This Happened By Accident?

A few days ago I was sitting in my cabin sipping hot black coffee at daybreak. I was looking out my window towards Lake Superior watching two pairs of ducks paddle around. The males were white with black heads and the females were kind of drab brown. For no apparent reason, one of the male ducks took off suddenly and flew in a large circle around the bay just skimming the water's surface. He was flying so fast he covered perhaps a kilometre or more in a few seconds. Faster and more maneuverable than any man-made machine could possibly fly. At the end of the flight he whistled by my cabin perhaps at a final altitude of 20-feet or so. He then made a final circle and landed beside the female duck as if to say, "Did you see that Babe!" "I can really fly. I'd also make a great daddy - if you're interested."

I took another sip from my coffee and reached for my laptop. Just then I noticed a small spider rappelling down a single strand of web preparing to land on the table. The spider had descended from one of the rafters on the ceiling. I made no attempt to squash this spider. Rather I marvelled at it's amazing ability to manufacture it's own rope, as needed, and rappel effortlessly down to the kitchen table. It would be like me doing the same thing from the top of the CN Tower - which certainly has been done by several of my former SWAT colleagues across the province. Only they had to bring their own rope, folded neatly into a bag worn on their thigh. I don't know of any SWAT guys that can fabricate a rope inside their body and dispense it out their butt as needed.

It is at times like this - when I marvel at nature - that I am confident there is an intelligent Creator. Some people believe all of this happened by accident. I think believing that creation, with all of it's amazing complexities, happened through evolution and accident, takes far more faith than believing in a God that created all things.

Many people get tripped up on the details. The seven-day creation story being one of the stumbling blocks. But if you think outside the box for a minute, what is a day to a timeless God? Could God have created the world as we know it with all of it's complexities in seven, billion-year days? Why not?

Don't cut the rope because it doesn't fit into your intelligence bag. Believing in God means that you have to admit that some things are beyond your level of security clearance. Try acknowledging that if there is indeed a God - then he's probably a lot smarter than you are, and you'll never comprehend how things came into being. Or at what point does the galaxy end, and so on.

Ghosts Along the Shore: A Short Story

Calvin wiped the blood from his eyes and focused on his surroundings, taking all things into consideration before drawing any conclusion.  First he saw the large black numbers on the fuselage veiled in a fog of black smoke with a protruding tail faintly visible above the wreckage, marking the highest point on the flat, endless tundra.  Then he noticed the upturned moss and soil skewered by shards of twisted metal and the fresh elongated gouge in the black earth now filling slowly with water.  Granular cubes of glass lay all over his jacket, up his sleeves and inside his shirt against his skin; while boxes – both intact and split open at the seams – lay at his feet, and farther towards the wreckage gear was strewn all about on the mossy, green surface.  He detected the smell of burnt plastic, gas and outboard oil mixed with the damp, sweet smell of peat, and faintly, as the wind shifted ever so subtly, he could pick up a faint odor that reminded him of scorched pork on a flaming barbeque.  It was an odd smell that he couldn't quite place that came and left wistfully as the breeze off the coast twisted along the ground.  It wasn't carried by what you'd call an offshore wind, but by the dancing gust one encounters when sitting around a campfire at night, where the smoke eventually gets you regardless of where you place your chair.  In this manner the strange odor came and left; his nostrils strained curiously in order to focus and understand it, and between periodic wafts he mused about its origin, and finally, with a degree of morbid realization, he concluded it was the smell of burning flesh – likely the Cree pilot or one of the guides.  

Just then a column of thick black smoke swept over him from behind where he lay on the moss and slowly this column lay down over his head and enveloped him.  He choked and coughed heavily and tried to move away from the smoke, but his legs failed to bend at the knees when he lifted his torso off the ground in order to move.  The smoke lifted as quick as it came, and as his choking subsided he drew in a deep breath.  He looked down towards his boots and inspected the length of both legs.  All seemed fine.  No debris seemed to be in the way.  He lifted his torso again and tried to roll over onto his side, but a piercing pain drove through his back and halted his movements.  It was a pain like he'd never experienced before.  He lay back on his elbows gasping in anguish and looked, once again, at his feet and legs.  He picked up a length of aircraft aluminium that lay beside him and began touching his legs with this piece of twisted metal.  He could feel nothing.  He tapped and scraped both of his legs systematically with the sharp end of the aluminium and found no feeling from his thighs down to his toes.  He dropped the metal and slumped back – his head nestled in a clump of moss-covered earth, arms splayed listlessly to his sides – and a hollow sense of defeat swept over him in a crushing wave.  

Suddenly his quiet remorse was shattered by a piercing scream.  He looked to his extreme right, and from under the remains of a seat and a portion of the aircraft floor appeared John pushing the portions of wreckage away with his stiffened arms and breathing heavily.  John paused, then gasped, and let out a second piercing scream that lasted longer than the first but tapered off as his lungs voided of air.  

“John!  John!”  Called Calvin, timing his shout after the second scream.  “Calm down, calm down.”

“My legs are broken.”  Cried John, who screamed some more.

“Don't move – try and stay still.”  Said Calvin.

John screamed again, this time not as loud and as long.  

“John, the bears.  Remember the bears.”

“I don't give a shit about the bears.  Let them kill me if they like!”  Cried John.

“You don't mean that.”

John said nothing and reached for his legs, face grimacing, groaning sickly.

“John, you must be strong.  They will come and rescue us, you'll see.  We must stay alive for our families back home.”

“I have no family.”  John screamed again.  This time a weak cry ended with sobbing.  “The pain... aaaggghhh!”

“Lay still and be quiet John.  The bears will see the tail of the plane soon enough.  Don't encourage them.”

“Aaaggghhh!”  John screamed again.  

“You must be quiet.”

“Aaaggghhh!”  

“Shut up!”  Calvin snapped, loosing some patience.

“Aaaggghhh!”

“Shut up you fool – shut up!”  The yelling seemed to strain Calvin's back so he lay his head down and rested, shaking his head back and forth in quiet despair.

Some time passed without the screaming and Calvin lay still, worried that subtle movements might catch John's attention and cause him to cry out some more.  The sky was blue with a few round greyish-white clouds and the temperature seemed pleasant enough, given the circumstances, and Calvin mused that if the plane had not crashed it would have been a spectacular day for some trout fishing on the Sutton.  He thought about those tide pools near the coast with the clear water and the green leafy weeds swaying in the current like the dress of a Hawaiian dancer – and sultry too like the hips of a beautiful woman – and the eager trout that eased in and out of sight between the waving weeds and the hollows in the sand, and how the trout would come and gather near his feet when he shifted them on the bottom causing a conical vortex of silt for them to feed in.  They were smart yet dumb, Calvin pondered.  They would partake of the opportunity to feed on the scuds and other insect life that were kicked loose by his boots, but lacked discernment in their choice of foods once he cast out a fly – as poor an imitation of real trout food an artificial fly seems to be. 

He thought about those weeds again waving in the current, and how they made him think of a golden field of wheat bristling in the wind on a small knoll out back of his father's farm in Saskatchewan.  And the girl from Biggar whose blonde hair blew and waved in the wind just like the wheat, and about her lips and how he kissed them on that same knoll.  She was beautiful.  Tall and sultry with high cheek bones and full red lips; ice-blue cat eyes and long eye lashes; a few faint freckles on her nicely shaped nose and on her cheeks – that flushed pink in the wind – and a voice that was just faintly raspy and deep.  He could almost smell her now as he remembered that feeling he once had for her.  That strange love-sick feeling that lives hollow in your stomach and makes your hands cold and nervous, and how his hands felt so good on her sides and how he could feel her breathe and how lovely she looked in that sundress, and how perfect she seemed, and how pure his thoughts for her seemed to be.  He missed her now.  She would have given him comfort.  But something had happened not long after that time in the wheat field that told him her intentions were not as pure as his, and that he was being entranced by her wavy hips and the smell of her hair and the softness of her lips, and he failed to see what lied beneath that outward beauty.  This seemed to be one of his faults.  He was enchanted by the appearance and aroma of things without discerning their deeper, inner motives.  All things considered, he was much like a trout when it came to such things.

Just then he lifted his head to check on John and saw that he was lying still and not making any noise.  He wondered if he was dead, but he saw his arm move subtly like someone asleep and dreaming.  He took this opportunity to inspect his surroundings.  To his left he saw his daypack, durable blue nylon with black straps – seemingly unscathed by the unfortunate chain of the morning's events.  He reached for the closest strap but it lay a few inches beyond his grasp.  He picked up the aluminium shaft, bent the tapered, sharpened end to form a make-shift hook, and then held it out with his left hand and tugged the pack closer until he could get it into his grasp.  He opened the top flap and undid the drawstring closure and began to pull out the contents.  All the small and insignificant things seemed strangely special now as he arranged them carefully on the ground beside his body.  A squirt-top water bottle reminded him of his thirst – something he hadn't yet thought about – and the water seemed sweet and cheerful as he squeezed the bottle and showered his tongue with the heavenly liquid.  He sprayed his face and moved his head in a circular fashion like he was standing in the shower and then stopped abruptly, closing the bottle and placing it back in the daypack.  Water would be a rare commodity considering he could no longer use his legs.  The next item that caught his eye was the brown wrappings of a chocolate bar with the small white print on the back listing the ingredients.  He picked up the bar and read the ingredients: milk chocolate, peanuts, sugar, corn syrup, hydrolyzed soy protein, and so on.  He split the wrapper, peeled it back carefully and took a reasonable bite.  He chewed it thoroughly, crunched the peanuts lovingly with his molars, and contemplated the mixture of wonderful flavours and considered what significance the hydrolyzed soy protein played in the whole scheme of things.  He looked at the daypack, pulled out the water bottle and washed the bite down with a conservative splash of water and then returned it, and the chocolate bar, to the daypack.

To his right he viewed the butt-end of an olive canvass gun case protruding from an uprooted clump of green moss.  It was within reach – as awkward as it may have been – and he was able to gingerly pull the gun and case to his lap with a minimum of back discomfort.  He unzipped the case and drew out the rifle, examining curiously the weathered stock, pale-blue and pitted steel bolt, rusted barrel, abbreviated fore end, and antiquated sights.  He lifted and pulled back the bolt, stiff and gritty, eyed the empty breech and peered through the empty magazine housing.  He then lifted up the gun case by the nose and shook it, dumping the magazine heavy onto his dull left thigh.  Looking at the top of the magazine he counted three, silver-tipped .303 cartridges.  He pressed down on the top cartridge testing the spring, which recoiled acceptably albeit with gritty reluctance.  Calvin placed the magazine into the rifle, snapped it securely in place with a blow from the heel of his right hand; then chambered a round and shouldered the weapon, lowering his right eye to the rear sight.  He shook his head grimly: it was a lame excuse for a firearm.  

“You've found the gun.”  Said John.

“Yes.”  Replied Calvin.  Disappointed that John had awakened.

“Good.”  Said John, who groaned and whimpered as he ran his hands gingerly towards his aching thighs.  “Now you can shoot me.”

“Shoot you?”

“Yes.  Shoot me.  I'll lay still and you can shoot me through the head.  I'd rather die quick than lay here and die slowly of pain.”

“I can't do that.  You'll live.  You must lay still and suffer quietly.”  

“I hate suffering.” Said John.  

“Everyone must suffer, John.  We all have a cross to bear.”

“Oh bullshit.”

“You’ll see.”  Said Calvin.

Calvin shook his head from side to side on his pillow of moss, feeling nothing but a faint chill in his torso; his legs numb, calm, and strangely vacant from the rest of his body.  

“You're a missionary, Calvin.  You like suffering.  That's part of your job.  But it's not my thing.  Just say a prayer.  Don't you have an in with the Almighty?  Say a prayer for me.  Pray that I'll die quickly so this pain will stop.  Pray for courage and shoot me quickly in the head.”

“John.”  Said Calvin, trying to remain calm in the face of mounting frustration.  “Just try and be still and quiet.  Stop thrashing about and maybe say a quiet prayer yourself.  I’ll also pray for you.”

“I can't pray.”

“Why not?”

“How can I ask a favor from someone I do not know.  You just don't do that.”

“But you can.”  Said Calvin.  “It's alright to do that.”  

“No.  I can't.  It's not right.  I've done nothing for God.  How can I ask for favors when I don't even believe.”

“You must believe, John.”

“Enough of that shit.  Just shoot me for Christ sake.  Shoot me.”

“Alright.  If you wish.”  Calvin shouldered the rifle sharply in annoyance and pointed it towards John, who looked at him with disbelief.  Calvin squeezed off a round, lifting the barrel slightly as he pulled the trigger.  The rifle barked and jumped in Calvin's arms, and some moss flew upwards several feet from John's head.  

“You shot at me.”  Said John.  “Are you nuts?”  

“You want me to try again?”

“No!”

“I didn’t think you really wanted to die; now just be quiet and take the pain.  Like I told you before, your pissing and moaning will bring the bears.  They will see the white tail of the plane and the smoke and they will come soon enough – without your encouragement.”  Said Calvin.   

Calvin lay quietly looking up at the clouds again and shook his head softly.  The exchange had tired him and he needed peace.  He purposely stopped talking with John and slowly John's restless chanting subsided and he drifted off into unconsciousness once again.  

Calvin chambered another round into the rifle and scanned the horizon as best he could.  Behind him some brush obscured his view, and it was just as well; looking behind was difficult given his predicament.  In front of him, beyond the wreckage, he could see the rocky coast of Hudson Bay with the large white boulders along the shore, and the endless sand and driftwood.  Farther out from the beach the intermittent white flash of waves breaking on the reef formed like dashes on a computer screen – and played games with his mind.  He strained his eyes, which watered as he stared at the breaking waves miles from where he lay, and wondered if all of them were indeed waves and not something else floating to shore.  He moved his head back and forth and from side to side, cracking his neck and swallowing dryly.  It was late afternoon now, and Calvin thought about the ensuing darkness.  It would be a long cold night; difficult to live through – especially for John.

He laid there and thought about his life, vignettes of which flipped from one to another: childhood to teen years and adult life, the good and the bad, the conquests and defeats.  Periodically he looked back towards the sea; it was a receding tide and the beach became larger every time he looked.  The rocks, grey, white and yellow – some piled like snowmen – looked like they were shimmering and swaying in the northern sun as wisps of heat rose into the cool afternoon air.  Calvin knew the bears would come from there amongst the rocks.  They would come in with the tide from beyond the reef and rest, basking and licking their fur, and sampling the air with their black noses from time to time in the shifting breeze until they found the scent of prey.  Calvin had seen them along the coast on many occasions, on his flights between Peawanuk and Fort Severn where he ministered to the Cree people.  They called them “Wabusk”, or white bear, and treated them with a mystic, almost religious reverence.  Calvin remembered Sam Hunter saying with a wry grin that the last word spoken by his father was “Wabusk!”.  They once hunted them for their fur, but the work in the hunting, the transporting, and the curing of the hide made it hardly worth the effort.  Instead they admired them from a distance and charged tourists big dollars for the chance to photograph them with telephoto lenses from tundra buggies.  The white bear was a magnificent beast to behold from a light aircraft, but a horrifying sight to encounter on foot.  Calvin swallowed hard and stared back into the sky.  They were alone on the shore and dying.  Two crippled men, two useless legs, and two shells to stave off white death.  It was a haunting shroud.  Death, although palliated by his religion, was nevertheless a trip he'd never taken.   

Calvin decided to eat and drink the rest of his provisions.  He opened his pack and removed the water and the remainder of the chocolate bar.  There was no need to save anything for a tomorrow that would never come.  

Evening crept slow and coldly as the sun sank in the western sky and painted the clouds with orange and purple.  The heat waves from rocks on the beach no longer danced and the waves on the reef no longer flashed white.  John lay almost listless now, moaning softly in quiet, helplessness.  Calvin gripped the rifle across his chest and lay patiently, waiting for darkness.  The left side of his face was warm and lit by the orange light while the right was cool and dark.  He shivered uncontrollably now as the cool, damp salty air chilled the core of his body.  He prayed for deliverance, and if not deliverance then mercy, and if not mercy peace.  

As he finished his prayer he spotted a flash of reflection in the sky to the northwest and he lifted his head quickly in order to focus.  A small black spot moved westerly through the sky and flashed from time to time with the reflection from the sun.  It was the size of a mosquito against the empty sapphire sky, and faintly now he could barely hear the drone of an aircraft.  His chill ceased as he propped himself up on his elbows and watched the black fly-like shape cruise up the coast.  The drone slowly developed into a pulsating impact that Calvin recognized as the blades of a helicopter.  They had come to their rescue – but the craft was still miles away.  

He scanned his surroundings and noticed how the empennage of the plane glowed strong and white in the setting sun, and how the vertical and horizontal stabilizer cast a shadow in the form of an elongated cross in front of him.  A large rock pile he hadn't noticed before was also lit from the sun and stood directly north towards the beach.  It reminded him of the piled-rock markers that the Inuit called “Inukshuk”.  This Inukshuk would serve as a landing marker, Calvin thought.   

“John!  John!  Wake up!”  Called Calvin.  “They've come to rescue us!”  

John mumbled something imperceptible.  Calvin could see he was shivering heavily and barely lucid.  Calvin lay back briefly to rest his back, and hoped the chopper would land soon.  He looked towards the shore again at his marker rock, and noticed it was larger now.  He snapped his focus abruptly and gazed suspiciously at the Inukshuk.  Something was wrong with what he was seeing, and he desperately hoped it was his fatigue playing tricks on him.  He looked away momentarily and then looked back, but what he was seeing was not a mirage.  Now he could feel the shrill fear build within, wafting from his toes through his face and onto his brow.  He became totally rigid.  Every cell in his body froze.  His breathing ceased, even his heart seemed to stop momentarily.  Then a harrowing pall came over him in a wave and his pulse began to thump heavily in his throat.  He sifted a cautious breath and computed the yellowish mass.  The top of the Inukshuk had moved and Calvin could see it was a large white bear with nose held high, swinging his head from side to side scenting the air.  Then the head dropped and its shape became lower to the ground and it lumbered towards him.  The chopper was closer now – but Calvin was not sure if the pilot had spotted them yet.  He gripped the rifle tightly and checked to ensure the safety was off.  His shivering returned with insufferable intensity.  The white lumbering shape was larger and closer now.  It moved big and strong and heavy on the dark green tundra that sank under the bear’s immensity with paws like dinner plates and black hooked claws and shoulders that rolled with a poised muscularity and powerful predatory head undulating from side to side as it walked all confident in its bearness.  It seemed to drift effortlessly – like a ghost.

The bear's head dropped to explore a small hollow and Calvin took this opportunity to lift the rifle securely into place and position his cheek to the stock.  The bear rose from the hollow and continued ambling towards him.  Calvin held the sights on the nape of the bear's neck where it met his chest in an angular 'V'.  The bear drifted across the tundra and Calvin's heart pounded heavily as he strained to take good aim.

“Boom.”  The rifle thundered and flame shot from the barrel for three or four feet.  Calvin re-chambered the rifle and searched for the bear as he settled from the recoil.  It stood tall now on its back legs, paws held and bent from its chest as it searched inquisitively for the source of the loud noise.  Then its large white head with a round black nose and beady black eyes pointed straight towards Calvin – and he knew it had spotted him.  It dropped to all fours and now moved swiftly, doggedly and angrily towards him, advancing with ears laid flat like an attacking cat, and eyes that pierced him.  Then the bear halted instantly and sniffed the air detecting something to its side: it had smelled John's blood and heard his faint groaning.  The bear turned brusquely and stepped towards John who lay helpless amongst the wreckage; his head nestled in the moss and his throat open and vulnerable.  Calvin lowered the sights once again to the base of the bear's neck.  All things focused on his target like he was gazing through a narrow tunnel.  Things appeared in slow motion as he carefully squeezed the trigger.  He had one shot, but one shot to the base of the bear's skull would drop him instantly.  

“Click”.  The rifle misfired.  

Calvin frantically chambered once again and watched helplessly as his last full cartridge flipped to the ground.  

The bear stopped its advance towards John and turned towards Calvin.  He could see the blades of the chopper now flashing largely as it lowered to the ground in the last glow of the sun.  He held the rifle like a bayonet as the bear stepped towards his feet and blocked his vision.  The thump of the chopper blades was deafening and debris and grass blew heavily about. The bear's yellow fur whipped in the wind and sparkled in the orange light.  Calvin closed his eyes and prayed, “Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for a friend.”

***

How Scotty Got His Groove Back

It's always this time of year that a strange transition occurs within me. Towards the end of winter I kind of slip into a seemingly terminal funk. I think too much - often about things I can't change, and also about the negative. No, I don't think that I'm unusual in this regard. I think this sentiment is shared by most of us humans - at least those who can be open and honest about their feelings.

Because of this funk, I usually find it difficult to shift gears once spring comes. I know there are steelhead swimming upstream in the rivers near my cabin, yet I need some kind of motivation to get my "shit" together. It's like I'm stuck up to the axils and need to be pulled out of the mud.

Once that happens, I'm away to the races. Everything seems right with the world and there is an extra spring to my step.

I'm at that transition point right now. I'm up to my axils, but I feel like I'm getting my tires back on solid ground. I just need that extra pull. Perhaps what I need is to get out for an afternoon and toss a fly into some cold water.

Then all of a sudden I'll be getting my equipment ready, tying flies, sorting out my vest and picking up groceries for the cabin.

Once I'm at that little place I call "Scuttlebutt Lodge" with the wood floors, red-stained cedar siding, and the rotting deck that looks over Lake Superior; I'll sit in a plastic chair, maybe puff on a cigar and look at the point of Vert Island that tapers off into the water on the horizon. And I'll say "Jimmy Crack Corn and I don't care" to those things that were bogging me down, and "Let the games begin!" to another swing through spring, summer and fall.

If you're in that rut I spoke of earlier, maybe me sharing this experience will help you get your groove back.

It just worked for me!

Steelhead Season

Steelhead season is upon us - already. This is the earliest I've seen the run in the twenty-five years I have been pursuing steelhead. For those of you who don't know, "steelhead" is a nickname for rainbow trout - specifically rainbow trout that live in the ocean or Great Lakes and migrate up river to spawn.

In normal years the first fish show up when the rivers break open in mid-April. This year break-up has occurred probably a month early. Rivers have actually opened up, risen with the snow melt, and dropped already.  A number of enthusiasts have been fishing for two weeks or so already.

I'm not ready. I have some projects left over from the winter that I should have done a month or more ago. I always seem to be behind this time of year. I never seem to be ready for steelhead season because it comes upon me like an unexpected guest. It's not like other seasons that are designated by a certain date - like hunting seasons - but it comes when "mother nature" is ready.

I have steelhead fished at Easter before but we are still way ahead of that timing. Many years ago when I wrote for a magazine called Wild Steelhead and Salmon I invited the editor to come and fish with me on the May long weekend (around May 18th if I recall). When he arrived we found that the run was just starting. Our plan was to get ferried out to St. Ignace Island and fly fish for steelhead on the remote streams of the island's south shore. But we were faced with a very big problem: The lake was still frozen over! We fished some small creeks in a heavy rain storm on the mainland until they became too high and dirty to fish. We finally decided to drive back to our hotel room in Red Rock and get dried out. Good thing we did because later that day the Jackpine River washed out the Trans Canada Highway and left many people stranded on the east side of that wild river.

After the rain stopped we went to the Natural Resources office in Nipigon and asked where we might find some inland brook trout lakes. We were given a map and some names of lakes where fishing might be productive.

We went to two of those lakes, and as you might have suspected, they were frozen over as well. We then went to the Nipigon River, which was high and dirty, and did some casting practise under the guise of fishing.

This unpredictability is one of the things I respect and enjoy about the outdoors. Nothing is on schedule - at least our schedule. This is why every year anglers, hunters, skiers and other enthusiasts gather around coffee shops and pontificate about weather conditions.

I wish I had $100-dollars for every time I heard an outdoors person say, "It's been a funny year."