There is little other way to begin a true adventure than with a ride on the proletariat chariot, the Greyhound Bus. Locations that would by car take only a few hours, now take half a day or more, inclusive of stops at locales still too small to have a McDonalds. This allows plenty of time for contemplation on the decisions made leading up to said adventure, and the possibility that they were made under faulty pretences, namely those involving alcohol or credit issues.
Therefore, it is at a Greyhound bus station, populated by the poor, the working class, those with home made tattoos and a couple of very confused Japanese tourists whom were convinced to see our great nation via bus, where I begin my journey up North. North, with a capital N, and all that is inclusive in it – cold, mosquitoes, trees, salmon, bears and oil, my primary goal. While one cannot fail to mention the seven to one male to female ration, there is no romance in this story, save that of a girl and a bear dog. My romance lay East, with a capital E, in Washington, calling me on the satellite phone to remind me of finer things like Starbucks and warmth. Maybe remind is the wrong word. Perhaps gloat is more appropriate.
With my heart in my toes and my ticket in my hand, I found a seat which afforded me an equal view of the road ahead and access to the door less that view become too forbidding. As I was boarding at midnight, I’m not altogether sure of what I was expecting to see, but when the sun came up at 4 the next morning over the Canadian Shield, boreal forest replete with said bears, mosquito and oil – I was certain that my choice was going to be interesting, if not enjoyable.
In reality, my story starts years before hand, with a credit card and very nice pair of shoes. Credit cards, I had reassured friends and family – were easily manageable if you used them solely for emergency purposes. The consummate shopper, I quickly discovered exactly how many emergencies could be found in your average shopping day. I easily wracked up dept commensurate with that of a small country, say, France – unmanageable on a salary that only occasionally afforded me the opportunity to eat day old sushi. Spending the next few years having my savings account, and eventually investments in my name (but by nothing but name, belonging solely to my parents) being applied to my credit card, enough was enough. Said my mother.
So, through nepotism, prayer and my natural smarts, I managed to land myself a job doing gas/oil line pressure testing in the great Canadian North of High Level, the last stop on the Greyhound bus route north. That’s where I was heading on May 6th, 10 days before my twenty second birthday, 105lbs and 5 foot 3 inches, twelve dollars in my bank account, with two things competing for the heaviest item in my backpack – a Maglight my boyfriend had gifted me with, and my blow-dryer.
12 hours and 3 cups of horrible coffee later, I stepped off the bus in High Level and into the truck of Rick Lyndsay, my new boss and guide. The Chevy behemoth was amazing to me at first, outfitted with Sirus satellite radio, leather seats, full cab, and with a height that required me to vault my small frame into the seat with something (what I felt) akin to Olympic grace. It was within minutes that I realised that everyone in High Level drove trucks of this size and calibre, and that they were indeed the source of all oil shortages that we may be having. Rick took me to my new home – a beautiful little trailer set up on the outskirts of High Level – in the middle of the High Level golf course near to the 4th hole green. As it stands today, I can pick out the sound of a golf cart and a good swing with my eyes closed.
Equipped far better than the dorm that I had just left, I loved my new home immediately. Putting my groceries away and exploring all the nooks and crannies of cupboards, my one channel (CBC) television, and my 3 country station radio, I reached that moment, upon being left alone, where all the tidying is done and the first meal is made – that you have nothing, but nothing to do. I sat at my kitchen table, smile pasted on my face, surveying my small yet utilitarian kingdom, and burst into tears.
Therefore, it is at a Greyhound bus station, populated by the poor, the working class, those with home made tattoos and a couple of very confused Japanese tourists whom were convinced to see our great nation via bus, where I begin my journey up North. North, with a capital N, and all that is inclusive in it – cold, mosquitoes, trees, salmon, bears and oil, my primary goal. While one cannot fail to mention the seven to one male to female ration, there is no romance in this story, save that of a girl and a bear dog. My romance lay East, with a capital E, in Washington, calling me on the satellite phone to remind me of finer things like Starbucks and warmth. Maybe remind is the wrong word. Perhaps gloat is more appropriate.
With my heart in my toes and my ticket in my hand, I found a seat which afforded me an equal view of the road ahead and access to the door less that view become too forbidding. As I was boarding at midnight, I’m not altogether sure of what I was expecting to see, but when the sun came up at 4 the next morning over the Canadian Shield, boreal forest replete with said bears, mosquito and oil – I was certain that my choice was going to be interesting, if not enjoyable.
In reality, my story starts years before hand, with a credit card and very nice pair of shoes. Credit cards, I had reassured friends and family – were easily manageable if you used them solely for emergency purposes. The consummate shopper, I quickly discovered exactly how many emergencies could be found in your average shopping day. I easily wracked up dept commensurate with that of a small country, say, France – unmanageable on a salary that only occasionally afforded me the opportunity to eat day old sushi. Spending the next few years having my savings account, and eventually investments in my name (but by nothing but name, belonging solely to my parents) being applied to my credit card, enough was enough. Said my mother.
So, through nepotism, prayer and my natural smarts, I managed to land myself a job doing gas/oil line pressure testing in the great Canadian North of High Level, the last stop on the Greyhound bus route north. That’s where I was heading on May 6th, 10 days before my twenty second birthday, 105lbs and 5 foot 3 inches, twelve dollars in my bank account, with two things competing for the heaviest item in my backpack – a Maglight my boyfriend had gifted me with, and my blow-dryer.
12 hours and 3 cups of horrible coffee later, I stepped off the bus in High Level and into the truck of Rick Lyndsay, my new boss and guide. The Chevy behemoth was amazing to me at first, outfitted with Sirus satellite radio, leather seats, full cab, and with a height that required me to vault my small frame into the seat with something (what I felt) akin to Olympic grace. It was within minutes that I realised that everyone in High Level drove trucks of this size and calibre, and that they were indeed the source of all oil shortages that we may be having. Rick took me to my new home – a beautiful little trailer set up on the outskirts of High Level – in the middle of the High Level golf course near to the 4th hole green. As it stands today, I can pick out the sound of a golf cart and a good swing with my eyes closed.
Equipped far better than the dorm that I had just left, I loved my new home immediately. Putting my groceries away and exploring all the nooks and crannies of cupboards, my one channel (CBC) television, and my 3 country station radio, I reached that moment, upon being left alone, where all the tidying is done and the first meal is made – that you have nothing, but nothing to do. I sat at my kitchen table, smile pasted on my face, surveying my small yet utilitarian kingdom, and burst into tears.
1 comment:
I read this entry every time I check your blog and it always makes me cry and miss you more then I already do. Love Mom xo
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