By Staff
Apparently the depths of winter have all of us in a fireside mood for I've received a number of positive comments on last week's column. Considering that, I'll try another chapter of that episode. For those of you that missed it, we are back in the winter of 1968 and my Indian partner, Dominic, and I are resurrecting a run down tourist lodge in Northern Ontario.
Along toward the shank end of winter Dominic and I both had a serious case of cabin fever. We were tired of the 40 below temperature, tired of living in snowshoes and, most of all, sick of our own lousy cooking. One can only eat so much fried potatoes and pork chops. Dominic suggested we hop the train down to Sault Ste. Marie to see if we could find a buddy of his, Phil Paquette. Phil was an old logging camp cook and, according to Dom, the all time master of a wood cook stove.
The train ran south three days a week. On its scheduled day we snowshoed the two miles to the tracks and hung out the signal flag. The train was the sole mode of transportation in that country. Boarding the rickety, wooden passenger car the aroma of greasy trappers and sweaty loggers hanging in the steamy air made your throat catch. Come to think of it, our camp didn't have a shower, either, so we fit right in.
An hour or so along the train stopped at the logging village of Localsh. No sooner had the train screeched to a halt when two of the loggers awaiting to board decided to fight. This was no school kid shoving match, they went right at it. I'd led a pretty sheltered life and had never seen anything like this, with grownups and all. Both were wearing calk (pronounced cork) loggers boots, the soles bristling with long, sharp, steel spikes. Their legs were spinning like the hind legs of two alley cats, those calks ripping deep into clothing and flesh. They swung mighty blows and bit chunks from each other like sharks in a feeding frenzy. The snowy arena turned bright red as they thrashed about. It ended as abruptly as it had started and the battered duo silently boarded as if nothing had happened.
It was late afternoon when the train pulled into the Sault. What I didn't know at the time was that Dom had a strong penchant for the bottle and he'd been too long dry. He headed straight for the old Algonquin Hotel. "Where we goin?" I asked Dom. "Gonna have a beer," he replied in his normal short, clipped manner. "But I'm not old enough to go in a bar," I protested. He just motioned me on with a tip of his head. Back then the hotel had two drinking rooms. The one up front was for the upper echelons and couples. If you went around to the alley in back, though, there was a single, nondescript door that led into the back bar. This was for the lowlifes and more adventurous soles.
I'd never been in a real bar before and was a bundle of nerves as we made our way down the narrow alley and entered the dimly lit room with dirty, smoke stained walls. There were maybe a dozen scroungy, bearded loggers and a handful of disheveled Indians lounging about. Dominic selected a table close to the back wall. The bartender came over and Dom ordered two Northern Ales.
Somewhere during my third Northern visions of being hauled off to jail disappeared. Then, out of nowhere a bottle flew across the room and shattered against the wall right behind us. Now two more guys were rolling around on the floor, scattering tables and chairs in all directions. Geez, I thought, is fighting all these people do up here? Without a word Dom calmly picked up his chair and set it down with his back against the wall, motioning me to do likewise. There we sat, my innocence broken, drinking beer and watching the Wednesday afternoon fights. The Canadian version of Sunday afternoon football parties, I reckon. Carpe diem.
Larry Lyons writes a weekly outdoor column for Leader Publications. He can be reached at larrylyons@beanstalk.net