by Nick Cummins
II. WOLFPACK
The next day the real mission started. The captain’s run was done and dusted and it was time for the big game. We picked up a couple of snowmobiles and a trailer, threw the gear in and set off from Karasjok.
After a quick 18 kilometres over the frozen river, we put the blinker on and stopped to admire the view behind us. And what a view it was, despite it temporarily being interrupted by Helge taking a piss. His earlier requests to stop may have fallen on deaf ears . . .
We continued on our journey and soon came across a wolf lurking next to a rock about 60 metres away. It was great to see such an animal in the wild and miles from civilisation. Which is when we realised the thing was wild and we were miles from civilisation! By the snarls we could tell it was pretty pumped to see us, too, so we made like a bucket and bailed.
Not long later we came across a young woman on the track who looked quite buggered, towing all her supplies behind her. Turns out, telling a girl there’s a wolf on the loose is a sure-fire way to get her on the back of your ski.
She told us she was crossing the Finnmark Plateau by herself on skis and foot. It seemed we’d destroyed that plan. Still, it was better than freezing to death and getting cleaned up by a wolf – not necessarily in that order.
We continued on a good 60 kilometres to a place called Mollisjok and with the sun all but set – on account of it only hanging around long enough for lunch this time of year – we needed to get some grub post haste. After our good deed, we were hoping for a little karma with the fishing rods. We waded through 70 metres of waist-high snow before we came to the river, which carved through the ice sheet, and threw out a line. But sure enough, fate had other ideas and we returned empty-handed. By this stage hunger was somewhat critical. I like to have seven meals a day. To our delight, the old lady running the cabins had a truckload of reindeer meat and veg ready to go. It was like feeding time at the zoo between my brother, Helge and me. And let’s just say, Helge had his eye on some dessert . . .
III. THE FISHING
Come sun-up, we headed out for a few days’ fishing. But first we dropped off the young woman a bit further down the track and wished her all the best. I was impressed with her determination and at the same time worried she wouldn’t see her family again on account of the wolves.
We visited several frozen rivers through the day, chasing tar fish, or any bloody fish we could get, by boring through the ice and dropping a line.
When boring through the ice you’ve got about 45 seconds in minus-25 degrees before your hands would freeze up. Worst still, if you hit rock you had to change the blades. It was a tough gig. But hell, that’s what I brought Nath along for.
We soon had about six holes bored and had been fishing for about fours hours when Helge finally decided to drop a line. No joke, within minutes the bastard had pulled in a good size tar fish and made Nathan look absolutely useless with a rod.
We bored another 20-odd holes over the next day and a half without a bite – the fish were on strike. It was a sad effort, which was likely Nathan’s fault, as next to my old man he’s one of the most average fishermen I know.
All the gear but no idea.
So we pushed on to our next camp and pulled up next to a dozen or so huskies who were reflecting on their career choice.
We got stuck into a feed and started talking to a half dozen others from Norway and Sweden who were on their own adventures. When they asked us what we were doing there, Nathan responded, ‘Getting away from the cold.’ I didn’t know crickets existed that far up north . . .
Soon, our partner in crime, Helge, came staggering in for a feed perhaps a little dissatisfied with the free chiropractic work he’d got earlier – he’d come off the back of the snowmobile at about 60km/h. And it wasn’t the first time.
But nothing a few beers by a makeshift campfire dug into the ice wouldn’t fix. We subjected the locals to a few average jokes and confusing questions. Then a couple of hours in we spotted the northern lights. It was a magic scene – full moon one side and the northern lights behind us. The sled dogs started kicking off, which added a bit of atmosphere, too. Won’t forget that one . . .
IV. DRUG MULES
The following night, the cabin owner saddled up beside us, checked the coast was clear, then asked if we could offer her some assistance. You see, her bloke had left early that day but forgot some ‘medication’ he needed. With no transport available, she asked us if we could take this bloke’s bag with the medication to him. Hell, it was only 40 kilometres away in pitch black and heavy snow. Sounded like a job for Helge, but he was in no shape.
She ignored the apprehensiveness written on our faces, maybe under the impression that we were in fact Sami– Australian drug mules. We nodded ‘yes’ and decided to run the gauntlet.
Like a good mule would, we didn’t look into the bag; we just wanted to get it done. Nathan was on the owner’s snowmobile and I was on the rental. Nathan’s had a shit-ton more gas than mine and better headlights. So it was decided I’d be the one copping snow in the face for the next hour. We made it in record time and old mate was stoked to get his gear. He loaded us up with fuel, slapped us on the arse and sent us back to where we came from.
Now, getting back was a fair mission. Visibility was minimal and any wrong turn would have made survival unlikely. What put more pressure on was that Nathan’s scooter was leaving mine for dead when I was pushing 115km/h across the long flat stretches. He would speed off and cut the lights so I couldn’t see the bastard! Then he’d come roaring down a little hill between the flats to scare the shit out of me. One of us saw the funny side of it and it wasn’t me . . .
A couple of days later and our street cred at an all-time high, we returned to Karasjok with our heads aloft – despite having caught no fish and having shared the one Helge caught.
V. REINDEER KINGS
Before the trip was over, Helge invited us to check out a reindeer farm and meet some of the local Sami roosters. They hooked up a sled to one of the big bastards and the idea was to slowly cruise around the area. Anyway, long story short and with some irresponsible encouragement from Nathan, I cracked the whip and gave it some stick. She didn’t take kindly and took off at a rapid rate. I ended up about a kilometre from the pen and led the charge for a whole herd to follow me out the gate. One of the snaps on my FB page is me surfing on the reindeer sled on the way back – a moment of real pride.
Santa Claus better watch out, ’cause the Honey Badger is a comin’ to town.
Following this cultural exchange we felt like locals. We got ourselves into the lavo (Sami tent) to hear a few yarns about the Sami culture and it was really moving stuff to hear Sami yoiking – their own individual tune they make without lyrics which tells their story. It brought a couple of people to tears in the tent. Unfortunately, the cultural significance was lost on Nathan as he made the tent into a gas chamber. The reindeer tucker had turned his stomach into a biological warfare centre.
We got back to Helge’s joint soon after. Being Saturday night, we thought we’d take the old shagger and his missus out for a feed in Finland. It was just across the border, about 17 kilometres away.
I thought we’d be inside a bit so I just took the pluggers and footy shorts for good measure. But the stares and queer looks I got made me feel like a terrorist playing pass the parcel at a kids’ birthday party. It was time to get back home!
Another ripper trip.
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
TIRED:
1. Buggered
2. Shagged
3. Had the sword
4. Rooted
5. Clagged out
6. Done and dusted
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
WHEN YOU’RE FULL:
‘Full as a doctor’s wallet’ or ‘Full as a state school hat rack’ or ‘Full as a Pommy complaint box’
MOVING ON TO WOMEN
(Or the Tinder trap)
I’m writing this one anonymously. A few o
f the boys mightn’t like their secrets out there. So boys, if you’re reading this, it was all the old man.
Anyhow, ever since the dawn of time, man has been looking for a good woman to complete him. In the old days, a bloke dressed in an animal skin would just walk up to a random sheila, club her and drag her into the cave. But times change and these days it’s a little more involved.
Most blokes go to pubs or clubs in an attempt to separate some unsuspecting girl from the pack and impress her. More often than not, though, the roles are reversed. Some women have no problem putting the weights on a bloke. Which makes sense. A lot of blokes aren’t keen on fronting women for fear of rejection.
Then along came Tinder – or Grinder, for some. Tinder makes life easy for unattached rugby players. When the single blokes are on tour they just check out what’s available and do their best. The main advantage being that they don’t have to actually talk to a babe but just use a few emojis and hashtags or whatever it is the kids are doing nowadays.
I’ve laughed at the boys piling into a taxi while comparing the girls on each of their phones. In the words of David Attenborough, the modern hunt has begun.
One story in particular comes to mind. I was in Brisbane during a break in the season and one of the fellas was flicking through a few candidates on his phone. Then he claimed he’d made something of a find.
The boys quickly formed a committee to examine the photo of this unapologetically busty lass and decided she was a winner. A plan was immediately hatched.
Rob, the finder of this female goddess, arranged to meet her on Kirra Beach on the Gold Coast at 2pm. Now, Rob was a fairly shy rooster and he was getting an enormous amount of advice from some seasoned veterans. Probably not a great idea.
Everyone wants to bat above. Blokes who’ve been the first one to the pie van all their lives want someone with a great figure. Likewise, some birds who take up a fair bit of space reckon a muscled super stud would be more their type. A mate of mine once said that beauty was skin deep but ugly was right to the bone. We may be off the track a bit but the point is, we all want something a bit flash by our own standards. Rob was no different. Like his own outta ten rating, his standards were low.
So, never to let a man go into battle alone, we all arrived at Kirra Beach about 1.30pm. After giving Rob some last-minute instructions we waxed over our boards in preparation to catch a few waves while Rob was left with the hardest task in dating – a day date.
Rob meandered his way down to the beach looking for his beloved. In his mind were visions of the angelic beauty he had seen on his phone the previous night. After a fruitless search, he felt that he may have been duped. Catfished – again.
Then finally, he heard a gentle voice call his name. His blood pumped and his heart fluttered. There she was in all her glory. A photoshopped and filtered internet face come to life. But as old Rob focused in on her he realised he’d been misled by the Tinder photo – because it didn’t show even remotely the volume of tatts or the dozens of piercings his perfect match had.
As she sucked on her lung buster and blew smoke rings towards him, his head began racing. How the hell do I get out of this? He was rattled.
I could see he was in trouble and so as any good mate would do, I stepped up to the plate.
‘Rob, the vet said your cat will live. They’ve replaced the back legs with a small wheel. It’s not that fast any more but corners like you wouldn’t believe. He wants you to collect it this arvo.’
Rob was up like a shot and she looked baffled – not unlike the cartoon skull she had on her neck. We made our exit to the car park and prepared for our escape. But we couldn’t lose her.
Tatts must have picked up on what was going on because she suggested things to Rob that only a deranged acrobat could accomplish. I gotta admit, she was looking better by the minute.
She kept up the tirade and poor, shy Rob tried his utmost to settle the show down. Then he snapped and for some reason resorted to a back catalogue of dad jokes.
‘Hop off the beach so the tide can come in,’ he said. This didn’t help. Things were going from bad to worse and if there’s one thing I know about the Gold Coast, it’s that you don’t mess with anyone with face tattoos and piercings you can only see in the shower. Come to think of it, that’s a life pro tip from yours truly. Suffice to say, Tatts didn’t take it kindly and quickly met Rob’s dad joke and raised it with a bird.
‘You blokes are wankers and you’re no oil painting, Rob, if that’s your name. My brother is a bikie and you are history!’ I was right! I bloody knew it.
Rob was first in the car and made a bee-line for the door locks. Rob is still single.
VITAL AUSSIE VERNACULAR
MESS:
Dog’s breakfast
NEAT AND TIDY:
Clean as a nun’s bum
GAINFUL EMPLOYMENT
You might remember from the first book that during my schooldays I slaved part-time at Woolies. It’s not a bad job, especially if you get on the checkouts and can avoid the big family shoppers.
Usually, most punters coming through just want to get their tucker and rack-off. But occasionally, you would get a couple of good sorts making their way through. The trick was to make cool conversation but not to look desperate.
I would usually start off and end with a ‘How ya goin?’ My strike rate was pretty poor. But I’m sure the Santa hat had more to do with it than my pimply noggin.
Anyhow, soon pronounced dead from boredom and having earned the ire of management for my unwillingness to wear the Santa hat, I pulled the pin and signed up with the old man and became a landscaper. Good for the rig, but very few women on the job site in Years 10–12.
They reckon hard work never killed anyone but I don’t go along with that. How many blokes have had heart attacks on the job? Exactly. I don’t reckon there would have been too many happy campers building the bloody pyramids or rowing in those slave boats – especially if the captain wanted to water ski!
But I’d signed my life away to the family business with a contract Dad insisted was legal – unlimited hours and little pay as a striped paint specialist.
But it was all right. The old bloke ran a tight ship and expected good quality work, but he also loved a yarn and a feed at smoko with the troops. Israel Folau couldn’t beat the old man to a smoko truck.
Smoko was always something to look forward to. After busting your arse since 7am, carrying things and pushing wheelbarrows, 10am seemed like a great time to eat, reflect and eat some more.
It quickly became evident that Jimmy, the smoko go-getterer, was average at his job. It never ended well and was a real lucky dip. Jimmy meant well but, in the two years I toiled for the old man, Jimmy never got one smoko order correct, and there was never any change.
And it’s not like the orders were tough. They usually consisted of a rat coffin or a leper in a sleeping bag (sausage rolls), maggot bag, dog’s eye or mystery bag (pies), dead horse (tomato sauce) and battery acid (cola). Pretty straightforward stuff. So you can imagine, when Jimmy provided the foreman with a dog’s eye instead of a rat coffin and dead horse, he was filthy.
One Friday, the foreman had had enough. He confided in me that he was going to eat baked beans for every meal until Monday so he could punish Jimmy in the most hideous of fashions. He was a man of his word.
Jimmy was gassed from sun-up to sun down, and in every situation you can imagine. Mercifully it finally stopped, but only due to the high chance of a follow-through.
It was a long way from Woolworths but good preparation for my rugby tours to come.
One arvo, Jimmy and I were tasked with bringing the trailer back home. Dad didn’t trust him to back it down the driveway, so it was agreed that I would do it. Dad’s new ute was parked out the front as Jimmy and I drove around the corner. Bang! Jimmy had side-swiped the old man’s pride and joy. ‘How is this possible?’ I thought, with a puzzled look on my face. It was the only car for 200 metres!
J
immy was feeling pretty average about telling the old man. I told him it would be OK and just man-up! The old bloke, always with a keen sense of hearing when it came to the dinner bell, happy hours or his ute – walked up the driveway and saw the damage.
Jimmy cried out in agony – ‘I did it. I did it!’
Dad replied, ‘Forget it.’ And just as quickly, Jimmy said, ‘Consider it forgotten!’
Dad: ‘Not that quick, you stupid bastard!’
Jimmy had short-cropped hair with a bleached mohawk across the top of his head. He bore a strong resemblance to the second-last of the Mohicans and stood out like a prop forward on a catwalk.
So the boys started referring to Jimmy as ‘Skunk’, an endearing nickname if I’ve ever heard one. Obviously, Skunk took offence and complained to the old boy. Dad spoke to the boys at smoko, telling everyone to cut it out. Fair enough.
From that moment on he was known as Pepé (Le Pew).
Apart from Jimmy/Skunk/Pepé’s normal issues, he always seemed to have mechanical dramas. One day after work his car was parked out the front and refused to play the game.
We were all having a couple of frothies down the back when John, the carpenter, offered his assistance. John walked up to Jimmy’s ute, grabbed a hacksaw and cut off his muffler. That was of little use. The car didn’t start and now didn’t have a muffler.
Finally, an RACQ road service truck arrived. The bloke informed Jimmy that the ute refused to start because the Blu-Tack he had put in the carburettor as a temporary repair had been sucked into the carbie.
The mechanic shook his head and dragged the mufflerless, Blu-Tack-ridden ute onto the back of the recovery truck. Jimmy tagged along.
But as the cabin of the recovery vehicle only had a single driver’s seat, Jimmy had to sit on a wooden crate. You could just make out his mohawk above the dashboard.
Jimmy, in spite of his shenanigans, lead an ordinary existence. But one time every year, Jimmy was king.
