We had about an hour until the show started. In the meantime, we were eager to share a Nova Scotian Alexander Keith’s beer and treat ourselves to a local seafood chowder. Two fine young fiddlers performed. We wondered if the concert could be any better than this, but figured we’d give it a try.
At about 6:30, all of us at the pub gathered up our things, said goodbye and thank you to the staff and entertainers, and walked merrily across the road to the concert hall. Linda and I found seats in the fourth row! We exchanged quick hellos with a pleasant couple next to us from New York, who told us they loved to visit the island every summer — just for its music. That little hall, packed to capacity of about 300, soon hushed and we all settled in our seats. At 7:30 sharp, three musicians — Buddy MacMaster, Joey Beaton and Karen Beaton — walked up the eight steps onto the stage. The crowd applauded as they took their positions and plugged in their instruments — the fiddles and electric keyboard, and set up the microphone. Joey Beaton, also emcee, grabbed the microphone to begin.
Just at that moment, before one single note was played, before even one word was spoken, the power went off. The lights went out. There were no backup lights. Once again we remembered — we were in Cape Breton. Still, we were stunned. What now? What band can perform nowadays with no electronic equipment? But again, we forgot we were in Cape Breton.
Joey put the microphone back on the stand. His voice was strong and carried well. Laughing, he announced in true Cape Breton fashion, “I guess we won’t be needing this tonight. Well, you will be lucky. You’ll get real music — pure sound. There will be only one change to the program. Our guest step-dancers will perform nearer the beginning because… we want you to see their feet.”
Joey’s wife, Karen, removed the dark curtains from the two little windows at the back of the stage, thus letting in the remaining summer evening light. The three entertainers moved to the other side of the stage, as if it had been planned. Joey sat down at the old upright piano, and the fiddlers, Buddy MacMaster and Karen Beaton, plopped down their wooden chairs next to him and began to play. All was well in Mabou.
To our amazement, the dancers performed and the jigs and reels continued. As the sun went down the hall grew darker, but we didn’t notice. Each tune lightened our souls. All the performers were so professional — top drawer entertainers giving their all. Sometimes I could only see their silhouettes, but the music kept streaming out among us, mesmerizing us in this dark little hall.
Joey announced there would be a short break, and a few brave audience members ventured cautiously to the washrooms. He laughingly added that Buddy had found a penlight flashlight and was willing to talk and sell DVD’s at a little table near the stage. I went to meet him and found a man as delightful as his fiddling. He autographed my purchase, and asked if I played. When I told him I had just started learning from an eighty-four-year-old gentleman, he said, “That’s like me. I will be eighty-four in October.”
Soon enough the performers took their places and the music resumed. A camper in the crowd had given Joey a headlamp so he could see the keys of the piano. The two other musicians admitted they could do some of their best work in the dark and everyone had a great laugh. After two hours of nearly continuous, joyful music, the cèilidh came to an end. Someone kindly shone his car lights to help the rest of us fumble our way out of the building. As we stumbled away to find our car parked in the pitch-black street, we knew we had been part of something truly unique. We’d been part of a special night in Mabou. The night the lights went out. We knew we were in Cape Breton.
~Glenice Wilson
Barrhead, Alberta
Rescue on Penn Lake
Good is something you do, not something you talk about. Some medals are pinned to your soul, not to your jacket.
~Gino Bartalli
“Can I go out fishing after supper? I’ll stay close to shore,” I promised.
“Okay, but you need to stay in front of the cottage where we can see you,” replied my dad.
“And wear your life jacket,” added Mum.
I lived in or on the water for these two weeks every summer, and this was not the first time I had done this. I put my fishing rod and tackle box in the bottom of the old blue wooden rowboat, buckled up my life jacket, and cast off. I rowed out just far enough and dropped anchor. I waved to my watching mum and dad, and tossed my line into the water.
I was ten years old, and in my element. It was a gorgeous Canadian summer evening at the cottage. The wind had dropped, the water was calm, and the lake was quiet. On the shore I could see the four old green cottages belonging to the Turnbull family. We rented Cottage #2 every summer. My grandparents took #1 — the Point Cottage — and I could see my grandmother sitting in a lawn chair watching me.
In one direction I could see the Deerhurst Inn, and in the other was the Farnsworth Farm — the cows grazing peacefully in the pasture that went right to the shoreline. On the right side of the bay I noticed a group of red canoes from the Camp of the Blue Ox — a boys camp on the other side of the lake.
With a deep sigh of contentment I cast my line out a bit further. This was my very favourite place in the world, and all was well in my world.
I heard the motorboat before I saw it, then watched as it sped toward the bay. Cutting a wide sweeping arc into the bay and then back out again, the driver waved to the boys in the canoes, and they waved back. I noticed that the driver was still looking at the canoes, and not watching where he was headed. Which was now directly toward me.
I was sitting on the middle seat and facing backwards, as you do when you row. With the certainty of youth I knew for sure that boat would turn away soon. But it kept coming straight at me. Closer and closer it came, the bow bearing down on me. It did not turn, and I finally realized it was not going to. At the last moment the boat veered slightly to the left, smashing into that old wooden rowboat about a foot in front of me with a loud crash, sheering off the back end.
Time stood still for a few moments and everything became silent. Stunned, I looked down and saw water where only moments before had been the bottom of my boat. There was the reel of my fishing rod caught on the last wooden crosspiece, the tip dangling in the water. My green tackle box was caught there as well.
Tears were running down my face from the shock, but I stood up then, and looked around. Part of me was scared, but another part of me was curiously aware and thinking clearly. Time started to move again, but in slow motion. What should I do? This boat was going to sink right under me.
On the shore I could see my sister sitting on the lawn and my father racing toward the water in total panic. I saw my grandmother running in their direction, her long dress catching around her legs.
Should I jump in and swim back to the dock? I had my life jacket on — it was not far, I could easily do it. But then I realized that old boat was made of wood — and was not going to sink. And I remembered the rule: “In a boating accident, stay with the boat and don’t panic.” So I sat down again, stayed calm, and waited.
On shore I saw my frantic father run to the boat at the next dock and try to start the little motor. But of course it would not start. At some point I became aware of the red canoes from the camp now heading out of the bay in my direction. One canoe was way out front and racing toward me. The motorboat, I was vaguely aware, was hovering off to one side. Suddenly the red canoe was beside me, and a young man was asking if I was okay. I said yes, and with no hesitation he plucked me from the shattered rowboat, set me in the bottom of his canoe, dug in with his paddle, and in seconds had me back on the dock in the arms of my parents.
By some miracle I was not injured — not even slightly. We later learned the driver of the boat had been drinking. Many years later we learned he was so shocked by the event, and what could have happened, that he never drank again. He also never drove a boat or a car again. Once my family realized I was unharmed, everyone calmed down. Before the canoeist paddled away my dad spoke with him, thanking him and shaking hi
s hand. His name was Digby.
The next day my father and I drove around the lake to the camp. I was truly fascinated, as we had only seen it from a distance. He asked for Digby and, when the young man appeared, thanked him again and handed him an envelope containing a handwritten commendation for his quick thinking and responsible action. My father was the national accounting manager for one of Canada’s big retailers, and he understood the value of a personal reference like this for a young person. It made me feel good to know he had done this for the young man who had rescued me.
I will always be grateful to Digby, from the Camp of the Blue Ox. Digby, local hero.
~Janet Matthews
Aurora, Ontario
All You Need Is Duct Tape and Beer
What sets a canoeing expedition apart is that it purifies you more rapidly than any other… Paddle a hundred [miles] in a canoe and you are already a child of nature.
~Former Prime Minister Pierre Elliott Trudeau
It truly was the crack of dawn. We expected thirty-six hours of summer daylight over the next two days. We intended to use it all on our annual Deliverance re-enactment trip, a mid-July run down an isolated section of a river in northern Ontario. Loaded to the gunwales with gear, we had seven paddlers convoying in three canoes: two canvas-over-cedar strips, and one fibreglass canoe. Our plan included fishing, shore lunches, and an overnight camp-out with unlimited adult refreshments. We also planned to challenge our canoeing skills by running the numerous sections of white water we would encounter.
Black-fly season was over, a light breeze was keeping the mosquitoes at bay, and the water was warm and crystal clear. The downstream current was gentle and we easily “shot” the first two sets of rapids, getting the kinks out of our muscles and scraping the rust off our paddles. As the current increased, so did the complexity of the rapids. The few level-2 runs tested our skills a little more, but we succeeded and became bolder. When we approached a narrow chute with a small waterfall we figured it had enough water to run. It did, barely. With paddles slashing, and our hull rocking wildly and slamming rocks hard and often, my three-man crew banged and clanged its way to a quiet pool below.
All three crews arrived upright, but were now much more focused. We stopped to re-secure our loads, do a bit of fishing and enjoy a delicious pan-fried trout breakfast. Only the sound of a helicopter transporting a section of metal to build a cell phone tower disturbed our peace.
As the day wore on we ran several other rapids, dancing around rocks and shoals and thoroughly enjoying ourselves. When we reached the marked portage the river was clearly too rocky to risk running loaded, so we carried our gear to the base camp below and set up. But after a quick analysis all three crews decided to give that stretch a “canoes only” run.
In the wilderness you can only flirt with danger so long. Disaster struck. It was a high water year, and while trapped in a challenging section of the chute our canoe was smashed sideways into a rock shelf and slid diagonally across it. The canoe was swamped. We ended up in the water, life jackets protecting us, as the rushing water bounced our bodies to the pool below. The canoe stayed jammed on the rock. I swam back far enough to acquire the tether rope and yanked. The hull released and thumped and banged its way to the pool. There it sat partially submerged: severely damaged with a yard long gash in the fibreglass hull and numerous holes below the waterline on both sides.
The two wooden canoes suffered bumps and scrapes and broken ribs but they were still seaworthy. Unfortunately, that didn’t help. Carrying seven people in the two remaining canoes, even with just some of the gear, was not possible. We had to fix the canoe.
The fire pit glowed, cans of brew were distributed and the discussion began. Several ideas were suggested and discarded; then one of the crewmembers came up with a truly Canadian solution. In addition to food, we modern day voyageurs had carried with us two other truly Canadian necessities: duct tape and beer. Add some alcohol-inspired ingenuity and we had a solution. Our inventive friend used his utility knife to cut the ends off an empty can of Molson Canadian beer, and split it down the seam. Presto! The flattened metal cylinder made a patch. We applied the aluminum patch with duct tape, and a hole was covered. It worked! With salvation at hand, the members of our group responded to the challenge. We persevered and toiled late into the summer night, managing to empty more than enough cans, to complete the task.
In the morning our newly christened “Canadian” canoe passed its floatation test with flying colours. We enjoyed another full day on the water, continued our adventure and were able to complete the trek down the river. We made a successful — and dry — rendezvous with our pick-up vehicles. With our canoes loaded on roof carriers we headed for home. The customized “Canadian” canoe drew honks and waves from passing motorists and a flurry of questions at each highway stop. What could be more reflective of Canada’s “spiritual” heritage than having coffee at Tim Hortons while telling a story involving canoes, white water, duct tape and beer?
~John Silver
Orillia, Ontario
Dancing a Northwoods Ballet
To touch, to move, to inspire. This is the true gift of dance.
~Aubrey Lynch
I felt trapped in a six-foot tall lanky body in a world designed for smaller women. Failing ballet at a young age and always feeling like a wallflower at dances had not helped my self-image. So I channelled my deep desire to move gracefully into recreational activities like windsurfing, cross-country skiing and canoeing. But I was still fascinated by dancing. When I confided this to a friend she responded that it made perfect sense. “You are fascinated by movement,” she said, “and that’s why you like tracking and wandering around in the bush so much.” I had never thought of my love of the Canadian outdoors in this way before, but it made sense.
Years later, I found myself working in an isolated First Nation community just west of Thunder Bay. Here, feasts and festivals were frequently accompanied by dancing. The men would sit around a large drum and sing while the women danced in their jingle dresses. Sometimes I would join in, but I always had trouble matching my simple steps to the drumbeat. I knew I was like every other white person I had ever seen trying to dance powwow-style.
I had been in this remote northern Ontario community through winter and was still there as the ice broke up in the spring, a very important marker of the changing season. A few Native women had explained to me the origin of the jingle dress. It was considered a healing dress because it came from the dream of an ill woman. Her husband made the dress she described, cutting up many cans to make the hundreds of jingles that gave it the special tinkling sound. After the woman wore the jingle dress to her community’s powwow, much to everyone’s amazement, she became well. Soon the other women were making their own jingle dresses.
I was fascinated and amazed when I heard the sound these dresses made when the women danced. It was just like the sound of all the little pieces of ice that tinkle along the shoreline during break-up and freeze-up. I loved to walk, or paddle a canoe slowly along the shoreline, frequently pausing to just listen to this incredible sound, and watch the tiny little ice crystals bob up and down as if in their own dance.
In the spring it became a daily event after dinner to attend a gathering in the middle of the community, on the shore of the lake. Under a little cream coloured canopy the men would begin drumming and singing, and the women would dance. I often joined the event, still struggling with my dancing. A few women had offered to lend me a jingle dress, but I had always politely declined. I was very afraid I would look like a real fool with my tall body dancing awkwardly in a jingle dress that fit me more like a mini-skirt.
One night as we caught our breath between dances I sat next to a friend who was approached by one of the elders in the community. They spoke in Anishinabe and glanced at me, but I did not understand their words. Although I had never spoken with this elder, I had joined the younger women when they had joked and commented upon how even in her seventies
this woman had more energy than even the youngest dancers. The elder then left, and my friend turned to me and said: “She has gone to get you a dress to dance in.”
Oh no! I thought. How can I refuse this kind woman? I did not speak her language, and I really didn’t want to feel pressured to dance in a dress that was far too short for me.
The elder returned holding a large brown paper bag and handed it to me with a broad, toothless smile. I accepted it and smiled back, unable to find a graceful way out. The other women urged me to put the dress on. I opened the bag, and felt the jingles tinkle all over as I pulled out a beautiful dress made in one of my favourite colours of blue. I slipped it on over my T-shirt and much to my amazement it fell down to well past my knees — the proper length for one of these dresses. I’ll never forget the feel of the dress going on — it was like donning a rattle. The feel of hundreds of jingles moving and tinkling accented each little move I made.
The men started drumming again and the women got up to dance once more. As I joined them I was amazed by what my feet began to do. For the first time they were moving in rhythm to the drum! They felt spry and light and my whole body tingled with energy from the gentle caressing of the many jingles. Each little movement radiated outward through the jingles swaying.
I danced that night like I had always wanted to dance. I was surrounded by friends, in a community nestled deep within a forest. The sun was setting a magnificent red on the far side of the lake. The dance floor was the bare earth itself and I felt its pulsing with each step. Within me was the rhythm of the ancient seasons cycling round and round, break-up after freeze-up after break-up. On that night, I danced a kind of Northwoods ballet with the others. We all jingled together on one big dance floor, sensing the movements of the ice crystals, and the ancient rhythm of the seasons.