Hayseeds Revisited

Upon carefull consideration, perhaps all those hunters aren't so bad afterall. Well at least this guy anyway

Kids And Guns

I am currently in the middle of my second day off in the last two months with activity in and around the hangar having slowed down enough that I could escape. Exercise was the aim of the day and I managed to get out for a run which offered me the opportunity to become a tourist again, as I dragged my ass to the west end of town which I hadn’t yet explored. Not being much of a runner it doesn’t take much to get me distracted so how could I possibly pass up the opportunity to find out where Honey Bucket Road led? I couldn’t, although I was reasonably certain of what I would find at the end.

Not too far after having crossed behind the last of the runway 09’s approach lights, I came upon a nice little sign that informed all those who dared that Seepage Lake was just up ahead. Given my own history with sewage and field-camp septic systems I was naturally curious as to how waste is dealt with up here. I couldn’t imagine them treating it then pumping it into the river, but imagine my surprise when I rounded a bend and amongst the lush yet rapidly changing vegetation I discovered that Norman Wells has it’s very own poop chute. Though a little confused to discover that there was to be “No Dumping” without permission.

Reflecting upon the summer I have found that there is an amazing amount of people of diverse backgrounds making their way through town either for work or play. I have met all sorts: surgeons, engineers, almond farmers, concrete salesmen, Scotsmen in canoes, the Redneck Messiah and of course the boozy hall of fame baseball player. Not once did I think that in this little faraway community that I would also meet a convicted cop killer. Didn’t think too much of it at the time, mostly because I had no clue, save for the fact that he had only one arm, he was just another guy coming out of the bush.

I didn’t actually find out that this fellow was from the wrong side of the tracks until one of our pilots was telling us how during a little bit of a piss-up in camp this guy was a little disappointed that the TSX wasn’t allowing him to trade on the exchange. When asked why, he was apparently quite frank about the fact that he had shot a cop in the face, going so far as to finding an old newspaper article about the incident on the Internet. When I met him at the hangar he seemed like a pleasant enough fellow, but I guess the powers that be kind of frown upon that kind of behavior on Bay Street.

Thus far I have found that the most difficult people to deal with are not the geologists that want the pilots to land in the tightest of spots, or the residents of Ft. Good Hope who constantly phone us up wondering if we have any machines that are going to Good Hope. The Pipeline people and the ridiculous guidelines and procedures that they force us to operate under are a breath of fresh air compared to the next Yankee hayseed who either shows up with a rifle and a grin or calls us on a sat phone with a tale of woe and how they will pay any price to get out NOW!!

Last night was the latest in the “I must get out of here it is an emergency” and it followed the previous day/nights six hour ride in the mountains that went from bring in and place 2 hunters, to move 6 more groups while you are out here in deteriorating light and weather conditions. The call we received yesterday was from a fellow that was suffering from kidney stones. He had been chomping on Tylenol 3’s for the past 3 days and needed to get out. With only 3 hours of light left he wanted us to fly 100 miles into the mountains pick him up, then try to find his wife wherever she was, return to base camp so they could gather their wallets, passports and pack up then fly even further away to refuel and then return to Norman Wells. When discussing that we may not be able to get his wife because of fading light this fellow couldn’t decide whether it was an emergency or not. When the helicopter did launch, I made a call to the nursing station to advise them that we were going to be bringing in a fellow suffering from kidney stones. The reply was: “ Call us when you arrive…” and “ Is this the same fellow that was in here yesterday for kidney stones?” The helicopter returned just over an hour later without any passengers, Mother Nature wasn’t allowing a trip into the mountains. The hunter called back, where was the helicopter? The weather there was good of course.

As morbid as it seems, it is so much easier dealing with body bags. They’re not in too much of a hurry to get home, we are not going to risk life and limb to retrieve the already deceased and the Coroner’s Office never complains about the cost of the flight.

Amongst the recent tragedies it is amazing to discover how the residents deal so matter-of-factly with death and as was described when the last of the drowning victims was discovered, overjoyed with the discovery of a long missing relative. Recently I drove one of our pilots to his hotel, which is also home to the “Big Bar”. Upon our arrival in the crew van a visibly drunk native lady made her way directly toward us and offered her thanks and then told us that she was the wife of Joe Turro, mother of Adrian. It took me a moment to recall that they were two victims of the Mackenzie River drowning. As a token of gratitude she offered me her Rosary, a very touching moment that was only interrupted by here request of money for another beer.

This week we will be flying another fellow to his cabin just in the shadow of the foothills, when asking about the possibility of a flight he offered that he was quite tired having spent a long day digging a grave. I asked if he would be able to call again the next afternoon to which he responded that he had a funeral to attend to, would it be all right if he called in the morning?

Moment’s like those make it very difficult to have any sympathy for some arrogant ass that dropped 25 grand to go on a hunting expedition but was too foolish to deal with his searing dick pain before he left home.