I remember this one time I was heading south and passed these two trucks going north. They were tankers, and the older guy in one truck was explaining certain things about sex to the younger guy in the other truck. This older guy knew everything, and I mean everything, about the human body, the reproductive system, and sexual activity. He was explaining the many, many ways a man can take a woman to whole new heights of sexual excitement, and I’m telling you, most of this was stuff you couldn’t make up in your wildest dreams. I don’t know if he was some kind of sex therapist or something, but I think every driver within a hundred miles was jotting down notes! You could have heard a pin drop on the radio that night! It was so interesting that when their radio signal started to fade I felt like turning around and following them just so I could hear the end of the conversation.
Another time, I was listening to these two truckers, and they were talking about what they were going to do with their money when they finished the ice road season. One guy said, “I think I’m going to rent a warehouse and grow marijuana.”
The other guy said, “It’s not as easy as you think. You have to really know what you’re doing.”
“It can’t be that hard. Every bozo in Vancouver is growing weed.”
“Yeah, but they’re getting caught, or screwing it up, just like they screwed up everything else in their lives.
“You need to get really good mother plants and you only take cuttings. You’re only going to keep the female plants and throw away the males. Can you tell the difference between a male and female marijuana plant? Put it on your checklist. You need to deal with fungus and mites and all kinds of pests. It’s a full-time job, and most guys don’t realize how complicated it is.”
“How do you know all this stuff?”
“I have a university degree in botany.”
“So you know how to grow marijuana?”
“Sure, but like I said, it’s not just growing a plant. You need to know all kinds of skills. You have to install electric wiring, fans, ozonators [an apparatus for converting oxygen into ozone], reflectors, and water-pumping systems. You need to set up your thousand-watt halide lights with timers so that the plants have a set period of darkness that changes as they grow. You need to figure out a cover story so that the electric company and the cops don’t start wondering why your little warehouse is chewing up enough electricity to light a football stadium.”
Well, I would never get involved in something like that. But I found it darned interesting—just like those other guys talking about sexual techniques. When the radio started breaking up, I wanted to turn my truck around and follow this botanist guy so that I could hear the rest of the lecture.
You Think That’s Funny?
The radio is your main companion on these long drives, but that can be a mixed blessing. Some of the drivers get a little bit silly after a while. Everybody has a different notion of what makes a funny story. There were these two young guys who used to fool around on the radio, but they were not funny. Doing animal sounds, acting like idiots. I think they needed to change their medication. It was so obnoxious I had to turn the radio off.
People tell me that I have a sense of humor, and I like to think that I can tell a good story. So I’ll do my best to entertain the other drivers with a tale or two when things get slow. But I happen to know that certain people do not find me amusing. I’m sure that more than one driver would like to invite me outside and tell me why he doesn’t think I’m so darned funny. But I never get to hear their opinions because I’m big and I’m grumpy. You can get away with a lot when you’re big and grumpy.
There were these four young drivers who used to be very entertaining. These guys were funny. They weren’t big and tough and funny. They were just funny. They made up a comedy radio show, complete with commercials, songs, guest stars, and what have you. They could do great accents, and one of them would impersonate a guest star like Guy Lafleur or some other famous athlete or politician. It was really, really entertaining. I would kill myself laughing. If I heard that they were on the radio I would be searching every channel to find them. I didn’t recognize all the accents they were doing, but I guess some of them were supposed to be truckers working on the ice road, and I guess some of the guys they were imitating were not amused.
One night one of these funny young guys was sitting at the edge of a lake, waiting for the message on the radio that it was his turn to cross the ice, when another truck pulled up behind him. The driver of the other truck was one of the guys they were mimicking. Well, he got out of his truck and walked over to this young guy’s vehicle. Our young comedian must have watched him coming in the rearview mirror. Oh boy . . . this guy was big. And he was ugly. And he hadn’t bathed in a month. He jerked open the door of the truck and pulled that young fella out of the cab and threatened his life right there. Told him he was polluting the airways and to keep his damn idiotic jabber to himself. And that was the end of their radio show.
I was disappointed. You need funny stuff to break up the monotony. These young guys made the miles go by easier. But I guess this big ugly guy, he thought he was the head of the Radio-Television and Telecommunications Commission, and took them off the air.
Religion
They say that you’re never supposed to talk about politics or religion at a dinner party. That’s not true on the ice road. The more touchy the subject, the more the truckers want to talk about it.
I don’t jam my religious faith down anyone’s throat, but it’s a major part of my life, so I’m not likely to talk very long before the subject comes up. I like philosophy and I like debating with people about interesting ideas, and what could be more interesting than the idea of God? I’m not reluctant to talk to nonbelievers, and if they have really thought about God and decided that he doesn’t exist, I respect their opinion. All I’m saying is, Keep an open mind. If you’re going to have opinions, you have to have to start off with an open mind.
Keep a healthy respect for doubt. The most dangerous thing you can have is certainty about your own opinions. You have to do your research and be honest about considering the possibility that you might be wrong. If you can’t argue against your own beliefs as well as you could argue for them, you’re in a lot of trouble, because it means you haven’t reviewed the evidence. We all know a hell of a lot less than we think we know. Anyone who thinks that he understands how the world works is deluded.
I’ve had times when I was almost out of gas, out there on a deserted road in the middle of the night, and I prayed to God to help me, and sure enough, something always happened. My parents and grandparents brought me up a Christian and a Roman Catholic. I heard many stories as a child about God and prayer bringing my family through Siberian concentration camps, the war, and general hard times. They taught me to pray. After leaving home as a teen, I stopped going to church but I came back when I was in my twenties and had a young family. Initially I believed because I had faith in what I was told. As I grew older, I experienced and saw God work in my life and in others’.
I believe in God for simple reasons—I’ve seen how He can change things in a person’s life. I know alcoholics who tried every possible tactic for quitting drinking. And nothing worked until they got down on their knees and asked God to help them. Just ask God for help and your life will change. But don’t take my word for it. Talk to some people whose lives have been saved by a simple leap of faith, then ask yourself, “What’s the harm in trying it?”
And it doesn’t even have to be big problems like addiction. Suppose you’re an old person and you’re afraid of falling down and breaking your bones. Just put your hands together and say a prayer and ask God to help you and right away you’ll notice a difference. You’ll find yourself catching your balance just when you were going to fall. Try it. You might be surprised.
And of course some people look at the way I live, cussing and carrying on, and say, “If you believe in God, how can you swear like that?” Well, it’s part of my culture. People ha
ve a certain way of talking in Paris and we have a certain way of talking in the north. I don’t believe swearing makes you a bad person. I have a “Trucking for Jesus” sticker on the door of my truck and I do volunteer work in prisons and hospitals. I figure that makes up for a few cuss words. I believe that God can see deep inside your heart. He doesn’t sweat the small stuff.
One time I started talking to this other trucker about religion. He was a Mennonite, a grain farmer from northern Saskatchewan, and I guess he didn’t go to church very often. I told him, “You’re older now and you’ve got a family, you’ve got to start thinking about making your peace with God.” He had his views and I had mine, and I guess the Mennonites don’t have much use for the Catholic religion, but we had a very good talk as we rolled along. We talked religion for six solid hours, all the way from Lockhart to Yellowknife, and I don’t think we changed each other’s minds in any way, but it was respectful and interesting.
That was years ago, but sometimes I’ll run into a trucker who will remind me of that conversation. He’ll say, “You know, I once listened to you and some other guy talking religion for six solid hours. And I never placed much faith in the church, but that sure was an interesting conversation. And it made me reconsider my opinion about religion.”
That shows you that you never know—someone could be watching you, listening to you. It’s not necessarily the big things that we do in life that influence other people. Sometimes it’s the small things you don’t even notice yourself. I’ve seen that happen so many times. Every day you get out of bed and go into the world, and you’re like a stone hitting the surface of the water. The ripples go out in big circles, but the stone is unaware of them. So many times people have come up to me and told me about something I did that I don’t even remember. I’ve picked up hitchhikers who sent me letters years later from Europe or Australia, telling me how much they enjoyed spending the afternoon swapping stories in my vehicle. But I pick up hitchhikers all the time. Hundreds of them over the course of my life. And I swear I can’t remember one from the other.
I remember once I was doing some work out behind the Yellowknife jail. I was doing some clean-up work with a track loader. It had street pads on it and it’s early winter, wet snow, and I was in a rush to go somewhere. I was trying to drive up on the back of this trailer and it would slide down off the ramp. I tried and tried and I was getting nowhere. I must have done this for half an hour. If it was summer it would have taken two minutes. So I felt like swearing and yelling but I just kept at it and finally I got it in the trailer. Then a year later this guy comes up to me in the bar and says, “You really impress me. You are the most patient guy I’ve ever seen. I watched you the whole time you were wrestling with that thing.”
“I didn’t see you.”
“I was in jail.”
“Overnight?”
“No, I was in for quite a while. And watching you helped me figure out how I was going to do my time without going crazy. You taught me a little bit about patience.”
Curtis Debogorski
My dad could teach us all a thing or two about patience. About five years ago in late August me, Alex Jr., Nelson, Andrew, Dominic, and my dad took off into the Nahanni mountains to Little Doctor Lake, a serene lake between a mountain gorge in one of the most beautiful and rugged parts of our country. Good family friends, Lynn and Liz Fowler, had purchased a cabin from an archeologist in the early eighties and renovated it to make it a home away from home, with all of the creature comforts to make one’s stay very comfortable. Before leaving for the trip Lynn left us with a two-page document to review that provided a history of the area, the best fishing spots, the inclement weather warnings, and strict instructions to leave the place exactly how we found it—neat and tidy. One of the final comments revolved around a rifle that Lynn had at the cabin that could be used in the event that a wandering grizzly or black bear found us while on a hike or around the camp. Lynn’s note explained that the rifle was an old family heirloom and meant a great deal to him and he would prefer if we brought our own and only used his as a last resort. I made at least three stern speeches to my younger brothers to ensure the camp was spotless after our stay and that we treat everything like it was our very own.
So after arriving at the camp and settling in, we decided that we would take the two canoes and make our way across the lake to where Lynn had said dry mountain streambeds would take us to the crest of one of the mountains for some inspiring views. Dad warned me immediately that he is like a scared cat around water and that the canoe was a risky mode of transport. Being the oldest boy and figuring I had the best chance of saving the “old man” if he was to go under, I put the pressure on. After a short man-or-mouse challenge, we grabbed the sacred gun as protection, and he caved in and jumped in the front of the canoe. About twenty feet offshore, Dad gets a scare as he shifts left and I shift right. The canoe teeters as we both jostle to set the course straight. Unfortunately while trying to correct the canoe—and with dad weighing at least fifty pounds more than me—the weight displacement became too great and we tipped on our side with a great splash. Out of the boat went the fishing tackle, our backpacks, and “Oh shit! The damn gun!” The first order of business was to make sure we didn’t go down, as the water was frigid. We both struggled to turn the canoe over and make our way back to shore to reassess the situation. As always in times of crisis Dad was calm and collected as my blood pressure began to rise thinking of the “golden gun.” Once we were on solid ground, I realized the gun was gone. Nelson, the third-oldest boy, decided to venture back out into the water to determine the depth where we went down. He dove down a few feet and came back up hyperventilating from the sheer cold. “It’s gotta be fifty feet deep!” he exclaimed. Distraught, and after many swear words and accusations about who caused the canoe to tip, we brainstormed and scoured the camp looking for anything to help us salvage the missing gun. After a short search I came from the shed with a fish stringer. Dad waded out into the water a few feet while Nelson outfitted himself in a dry suit that looked two sizes too small and put his future as a fertile father in jeopardy. For the next two hours Dad would calmly throw the stringer out twenty feet offshore hoping he would somehow snag the gun and bring it back to the surface. After about an hour of watching him toss the rope and Nelson dive within minutes of hypothermia, the other boys and I started to say, “It’s a lost cause, let’s just get back out there and enjoy the rest of the day!” Dad, being persistent and patient, said, “You guys go ahead. I’ll stay back and try and find this damn thing.” We slowly packed up again to head to the dry riverbeds when Dad exclaimed, “I’ve got something!” Nelson waded out to where the rope was in the water and dove down. Seconds later he emerged victoriously clutching the gun high above his head with both arms outstretched. With a war cry he screamed, “I’ve got it!” We immediately cheered and high-fived while Dad calmly pulled the rope in and mumbled something about patience with a crooked smirk. We then happily went about our day. Dad went back to the cabin, cleaned the gun methodically, and shot it once it had dried out to ensure it was fully functioning. To this day Lynn is unaware of this tale, and what better way to bring it to light than in Alex’s first book!
Caution—Wolverine Xing
So after a long night of driving the sun finally comes up.
You get these incredible sunrises in the north—first comes this glow of pink and mauve in the east, then a fiery orange like the open door of a furnace. Sunlight floods across the ice and jagged snow, throwing purple shadows. Through February and March the days get longer quickly. The shades of the pastel colors change every day because of the changing of the sun’s angle.
Then the animals start stirring. You felt as if you were alone all night long, but now you realize you’re sharing this frigid landscape with all kinds of interesting wild creatures.
One of the weirdest animals we have up here is the wolverine.
From the name, you might think they are related to the wolf,
but they are not. They’re just low-slung little critters, not much bigger than a badger or a little dog. They’re actually related to weasels. But man, they are mean. There is no animal in the north as ferocious and fearless as a wolverine. They’re like our own version of that Tasmanian Devil in the cartoons. They will follow a trapper for days, ruining his trap sets, defecating on his campfires, and destroying every animal he catches. They just seem to hate people, and everything else for that matter. They’ll tear a hole in the roof of a trapline cabin and wreck the place just to be spiteful. And there are lots of authenticated accounts of them driving a grizzly bear away from its kill.
I’ll see a wolverine sometimes when I’m on the ice roads. The hunters will shoot a caribou and leave the gut pile beside the road. Then a wolverine will come along and feed on it. Every time a truck comes by, the wolverine gets more pissed off. Then finally he loses it. He just goes ballistic. When you’re bearing down on him in the truck you will see him crouch down snarling as the truck approaches. Then he’ll just blow a head gasket as you go past. He’s just like some insane little varmint in a cartoon. You’ll see him in the rearview mirror, chasing this fifty-ton truck, snapping at the mud flaps.
When you’re driving the ice road, you have to be very careful that you don’t run over an animal. There are very strict laws against that, and we have to fill out a report if it happens. The environmental restrictions on ice road trucking are incredibly strict, much more so than they are for trucking in the south. Guys used to stand and pee off the running boards while the truck was rolling along. Some of them of course would slip on the ice and fall off the truck and then the truck would be driving along with nobody in it! On more than one occasion I’ve heard of a truck puttering down the road by itself with some frustrated truck driver running behind like crazy trying to catch up with it. But now you’re not allowed to pee on the snowbank because of the environmental rules. The theory is, some wolf or fox will be attracted to the spot. He’s going to think some creature has invaded his territory, and while he’s standing there sniffing at the yellow snow a truck is going to come along and run over him. I know it sounds a little ludicrous, but it just shows how fussy they are about keeping the landscape absolutely clean. So now a lot of guys will pee in a bottle so they don’t get in trouble for hitting an animal. You wouldn’t want to hit one of these animals anyway. Some of them are enormous. The moose here are the biggest moose in the world. Further north, you get into polar bears and grizzlies.
King of The Road Page 17