Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul

  Flying had always been in Jodeen’s blood. Her father was an Air Canada pilot, and he had passed along to her his passion for exploring the world from above. Jodeen served for seventeen years as a RCMP officer in Vancouver before the urge to fly became too intense to ignore any longer. So she took a hiatus and trained to be a helicopter pilot. After completing the necessary flying hours, Jodeen became the only female RCMP helicopter pilot in Canada. She was posted to Kamloops, in the interior of British Columbia. Flying almost daily had honed her observation skills. She soon memorised the many surface variables in the vast forests and rough terrain of the province.

  Jodeen was growing restless. She knew it was probable that Joe’s car had been in an accident, leaving it just off the highway and only visible from the air. But with the helicopter still in pieces, she remained grounded. Anxious to be out looking for him, she tried hard to be patient, knowing the engineers were working as fast as they could to safely complete the inspection.

  Every day, Tim and Teresa drove and even walked sections of the highway that Joe had driven—looking for tracks, newly replaced cement barriers, skid marks—anything that might show them where Joe was. They even tried to tap into his spirit to find a clue to his whereabouts. It was an unnerving quest. As desperate as they were to find Joe, they were also aware he might not be alive. Despite all their careful searching, they found nothing.

  It seemed like Joe had simply vanished.

  On the following Monday morning, almost a full week since Joe was last seen, Kamloops’ helicopter still wasn’t ready to fly. That afternoon, Jodeen lay down for a short nap. While she slept, she dreamed that she was piloting the helicopter over the dense forest alongside the highway. And then she glimpsed the red car. . . .

  When she awoke, Jodeen was even more determined to find Joe Spring.

  The next morning finally found the helicopter good to go. With no one available as an observer, Jodeen jumped in and took off alone. Once up, the cockpit became filled with the smell of fuel. She decided to land near the small town of Clinton to check the situation out. An off-duty RCMP corporal, Al Ramey, drove over and Jodeen explained the situation. Al had met the Springs when they were handing out posters to all detachments along the route Joe might have travelled. When Jodeen suggested Al come along as an observer, he jumped at the chance to assist. Everything important to the helicopter’s safety checked out fine so they took off with the windows open, trying to ignore the odour. They flew on, checking gullies and crevices. Then, to their dismay, both radios suddenly quit working. Landing in the small town of Williams Lake to refuel, Jodeen found an engineer who discovered the source of the smell. It was a relief to know that, although irritating, it was not dangerous.

  It was late afternoon, and most people would have quit for the day. Jodeen, however, was persistent.

  “Come on, Al,” she said. “We have to go find that kid.” By now she was sure they were looking for a car that contained a body, but she wanted to give Joe’s family peace of mind. It had now been eight days since Joe had disappeared, and everyone knew a human being simply could not survive injuries along with dehydration for that length of time.

  Jodeen and Al continued flying north for ten minutes, when suddenly Jodeen saw what she had been looking for—a splash of red amidst the trees, just like in her dream!

  “There he is!” she called excitedly over the intercom, “I’ve got the car here, Al!”

  “You’re kidding! Where? I can’t see anything!” he replied.

  Jodeen circled the helicopter. “There!” she pointed. Totally amazed, Al saw it, directly beneath. Jodeen spotted a suitable field nearby and landed. “Do you mind climbing down and checking the car?” she asked.

  Al jumped out, and after lowering himself down the steep embankment, he could see Joe was still in the car. After steeling himself for the worst, Al noticed that Joe’s arm—held in an awkward position behind his head—was moving back and forth in a faint wave.

  Joe was alive!

  Al ran to the car and placed his hand on Joe’s shoulder. “It’s the RCMP, Joe,” he said gently. “We’ve found you.” When Joe groaned as if trying to respond, Al looked at his eyes, which were swollen shut, and his thin, severely weakened body. He realized Joe was very close to death.

  “Everyone’s coming, Joe. Your parents know we’ve found you.” Al wanted to make sure Joe was at peace and not worried about his folks.

  When Al ran towards her yelling, “He’s alive! We need fire and ambulance!” Jodeen was stunned. Overwhelmed, she called the dispatcher on the police radio, which in this moment of extreme need miraculously started working. As she made her call for help, her first thought was, His family will be so happy! And then there was gratitude: What a blessing it is to have this helicopter!

  Only an hour away from Quesnel on the first night of his trip, Joe had fallen asleep at the wheel. His car had drifted across the road to the other side of the highway, hit a tree and proceeded down the bank. The saplings by the road sprang back, hiding all traces. The crumpled dashboard pinned his legs—breaking his ankle—and held him fast. His seat belt stopped him from falling forward as the car rested at a steep angle. His head was injured, perhaps allowing him to drift in and out of consciousness.

  It wasn’t only Joe’s family, friends, Jodeen and Al who celebrated the news of his rescue. Indeed, when the media announced that Joe Spring had been found alive, the astonished silence across British Columbia was broken only by the entire population’s collective sigh of jubilant relief.

  Joe remembers nothing about the nightmare. Spending eight days with untreated, serious injuries, with no water, exacted a huge toll on his body. But it was unable to touch his love and zest for life. With his injuries treated, and the love of his family supporting him, Joe recuperated beyond everyone’s expectations—returning to sports, driving and living life to the fullest.

  If Joe harboured any doubts about how much his family loved him, those reservations have vanished. The experience gave him a calming peace about death, but at the same time confirmed for him how much he is wanted and needed in this world.

  Joe knows that his years of tae kwon do and, more recently, kickboxing, served him well. He is convinced he owes his survival to his excellent physical condition, his positive attitude and his strong will to survive. Oh yes, and the determination and vision of Jodeen Cassidy—one persistent helicopter pilot who just wouldn’t quit.

  Diane C. Nicholson

  Falkland, British Columbia

  Into the Night

  To be of service IS to be happy. What else brings greater satisfaction?

  Honest Ed Mrivish

  As the streetcar rattled down Roncesvalles towards Queen, the scene outside was eerie. There was no one on the streets, not even a police car. When you don’t even see a police car, you know it’s bad out there. It was a Sunday night in February 1978. I was on my way to report for the night shift with Metro Toronto Ambulance, and the snow was really coming down.

  When I got to the station at 6:25 P.M., the day crew gave me a review of their day, including how passersby had to push the ambulance out of the snow when it was stuck. Not good, I thought. My partner, Joe, arrived a few minutes later, and the other crew went home.

  The call came in at 7:20 P.M. The dispatcher was requesting volunteers to pick up an incubator and a special transport team of a nurse and a doctor from Toronto’s Hospital for Sick Children, take them to McMaster Medical Centre in Hamilton, wait, and then bring the team back with a baby. The problem was this raging blizzard. All of southern Ontario was shut down, and nothing was moving anywhere. So they were asking for volunteers; they weren’t going to order anybody to go. The driving conditions were so bad that Metro Ambulance had not yet actually accepted the request from the hospital. Then I spoke to the dispatcher and listened to the story.

  At Toronto’s Hospital for Sick Children, there was a baby with a healthy heart but near death and on life support. In Hamilton was another very s
ick baby who was waiting for a heart transplant. If we could get the Hamilton baby to Sick Kids in time, the parents of the dying baby were ready to discontinue life support for their child, and the doctors would be able to use its heart to save the other baby’s life. With our help that night, although one baby would die, the other one might live. That was the deal.

  When I explained the situation to my partner, he just looked at me. And suddenly I said to the dispatcher, “Okay, we’re going. Let’s saddle up now.”

  The ambulance slid out of the station onto the road. The trip to Hamilton would normally take about forty minutes, but who knew how long it would take tonight. We certainly needed a full tank of fuel, so we stopped to gas up, then headed over to Sick Kids. We picked up the incubator and the special team, and slowly began our journey down University Avenue. I took the ramp up to the Gardiner Expressway at about three miles an hour, and I think it was only because of the extra weight in the back that we made it up that ramp at all.

  Faced with gusting winds and whiteouts, we inched our way along the expressway. As we passed the lights of St. Joseph’s Hospital, it felt like we were flying a plane in the middle of a fog—sometimes we couldn’t see anything. We slowly made our way west to Hamilton under near-impossible driving conditions.

  We crawled onto the Queen Elizabeth Way. After what seemed like an eternity we finally passed Oakville and approached the Burlington Skyway—a great, high bridge, almost three kilometres in length that spans the Burlington Channel. Potentially dangerous in extreme weather such as this, the Skyway is often closed. However, we knew the most direct route into Hamilton was blocked by an accident, and we were forced to use the Skyway. We were not looking forward to it.

  As we approached, there was not another vehicle in sight. I called the provincial dispatcher asking for any information on conditions. To our surprise, she told us the Ontario Provincial Police (OPP) had a car on top waiting for us. Sure enough, as we made our way slowly up the steep slope of the Skyway, there was an OPP cruiser waiting for us at the top. Buffeted now by a severe crosswind as we followed our escort, I hung onto the wheel with white knuckles as we slowly crawled across the top and then back down the other side. Our OPP escort left us at the first exit, and we continued on our way to Hamilton.

  After four-and-a-half hours on the road, we finally pulled into Hamilton’s McMaster Centre, and I gratefully shut the ambulance down. While the special incubator team went into the hospital, Joe and I tried to relax and stretch our legs. It had been a stressful four hours and the night was only half over. Forty-five minutes later the team returned, and we loaded the incubator into the ambulance. It now contained a small baby wrapped in tiny blankets, with a little tube in its nose and an IV in its arm. Standing back in the hospital’s foyer, clinging to each other, were the frightened, but hopeful, parents. The life of their precious baby was now in our hands. Once everyone was safely on board, we pulled out and headed back into the night.

  With Joe now driving, I would normally sit in back. But with the medical team there, I remained up front. Driving conditions had worsened: The snow was very deep, and the highway hadn’t been plowed yet. We were now travelling even slower than earlier, and the west wind driving at our back made it difficult to steer.

  Again, we were the only vehicle on the Burlington Skyway. Now, however, the violent wind was causing the ambulance to fishtail back and forth. Between the fishtailing and the deep snow, Joe had to really hang on. I think if we hadn’t had the extra weight in back, we might have blown right off the bridge. But Joe was a very skillful driver—determined and very steady—and he brought us through.

  When we had arrived in Hamilton earlier, we had had just over half a tank of fuel left—more than enough to get back to Toronto. As we approached Oakville there should have been a quarter of a tank left, but suddenly, in what seemed like just a minute, the fuel gauge fell to just over an eighth of a tank. As we drove past Oakville and into Mississauga, I watched the needle sink even further. We were burning more fuel than usual because of our slow speed and the bad conditions.

  As we approached Toronto, Joe and I were both watching the fuel level and not saying a word. We couldn’t get off the highway now. We would likely use up as much fuel trying to find a gas station as we would to just go for the final destination—Sick Children’s Emergency. It was not a calculated gamble: we had to go for the hospital. We set our sights on pulling the ambulance into Emergency without running out of gas a block before we got there.

  By now the plows had cleared the Gardner Expressway to some extent, and once there it was pretty clear sailing. As we went down the ramp at York Street, however, I saw the needle going into empty as we rounded the curve. We were watching for the fuel warning light to come on any second. Now, on the home stretch, we put on our full emergency lights, and with everything flashing, we headed straight up University Avenue. As we passed Dundas and made that right-hand turn onto Gerrard Street, I swear I heard the engine make a little cough. I’ll never forget that tiny sound as we crawled past Toronto General, took another right-hand turn into Sick Kids, kicked it up the ramp and stopped right in front of the doors.

  We shut off our lights, our engine—everything. Joe and I both took a deep breath, looked at each other and with a huge grin gave each other a high five! We called the dispatcher to say we were “10-7,” meaning we were out of the ambulance and had successfully completed our mission. It was now nearly five A.M. A round-trip that should have taken just over two hours had taken over nine!

  A team was waiting for us at the Emergency doors, and before we even had the ambulance shut down, they had whisked the incubator with the baby through to the elevators and up to the fourth-floor cardiac ward. We later learned the surgery was a success, and one set of parents that day had cause to celebrate life. We were totally wiped, but also elated, knowing that because of our efforts, a baby had lived. When I got home later that morning, I dropped into bed exhausted—but fell asleep feeling good about myself, and my life.

  Gary Robert Walsh

  Toronto, Ontario

  ©1997 John Cadiz. From Lost in the Wilds of Canada by John Cadiz. Used by permission, McClelland & Stewart Ltd. The Canadian publishers.

  A Piece of It All

  I have travelled a great deal in my life. I’ve been all over the world, to every city in Canada and pretty much every juke joint in the United States. I’m on the road 250 days a year. It’s my job. It’s what I do.

  Every few days, I’m off again to another town, another show. Not quite as glamorous as I had imagined it would be oh-so-many years ago. I had thought there’d be limousines and champagne and tall handsome men carrying my bags. I really did! But no, I carry my own bags, and I have learned to pack light. Yes, I thought that I, Jann Arden, a seasoned, ripened traveller, had seen it all.

  I was shamefully wrong.

  In 1998, I was contacted by a humanitarian organization called World Vision. They invited me to go on a media trip to Africa, to be spokesperson in the infomercials they air to raise awareness and money for child sponsorship. I could take a friend. Was I interested?

  First I said yes, and then after a bit of thought, no, then yes and then another no. I was so afraid of going. I’d seen those infomercials and felt my heart break and my hope fade, wondering what I could possibly do—me—just one person, to change anything. I was horrified at the thought of seeing that hunger and sickness and poverty with my own eyes. I didn’t want to go. Why travel anywhere when I would have been so happy to just stay home during my wee bit of time off?

  In my heart I knew I’d be missing the opportunity of a lifetime. So I spoke with my parents and friends, discussing the various horrible and wondrous possibilities. When I finally chose my country—Tanzania, and my travel partner, I was still frightened.

  I had to get several immunizations and take malaria pills two weeks before I left. I’d heard nightmare stories about those malaria pills. That you could die from just taking them the first
time. I’ll never forget popping that first pill and waiting to see the Lord.

  I didn’t.

  Two weeks later I was flying over Africa with my mouth hanging open. Twenty-seven hours on a plane, and voilà I was there—in the middle of nowhere. The most beautiful nowhere I’d ever seen. I fell in love with Africa looking out that tiny, nose-smudged window. I woke my friend Kerry and said, “Look, oh my God. . . . Kerry look at Africa!”

  “I know,” she said.

  My mission was to tell the story of the Masai in the northern plains of Tanzania. Drought had nearly wiped them out entirely over the past several years. Killed off most of their precious livestock, starved their fields, dried their treasured water holes and left them dying. I didn’t know what to expect. I surely didn’t expect these poor and starving people to change my life forever. I was there to help them, not the other way around.

  The first day we awoke to a glorious breakfast of eggs and tomatoes and chicken and French fries. I had to smile. Every effort was made to make us feel at home. I myself think french fries are an excellent source of . . . breakfast. We were all starved and ate well. It was a beautiful morning. I could just make out the tip of Mount Kilamanjero—“Killy” to the locals.

  We piled into the Land Rover and headed off into my wildest dreams and my deepest fears. Both would pale in comparison to what came next.

  We left the main road after several hours and began our bumpy journey toward the Masai. (You need a good bra in Africa). The dust and dryness, the cracked earth and the burning sun made us all thirsty just looking at it. We drank bottle after bottle of water. I’ve never thought the same about drinking water since. As we rounded the last bit of brush, there standing proudly in the middle of their village were fifty or so members of the Masai tribe. I felt like I was in a National Geographic movie. The men were wrapped in bright red cloths and had long iron spears. The woman had children on every hip and jewelry weighing heavy everywhere else. I could not believe my eyes. Time folded over me, and I became lost in it. It seemed I had travelled back to the beginning of time.