Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Step 27. Trade with the locals.

I was going to put 'trade with the natives' but I thought that might be kind of racist.

“Bee shoo why an” is Cree for lynx hide. And ever since I started seeing pictures of trap lines up around McKay, I have wanted one. What for, you may ask? That is not important. If I want my nieces to prance around in animal skins that is my own business. So here is my step by step guide on how to acquire one.

1. Get a job on a reserve. I am the Recreation Administrator for the Fort McKay First Nation. I run an arena, fitness center, community programs, and various special events. I work with kids, seniors, and everyone in between. It is a pretty sweet job that lets me play around and work out and plan whatever fun things I want. Sometimes it is SUPER frustrating to work on the rez and for the first few months I fired someone every week. I only hire locals so it is a situation of my own making. Meaningful employment, though, means a lot to the young people who do last here.

This is a stock shot of the rez.


This is the fancy band hall. Being on top of oil sands has benefits for the community.


And the ice arena where my office is.



2. Shoot a moose. It better be a good one. Pairs work best and leave meat for trading. And make sure you get sausages made. They are very popular with the locals.



3. Find a local trapper who will trade with you. Simply look for the sign:



4. Bring 20 pounds of assorted moose meats. Must be good quality

5. Find the hide you want. This will involve going through a great big stack in someones garage. Be sure to check the quality of the coat (winter coat is best) and check they tanned hide for tears.




6. Make the trade and revel in your new animal skin. Lynx hide is SO warm! Be sure to get some of the lynx meat too. It cooks like chicken and tastes pretty similar. It is a white meat.


Monday, January 16, 2012

Step 26. Hate the violence.

“Beaten to death” is just a phrase on the news till you really think about it. Beaten with fists until you die. This weekend George Faultain was beaten to death.

I really try to not get preachy here. This isn’t some social change soap box. You really don’t have to read this because reading it will not really accomplish anything. I am just in a funk and it seems wrong to write about ice roads and lynx hides and huskies when something so significant is dominating your thoughts.

I knew George, and I know his friends from the corner where the bottle department meets the Rona. His hair was grey and he smiled a lot. I could never give him a ride in my truck because he was a man, but I tool his sister and cousins. He didn’t ask for money, but a smoke was appreciated every now and then.

His real name wasn’t George, of course. I cannot use his real name because even after death, a man’s name means something. When his family searches the internet for a news story or something when they find out he is dead, I don’t want this post to come up. But seeing as he was homeless, I doubt a news story will ever come up. There won’t even be a police file.

I guess a person could say that this is the way that life goes for a street person. He didn’t have a job, lived off of free meals and begging. He was drunk as often as he could be. His fists didn’t quite close all the way because annual frostbite had killed off the nerve endings. His nose was flat from being broken countless times. He was not an angry man- very few of these guys are. But he was a man who didn’t want to take part in society the way he was told. He was unable to ‘cope’ with a life of systemic abuse. When you ask George what he’s been up to, he says “just havin’ a laugh.”

George was beaten up really badly two weeks ago. Badly enough to get angy. One of the last conversations George had was with his friend Randy. George wanted to stab the guy who beat him up, who had knocked out his teeth and left him swollen for days. George had a plan. Randy told him not to do it, that it wasn’t worth it to end up in jail.

It amazes me that these guys don’t want to go to jail. They are sleeping under cardboard at -30 and would forgo the opportunity for a warm bed and real meals to maintain their freedom. Especially in the native guys, that sense of freedom is integral to their identity. As long as they can come and go as they please, they have hope. Randy gave George the money he had and sent him to the liquor store for a cure-all.

A few days later George was beaten to death. George had let go of his anger and carried on living. A few days later, he found himself behind an unlit building, his known attacker close behind. Hard living, childhood polio, and frostbite leave many of the men with an awkward, stiffened gait. It would be easy to be overtaken. He couldn’t run away. His attacker closed in quickly.

When emergency services came to take away the body, the skull had been smashed in. Bones were broken. Organs ruptured. The body was put on life support for a day. Because he has no fixed address, they could not contact family to ask what should be done. His family is in Fort Chip. I know that. Randy knows that. Everyone downtown knows that. With no brain activity, though, it was a warm body taking up a bed. So on Friday morning that body was taken off life support. It was a decision made by a hierarchy of policies. I don’t resent it, though- there was nobody there to make the decision.

So now there is no George. For years he’d been living outside, making do. Even on the street there are respects to be paid to a man who didn’t steal and didn’t rough up women.

There is an economist living in one little part of my brain who says that it’s not as though this guy was contributing to society or anything. And that thought is a little startling because it reduces life to what a person does- it steals away the inherent value of breathing and thinking and conversations over shared cigarettes. There is a family out there who just lost a brother and a father and an uncle and may not even know it.

I think about the kids that George had; the years between him and his children did nothing to diminish his fatherly pride. I think about a daughter coming out of the foster system in five years and trying to figure out just where she came from. She goes downtown and starts asking questions. Parts of her don’t want to be there, facing the cultural legacy that took her parents. She asks questions. She is pointed towards Randy or to Dave, and she finds them by the river at their tent.

“What’d you say? George Faultain’s kid?”

“Yeah. Do you know what happened to him?”

Dave won’t look up. Won’t say anything. Randy speaks. “Yeah. He was beaten to death about 5 years ago. By Adam Burnrobe.”

There’s a pause.

“What did the police do?”

“Nothing.” Randy start to busy himself at his fire. “They don’t really do much about that kind of stuff.”

And just like that she has lost a piece of her identity. Death is loss. It’s always a loss. And it’s a loss that hits right between the shoulders. An invisible fist against the lungs.

The violence on the streets us unreal. It’s accepted as part of the package. HIV, hepatitis, violence, exploitation… How do you reach back out of that and live within the walls of society ever again?

A number of George’s friends from the streets showed up in church yesterday looking for solace after losing a friend. One is disruptive. People must think he is drunk. He is actually mentally disabled. He does not understand that getting up in a service is a problem. The pastors wife comes over and speaks to him as a child, telling him is it not okay to disrupt. He understands. The other two can barely take the inactivity of it. We get up and walk out early, and talk in the lobby.

The woman is quiet. I’ve known her for a while. She came sobbing into my office when she was first diagnosed with Hep C. She was afraid I would get it if I touched her, so I kissed her face and we held hands. She is not a prostitute. She doesn’t use needles. But when she was a teenager and her uncle raped her she knew her home was no longer safe. So she went to the streets where she couldn’t be found; where she had freedom. She says she won't live in walls again.

We are sitting in the lobby. She looks at me. “It just isn’t right. He didn’t do nothing wrong.” Silence. Tears start to silently form in the bottom of her eyes. “I don’t want to die out here. I don’t want to die on the street. Where will they bury me?”

Sunday, January 8, 2012

Step 25. Get even more wheels.

Yea... so. I have a new job! I now work on a reserve north of the city as a recreational coordinator, which means I plan fun things and then do them. This is Kathleen, who I spend everyday with. She is from Fort McKay so she has been crucial to the success of anything we do.




And this is a guy building a teepee, no joke. Pretty fly!


The HIV Society closed amid scandal and suspicion of embezzlement. It was quite distressing. While we were facing the fact that our director had absconded with our cash, I interviewed for a job up here. As it so happens, the day I left the HIV Society, everyone else was let go and they were shut down. I literally went from one job on a Friday to a new one on a Monday. More about the reserve later. Till then, check out my truck:


I was driving home after hunting this year (go a big cow moose and her baby!) and kind of crashed my truck. I was on Highway 63- also known as the highway of death. It is notoriously bad and I have had great luck on it, driving in November, February, and pretty much whenever my fancy strikes. It is 5 hours from Edmonton to Fort, with one stop in between. A lot of that is a single lane each way. It is filled with big trucks and roid monsters. And somehow I thought me being on there all the time was a good idea.

So here I am, speeding along, totally unaware that I am driving on nothing but ICE. That thick, terrifying ice that you cannot even walk on. I have a truck filled with camping gear, guns, and a salted moose hide.

I was doing about 80 km/h, which is 20 less than the limit, and come to a down hill section. Then I loose control of the truck. I do a little adjustment and swerve into oncoming traffic. I adjust and swerve the other way. This is when the chest tightens and I cannot breathe and I realize that I have little to no control of where this truck is going. I am picking up speed as I race downhill. I start honking to let the other vehicles know that this is not for fun. I swerve back into oncoming traffic. Two vehicles are able to move. There is one left coming strait towards me. My hands tighten on the wheel and I brace myself with my arms. I stiffen my neck and push myself back into the seat as hard as I can. I am going to hit him. There is nothing I can do. He speeds past and almost makes it by, and then...

I clipped his back end as he went past. The roads were SO slick that we both spun into the ditch. I just sat there, still braced against the wheel, just waiting. Something isn't right. No rolling, no broken glass, no airbag... The car is quiet. What? Is that it? I just hit a guy at 100!!

I went over and he was okay- already on the phone to find a ride to town. He was totally fine. I was totally fine. Both of our vehicles are totaled.

The police came (they have to for a collision, apparently) and wrote a report, after spinning out on the road himself. A couple stopped and the woman came and gave me a hug. Her and her husband waited with me for the police so I could sit in their truck. Three more people spun into the ditch before the salt truck came. Then all the ice was gone!!

So these complete strangers who stop to help let me sit int heir car for an hour with them to stay warm and carry my guns along the highway to their own vehicle. I go home with this couple, crying every few minutes, and we eat spaghetti and talk about Jesus. It was pretty awesome. Turns out the lady is a trauma counselor. How great! I stayed at there place for 5 hours and it was like being with family friends.

Then the Cheethams drive 4 hours to come and pick me up in this backwater Alberta town, then 4 hours home! I was in bed that night and at work the next day. I am so well provided for it is absolutely nuts. I mean really, who totals there car, then goes to a strangers house for a family dinner and is picked up and driven home to where they live 4 HOURS AWAY. I am not just grateful to be alive, I am grateful to have a life filled with incredible people and awesome provision.

A week later a friend and I drove back to empty the truck, I had a good sob in the driver's seat, and said goodbye. It was a great vehicle and meant so much more than that being from my Grandpa and all. Some friends were saying that my good hunting luck is from my grandpa, and that he protected me in the accident. They also said that's probably all the mojo his spirit had left, so I should cut the near death experiences for a while.

Now I am back in town with no vehicle. The sometimes frantic nature of my work makes this hectic, as, in fact, my carpool left without me my second day back. I just couldn't leave yet!! The 55 km walk home is not one I want to make on a regular basis, so work gives me this:




Two words: FLEET VEHICLE. I don't pay for insurance, maintenance, or gas. It is pretty dang sweet.

I don't feel comfortable driving it for personal use, though, so I still need a car I can take grocery shopping. BUT HOW CAN I CAR SHOP?? I am not good at this. I have never bought a car. If you recall, the last one was a gift. And now I've crashed it! Which bring me to this:



My new truck!! My dear sweet uncle is lending me this sweet ride until I move away. How Albertan is this baby?! I love that is it red. I am living large in the hillbilly stereotypes. I like wearing my Browning baseball cap when I am driving it.

Now I have 2 vehicles. I won't keep the work one for long, but it sure is nice to have options.

A friend asked a few days later if being in a car accident that should have killed me made me evaluate what I was doing with my life. And yes it did. The conclusion? That I have a sweet awesome life and am doing with it exactly what I should.