Granted, his quest to find the Great White Moose did not have the driving intensity of Ahab thundering across the seas in search of Moby Dick. But Yale Templeton had a yearning to see the Great White Moose—you might even say he had a sense, dimly perceived, that the moose was in some important measure linked to his own destiny—and he returned to the Campo de los Alces Motel in July of the following year, and stood each morning at dawn waiting for a call from Joseph Brant Lookalike. By now he had read extensively about conditions of life in the North, and so no longer packed mukluks, ski pants, and a parka. Just a beekeeper’s hat, bug shirt, hiking boots, and copious quantities of Muskol, Off, and assorted other insect repellents. And his balaclava. He always brought along his orange balaclava.
He returned the next summer as well, and the summer after, until finally he reluctantly acknowledged to himself that the call he was awaiting would never come. The following summer he rented a cottage on a small lake just a few kilometres north of the motel. He had purchased a birchen horn for calling moose at Mountain Equipment Co-op in Toronto, but threw it away when the only sound he could coax out of it was a low quavering mwar. In the end he resorted to a kazoo, unable to identify any instrument that would reproduce the call Joseph Brant Lookalike had used to summon him. The exact tone of the call had faded somewhat from his memory, but he did remember that it had set him to humming “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.” And so, each morning at dawn, he took a chair out to the end of the dock and blew “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik” on his kazoo, switching occasionally to “Cradle Song,” the beautiful madrigal by William Byrd, when he became bored. But no moose, white or otherwise, responded to the call.
He enjoyed himself at the cottage all the same. During the hours he was not sitting on the dock scanning the shoreline for moose, he devoted himself to reading. Mostly favourite passages from The Moose Book, of course. But otherwise a selection of books debating the wisdom of Grant’s decision to implement a war of attrition in 1864. It never seemed to occur to him that there might be something preposterous about devoting hours upon hours to poring over stark depictions of horrifying battlefield carnage while lying in a deck chair next to the peace and serenity of a northern lake, sipping tea. But then, he was an academic, after all.
He found the experience so relaxing and satisfying that he determined to rent the cottage again the following summer. But just as he was about to make his arrangements, he came across an article in one of the Toronto newspapers saying that a group of hikers in Algonquin Park had reported seeing a white moose. “If the claim can be verified,” the article went on, quoting a noted authority on moose at Lake Superior State University, “it would be of immense significance to biologists. Although white moose hold a prominent place in Native mythology, there has been no confirmed sighting of an albino moose anywhere in North America.”
Yale Templeton immediately changed his plans and left for Algonquin Park. A colleague gave him the name of an exclusive resort where, for only seven hundred and fifty dollars a night, he could stay in a cabin named after the Jewish comedian who famously rejected job offers in the United States so that he could remain in Canada. He did not see any moose during his four days in the park, but in the internationally acclaimed dining room at the resort he did have moose steak for the first time. He found it strongly flavoured but, when eaten with a little currant jelly, more than palatable. He also sampled chocolate mousse for the first time, and noted to himself with some satisfaction that it was not at all difficult to distinguish between the two dishes.
Two years later, more reported sightings drew him to Cochrane, Kapuskasing, and Hearst. It appeared the white moose was tracking the route of the Trans-Canada Highway. But then an investigative report on The Fifth Estate revealed that some overly zealous bureaucrat at the Ministry for Northern Affairs had been planting stories in the newspapers to help attract tourists to the region. “Proof yet again,” noted an authority from the Fraser Institute, “that we have far too much government in this country.”
Yale Templeton abandoned his search, retraced his steps to Cochrane, then took the Polar Bear Express up to Moosonee. He rode in a freighter canoe out to the limestone deposits on Fossil Island, ate Cree bannock bread, took part in a hike through the Great Muskeg, and joined seventy other sightseers on a trip to Moose Factory Island, where he explored the former administrative centre of the Hudson’s Bay Company. He wandered through the blacksmith shop, carefully examined the fur press, and met some members of the Moose Cree First Nations. He was disappointed that they had never heard of Joseph Brant Lookalike, but supposed that, living on the shore of James Bay, they were isolated from others of their culture. What impressed him most on his journey were the alter cloth and liturgical vestments in moosehide at St. Thomas’ Anglican Church. They reminded him of his visit to the town museum in Saffron Walden when he saw the historic ninth-century necklace for the first time.
No more stories about white moose appeared in the press for several years. Editors were quick to dismiss reported sightings, mindful of the earlier hoax. Indeed, “to write a white moose story” now became journalist slang for being taken in by a government leak. But each summer Yale Templeton headed north to continue his own search, exploring farther and farther into the distant reaches of Ontario. One year he skirted the shores of Lake Superior, passing through Marathon, Schreiber, Halpern Mills, Red Rock, and on to Atikokan and Rainy River. Another he spent two weeks at a lodge in Quetico Provincial Park, then a month at a rented cottage on an island in the Lake of the Woods, where he wrote the definitive article on boot sizes among Union cavalrymen and learned the rudiments of paddling a canoe. He travelled as far west as the Manitoba border and as far north as Sioux Lookout.
And he saw moose. Young moose and old moose. Large moose and small moose. Bulls, cows, and calves. The healthy and the fit. The halt and the lame. Moose that broke for cover the moment they spotted him, and moose that regarded him with seemingly the utmost indifference. Moose that at a distance appeared black as the tar used to repair northern roads and moose that up close looked as soft and brown as the little stuffed moose sold at local souvenir shops. But no white moose. He did not see the Great White Moose.
And then one day, he came across a report of a new sighting. Not in a Toronto newspaper this time, but in the quarterly bulletin of the Federation of Ontario Naturalists. A white moose, the article said, had been spotted by a Native guide on Lake Wabatongushi, about eighty kilometres northeast of Wawa. The sighting was more than a month old by the time Yale Templeton learned about it, but he immediately bought a bus ticket north.
Lake Wabatongushi lies within the Chapleau Crown Game Preserve, the largest wildlife sanctuary in the world. The lake itself extends over forty square kilometres and has seventy uninhabited islands. “There are 2500 moose in the Chapleau Crown Game Preserve!” boasts a brochure from the resort on the lake. “Come and see one grazing on lily pads while you graze on a four-course picnic lunch prepared by our Viennese-trained kitchen staff!!!”
There are no roads to the lake. To get there you take the Algoma Central Railway from the small town of Hawk Junction just outside Wawa or, if you prefer, the scenic route through the Agawa Canyon, from Sault Ste. Marie. Yale Templeton chose the scenic route, reasoning that it would offer more opportunity to see moose. It was late August when he headed north, and the leaves on the trees were just beginning to change colour, a suggestion of the spectacular show that each year drew thousands of tourists to the canyon. And the ride did take him past several moose, although not the particular moose he was looking for.
When he arrived at the resort he learned to his disappointment that the story in the Federation of Ontario Naturalists’ bulletin had been somewhat misleading. Actually it was two used car salesmen from Evansville, Indiana, who had seen the white moose. The Native guide had merely passed on what they reported to the owner of the resort, and he in turn had contacted the representative of the Federation in Sault Ste. Marie.
“Oh,
yeah,” a retired oral surgeon from Ottawa spending the summer on the lake told Yale Templeton over dinner the day he arrived, “it was two Americans. They said they saw a white moose over around the point there, when they were out fishing. But they were going through the vodka pretty fast by then. A couple of days later they were telling everyone they’d seen a pink eagle.”
“And don’t forget the blue hippopotamus,” his wife added. “They said they saw a furry blue hippopotamus.”
“Aw, they were just kidding that time.”
“You think so? I don’t know.”
Undeterred, Yale Templeton made arrangements the next morning to go out with the Native guide—Samuel Beartooth Lookalike. As he was introduced by the resort owner, Samuel Beartooth Lookalike raised an eyebrow at the mention of his name. He was much more taciturn than Joseph Brant Lookalike, and kept his comments to simple declarations. “We go there,” he said, laying flat a map of the lake and pointing to a little picture of a moose next to an inlet some distance north of the resort. But Yale Templeton indicated that he preferred to be taken to the spot where the fishermen had seen the white moose. Samuel Beartooth Lookalike just shrugged. They paddled south from the main lodge, passed around the bend, and then headed toward a patch of reeds where the men would have been fishing when they made their sighting. As they neared shore Yale Templeton dutifully put on his balaclava, pulled the kazoo from his shirt pocket, and started playing “Eine Kleine Nachtmusik.” Samuel Beartooth Lookalike observed him with no discernible change of expression.
They repeated this exercise for three days. When, on the third day, Yale Templeton switched to Byrd’s “Cradle Song,” a tear trickled down Samuel Beartooth Lookalike’s otherwise impassive face. A sign, Yale Templeton decided, that the melody had evoked tender memories in the Native guide, perhaps of his mother. But the calls were to no avail, and in the end, out of a sense of resignation more than hope, Yale Templeton agreed to go to the inlet marked with a moose on the map. There he saw a cow and young calf, which momentarily put him in mind of his own mother. Feeling a surge of filial devotion, he pulled out his kazoo and started playing Byrd’s “Cradle Song” once again. This drew another tear to the eye of Samuel Beartooth Lookalike and sent the cow and calf stampeding into the woods in appreciation.
Despite his disappointment about the white moose, Yale Templeton found the week he spent at the resort rewarding. Touched by the emotional bond he had formed with Samuel Beartooth Lookalike, he finally suppressed his memory of kippers long enough to try the traditional Native meal of fish and potatoes fried in a bucket of lard. It turned out to be much more appetizing than he had imagined, and he resolved to introduce the dish to his aunt once he returned to Toronto. And at the end of his stay, when he went to check out, the resort owner gave him a Polar Bear badge, awarded to those guests who took a swim in the lake each morning before breakfast, as well as a key chain with a moose on it, his winnings from the weekly minnow races. He noted with gratitude that someone had painted the moose white.
XI
For his return trip to Toronto Yale Templeton decided to take the bus from Wawa down the eastern shore of Lake Superior. “Perhaps I’ll even stop at one of the beaches for a swim,” he said to himself, proudly fingering the Polar Bear badge in his pocket. It would mean spending a night in Hawk Junction, but he had grown accustomed to hotels in small northern communities. All he needed was the companionship of The Moose Book and some scholarly works on the Civil War.
He ate at the only restaurant in town, a diner that somehow had escaped the notice of the restaurant critic for the Globe and Mail. He ordered the signature dish of the region—frozen simulated ground beef patties, thawed and incinerated, accompanied by frozen crinkled French fries, partially thawed—then opened his book and began to read.
“Whatchya got there?” the waitress asked, sliding her pencil behind her ear. “It’s a new study of manufacturing in the North during the American Civil War,” he replied. And then, just to make sure she hadn’t misunderstood: “I mean in the American North.”
“That so?” she said. “Is it interesting?”
“Oh, yes, very,” he replied. “For example, did you know that pig iron production in the Union increased 345 percent during the war?”
“Can’t say that I did,” she answered, blowing a large bubble from the wad of gum in her mouth and popping it loudly.
“Hey, Marcel!” she shouted to the man at the grill behind the counter. “Didjya know that pig iron production increased 345 percent in the Union during the American Civil War?”
“No kidding,” Marcel shouted back, exhaling a ring of smoke and crushing out his cigarette on a plate next to the sink. “How ’bout that.”
These expressions of enthusiasm for his work pleased Yale Templeton immensely, and when he retired to his room in the hotel he looked forward to getting back to his reading with even more excitement than usual. But just as he sat down at the desk, he heard a knocking sound. He opened his door to find a short, stocky man in a knitted black toque, red checked shirt with fraying cuffs and collar, faded jeans, black suspenders, and heavy boots. Over his shoulders he carried a tattered canvas knapsack. He had a thick grey beard and the stooped appearance of someone in his seventies, perhaps even older.
“I’m Slinger, sir,” the man said, extending a leathery hand after first wiping it across the front of his shirt. “Slinger the Trapper, they call me around here, although not with the kind of respect you might imagine. I overheard you at the diner talking to the waitress. You said you were reading a book about the American Civil War.”
“That’s true,” replied Yale Templeton, brightening considerably at the prospect of meeting someone in this remote northern community who shared his scholarly interests.
“Well, may I ask you, sir? Do you know anything about Abraham Lincoln?”
“I know a great deal about Abraham Lincoln,” replied Yale Templeton cheerfully. “Each year in my course on the Civil War I offer several lectures on his presidency. And on alternate years I give a graduate seminar on his relations with his generals.”
Slinger gasped. “You teach about Lincoln, sir? You teach about Lincoln? It’s the sign I’ve been looking for!”
“Sign?” asked Yale Templeton.
“My grandfather told me there’d be a sign. And here you are: a Lincoln expert come to Hawk Junction the one day of the year I’m in town. That’s a sign if ever I saw one!” And Slinger removed his toque and knapsack and pulled a dirty handkerchief from his jeans to wipe his neck. His sparse grey hair lay matted to his head. “Do you mind if I sit down?” he asked.
“Not at all,” replied Yale Templeton. And he pulled over the chair from the desk. Then he sat himself down on the bed, just opposite.
“Thank you most kindly, sir,” said Slinger. And he removed a bottle of whiskey from his knapsack, took a long swig, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and offered the bottle to Yale Templeton.
“No, thank you,” said Yale Templeton politely. “It is not my habit to partake of spirits.”
Slinger nodded. “I understand, sir. I understand. Myself, I subscribe to the sentiments of the great Mississippi jurist ‘Soggy’ Sweat, delivered in the state legislature during the prohibition debate in 1953:
‘If you mean whiskey, the devil’s brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the mouths of little children; if you mean that evil drink that topples Christian men and women from the pinnacles of righteous and gracious living into the bottomless pits of degradation, shame, despair, helplessness, and hopelessness, then, my friend, I am opposed to it with every fiber of my being.
‘However, if by whiskey you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the elixir of life, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas cheer, the
stimulating sip that puts a little spring in the step of an elderly gentleman on a frosty morning; if you mean that drink that enables man to magnify his joy, and to forget life’s great tragedies and heartbreaks and sorrow; if you mean that drink the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars each year, that provides tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitifully aged and infirm, to build the finest highways, hospitals, universities, and community colleges in this nation, then my friend, I am absolutely, unequivocally in favour of it.
‘This is my position, and as always, I refuse to be compromised on matters of principle.’”
“Oh, well done,” applauded Yale Templeton. “An excellent recitation, even with the personal emendations. Almost as good as the one I heard Ernest Blanchard give before the Caius College History Society in 1974. But I believe the year of the speech was 1952 not 1953.”
“Sir, you astound me!” exclaimed Slinger. “It only confirms my view that Providence has ordained our paths to cross. I have a remarkable story to tell. It’s not my story, mind you, though with your kind permission, I will begin with myself.” To this Yale Templeton gave a friendly nod.
“I was born many years ago—more years than I care to remember—in the town of Chapleau, about fifty miles east of where we are now. My mother died when I was only two years old. My father, a trapper, disappeared into the woods, never to be seen by me again. I had no brothers or sisters, no aunts or uncles living in Canada, and so I was raised by my grandfather, a widower. He was a widely respected lawyer, a pillar of the community, and a very kind and generous man. But mine was a restless spirit—a cursed inheritance from my father, I have come to believe—and at the age of fourteen I disappeared into the woods myself. By then the land around Chapleau had been declared a wildlife sanctuary, but I was able to survive by hunting and trapping and eluded the grasp of the authorities. I’ve lived that way for almost sixty years now.
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