The Ice Chips and the Grizzly Escape

by Roy MacGregor

  Lucas was now petting a dog that had come up wagging its tail, but he was still listening to the story.

  “Well,” said Suchai, smiling as he picked up a piece of kindling from a stack beside the house, “my dad says the driving isn’t that bad, but he does have another plan . . .”

  None of the Riverton kids had noticed the buzzing sound that was slowly growing in the distance. It sounded like a bumblebee with a turbo engine or a motorboat running without water.

  The noise got louder and louder, and the dogs started barking and jumping around excitedly. One of them accidentally knocked Shayna to the ground.

  “What is that?” asked Lucas, whose shins were being gently swept by the tail of one of the excited dogs.

  “Look up,” said Suchai with a smile so wide his cheeks were almost all dimples.

  Chapter 7

  There was no way that Swift was going to look out the window, given her fear of heights, but that was all Lucas wanted to do. What he was seeing out that pane of glass—the side window of the small Piper Cherokee plane that Suchai’s father had flown low over the family’s cabin and then landed at the small community airport—was absolutely magical.

  When Suchai’s dad, Jerry, had asked the kids if they wanted a ride, Lucas had never felt luckier in his life. He loved seeing the world from above, just like he enjoyed sitting in the cheap seats at a hockey game. Watching the players’ sweat fly off close up was intense, but seeing an entire game unfold before his eyes—when he could keep all the players and both nets in view at the same time—was one of his favourite things to do.

  “The fish will still be in the river when we get back,” Suchai had told them with a grin as they’d all climbed aboard the tiny plane, ready to take a tour of the Ulkatcho First Nation territory—a magnificent land of winding rivers and thick evergreens.

  “Is that . . . ? I saw an animal moving!” said Lucas, pointing excitedly to a raised part of the land just beyond the river. “Could it be . . . um, that elk kinda thing?”

  “A caribou?” Jerry asked with a gentle smile as he pushed a lever to speed up the plane and turned the control wheel slightly to the right. “Could be.”

  “Luk,” Mouth Guard said, squinting.

  “What did you see?” asked Shayna, excited.

  “No, mei luk—that’s the Cantonese word for ‘elk.’” Mouth Guard shook his head like he didn’t know how that word had got inside it.

  “Ha! Cool,” said Shayna. She’d learned American Sign Language through her brother, Nolan; some Spanish from the Face, the Chips’ second goalie; and both English and Ojibwe at home. That made four languages, but she always had room for more. “Where does Ulkatcho, your band name, come from?” she asked Suchai.

  Swift was listening but looking at the floor of the plane. Lucas was trying to see out the front windshield, but Mouth Guard was in the way, taking another giant sip from his water bottle.

  “Ulhk’acho was the name of a village on Gatcho Lake, but our people have moved around a lot. In the Carrier language—that’s the language of my mom’s family—the word ulhk’acho means ‘fat of the land’ or ‘big bounteous place.’”

  “Boun-teous?” Lucas asked, confused by the word.

  “It means there’s good fishing and hunting—the land has a lot to offer,” said Jerry. He said their family had moved back from Vancouver to the area where Suchai’s mom grew up when the young hockey player was three years old. His sister, Kayla, hadn’t been born yet.

  “I can understand why. It’s absolutely beautiful here,” said Shayna.

  “More beautiful from the ground, though,” said Swift, who still wouldn’t look out the window. Suchai had handed her his headset so she could at least hear what they were doing, even if she wasn’t willing to see it. Everyone else was watching in awe as they passed over the swaths of pointy trees, the bright green-yellow of hidden meadows, and the greyish-blue spaces where bare rock poked through. Underneath the wings of the small, noisy plane, the forest seemed endless.

  “There’s—wait! There’s something in the air over there. It’s flying!” said Lucas excitedly, leaning across the back of Mouth Guard’s seat so he could point at the treetops and rocks below. Jerry had just shifted the plane to the right, tilting it slightly as they turned, and a whole new view had opened up before them.

  “Yīng . . . ?” said Mouth Guard, feeling embarrassed once the word had left his lips. “Sorry, that was the Cantonese word. Was that an eagle?”

  “What? An EAGLE?!” Swift asked eagerly, forgetting for a moment to keep her eyes closed.

  “That’d be pretty hard to see from up here,” Jerry said kindly. “But you never know.”

  “The eagle feather is part of our band logo. Two eagle feathers and a grizzly b—,” Suchai started, but he was cut off.

  “Whoa! AND NOW WHAT IS THAT?!” Swift gasped, sitting up in her seat and pulling the headset off her ears. She hadn’t meant to look, but now that she had . . .

  “The volcanic cone over there?” asked Suchai, pointing at a rocky mountain that seemed to rise out of the horizon. “You mean Anahim Peak?”

  Swift, her eyes wider than an open net, could only nod.

  Suchai explained that the mountain ahead of them was part of a volcanic belt that ran through the Ulkatcho First Nation’s territory. The arrowhead he’d found earlier was made out of obsidian—a dark glassy rock that had once come from that volcano.

  The kid and his father explained that someone, probably an ancestor, would have carved the arrowhead with a hammer rock—maybe a river rock—and a few other tools.

  “It can take quite a long time to make arrowheads. I’m lucky there are still a few to be found in the woods,” Suchai said with a crooked smile. “Plus, that’s family history. It’s important to keep.”

  “Just like your Cantonese words,” Shayna said, leaning closer to Mouth Guard’s ear. “That’s part of your family story.”

  The Ulkatcho, the kids learned, lost a lot of their language when some of their children were taken away to live at church-run residential schools. Those schools sounded awful. Indigenous children were taken away from their families, even when they didn’t want to go. And without their elders and their traditions around them, they missed out on a lot. Suchai’s grandmother, Theresa, the woman who had laughed so freely in the corral that morning, was one of them.

  “My sister, Kayla, and I are really lucky to have our grandmother here to look after us,” said Suchai. “She’s always teaching us things.”

  Jerry made the plane turn to the left as it hit a current of air. The ride got a little more bumpy, and the plane a little louder. He said that they’d circle Anahim Peak and then head back toward the small airport. He’d have to put more fuel in the plane for their flight to Williams Lake later in the day.

  “That’s amazing that this is how you’ll get to your hockey games and practices now. And in less than an hour!” said Shayna, her face now pressed up against the window. She was watching the trees go by below. “You must be pretty sure your son is going to make the NHL, huh?”

  “I dunno,” said Jerry. “Is that what you want to do, buddy? Go all the way to the NHL with this lawn-mower?”

  Swift handed the headset back to Suchai so he could listen to the airport chatter without the sound of the engine—so he could help his dad fly. He blushed and chuckled. He said he hadn’t really thought about it.

  “I’d love to play for the Edmonton Oilers one day, but it’s kind of an unrealistic goal, isn’t it? How would I get there?”

  “Practice,” said Jerry as he pushed the lever again, looked at his son with a wink, and motioned toward Mouth Guard, who’d been watching all the lights and dials on the instrument panel.

  “Would one of you like to be my co-pilot for a bit? Try a little flying? I’ll be right here with you,” Jerry said with the calm confidence of an experienced coach. The first one to jump toward the headset was Mouth Guard.

  “Did you play hockey, too, J
erry?” Mouth Guard asked as he switched places with Suchai.

  “I did. A long time ago. I was picked in the amateur draft by the Philadelphia Flyers.”

  Lucas’s mouth dropped open. “Drafted?! For real?”

  “Yeah, I was drafted, like I said,” Jerry replied with a gentle shrug. “And I played professionally, but never in the NHL. What matters is that I enjoyed it. I had fun.”

  “That’s what you always say to me,” said Suchai. “You always ask if I’m still having fun and still want to do it.”

  “Wow! That must be your best memory—being picked in the draft,” said Lucas, as though his eyes were full of stars.

  “That was a great moment,” said Jerry. “But another great moment was when I found out who the Flyers had as a goalie coach—one of the greatest.”

  “Who?” asked Swift. She could feel excitement tingling on the back of her neck.

  “The guy who wore the first-ever goalie mask. Played for the Canadiens,” said Jerry. Now he was the one with stars in his eyes. “You’ve maybe heard of him: Jacques Plan—”

  But no one caught the end of his sentence.

  Mouth Guard, restless in the second pilot seat, had just leaned forward and pulled a lever.

  Chapter 8

  “Hey, can someone help me with this?” Lucas called in a strained voice, yanking back as hard as he could on his fly-fishing rod. “I can’t . . . get it. Ugh!” He was pulling up and up, bending the rod hard.

  Swift, who was sitting on a log by the river and eating one of their picnic sandwiches, broke into a fit of giggles.

  Lucas grunted and pulled back on his rod again. He tugged on the thick fly-fishing line. He quickly whipped the end of the rod back and forth, but nothing seemed to work. And none of this was because he’d snagged a big fish. Following Suchai’s instructions, he’d swung the tip of his fly rod over his head to cast it, had made an incredibly clumsy zigzag motion to draw the fly across the water, and without a hint of beginner’s luck, had promptly captured a big green leafy bush.

  “Help me!” Lucas cried, giving Swift a whining scowl as he tried not to laugh. “I can’t unhook it and hold the rod. I don’t even know how to reel this thing in!”

  “Put the rod on the ground, walk over to the fly, and unhook it, Lucas,” Shayna called from a little farther downstream, where she was standing in the water. The Stars’ defender had mostly done bass fishing and trolling for trout when she’d visited her family’s First Nation community in Ontario, but she’d got the hang of the fly rod pretty quickly.

  “If you keep pulling, that branch is going to snap off and hit you right in the face,” said Mouth Guard. “Stop pulling—marshmallow! Marshmallow, Lucas.”

  Lucas just looked at his linemate, confused. Why is Mouth Guard always so all over the place? He never makes any sense!

  The Chips’ centre couldn’t believe how well Suchai’s dad had handled things when Mouth Guard pulled that lever on the plane. The Riverton kids had all jolted forward, as though someone had stepped on the brakes, but Jerry had quickly reached over and pushed the lever back into position—he’d fixed it. Then he’d calmly turned and given Mouth Guard a look. The look said, “I know why you did that, but please don’t do it again.” He hadn’t scared Mouth Guard, hadn’t scolded him. It must be a coaching thing—a good coaching thing, thought Lucas. He’d remember that.

  “‘Marshmallow’ is the word my dad says when he wants me to focus or hurry up,” Mouth Guard said, rolling his eyes at having to explain something he thought everyone already knew. He took another sip of water while he stood on the riverbank, watching. “If I say the word or he says the word, it kind of turns it into a game. He thinks it’s the funniest word in the English language.”

  “You have a lucky magical word now?” Swift laughed. She liked the idea but still thought it was funny.

  “Well, I don’t have my lucky long johns anymore, do I?” Mouth Guard said, smiling and turning back toward the water. He also had a four-leaf clover in his pocket, but that was for Lucas. That was for later. When the right moment came up, he’d give it to him.

  The sound of the water rolling over the stones in the shallower parts of the river reminded Mouth Guard of the hikes he’d taken with his dad when his family used to live in Vancouver. The outings had started the Saturday he’d quit Cantonese school. A very young Dylan Chung had declared that he was done with those classes—that he would never be able to learn his father’s language—and Mr. Chung had taken him out into the woods instead. They’d hiked every Saturday after that.

  At first, they’d walked in silence, one in front of the other on the skinny dirt path of rocks and roots, but then, slowly, his father had started pointing to plants and asking questions.

  “What is that called?” Mr. Chung would ask in Cantonese, and Mouth Guard would tell him the English word, happy that he was helping his father learn. His dad would say the English word, then the Cantonese word, and they’d continue on their way. Mouth Guard, glad he no longer had to worry about getting in trouble for rocking in his chair at the language school, felt that he’d been set free in the wilderness.

  “Don’t forget that you have other interesting words, too. Those could also be lucky!” said Shayna, trying to remember some of what Mouth Guard had taught her. They’d gone over the Cantonese names of several plants and animals on the plane. It seemed that the Cantonese words were the ones that had stuck in his head. Shayna, impressed, had said how important she thought it was that people held on to their heritage.

  “Language is a big part of every culture,” Shayna had said in the plane. “If you know how someone speaks, you can know more about how they think.”

  “That’s why we try so hard to hold on to the Carrier language and many of our traditions,” Suchai had said, joining in. “This is a really remote area, and times aren’t always easy. So we try to look out for each other. My mom says a lot of people here still need healing. We need our community.”

  “This is the worst! I’m the worst!” said Lucas, who was still trying to get the hook of his fly off the branch. One of Suchai’s dogs was helping—well, not helping him.

  “Come here, boy,” Suchai said, clapping his hand on his thigh. The dog came running.

  “Don’t worry, Lucas. You’ll get it,” said Shayna, whose dry fly had just zipped back and forth over the water, lightly touching the surface, before it was jerked back again. A medium-sized rainbow trout had surfaced, trying to follow it, but it hadn’t quite bitten. “This just takes practice. I guess fishing’s like hockey, too.”

  “I had no idea what I was doing in the beginning, either,” said Suchai, walking over to the horse that had come with them. She was taking a sip of water from the river, and he left an apple beside her. “I was out in an aluminum boat with my dad, with a regular rod. And the thing hit pretty hard, I guess—the fish. I didn’t know what was going on. I got scared and threw my pole in the water.”

  Shayna, Swift, and Lucas all laughed.

  “How old were you?” Swift asked, still doubled over.

  “Three,” said Suchai as his cheeks flushed red and the girls giggled again. Lucas still felt like a bit of a loser. This kid had learned to fish when he was Connor’s age!

  Suchai was walking back to the picnic basket to get some food for himself when he saw something grey, black, and white—almost a pearly white—lying on the ground.

  An eagle feather!

  “Hey, Swift, do you want this? You were really excited about that eagle we saw from the plane,” he asked the Chips’ goalie, holding out the feather. With his other hand, he reached into the picnic basket and pulled out a sandwich.

  “Thanks, but you found it. You keep it,” said Swift with a smile. She was blushing a little. “Maybe I’ll find one of my own on our way back to the cabin.”

  “Are you going to take a break to eat, Lucas?” Suchai asked, waving his sandwich in the air as he put his feather down beside the basket. Lucas was holding his rod ag
ain and had stepped into the water. He kept reaching out and touching his dangling hook—just as he’d seen Suchai do—to make sure it wasn’t tangled. He was tired but getting ready for another attempt.

  “Food, Lucas! Drinks!” called Swift, holding up a water bottle that turned out to be empty.

  “If you don’t eat right, you won’t have the energy to do sports or learn new skills!” Suchai said with a big smile, just before biting into an apple. “Lunch is important. Of course, breakfast is even more important. When did you guys last eat?”

  “Mouth Guard’s always hungry,” said Shayna, casting her own rod. “Hey, where is he?”

  Swift looked down at the empty water bottle and then over at Lucas, who was trying another zigzag.

  “I dunno,” said Lucas with a shrug. His line was already twisted and knotted again. “I was trying to concentrate on this. But I think he said he had to pee. Did you see how much water he drank?”

  “Did he . . . go into the woods? On his own?” Suchai asked with his eyebrows raised.

  “Uh-oh,” said Shayna. She put down her rod, cupped her hands together, and held them to her mouth. Then she blew into them, making the loud wailing, fluttering sound of a loon.

  On the day that their hockey camp had gone rock climbing, she’d taught Mouth Guard how to make this sound, too. They’d decided to do the same thing that the forest school had been doing with Connor’s wolf howl. It was a safety plan. If they were both okay, one of them would call and the other would respond. But if one person did the call and the other didn’t . . .

  Shayna tried again.

  WHO-UUUUH-UHH-UUH-UUH-OOOooo!

  WUHHHHH-OOO-OOO-OOooo!

  They listened, but all the kids could hear was the water rolling over the rocks in the stream.

  * * *

  Lucas, Swift, and Shayna dropped everything immediately and ran into the woods, calling for their friend. Suchai was slower and calmer, but that’s only because he was getting prepared: grabbing his horse, closing the picnic basket in case it attracted animals, and making sure he had his rodeo rope hooked firmly at his waist.