packed. Country music blared loudly and he made out the clack of pool cues striking balls over the din of mostly male voices. It’s Monday night, he thought. Who are all these people? He gave himself a minute to adjust to the light, then had a look at the bar which ran along one long wall to his right. He made his way there, aware of the eyes on him, and the perceptible hush that fell over the conversations in the room.
He waited at the bar while George attended to the waitress’ tray, piling on bottles of Molson’s Canadian and tumblers of what looked like rum and coke. George was a large man, with broad shoulders, a thick neck, and arms that looked as though they could double as rock crushers. His hair, formerly red and likely curly, receded up toward the crown of his wide head and was cut short. Like his wife, he had blue eyes. George wore a trim moustache but otherwise was clean-shaven.
“Evening. What will you have?”
“Jameson, neat,” said Cole.
“Coming up.” George turned and Cole noticed his broad back beneath the shirt. Had he played football when he was younger? A body like that didn’t come from heavy labour alone. A man had to work at a physique like the one George Cody lugged around.
George pulled a bottle from the back row on the counter behind the bar, eyeballed a healthy shot into a glass, and placed it before Blackwater.
“Looks like you could use a good belt,” said George.
“Sorry?” said Cole, startled.
“A stiff drink. You look like you could use one,” George smiled, showing his teeth.
“Right. Long day on the road,” said Cole. He raised his glass, then took a hit from it.
George smiled again and turned to another customer. Cole took up his customary position at the bar. He scanned the crowd and ruled out two of his three motives: friends and companionship. That left foes. Trouble was, every man in this place looked as if he might just as soon crack Cole’s head as give him the time of day, especially if he knew Cole Blackwater’s purpose in town. That’s how Cole figured it, anyway. It had been a long time since Cole had been in a room with this much plaid and denim. Every man in the bar looked to be employed by the mine, by the local lumber mill, or by a hauling company. Either that or he sold materials to the mine or was on contract to them. Cole decided that he’d better cook up a good story for his purpose in town. Shutting down the mine wasn’t going to sit very well with his new drinking companions.
Cole Blackwater wasn’t one to turn away from a fight. He knew how to handle himself, though he’d tried to steer clear of the rough stuff since becoming a father. He had boxed at the provincial level in high school, and had made it to the national championships one year. He’d gone more than a few rounds outside the ring too while in high school. The odd time some punk wanted to see if the kid with the golden gloves could throw a punch without the calfskins on. Cole had cleaned a few clocks in those days. But those days were long ago. And Cole knew how fisticuffs could escalate when they were ideologically motivated, as a round with one of the boys in this bar was likely to be. Cole Blackwater wasn’t the man he used to be, he lamented, thinking about the stairs in the Dominion Building.
He finished his drink and ordered a second.
Boxing. He shook his head. How long since he’d stepped into a ring? He counted backward. Twenty years since he had gone to the national junior championships at seventeen? Then he’d trained on and off, just for fun, at the U of T, until he got his undergrad degree at twenty-two. Fifteen years: half a lifetime ago. Good God, he thought, where did the time go? He rubbed his middle. It seemed to be accumulating right there, he mused, not entirely pleased with the prospect. He sipped his drink. He had been a decent fighter, with a long, powerful reach, but he lacked something. His old man always ridiculed him. “You’ve got no fire in the belly, Cole,” he chided him. “No fire! You got to punch with every black ounce of your heart, not just your hands! You’ve got to hate that man you’re punching.” Cole could never bring himself to hate any of the boys that he stepped into the ring with.
He reserved his hatred for one person alone.
Cole never felt passion in a fight, only fear. And the fear wasn’t for what might happen while he was in the ring. Getting knocked out didn’t bother Cole, though it happened only once, in his last fight. No, Cole felt fear of what would happen if he lost, after he climbed between the ropes.
“Need another?” asked George Cody from behind him, whisking away the empty glass.
“Always,” said Cole, “but I need sleep more,” he said, shaking off the memory.
“You staying here?”
Here it comes, thought Cole. “Yup.”
“Want to run a tab?”
Cole breathed out, “Sure, that’ll make it easy.” Dodged the bullet until the morning.
“What room you in?”
“232.”
“Done.”
Cole thanked him and walked out of the bar on wooden legs. In his room he sat down on the bed to remove his boots and laid back, intending to rest only a moment before showering and turning in. He was fast asleep in seconds.
4
The morning was clear and crisp. Cole woke early and spent some time settling in. He jammed his clothes into the drawers of the dresser and hung a few things in the open closet next to the bathroom, where he set up his shaving kit. Then he opened his laptop, plugged in a phone line, and tried to access the internet. It was slow, painfully slow, but he was able to get connected and download some email and read a few online newspapers. He did some quick research on Athabasca Coal, the parent company of the Buffalo Anthracite Mine. Its 2004 Annual Report, available to download from its homepage, said the company grossed more than a billion dollars in sales, and made a tidy profit of fifty-five million. It wasn’t a huge margin, but Cole suspected that most of the company’s shareholders hadn’t complained too loudly, given the volatility in the metals markets. He also Googled Peggy McSorlie, Dale van Stempvort, and the Eastern Slopes Conservation Group.
Then he drove back through town, and to his relief found a Tim Hortons on the highway. He bought a newspaper and stood in a long line, awaiting caffeine and carbohydrates. Coffee and doughnut in hand, he sat by the window, looked out over the highway, and revived himself. At half past eight he stood stiffly, stretched, felt his stomach pressing against his shirt, and with a second coffee in hand, walked to his tr
uck. He double-checked that he had everything he needed for the day’s meeting and piloted the Toyota west along the highway for a mile, then north along Highway 40. After a few miles he turned off 40 onto a gravel road that ran north and west into the Rocky Mountain foothills.
The woods through which he steered the Toyota were dark and close, the trunks of the spruce, pine, and fir growing nearly on top of each other, creating a tight ceiling that kept sunlight from reaching the forest floor except along the dirt road. There tangles of alder and willow clutched at the full, bright sunlight. It was a quarter after nine when he arrived. He intended to spend some time with Peggy to go over some of the details of his contract and to discuss the players on both sides of the equation.
He drove up the long, pine-bordered driveway. This track was rougher than the gravel road, which was maintained by the province of Alberta to keep the logging and oil companies happy.
He drove 250 metres or so on this roadway, then entered a large clearing where the main homestead was situated. Cole was underwhelmed. He had envisioned an older style ranch house like the ones he had grown up with in southern Alberta, with a long sprawling main floor, broad windows, dormers, and a wide front porch that looked great, but was almost never used by busy ranchers. Instead, the McSorlie place was a two-storey home, built, Cole guessed, shortly after World War II. It wasn’t old enough to be attractive or new enough to be well-maintained. It was simply drab as far as farm houses went. A poured cement pad complete with a basketball net stood alongside the main house, and Cole remembered that Peggy had two teenage boys. Instead of a porch there was a stoop, where two ridiculously friendly border collies wagged their tails, backsides and whole bodies. Cole parked his pickup alongside the three other vehicles already there.
He noted them: a newish Ford F150, a grey four-door sedan that could have been made by nearly any car company, and an older, red Chevy pickup, with drooping running boards and a rusted tailgate. Cole figured all the vehicles could belong to the McSorlie family, but it could also mean that his hoped-for time alone with Peggy before the festivities got underway had been trumped.
He opened the truck door and the sounds of the morning filled his ears. That wasn’t a disappointment. Birdsong like a symphony flooded his senses. He heard livestock too, goats, cattle, chickens, and a rooster, from out behind a large weathered barn that leaned to one side. Sunlight spilled into the clearing in thick streams, pollen suspended in the dancing light. A large plot was turned and awaited the summer’s vegetables, and beyond that a fence, which prevented the McSorlie goats and chickens from wandering into the dense woods.
He closed his truck door and walked toward the main house. He greeted the dogs, climbed the steps, and rapped on the wooden door.
Peggy McSorlie answered after a few seconds. Cole remembered Peggy McSorlie as lighter, fairer, and younger than the woman who stood smiling before him now. But it had been five years since they met face to face in Ottawa, and then only briefly. And, Cole thought, I was younger, fairer, and lighter then myself.
Peggy McSorlie invited Cole into the house. She was of average height, and Cole thought her solid frame made her appear that much more wholesome on this farm. She wore a pair of slacks, a bright sweater, and a scarf wrapped around her neck. Her hair was short, with enough grey to qualify as salt-and-pepper. Her handshake was firm, her smile broad, and when she said that it was so good of Cole to come, he felt real warmth.
They stepped into the kitchen, which was cozy, with lots of windows, and smelled of coffee and fresh baking. Any disappointment Cole felt about the exterior of the house was erased by the warmth and charm of the interior. The large kitchen had a generous island at its centre, and along one wall a couch and rocking chair gave it a welcoming touch. Large pots and frying pans hung from the ceiling over the island, and a wood cookstove accented the otherwise modern appliances with country charm. Cole felt the heat radiating from the woodstove and gravitated toward it.
“Care for coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
“How do you take it?”
“With a little cream.”
“No sugar?”
“I’m sweet enough already,” he grinned and was rewarded with another warm smile.
Cole sat in the rocking chair, Peggy on the couch, and she offered him fresh cinnamon buns. They ate and sipped their coffee and chatted.
“Tell me what you’re looking for, Peggy,” he said, taking a bite of his bun.
She let out a breath and thought a moment. He liked that. She was careful with her words. “Cole,” she finally said, “I’m looking for a miracle.”
She told him about the previous attempts by the company to open a new open-pit mine to replace the two existing, depleted operations in the area. She told him about the local economy’s unhealthy dependence on coal, and to a lesser extent timber. “This town is caught in a perpetual boom-and-bust cycle,” she said, sipping her coffee. “We live and die with commodity prices. When there’s high demand for the coking coal that the Buffalo Anthracite Mine produces, we live high on the hog. But only ten, fifteen years ago you couldn’t give the stuff away, and lots of businesses closed. We can’t go on like this, Cole. This town needs to make the leap into the twenty-first century, but as long as we’re looking over our shoulders at yesterday’s bonanza, at yesterday’s dreams, we’re going to slowly die. Another market slump like we had in the eighties and this town is done for, and then what? The forests have all been turned into pulp, the mountains have been levelled to make steel. Nobody is going to want to live here. If we’re not careful, Oracle will be a ghost town.” She shook her head.
Then she told him about the plans for the McLeod River Mine below the Cardinal Divide. Much of it he had heard from Jim Jones the night before, but he sat silently, sipping the excellent coffee, watching her face, more interested in how she presented the information than the information itself. Was she emotionally attached to the issue? What things set her off?
“Despite the fact that new technology exists that allows steel makers to ply their trade with much less coal, the company seems intent on pushing ahead with the McLeod River Mine. It’s almost as if they are programmed to keep looking for more coal. As soon as one project starts to wind down, they move onto the next one. Do you think it’s in their DNA?” She looked quizzically at Cole, who grinned.
“I just don’t know,” Peggy said, finishing her coffee and standing up.
“Tell me about the Eastern Slopes Conservation Group,” he said as she walked to the oven to take out more cinnamon buns.
“You mean ESCoG?” She smiled at him.
“Right. What’s the O stand for?”
“Nothing. But it didn’t sound right without it.”
He laughed. She told him about the history of the little band of eco-warriors. For more than a decade they had been battling to save Cardinal Divide, Mountain Park, and the surrounding meadows, ridges, rivers, and valleys. “We’ve mostly had to go it alone. We’ve had a lot of help from the provincial and national groups with our legal battles, but they don’t live here, do they? They don’t have to see these people at the post office. It’s hard sometimes. It gets personal. And the provincial and national groups are tired, Cole. It’s been more than a decade. Every time we defeat one proposal, it goes underground for a few years, and then pop!” She snapped her fingers. “It comes right back at us. The big groups will support us, but if we’re going to stop this thing, we’re going to have to do it ourselves. We’re pretty much alone this time.”
“You’re not alone,” Cole said quietly.
“Thank you,” she smiled. “I know.”
“So what should I expect this morning?”
“How do you mean?”
“Who’s going to be attending this meeting and what are the politics?”
“We’re mostly just a ragtag bunch of farmers, ranchers, a few small-time loggers, and some small business people from town. There are a couple of young kids from the community
who are idealistic and enthusiastic, but don’t have much experience. There’s a biologist from the University of Alberta who’s been doing work on large carnivores in the area: bears, wolves, and cougars. None of us really has much experience with this sort of thing.”
“Except you.”
“Except me,” she confirmed. “And Dale.”
“And Dale.”
“That’s his red truck in the yard. He’s out with Gord in the barn right now. Dale van Stempvort. He’s been through this before.”
Cole finished his coffee and put the cup on the kitchen counter. “Tell me about Dale.”
“Well,” sighed Peggy.
“Well, what?”
“Well, Dale is a bit of a renegade,” said Peggy quietly, leaning forward, echoing Jim Jones. “He’s kind of a radical element.” She smiled.
“Radical means getting to the root,” Cole reminded her.
“Well, not that kind of radical.” Peggy sat back. “A few years ago Dale was under suspicion for blowing up a gas well.”
Cole was silent.
“Actually, two,” added Peggy.
Cole nodded solemnly.
“He had made some threatening statements about running the oil and gas companies off his land. A couple of weeks after he was quoted in the local paper, two well sites were blown up. They weren’t on Dale’s land; they were a few miles away. Nobody was hurt, but there was a lot of damage to the equipment. Lots of time lost. The local community was in an uproar. Dale continued to inflame the situation by saying that he supported that sort of action, and was glad that someone else in the community felt as he did.”
Cole shook his head.
“It went on for a year, and the RCMP did a pretty thorough investigation. The Mounties couldn’t make anything stick. I think it was probably disgruntled employees who blew up those wells. But Dale sure didn’t help his own case by talking to the newspapers the way he did.”
They sat in silence. After a minute Cole said, “He’s not an asset to your efforts, Peggy. He’s a liability.”
The Cardinal Divide Page 6
