with Dennis
Kaska It’s all Lord Byron’s fault. Lord Byron’s and all those who followed in his footsteps. He, the larger than life hero, the rebel, the rumoured incestuous lover, the brooding enigma, the gallant nobleman fighting for the Greek insurgents against the Turkish oppressors, the poet who unwittingly stumbled upon the greatest advertising scheme - dying young. (This trick does work to this day - James Dean, Kurt Cobain - but most of the fame-hungry stars perverted the original romantic scheme of "dying young" to a more convenient and hedonistic "forever young" scheme.) Now, over 170 years after his death at the age of 26, and in spite of the efforts of people like Henry Miller and P.J. O’Rourke, the western world from Prague to San Francisco, from Rome to Buenos Aires, is still in the clutches of romanticism. Lofty emotions, un-manageable passions and larger than life revolutionaries (especially if they die young) sell well; every women’s magazine prescribes a candlelight dinner (preferably in one of the more expensive restaurants) as a great (almost compulsory) start for a passionate evening of sex, the writers of formula romances are the best paid people among the contemporary word-slingers, and Che Guevara’s poster used to hang (quite recently, measured by the historical distance between us and His Romantic Lordship) on walls in teenagers’ rooms from Helsinki to San Diego (with the possible exception of teenagers’ rooms from Moscow to East Berlin because teenagers in that part of the world usually did not have rooms they could call their own, and because the Romantic Supreme, great Che, was a friend of the Politburo-approved revolutionary Fidel Castro, and therefore unacceptable as a teenage idol to any self-respecting youngster behind the Iron Curtain). This fascination with the romantic does not limit itself to sex and politics. Led by lumina- ries such as Jack London and Farley Mowat, the romantics enter the cathedral of Nature to either purify their souls and get closer to their roots or to experience the danger of ruthless wilderness. Bewildered readers then often wonder why, for example, wolves behave like people; one day they read about cunning, bloodthirsty demons, next day they can’t help but fall in love with benign and benevolent maintainers of cariboo herds. Oh, I still remember the exciting days of my own romantic longings. Fresh from the Old World, eager to explore the supposedly unspoiled paradise of Beautiful British Columbia, I was stuck in a totally unromantic job, dreaming of wilderness adventures that had been unavailable in overpopulated Europe since the days of King Arthur. However, my longings were a bit of a mystery to me since I’m not a brave person. The courage I had been allottted was being used up on coping with the hostile and inhospitable realities of the corporate world. Tracking a wounded leopard in a thick riverine bush, snorkeling in shark-infested waters, exploring cities like Mendelin and taking a leisurely midnight stroll in New York’s Central Park were not my favorite activities. Yet I was dreaming about a wilderness adventure. (Since then my romantic ideal somewhat evolved. These days I’m dreaming about a cabin on the shore of a pristine lake that is inaccessible to the hordes of ghetto-blasters-carrying, all-terrain-vehicles-riding, and beer-bottle-smashing punks who fulfill their romantic dreams at lakeside campsites in an uneasy symbiosis* with the owners of mammoth-size motor homes, equipped with mini TV dishes and "quiet" generators, and boats as big as their temporary dwellings.) Where was I? Oh, my evolved romantic ideal! A cabin on the shore of a pristine lake. Well, actually, before that I was talking about my dreams of a romantic liaison with wilderness, a wilderness adventure. I was still young then and I romanticized wild places the way history-deprived Canadians romanticize Roman ruins or medieval castles. It took a full year of unromantic labour in the capacity of a slave to one of the corporate gods before I earned two weeks of freedom for which the corporate deity invented the term "annual leave". But finally my romantic dream was coming true. I had fantasized for months about the haunting silence and serene tranquility of deep wilderness. I bought a used pick-up truck; a king cab with a fiber glass canopy and 6.5 liter motor. It had two 100 litre gas tanks (yes, those were the days when gas bills did not amount to 30% of your income, when taxes did not eat up another 50%, and when you had more than 20% left for beer, mortgage, groceries, and corporate uniforms; these days only MPs, LMAs, prime and other ministers, senators, bank executives, rock and hockey stars, and drug dealers - simply put, the folks who compose the middle class today - can afford the luxuries, like two 100 liter gas tanks on a vehicle, that were within the reach of every sawmill labourer twenty years ago), and a special carburetor that any racing car would have been proud of. I told my girlfriend about my plans and I got an enthusiastic ally. She’s a German; the Germans are consumate romantics (i.e. Richard Wagner). She brought maps of B.C. interior (her favourite was a detailed aeronautical map) and traveled all the back roads with her index finger. It was exciting, but our sex life deteriorated - she was constantly talking and making plans. Finally, one brilliant July morning everything materialized. The pick-up
was going down a gravel road, my girlfriend was happily chatting away on
the seat beside me, mountain tops sparkled white in the distance, the bush
beside the road smelled like a bubble bath. The track turned away from the ranch and climbed for two miles straight up.At the top, we stopped and consulted Monika’s aeronautical map. It showed our track going south parallel to a large lake for about twelve miles. At the southern tip of the lake it followed a river for some forty miles until it joined a major forest road. The problem was that there was no trace of any lake. It was a mystery, and mysteries are quite romantic. We pressed on. Instead of going south, the track went straight east, and it kept on climbing. It was very puzzling. Finally we reached level ground. A wide, deep creek across the track was very scenic. White water was rushing over boulders. Two huge logs with rotting boards nailed on top served as a bridge. The access ramps on both sides seemed older than the "bridge". Monika was optimistic. My pragmatic genes fought with my romantic alter ego. Monika and the alter ego won. The logs held, my nerves almost didn’t. It was a very romantic experience. I took a beer brake to recuperate. Monika joined me and made fun of my trembling hands; it wasn’t her pick-up. The scenery changed drastically soon after we left the creek behind.
Trees got smaller and smaller. Soon there was just short grass and rocks.
Monika spread out her aeronautical map on her smooth thighs. When it dawned on me what kind of jam I got us into, we were half way down and the brakes were smoking. I knew our only hope was to go forward until we reached the forestry road forty miles south of the lake. But what if it was impassable, what if we got stuck? I tried to swallow a non-existent lump in my throat. Monika did not seem to have any worries. I clenched my teeth and pushed on. The valley at the bottom was in full bloom. We crossed a shallow creek and I spotted a perfect campsite. I parked the truck under a pine tree and Monika ran into a meadow full of wild flowers. She came back holding an ox daisy, love in her green eyes. It was very romantic. I could not spoil it for her, I kept my worries to myself. We made a small fire and warmed up some horrid stew from a can. To cover up the aftertaste, we opened a couple of beer cans. The dinnertime entertainment was provided by the setting sun. The mountains turned pink which slowly turned to purple. I gave Monika a kiss, grabbed my towel, and went along the creek in search of a romantic bath- room. Just around the bend , I found a narrow sandbar. I stripped and jumped into a small pool. The water felt like razor blades. I came out as fast as I went in. Feeling refreshed, I looked around. It was an enchanting place. The purple haze gave everything a soft look. Even the dark, steaming pile on the narrow trail I was walking on looked more attractive in the romantic light. I studied it and decided that it was not there ten minutes ago. A closer examination led to the realization that I was facing an ursine excrement. Given its size and the ecosystem in which it was deposited, I came to the con-clusion that an ordinary ursus americanus was an ulikely depositor. Logically, that led to another conclusion: the likely depositor was a well-built specimen of ursus acrtos horribi-lis. In some mysterious way, the second conclusion was instantly translated by my body into a somewhat elevated puls rate. Although I knew on the conscious level that running away from a bear was a no no, my legs lacked the sophistication of my conscious mind. I reached the camp at a speed surpassing the well-advertised Ben Johnson’s drugged performance at the Seoul Olympic Games. Monika was already in her sleeping bag under the canopy when I landed beside her and slammed the tail gates shut. My news weren’t exactly an effective lullaby. We lay there in the growing dark, sheltered by a quarter inch thick fibre glass shell, our eyes wide open and our ears pricked. We woke up in the morning to find fresh deep scratches on the trunk of a pine tree that stood mere fifty feet from the truck. We didn’t waste any time with the relatively unim-portant activities like washing, brushing our teeth, and eating. I drove away as fast as the quality of the track allowed. It was a beatiful day. The sun was shining from the cloudless sky. We crossed a marsh, we crossed two more creeks. We were lucky the weather was so dry. At last we got a glimpse of the lake. We stopped by an old log cabin. There was no sign of people outside but when I pushed the door open, I could not believe my nose. There were dirty dishes, spilled ketchup, greasy tools, patches of oil, and a bunch of fishing rods and reels in various stages of disrepair. A swarm of flies was buzzing above a rotting fish in a plastic bucket. Someone had to be around but I was not going to wait for him in the cabin. The southern tip of the lake was just a stone-throw away. We drove around the cabin and ended up on a beach that was half a mile long. Finest white sand and swarms of black flies. Monika sprayed herself with bug repellent and ran on the wet sand, waves lapping at her bare feet. She was very happy. The scenery was gorgeous, our isolation complete. How romantic. I was getting so worried that I had to occupy myself with something practical.
I gathered dry twigs and branches and started a fire. Monika came back from
her romantic jog and hugged me and kissed me. She was laughing, she was
silly like a puppy. Something in my expression made her stop. A beat up four-wheel-drive truck crawled out of the bush and headed for
the cabin. I ran after it. It was coming from south. The driver had fresh
news about the condition of the track ahead. The four by four stopped behind
the cabin. The driver got out and saw me. By the time I came up to him,
a woman walked around the truck and sat down on a stump. They were quite
a pair. He was short and fat and she was tall and skinny. Their clothes
were probably never washed and they smelled of rancid grease and smoked
fish. I told them about my fears and asked them about the track. They just
stared at me. It was quite uncomfortable. Finally the guy lit up a cigarette
and cleared his throat. The woman got up and began to unload some gear from the pick-up box.
The guy walked behind a clump of bush to pee. The audience was over. I said
"thanks" and "bye" but nobody answered.
After THE CLIMB, the log "bridge" was peanuts. I drove over it like a seasoned backbush pro. I was not stopping. We still had the deep ruts ahead of us. If it started to rain we’d get stuck. Spending our whole holiday at the "ranch" that was operated by border collies was not my idea of a good time. After I saw the cabin at the lake, I refused to even imagine what the ranch house looked like inside. Not talking about the smell. Monika did not say a word. A black bear ran across the track in front of us and I kept on going. Monika did not protest. We passed the "ranch". The collies were still on the job. It was too darn hot, we were hungry and thirsty, but I drove over the ruts, I wasn’t stopping for anything. Well, I thought I wasn’t. Until I came over a hump... and there
it was. A big D8 bulldozer was coming up the track. We had nowhere to go.
I honked my horn to let the operator know we were there but the monster
kept coming at the same speed. That’s when I realized there was no
operator. I shifted into reverse and stepped on the gas. Over the hump we
came and I was praying that our wheels didn’t slip into the deep rut.
The yellow behemoth climbed on top of the hump. Monika stared at it wide-eyed,
her hand squeezing my forearm. But she did not have to worry - the hump
threw the steel King Kong off its course. It left the track and pushed its
way through the stand of medium size pines. The trees were snapping under
the blade like toothpicks. We watched in utter disbelief. The cat began
to climb a hill and knocked down a big fir. There was a huge boulder further
up hill. The monster hit it with the blade but the rock held. It took a
while for the diesel engine to stall. There was nothing we could do. Very
carefully, I drove over the hump again, hoping it had been a rare apparition.
The path was clear. Half a mile down the track we spotted something moving
through the bush. It was moving in circles. We stopped and had a better
look . It turned out to be a man on his hands and knees. It looked like
he was sniffing out truffles. But he wasn’t sniffing, he was touching
the ground like a blind man looking for something. I got out of the truck
and walked over to him. He wore greasy coveralls and smelled like a still
in the backbush of Tennessee. Ten minutes later we parked in his backyard. He lived in a very old trailer. The yard was littered with rusting pieces of machinery, empty oil drums, and many bottles. A skidder and a bucket loader were parked beside a fenced area with a chicken coop. Chickens were all over the yard and a big dog was watching over them from under a five hundred gallon gas tank that was sitting on two logs. Someone kicked open the door leading on a small porch. Out came a woman who, judging by her use of language, definitely wasn’t a lady. She paid no attention to us, the verbal abuse was aimed at the cat operator. We assumed that she was his lawful wife. He stumbled, skinned his shin on a rusting backhoe bucket, and fell down. We hopped into the pick-up and backed out of the yard. The road led us to an Indian reserve. We did not spot anyone. We drove through the village and were chased by a pack of strange looking dogs. About half a mile past the last house, the road was going around a filthy looking swamp. A native teenager had a pick-up parked on the road above the swamp and was throwing garbage from the box into tall reeds. Several old cars were rotting in the stinky water. I stepped on the gas. The Indian kid and his pick-up disappeared in a cloud of dust. I looked at Monika. She now looked quite serious.
We spent the evening staring at the flames of a small campfire. An owl was hooting from a big fir tree behind the outhouse. We agreed that we had found our spot.We spent relaxing ten days swimming, reading, sitting around campfires, and daydream- ing. It did not rain once and the most exciting thing that happened was the arrival of a middle-aged couple with a tent and a canoe. They were quiet, kept to themselves, and stayed only two days. Monika still remembers that holiday. I met her the other day. She has two kids and a husband who climbed quite high on the corporate ladder. They have a motor home and they go skiing to Aspen. But she told me that those ten days were probably the best time she has ever had. And I had to agree with her - it was really romantic.
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"Can you imagine what would happened if it
rained?" I asked Monika but it made no impression on her. The sun was
shining and she was having a true wilderness experien-ce. Her illusion did
not last long. We came upon a ranch. We felt cheated. So this was the deep
wilderness: an old tractor, a rusting bailer, a half-decomposed barn, and
all sorts of domestic animals out in the pasture behind a rotting snake
fence. No people in sight but two border collies were supervising a couple
of goats, a bunch of rabbits, a flock of geese, and two pigs. This was not
the romantic place we had dreamed of.
Climbing up to the first switchback
was quite easy. The second switchback made us spin the wheels on
lose rocks but, somehow, we made it. Then the engine stalled. The sudden
silence of deep wilderness was not music to our ears anymore.
A wooden sign nailed to a tree pointed to the
left and said "Lake". No name, no mention of the distance. We
followed the track the sign was pointing to. The track was well-traveled.
"Lake" with a campsite and aquamarine water was just two miles
off the road. It wasn’t big and it wasn’t surrounded by high mountains.
The campsite was empty; it had three picnic tables and an outhouse. Loons
were calling and a family of ducks was quacking near the boat launch area.
We were emotionally drained. Trying to have a romantic adventure was more
exhausting than exhilarating, it was more stressfull than office politics.
We stripped and went for a long leisurely swim. The water was warm and clear.
Fish began to feed; they were jumping all around us.