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My rant about professional athletes - are they responsible for their actions?  What should we expect?

The Saviors

Ranting about Newfoundland Politicians

Religion

This is not a rant. It's a quest.

Things

Things I wish I could do or could have done.

Piqa

Piqa speaks her mind about what SHE thinks is important.

Farther Along

Some Newfoundland hiking experiences.

The Skidoo

The story of our ill-fated skidoo on Baffin Island.

Letter Home

A Newfoundlander writes home about experiences in the navy.

Snow

Someone once asked me to tell them about snow.  This was my answer.

The "N" Word

What's been done to a simple, innocent word.

Captain William

This is the first song in my project

Gnarled and Knotted Hands

This is the second song in my project

It's the Little Things...

My rant about our Honda Odyssey and Honda

The Lakers

...with cameos by Jack.

Reality is an illusion, but a persistent one. AE

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Power... corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely. LA (with apologies to Jean Cretien)

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God gave man a brain and a penis, but only enough blood to run one of them at a time. RW (with apologies to Kobe Bryant)

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"The older I get, the better I was."  (My favourite T shirt)

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I'm not as good as I once was, but I'm as good once as I ever was." (My favourite self deception.)

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Life is a box of chocolates. FG

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Our choice in this election: A corrupt, arrogant party, or a bunch of strung together rednecks. Hmmmmm! I think I'll lie down.

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Now let me get this straight. The major criticism of John Kerry is that he thinks too much? That, being a decorated veteran, he knows the realities of war? That he tends to consider questions carefully before he answers them? And Bush's strengths are that he responds quickly? That he's decisive? That he uses his intelligence agencies to supplement his intelligence? Well then, there's really no choice is there.

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"Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look. Such men are dangerous." (Julius Caesar)

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This is a venting page. You may find anything here. I write as the mood strikes me, or as the stomach turns. (See over there < for titles - just click on the one you'd like to see.)

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 Farther Along

 We didn’t think it could get any better!

Newfoundland has always been the best place in the whole world to live. We’ve always known that.  Others are discovering this too, and Newfoundland is dressing up for the visitors. Newfoundland’s dress up clothes are very nice. Not in “come hither” clothes like Bar Harbor, Maine, or glitzy like big cities, but sensible, practical clothes.  There are nice sea food restaurants to be found in most small communities;  there are good craft stores.  And, thanks be, many of the craft stores don’t carry Newfoundland mugs, with the handles inside the cup, or cans of Newfoundland fog. In Newfoundland’s newfound pride, many Newfoundlanders are politely telling visitors that they’d prefer to be called “Newfoundlanders” instead of “Newfie”. 

 “Better” for us means outdoor stuff, and, in this specific instance, hiking trails.

 Gros Morne has always been a Mecca for hiking enthusiasts. For some the short, easy hike into Western Brook Pond is enough to satisfy the need for exercise and beauty combined.  For others, the more physically fit and adrenalin junkies, nothing but climbing the mountain itself and looking over Rocky Harbour and Ten Mile Pond will suffice.

 Carol and Piqa and I discovered the trail behind the Discovery Centre this summer.  On the way up we met a couple from Ontario. Says he:  It’s the most spectacular view I’ve ever seen in my life.  Says us (to ourselves):  He’s from Ontario; what does he know. It was one of the most spectacular views we’ve ever seen in our lives.  (Piqa’s life has been fairly short; she’s a six month old Weimaraner.)  Carol enjoyed the pitcher plants; Piqa found a seal bone. This Lookout Trail is a compromise between Western Brook and Gros Morne.  Uphill, it’s about a hour and twenty minutes for two old codgers like us. (Carol is 53, younger than I; but I’m much more immature.)  It’s an hour back down the hill. About twenty minutes of the trip to the lookout is through a mountain meadow, impressively beautiful as the entire time you’re looking out toward the tablelands (some of the oldest rock on Planet Earth), or out over Bonne Bay (so deep and still marine biologist can study many different layers of marine life) .  Moose will often look up casually as you threaten to graze on their pasture, but there’s plenty for all. 

Those trails have always been there. 

Now, thanks to ingenuity, hard work, volunteers and governments grants, just about every little community and outport has developed a trail system to offer to visitors.  Drive through any outport. You’ll see the signs. Newfoundland has seascapes and landscapes; it has flora and fauna; it has moose and caribou; it has 500 Peggy’s Coves. The old folks are discovering that people actually want to walk on the old trails, from community to abandoned community, out to the point, around the head.

In our never-ending quest to make sure Piqa gets her exercise, and in her never-ending quest to make sure we get ours, we drove to two small outports and discovered two new trails. 

Tilting is a tiny outport cuddled snuggly in the Northeast corner of Fogo Island. We found a well marked trail there.  It starts by winding through the tuckamore and abandoned gardens. It’s quite walkable.  On our scale of difficulty, one being the equivalent of strolling around a ball field and five being a six hour hike up the side of Gros Morne, over shale and rocks, this would be about a two and a half. We met an old skipper there. He was sitting down on the side of the trail digging a hole with an old spade. He had planted a rosebush the day before; now he was moving it because he didn’t like where it was.  He pointed out a few pine trees to us that his friends had planted. We chatted; Piqa had no manners.  Through the woods and the gardens after about 20 minutes, the trail wanders along the coast, on flat and rounded cliffs.  There are sawhorses along the way, to sit on. You’ll also see the occasional lobster pot placed for photo ops. One sawhorse actually had a piece of driftwood attached, curved, looking like a horse’s head.  Such is the care and pride that these trailmakers and tenders take in their trail and their community. The hike took about an hour and a half.

The next day, still making our way to St. John’s, Piqa took us to Salvage (pronounced with the accent on the last syllable).  Salvage is at the end of a road in Terra Nova National Park leading through Eastport out to the coast.  Another very tiny, clean and welcoming community. There are no knickknacks in the lighthouses here. It was Sunday morning, around 10:30. We could hear music. Loud.  It was a brilliant Newfoundland fall day; the music was pleasant. But where was it coming from?  As we approached the church, the music got louder.  It was coming from the steeple; it was country gospel, wafting around the entire cove.

Right at the end of the road we found our trail. There were several actually. It wound out around the coast, up the hills overlooking the community.  Plenty of boardwalk; well marked; dry.  The end of the circle we took brought us to a head overlooking the harbour, the ocean, and a couple of small islands.  Piqa was so thrilled with it all she had the zoomies for about 10 minutes. It was so bright, so clear, and the air so invigorating that I started to get a headache. If anyone was of a religious inclination, the words of Farther Along might have seemed a too happy coincidence, and perhaps you would understand why people had lived here for centuries.  (Salvage is one of the oldest continuously populated communities in North America.) They continue to live here in a life style that all those folks from up-a-long are just now discovering.  There were 22 land surveys done in Eastport this summer, all by folks from Ontario and the United States looking to buy homes and land. 

Piqa thinks she’s in doggy heaven, the gospel tunes adding to that belief. We, on the other hand, pause to reflect on what our island is becoming.  A tourist Mecca without the tourist traps (yet). Filled with a polite and friendly people who haven’t yet learned to inflate prices during peak months, restaurants with checkered plastic table cloths, quality dinner theatre, and great seafood.  It was only a few years ago you couldn’t buy a good meal of seafood in Newfoundland. People used to close their doors and windows when they ate lobster; lobster was what you ate when you were poor.

And hiking trails, the wonderful pastime of both young and old. Nowhere are they better than Newfoundland; nowhere are there more; nowhere else will you meet the old skipper planting a rosebush; nowhere else will you hear the community being serenaded by Linda and Emmy  Lou and Dolly. You’d have to go a lot farther along.

It just keeps getting better.

Art  (© April, 2004) 

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Piqa

Here's what I think is important.

Good people. Your people have to love you and be concerned. They have to look after you and feed you and take you for walks and play a lot. They have to like each other too and the other peoples around them.

Good friends.  Your friends have to like you for what you are - big, little, smelly, barky, quiet - whatever.  Your friends shouldn't mind what you do to them, but should let you know if you go too far.  They shouldn't hold grudges though.  You can't get upset when there's a nose up your butt.  If someone knows what you smell like, and still likes you, then you have a good friend.

Walks in the woods. It's nice to be free, to chase critters. (I haven't caught one yet and I may let it go if I do. We'll see.) There's a lot of neat things in the woods, lots of great smells, and no smelly cars and dirty air.  It's great. I like moose poop, especially when it's fresh.

Love.  Love your people and forgive them their foolishnesses. They're learning.  The more you take them for walks, the nicer they'll become.  Teach them to run, to throw and keep throwing as often as you ask them to.  Train them to give you treats; it's easy to condition this response for all kinds of simple things.  They're easy that way.  Allow them on your bed, even under the covers. 

TV. Animal Planet.  (They may want to watch other stuff, but if you bark and wag your tail when it's on and you see your friends, they'll put it on a lot.)

Food. You'd don't have to eat rich, you just have to eat well and share with your people if they want some.  Maybe then they'll share with you.  But I doubt it. (Always keep your nose in the air; you never know when there might be an unexpected treat on the counter.)

Baths aren't important.

Neither are collars.

Piqa (© May, 2003)

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Kobe Bryant

Kobe is a catch all for me these days. Maybe it's just because I hate the Lakers, but I hope not.

In these days when folks like me can't afford to go to a ball game because athletes are making 10 million dollars a year, we perhaps have a right to expect more from these role models.

Everybody seems to have shrugged off Sammy's corked bat; everyone HAS shrugged off McGuire's steroids and Bobby battles on; everyone is in the process of shrugging off rampant steroid use in all sports, including those of the Olympic games. OJ can kill; hockey players can hire contract killers; basketball players can murder "friends."  And still we pay $60.00 a pop to see these people?  Come on now!  Michael Jackson's next album will undoubtedly pay all his legal bills.

Now how about Kobe?  Is he guilty?  Of course he is.  What is he guilty of? Now that's a different question.  He may not be guilty of rape; that's going to be up to a jury to decide. (A whole different question would be, and perhaps should be, whether there's different justice for the rich and famous.)  At the very least Kobe is guilty of adultery, and taking advantage of a 19 year old girl.  (Did she take advantage of him? Come on now!  Really! Shouldn't a professional athlete, a grown man, have just a little control in these situations?) Stupidity is certainly the least of his crimes. Is the "victim" trying to take advantage of Kobe after the fact?  That, too, may be the case, but again, just how stupid or jaded can one man be?

How important is being married to Kobe Bryant to his wife?  Can she honestly think this was a first or last time?  Wilt Chamberlain claims to have made love (now isn't that a euphemism) to 20,000 women. Read it again!  20,000! I'm either WAY ahead of him or WAY behind him, depending on which end of the moral spectrum you're on.

We're (the public, the consumer, the fan) the most sought after, valuable commodity in our commerce driven society. But we have no power. At least, we don't exercise our power. How could we exercise it? Switch channels! Immediately and permanently when something/someone is doing or has done something you consider morally/ethically wrong. As much as you like to watch your baseball, basketball, etc., give it up. Stop buying tickets! We're being overcharged for these tickets anyway, to pay obscene salaries. Yes, these people are better than us at what they do, but they're not better than us at what WE do! (And yes, the owners make too much too!) Stop buying endorsed products!  The endorsements, the advertising make them too expensive anyway. Speak your mind!  Loudly! We really need a voice.

Now don't get me started on politics.

Art   (© April 20, 2004)

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Things (...I wish I could do or could have done)

To be continued . . .

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Snow

You asked about snow.

Well, let me tell you about snow.  

First of all, I have to tell you I’m biased.  I like snow. Snow is warm.

Now that might come as a surprise for you if you don’t live in snow.  Here we do.  It’s not warm all the time.  It’s only warm when it’s cold.  When it’s warm, snow is cold. When it’s cold, snow is warm.

This time of year, when it’s still fairly warm, snow is wet.  When it’s wet, it’s cold; it goes right to your bones.  It makes them cold. Snow isn’t really nice this time of year, except for the very first snow fall.  Then it’s nice.  For kids especially.  When I was growing up and we had the first snow fall, everyone asked the most important question about snow:  Is it sticky?  If it was sticky you could make snowballs; you could make forts; you could make snowmen.  If it wasn’t, you couldn’t.  With great effort you could make a snowball.  You had to squeeze it very hard, and work it.  That would warm it up and it would stay together for a while.  Usually though, when you tried to throw it, it would break apart.  Cold snow isn’t good for snowballs.  It’s got to be sticky.

When it’s cold, snow gets much warmer.  It isn’t wet.  It doesn’t melt down your neck; it just blows right by you.  When it’s really cold, snow gets scrunchy.  It makes a noise like Styrofoam when you walk on it.  You dress warm; you feel warm; your cheeks blush and get hot;  you put your sox on the stove to dry out and your boots in front of it.  You lie down in front of the fire if you’re lucky enough to have one.  You sleep with a comforter on your bed.  You’re warm. 

Some folks don’t like shoveling snow. It’s usually the cold snow they don’t like shoveling.  I like shoveling snow, the warm kind, when it’s cold.  When it’s cold and you shovel snow, you go out all dressed up with a warm beanie, warm gloves, a scarf, good boots, and a warm jacket. You were warm.  By the time you’d shoveled a while, you took off the scarf, then loosened your jacket, and maybe even took off you gloves.  You left your boots on. You didn’t stop shoveling for very long, because you’d get cold very fast.  If you were smart, you’d have a nice hot shower after shoveling, and a nice rum and coke.  Dark rum is the best drink for warm snow, when it’s cold.

Warm snow is also dry. The best blizzards are with warm snow.  The colder the better.  Then the snow drifts.  When I was little, Wally and I would go to the fence.  The fence was a chain link fence on top of a rock wall, separating the bishop’s residence from us ordinary folks. We didn’t think it was a sin to jump off his fence, but it probably was. The combined fence and rock wall and the bank at the bottom must have been a combined 100 feet high.  We were little.  We’d climb the fence to the very top.  The warm snow would drift all the way up the bank and halfway up the fence.  The only way you could get to the bottom of the fence was to start a long ways away and edge your way along the fence.  When you got to the high drifts you’d climb;  then you’d say a prayer that if you got buried alive in the snow someone would find you before you suffocated.  We were very little. Then we’d jump.  The warm snow would envelope you.  It was so soft and warm and dry that you could easily tunnel out before you suffocated.  I think there were lots of people watching us from their kitchen windows anyway.  After doing this for a half hour we’d go home.  Sometimes our toes would be so cold they’d be hot; we’d struggle out of our boots and scream with the pain as our toes thawed out and got even hotter.

The driest snow I’ve ever seen was on Baffin Island.  We weren’t small anymore.  And it wasn’t Wally anymore, it was Carol.  It may surprise you to know that it doesn’t snow much that far up North.  It’s too cold; it’s too dry.  It may also surprise you to know that on the clearest night you really couldn’t see that many stars, because of the ice crystals in the air.  Your greatest surprise might be when you look for the North Star. It’s right overhead. But the snow.  They say the Inuit have 40 words for snow.  I don’t know if that’s true. 

Have you ever tried to build an igloo?  You probably didn’t have much success because you didn’t have the right snow.  You have to have the northern snow.  It’s dry; it’s very warm.  When we did have snow, it drifted.  It was usually windy. As it drifted, it immediately settled.  Within hours after a storm you could walk over the drifts.  You wouldn’t sink in this snow any more than a quarter of an inch.  It was solid; it was Styrofoam.  As you walked up over a drift, it was like playing a musical scale; the snow made the scrunch tones, lowering in tone as you went higher on the drift.  I’m sure you could play a tune.  When you cut this snow to make an igloo, it would cut neatly into blocks that didn’t crumble, that you could fit neatly together, and that would keep you and your family warmer than our most modern dwellings.  And all you’d need to heat it would be a qillaq (a seal oil lamp).  Don’t try make an igloo of wet, cold snow.

How dry was the snow?  Well, it doesn’t melt.  If you should drag some Baffin snow into your house, it would just disappear.  One minute you’d have snow on your floor, the next minute nothing. Gone!  The air was so dry, the snow had so little moisture in it, it would disappear like smoke.  It was so cold, so dry, you’d never get cold. Unless the wind blew.  Then you stayed indoors. 

So, those of you who don’t like snow, have probably only experienced the cold snow, the cold wet snow you get when it’s warm.

If you ever experience the warm snow, when it’s cold and dry, you’ll fall in love with it, you’ll go skiing, you’ll go skidooing, you’ll shovel, and you’ll have a glass of dark rum.

Here’s to warm snow.

Art (© March 2003)

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I like Shaq. But it stops there. (On the other hand, I had 120 lb girls on the one ladies team I coached who could hit 90% from the foul line. AND, I tend to prefer highly skilled small men to Goliaths.)

So why the question up there^?

Well, first there's Kobe. (See my separate rant on what I think of him.) At the very least he represents the almost total lack of morality amongst professional athletes. It doesn't seem to bother Lakers fans.

The Lakers have used all the loopholes to max out their salary cap and spend all the money they can as befits a team in a high market area.

Which brings us to Gary and Karl. They've sacrificed huge salaries to play for a few million just to play on a winning team. (Poor fellas! I wonder if they're made up for it with endorsements in the LA area?) After all, winning is everything. Right? They've certainly put winning above the good of the game. They're certainly put it against the morale of other "lesser" players who haven't already made their millions and who otherwise may be playing on the Lakers. Some of them WERE good and faithful Lakers for a good part of their careers, but were displaced so Carl (one of my spellings is correct) and Gary could get their rings.

Then there's the who's who of Hollywood show at courtside, Jack and his buddies who do their cameo performances in the seats that only they can afford because of the salaries paid to Goliath and the fella who's trying to break Wilt's record of 20 000. (Not points. Scores?)

Somehow I always end up cheering for underdogs. My underdogs always lose against the Lakers.

So maybe I do hate them.

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The Saviors

Newfoundlanders always vote for saviors. Maybe it’s our religious background.

Then the saviors turn around and crucify us. That’s a rather strange irony, but it’s much in keeping with the fact that nothing ever quite works out the way it’s supposed to in this province.

I can’t quite describe the disdain I feel for politicians. 

If we’re in a mess, it’s politicians who’ve gotten us here; if we’ve spent too much money, it’s the politicians who’ve spent it; if Newfoundlanders are leaving this province, it’s politicians who’ve made it impossible for them to stay; if we’re being crucified, it’s politicians who are doing it.

The cycle has become so predictable.  It’s double speak at its best. Political parties change sides of the house and as they’re passing each other in the crossover they pass along their notes and their scripts.  Today the Conservatives are decrying the mess the Liberals have left them in.  We’ll have cutbacks for four years until the handouts start in preparation for the next election. The Liberals are saying things aren’t that bad.  In four years everything will be hunky dory (according to the Conservatives), and the Liberals will be saying how bad things are.  We may or may not change governments at that time, and the same notes will be passed along in the change over.

We started with the greatest savior of all. Himself. Joseph R.  To be fair though, I don’t think JR thought he was god when he was elected; people gradually convinced him of it.  Once he came to the realization of his power and charisma, it was impossible to dissuade him.  That was the beginning of the cycle and the beginning of the mess.

Frank knew he was god right away.  He dispensed miracles, and the mess got bigger.  When he finally realized he could make more money peddling influence than being peddled for it, he got out of it.  It wasn’t long at all.

Brian (what WAS it all about Alfie?) tried to spring something on us.  We’d have tomatoes and cucumbers coming out of our ears. By the time Sprung had sprang, A. Brian was gone, basking in the sun on the wonderful West Coast. Couldn’t get far enough away from us could our Brian.

Tom?  Pity he couldn't speak English. He seemed like a nice chap. Very ordinary though. Not savior material.

Clyde should have been sunk like his namesake before he even got in port. Nflders used to ask:  What’s the difference between Clyde Wells and God? The answer (a clichéd one):  God doesn’t think he’s Clyde Wells. In trying to prove his genius and his superiority to the rest of the country and especially to us Nflders, Clyde made his mark on Canadian History by torpedoing the ship of compromise on Meech Lake.  Clyde very quickly got fed up with our lack of worship and went off seeking new worshippers at his altar.

Then there was Brian. Brian Tobin.  The Tobinator.  Clinging by his fingernails (like the poor Turbot) to all things powerful. Captain Canada; Captain Newfoundland; our greatest savior, destined to save the entire country. Was there ever a more slippery politician?  Was there ever a politician who could milk public opinion and come down on the right side of more debates?  Were there ever more dirty jobs passed off to underlings? Was there ever a more accomplished public figure who accomplished less?  The great unanswered question will always be:  Just what do they have on Brian Tobin?  Heidi probably knows.

Now we have Danny Millions. You know, one of the great questions physicists (at least high school teachers) tease us with is:  If a fly hits the windshield of a Greyhound bus, is there a point where the fly is actually stopped?  Because, of course, if the fly is stopped at any point then so must be the bus.  Well, Danny’s turn around must have brought the whole province to a stand still.  He’s proven himself the master of double speak.  But he dresses so well doesn’t he? And he’s so well groomed.  And he’s SOOOOO rich.  He must be good for the province because he’s made so much money. Save us Danny!  Make us rich like you!  Walk across the Gulf on the water (or, better still, build a tunnel) and convince Ottawa that you’re not going there with your hand out, that you’re there to give THEM money.  Convert the bread and fishes to the Canadian dollar (well, maybe not so great a miracle that).

“When will they ever learn? When will they EV -ERRRRRRR learn.” 

I suppose Newfoundland isn’t all that different from other places in voting for saviors.  Paul Martin is looking less and less like a savior.  Pity there’s only Stephen Harper.  Dubbya?  Well, I’m afraid to get into that.  The only real difference between us and them other folks who need salvation is that we’ve got more to be saved from and we’re therefore more desperate. 

 God bless us everyone!

 Art (© April 20, 2004)

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Religion

I'm a Christian, existentialistic, cynical agnostic. Figure that out.

I believe in good and evil. I believe there is a force for good and a force for evil.

I believe there is a reason; I have no idea what it is.  I believe there is a pattern; I have no idea of its shape.

I believe much of the harm (evil) that has been done through the centuries has been done by organized religion.  I believe much of the good that has been done through the centuries has been done by organized religion. Unfortunately, I think the balance is with the former.

I cannot separate "the church" from the people in the church and leading the church. I believe good people can be found anywhere.  I believe extremely evil people can be found in the most sacred sanctuaries.  They can be found there because we let them live there.

"There is a presence that rolls through all things..."  (William Wordsworth)  On our hikes amongst the fjords of Gros Morne, overlooking the Bay of Islands from the top of Marble Mountain, watching the satellites wend through the stars in the clear skies of Berry Hill Campground, watching blackfish at play, buzzing in irrelevant skidoos around icebergs in the great white wasteland of Baffin Island, reveling in the terrifying horror of storms and nature shrugging her shoulders, one has to know and learn something.  There can't be a man with "soul so dead..." as to be numb to all this.

How personal is this force, this presence? Not at all I say. But in its being so impersonal comes the sense of belonging to something so much larger, so far beyond comprehension, that our insignificant belonging takes on a comforting importance and an anxious waiting for communion.

What is our role in this? In the grand scheme it isn't very much. In our own miniscule mole hill we must make mountains.  Our existence must build our essence.  If you truly believe this, if life is a building, then your purpose doesn't end until you do. It's a constant and endless building. Mistakes, horrid misjudgments, your 15 minutes of fame, are all a part of the process. Accept them all; take responsibility for everything. You are responsible, if to no other entity than the process itself. In accepting responsibility, do not pass judgment on yourself. "I am what I am." (Learn from Popeye!) Learn from everything. Like Thomas Moore, define that part of yourself that is yourself. Make your life a defining and a honing. Where your life ends is where you are and what you've accomplished. Don't give up.

My views are a horrible misrepresentation, perhaps misinterpretation,  of Deitrich Bonhoeffer, Teilhard de Chardin, Jean Paul Sartre, Andrew Greeley, and Yoda. Yoda is probably the only one I understood, but one can never be sure about simplexity. 

To be continued ...

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The Skidoo from Hell

The Little Skidoo that Couldn’t

 Sigh!

 I don’t think it was haunted.  It may not have been possessed.

 But it sat there, black as the devil, full of evil intent. This is all in retrospect of course.  We couldn’t possibly have known this when we first took proud possession of our first snowmobile, a Skidoo Grand Touring 600.

 When I first suggested to Carol that we go north for the year to teach, I don’t think she really thought I was serious, even though I said:  This is going to happen.  When I told her we had job offers at Quluaq School in Clyde River, Baffin Island, she cried.  Now she believed me.

 The planning for the move was intense.  It involved a myriad of details:  preparing the house, ordering a year’s supply of food to be delivered on the Arctic SeaLift, deciding what household effects and furnishings we would take with us.  The school board would look after shipping up to 5000 lbs to Clyde River for us. 

This could include a snowmobile. 

We didn’t own a snowmobile.  Had never wanted to own a snowmobile, despite living in a snowmobiler’s paradise. 

We looked into the pros and cons of bringing a snowmobile to Baffin Island.  “It’s one of the few pleasures you’ll have,” we were told.  During the long days of spring and early summer, you can visit some of the most spectacular fjords in Canada, travel on the sea ice to just about anywhere you’d like to go, travel to the icebergs, travel to the floe edge, see polar bears, walrus, caribou, seal, all while bathed in bright sunlight and breathing crystal clear, cold air.  People live for the spring days on Baffin Island. American hunters pay $25,000.00 for a polar bear license.  The Inuit leave the communities for extended periods to live in outport camps.  Get a snowmobile.  You can sell it when you leave.  You won’t lose much money, if any, on the sale.  All this we were told.  We listened.

We did our homework.  I called Clyde River to see what most people in the community drove.  Skidoos we were told.  The Northern Store is a Skidoo dealer. They carry the parts.  The Inuit are great mechanics, learning to tear apart a skidoo at the same age southerners are learning to play video games. 

We searched.  We were offered good deals on all kinds of machines (because it was early summer and had been a poor snow year the previous year), but we settled on a lovely machine, a Skidoo Grand Touring 600, that had been used as a demo, was fully warranted we were told, and had only 500 kilometers on it.  It certainly looked like a nice machine, but what did I know.

If you have any problems, be sure you contact us, we were told.  We’re one of the oldest Skidoo dealers in the country, and Bombardier will treat you/us well.  The dealer, Dave Callahan in St. George’s, was pretty good to us at this point, except that he ignored my repeated asking that the skidoo be delivered crated (it was delivered “shrink wrapped,”) and that a cover be included in the package (I eventually got the cover 16 months later). 

Our proud new possession was duly picked up and sent off to Nunavut with the bed, the TV, the stereo, bedding, clothes, our new skidoo helmets and jackets. We knew this was going to be a tough year, but because we were campers and hikers, because we loved the outdoors, skiing, scenery, we felt sure, come the spring, we’d have a great experience in the great unknown land.

Snow arrived in Clyde River on September 11^th, never to go away.  The temperatures slowly and steadily dropped.  The teenagers started tearing up and down the roads with the first flake.  Our skidoo hadn’t yet arrived, but it did shortly after.  I waited a while, until there was enough snow so the sand wouldn’t grind down the skis, before I even started the machine.  Actually, I wasn’t even sure I knew how to start the machine.  Ah, I was so proud when I actually started it.  But I didn’t know how to get it to move.  Where’s the clutch? I decided on a subterfuge to see how the thing moved.  I asked our next door neighbour to take it for a little spin to make sure all was well. 

And were the neighbours impressed! In my research I hadn’t discovered that the largest machine they bring into Clyde River is a 500 Touring model, fan cooled.  So what do I know from fan cooled.  My 600 was the largest machine in the community.  I certainly didn’t want that.  I didn’t want to be ostentatious, to be seen as the rich southerner. It was all bad enough.  But people didn’t seem to hold it against me.  They just all wanted to buy my machine.  I certainly wouldn’t have any trouble getting rid of it in the spring.  They pull some awfully large komatiks on Baffin, filled with gear and people, and a 600 would be a blessing for someone.

There wasn’t much skidooing in the fall.  The days grew shorter.  The ice formed on the bay, and it wouldn’t be long before there was eight feet of ice under the skidoos.  I certainly wasn’t going to venture out on the ice before there was at least that much. 

I went on one hunting trip, but I guess I’m not a hunter either.  I was appalled at the terrain they were driving the skidoos over.  It reached a point where I turned around.  I didn’t want to wreck my brand new machine on my first trip.  We went to Cape Christian, an abandoned DEW Line base, about a half hour drive from Clyde.  For me, this was a spectacular trip.  My wife and I made the same trip the following week.  She was equally excited about the possibilities that spring skidooing would offer us.

We drove the skidoo back and forth to school several times a day.  Skidoos were lined up outside the school like motorcycles are in southern schools. 

Then I started to have some problems.  The temperatures were really getting low.  –30C was fairly common.  At the lowest the temperatures settled in at a steady –40C.  The machine started acting strangely.  Maybe it was just rebellious at having been taken from the relatively warm temperatures of the south.  Whether or not it would start became totally unpredictable.  I used heaters.  I exhausted my battery.  I used muscle.  Often I worked for a day trying to get it started.  Other times, when I thought there was no possibility whatsoever of its being cooperative, it purred away at the first pull (if you can call the sound of a skidoo “purring”). 

When the sun finally appeared in January, and the days rapidly got longer, and the temperatures became a “civilized” –25C, we made our first trip on the ice. 

There was a large iceberg trapped in the bay, about 18 kilometers from Clyde, and we were going to be escorted by some friends out to the iceberg, then around the point to come back to the community from the Cape Christian side.

The sea ice was smooth this year, and covered with a light crusting of snow.  There is surprisingly little snow in the Eastern Arctic.  It’s just too dry.  But these conditions made for easy and quick traveling.  You had to be cautious of the wind chill though.  We had our helmets. We had our down filled parkas.  We had our Sorrel boots.  We were dressed like the northern equivalent of dude cowboys. Dude Inuit?

Ah, it started off so well.  Sigh! Whipping along the ice at about 40KPH, the skidoo started to take its revenge.

 The first sign of trouble was a sudden loss of power.  Then off we’d go again. Then another loss of power.  I found that if I eased off on the throttle I could sometimes save it. Several times it just stopped altogether. But it started up immediately, much to our relief.  This happened continually for the first part of the trip, but then the skidoo started humming along perfectly. 

When we got home we figured that the glitch we had experienced had worked its way out and that all was well.  It had been a nice trip, the first of many to come. 

I shut down the machine, covered it (with the cover I had had to purchase from Royal Distributing), jacked up the rear, and said good night to it.

It would never start again.

For the following two days I tried repeatedly to start my nice Grand Touring 600, while those little fan cooled 500s buzzed all around me.  I had several LOUD backfires.  The Inuit were impressed.

Then I dragged the machine up to the Health Centre garage. (Now isn’t that ironic.)  I left it there for two days to dry out and thaw out. 

The mechanics at the Northern Store wouldn’t touch it.  The warranty?  Useless!  They had no equipment to test parts.  They’d bring in one part under warranty they told me.  After that, nada. 

My friendly dealer in St. George’s?  Well, you send us the parts and we’ll test them, said the oldest skidoo dealership in the east.  Have you ever shipped anything to/from Baffin Island?  This could take a while. 

I had the best mechanic in the community, the Inuit engineer at the Health Centre look at the machine.  There was no spark.  That didn’t mean much to me, but he checked out all the possibilities:  spark plugs, wiring, kill switches, ignition, and other stuff I didn’t understand.  Nothing.  Then he decided he’d look at the stator plate.  When he took the housing off, it was filled with oil.  He showed me the stator; it was coated/clogged with oil. That’s the problem, he said.

So I talked to people.  The seal is gone most people said.  The stator can be cleaned and put back in, my dealer in St. George’s said.  There’s nothing wrong with the seal said the Clyde River mechanic.  We can’t help you said the manager of the Northern Store.  We can’t help you said my dealer in St. George’s.  Contact the customer service rep in Western Newfoundland, I said to our friend Nona in Pasadena.  Done, she said. He’ll contact you immediately.  He didn’t.  Sigh! 

Will you bring in a stator plate for me under warranty, I said to the Northern Store.  Yes, they said, but that’s it. Your only part. It will take two weeks.  Two weeks later they said, “It will take two weeks.”  I contacted St. George’s.  Send me one Express Post.  I’ll pay for it.  It arrived in about four days.  We put it in.  We put everything back together.

There’s no spark.  

Sigh!

And that was the end of our skidooing.  That was the end of the fjords, the end of the icebergs, the end of the polar bears.  It isn’t the end of the story.

In the meantime, the stator arrived at the Northern Store. I took it.  I kept it. I gave the oily stator plate to the Northern Store.  It was exactly the same part I had purchased from St. George’s.  To my memory (I had checked part numbers), all three stator plates were exactly the same.  The mechanic, when replacing the plate checked the two parts in my presence. They were the same.

Now we had to get the #%$^#skidoo home.  Several Inuks wanted to buy  the machine the way it was.  They were convinced they could fix it.  I was convinced they couldn’t.  I wouldn’t sell it to them.  I could have, and run very fast.

Now I had to make arrangements to get it home.  It would have to go out on the return voyage of the sealift.  I had to crate it. There is no wood on Baffin Island.  You can’t buy wood.  I had to scrounge.  I had to cut crates out of the ice.  I had to scrounge nails.  I managed to create something that was relatively rectangular, and that may hold together for the remainder of the summer and early fall while waiting for the boat, if the boat arrived, if someone remembered to put the skidoo on the boat.  I had little hope it would actually hold together for the trip.  I thought I would be very clever and put the skis on backwards making sure everything was well braced so it wouldn’t slide around.  It took me three days to build the crate. It was June 6^th.  It was –6C.  I got a sunburn on the top of my bald head. 

The plot is still thickening.

Apart from occasional worrying that the skidoo wouldn’t get on the boat, I pretty much forgot about it until mid-September, when the boat was scheduled to arrive in Clyde. I phone my friend Graham. Graham repaired my crate and told me everything looked fine. I phoned Jukeepa, the principal. I phoned everyone I knew to make sure they kept an eye on the machine and to make sure it got on the boat.  It didn’t.  But there was another boat.  It did. 

The second boat took over a month to get Montreal.  I spent $460.00 to pay for that portion of the shipping. Then it had to get to Newfoundland.  Clarke Transport took care of that for me, for another $460.00.  It arrived in two weeks.  To my surprise, the crate looked intact. 

I opened it.  The skidoo cover was gone ($150.00).  The skis had been removed and placed under the skidoo.  (Now how did that happen?  Where did it happen?  Must have happened on the boat I guess.  How did they ever manage to get the crate back together. You should really see this crate.)  The battery was missing ($108.00 plus).  Two belts were missing ($50.00) each.  A few little odds and ends I had in the storage compartment were missing.  (Do you know those little rubber thingies that attach the windshield cost over a dollar each?) 

I borrowed a trailer. I brought the skidoo from hell to the skidoo dealer in Little Rapids.  They were good to me.  The customer service rep in Western Newfoundland was good to me (too little too late).  They worked on the skidoo for two weeks.

First:  They replaced the battery.  Then:  They discovered the electronics module was defective. (Nah!  They don’t go bad the St. George’s mechanic had told me. We’ve never replaced one.)  They got spark.  (We have spark!!!  Yeah!!!).  It started. But something was wrong.  Back so square one.  Consult Bombardier. Check everything again.  The stator plate was the wrong one. Go figure! Replace the stator plate.

Finally!

All’s well.

Let’s go to St. George’s said I to Carol.  We went.  We got our skidoo cover.  They gave us the money back for the stator plate. They were very good to us, at this point.  Much too little, much too late.  We told them the story.  The seal must be gone they said!  Oil can’t get in there unless the seal is gone. But the mechanic in Little Rapids says he checked it, put back pressure on it.  It’s fine.  No!  Can’t be.  You’re going to have the same problem again. 

I now have the devil skidoo covered, jacked up, sitting in my back yard waiting for our first trip of the season.  We have our trail pass for the hundreds of kilometers of groomed trails in the area.  I’m afraid to use the skidoo.  It’s going to get me.  I’ve been told it’s going to get me.  I’ve been told it’s fine.  Sigh! 

I think I’ll burn it.  It’s from hell.  It will enjoy the heat.

Sigh!

Art (© December 2001)

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_____________________

It used simply to mean who and what you were and where you were from.

It was a simple word

Now it’s terribly complicated.

Newfie.

I think it was Mary Walsh who said that at its best it’s patronizing; at its worst it’s demeaning.

Newfoundlanders, perhaps because of our religious background, perhaps because of subservience to merchants and captains and clergy, believe everything that’s said of them and do what they’re told to do. How long have we been told we’re lazy? How long have we been told we survive because of handouts? How long have we been told not to question God’s will? We were, essentially, a subservient race.

Quite the opposite is true of course. Newfoundlanders have not survived in this climate, as fishermen, as loggers, as miners, for 500 years because they’re lazy. They don’t go begging for handouts. (They still don’t question God’s will.)

Newfoundland entered confederation as an independent country and brought with it resources beyond imagination. We brought the world’s greatest fishery; we brought (as we discovered later), some of the world’s greatest oil fields; we brought endless expanses of forest; we brought minerals; we brought the boundless energies and enthusiasm of a people hoping that their generations of hard work would finally be rewarded.

And we were rewarded with the "N" word. All the ethic jokes and slurs that had in turn insulted the Irish, the Polish, the Pakistanis, were now "Newfie" jokes. We, in our innocence and willingness to get along, even told them ourselves. They were even mistaken for Newfoundland humour to which they bore no resemblance whatsoever. (Newfoundland humour is tongue in cheek; it’s yarns, it’s priceless anecdotal accounts of hardship made self deprecating and full of irony.)

So, a perfectly innocent word, "Newfie", took on all the bitterness of intolerance, superiority, or again, at best, patronization.

We feel the undeserved shame, most of it heaped on us by our "countrymen", the upper Canadians with auto factories and retail stores. Not fishermen, not loggers, not miners, sales people.

What has Newfoundland brought to this country? Great forests that have been raped for Globe and Mail newsprint? The world’s greatest hydro electric project that makes all its profits for Quebec? One of the world’s greatest offshore oil developments that fills the coffers of the federal government? What was once the world’s greatest fishery that was traded off to foreign governments so that they would buy Canadian reactors or Canadian rail cars or they could sell us submarines? A province of 500 000 people contributing a great fishery, three of the world’s great paper mills, hydro power, and oil. Statistically (and yes, I know, the devil can quote statistics for her purposes) Newfoundlanders contribute four times as much per person to the Canadian economy as Quebecers and three times as much as upper Canadians. $10,000 per person. That’s a fair contribution don’t you think? And yet we take HANDOUTS? What’s the strongest word that comes to mind here? Everything was traded off because Ontario and Quebec have more seats in parliament, because they’re more important to Canada than Newfoundland. Because they may separate.

Now our greatest industry is rapidly becoming tourism. Our quaintness, our "hospitality" is becoming valuable. Our clean air, our clean water, our "inexpensive" campgrounds in their private, wooded spaces are becoming much sought after. Mainlanders in their $100 000 motor homes are not completely happy yet, though. The campgrounds don’t have all the hookups. They don’t have cable TV running to all the sites; they don’t have hotspots for wireless broadband connectivity for laptops. While in the one breath we’re complimented that we’re not tourist traps, with the next breath we’re bemoaned because we don’t have the "conveniences", the service, the restaurants, the craft stores. (In recent trips to Rocky Harbour I can’t help comparing it to Bar Harbour Maine. It soon will be.)

I have immense pride in this province and in its people. Having grown up in a paper town many miles away from the nearest fishing community, I can romanticize outport life more than others and regret that I was not a part of it.

So how do I react when someone greets me with, "Hey, you’re a Newfie"? When in the next breath they insist on telling me the latest Newfie joke? I confess that my reaction may be unfair to them. To me, the way they use the word "Newfie" brings with it connotations of "stupid", "naïve", "gullible", "lazy", and "killers of baby seals". Maybe they just mean I’m one of the "salt of the earth" people, but not quite as realistic as I should be. My first reaction is anger. I stay calm and politely say, "I’m a Newfoundlander." If they catch the undertones they quickly apologize and we go from there. If they’re socially inept, they smile and continue with their Newfie joke. At which point I leave. If I can’t leave, I tell my "mainland" joke, you know the one about how the Newfoundlander tells mainland cod from Newfoundland cod? The mainland cod being the ones with the big mouths!

So, just like the other "N" word, the only folks who have the right to use it now are those who own it. Buddy Wasisname and the Other Fellas own it. That’s OK. All Newfoundlanders own it. It’s a great word, but YOU can’t use it anymore, because of what you’ve done to it. Maybe some day, with respect, with appreciation, with understanding of how privileged you are to have us to teach you graciousness, hospitality, humility, and of the great country we brought to this great country, we’ll let you use it again.

(I can tell that joke. YOU can’t! It’s a different joke when I tell it.)

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__________________

It's the little things...

Wednesday Morning - 8:00 am

It's the little things in life that get you down. They shouldn't, but they do.

Take the last few days, for example.

We have a Honda Odyssey, a car that I've never been happy with. It's a noisy vehicle; the windows flute in a crosswind. (When I told them that, a month after I bought the car, the service manager shrugged his shoulders.) It's a 2002. There's rust INSIDE the van. All around the driver's seat (which probably cost an extra couple of hundred dollars because it's leather and full power), is rusting out. It looks horrible. Will Honda cover it under warranty? No! Of course not. They only cover the outside. They'll cover the inside up to 60 000 km. (I could understand if this were a mechanical problem, but a two year old vehicle rusting INSIDE isn't covered by warranty? Really?) The mag wheels, also at extra cost, have little Honda logos that are falling off. Will Honda cover it? No! Of course not. It's outside, but it's not a perforation. Just falling off.

Now there's a recall on the transmission. Honda has known about this problem for quite some time apparently. Last month I brought the van in for servicing and told them about transmission problems I was having. They took it for a test run and said they could find no problem.  I told them they wouldn't because the problem usually didn't appear until it had been running for about an hour.

So I got the recall notice.

I brought the car in for brake work (Wednesday) and to have the transmission checked. (A $420.00 brake job on a two year old car.) This would take all day so I asked for a loaner. I had to sign a form agreeing to a $2500.00 deductible. I did, after complaining about it.

Late that afternoon I called.  "Sorry," they said, "we meant to call you earlier, but it's been one of those days."  The transmission had to be replaced. "It's too late," they said, "to get you a rental today. We'll get you one tomorrow. And we can't do the transmission until Monday." (But I had the appointment for today, and the appointment was made last week, and you knew you might have to replace the transmission.)

Tomorrow.

"There are no rentals available in all of Corner Brook and Deer Lake. Besides, Honda will only pay $40.00 a day for a rental; and you'll have to pay the insurance. You hang in there," they said, "and we'll get you a rental."

"May I try myself?"

 "OK," they said, "but remember the limits."

I went online and found I could have just about any car I wanted from just about any rental agency for less than $40.00 AND my insurance would be covered by my GoldCard. I wonder just who they checked with?

I called Honda. "Eric will call you right back," they said.

Three hours later Eric called. "Sorry to be so late getting back to you. It's been one of those days."

"Will you reimburse me if I rent the car myself?"

"We have a car for you." 

I just had to be there the next morning at 8:00 because someone important wanted the loaner at that time. Is that a little much? Make sure you get the loaner back by 8:00 am? "You'll have to transfer your insurance," they said. "But the insurance doesn't open until 9:00," said I, feeling like a character in a sitcom. Ah!  "We should have told you yesterday, but it was just one of those days."

8:00 am. I was driven to the rental agency where I was given a subcompact (some kind of Dodge) that is probably the most horrible vehicle I've ever driven. The agency (Hertz) is charging the dealership $39.95 plus taxes for this car.  I had a full sized car lined up from Avis for $32.00. Taxes included. Insurance included. Something going on here?

Why can't I have  my van instead of a rental? Is it in pieces? "No," they said, "but since we've determined there's a problem with it, we can't let you have it because of liability problems." Now I kind of understand this. I could have insisted I suppose and signed a stack of papers to drive my own van. I pointed out that I had already told them there was a problem, and that Honda KNEW there was a problem, and they let me drive away that time. The service manager didn't comment on that.

So now Carol and I and Piqa are going to go to Gros Morne to a little hike and to buy our season's pass. We're going in a little blue coffin. If we don't make it back, then send this to Honda.

If we do, I think I'll write a little more about cars, car dealers, and what both do to us.

I expect several more shoes will drop on Monday. I expect I'll be told it's a reconditioned transmission.  I expect I'll be told the warranty will only last as long as the original warranty. (So all Honda has to do is make sure it lasts 10 000 km. Not very comforting.)

It's been one of those weeks.

Appendix I:  Monday, May 31st - The car was supposed to be done today. It's 8:35 pm right now. Haven't heard from Fairway Honda.  Sigh!

Appendix II: Tuesday morning, 9:45 -

"Your car is ready. We need the rental back this morning."

"I'm sorry!  You can't have it. It's in use until 12:30."

"But you knew we only had the rental until Monday."

"Yes. But my car was supposed to ready Monday. I didn't hear from you."

"Yes, but we have to get that car back this morning."

"I'm sorry. It's not possible. You should have phoned me and let me know the van was going to be ready this morning. What was I supposed to do, sit home and wait for your phone call?"

IF I had gotten the call yesterday, I would have been there first thing this morning with the rental, paid my bill, and gotten back home in time for Carol to use the van. I even would have been willing to be there early and wait for the van. Instead, "Eric" was quite indignant with me for not being able to deliver the rental car on his demand. It's the first time I actually got a little testy with him. (All through this I've been extremely polite and cooperative; it's not my nature to be otherwise. Now I'm upset.)

This may not be the end.  Stay tuned.

Tuesday, 11:00 pm - We picked up the car at about 1:00 pm. I was right. The warranty only extends to the original warranty, another 10 000 km. Everything seems fine though.

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I love people who read all the way to the end.  :-) (If you sign the guest book, and if you want to, use the word "OK" somewhere in your comments so I'll know you finished your homework.)