The '70s Began With So Much Promise

Boating, Golfing, Picnics

Somewhere around the end of the sixties into 1970 we moved into a 12' x 60' trailer, overlooking the Old Town. We could watch float planes come and go. I never wondered who was on them and where they were going, I thought that to be information that was none of my business. Not a good sign if I wanted to slant my career into hard news (which I didn't). In the winter some of the town folk would watch me walking to work and smirk. I had a parka made for me so I would not endure any cold on the one mile distance between home and work. I was 6' 4" and the parka continued from my shoulders to my ankles, not a common sight for most northerners, usually the parka ends at the knees. I could never understand that, I froze my knees one day as a direct result of not wearing appropriate clothing for the weather. Why not have clothing that covers spots that could freeze, only makes sense to me.

Midnight Golf

I remember golfing at midnight, just like the brochure said. I suppose that's why I did it. The bugs were worse at night, the air calm, the green kept swaying back and forth while I was addressing the ball. I guess drinking was part of the tournament as well. I was an ok golfer, nothing great. The course was challenging, with its sand fairways and oiled and packed sand greens. Here is a comparison chart to demonstrate the procedure when driving the wimpy courses in the rest of Canada and the he-man (she-woman?) course in Yellowknife:



Everywhere in Canada except Yellowknife Only in Yellowknife
  1. Place the ball on a tee that is being supported with loving care by clean dirt and grass blades,
  2. address it,
  3. smack!,
  4. fly (like the wind),
  5. land (gently),
  6. (big) bounce,
  7. bounce,
  8. bounce,
  9. (long) roll,
  10. roll,
  11. roll,
  12. (gentle) stop.
  1. Place the ball on the tee stuck in a rubber mat,
  2. address it,
  3. smack!,
  4. fly,
  5. land/stop!


Being strong off the tee helped get you to the green otherwise you were out there all night, hitting the ball from one sand dune to another. It didn't help when the ravens (a crow on massive amounts of growth hormone) flew away with your ball. They called that a natural hazard! And you lost a stroke! Some people felt like they were having a stroke chasing the raven. Like in Geraldton, I birdied every hole, just not in the same round.

Shuffle Board

Since I was an early bird, work ended at 2:30 PM. I headed for the Legion and practiced shuffle board. It was an easy game, I thought it to be a little like pitching, accuracy mostly, very little strategy. I learned the strategy part during the next winter when it was almost impossible for someone to beat me and take the table. There were three people I would not play, they usually upped the bet to $500 - $1000 per game, not my league. I played for $1.00 or a rye and coke.

Union - A Decision To Fight For Quality

Cutbacks at the CBC (so what is different today?) began to frustrate me. On one hand we were being asked to do more and on the other hand the budgets were tight so we could afford less. The news department started doing part of our job, when out of town, by recording sound effects for our stock library of sound. Now, that would have been ok except they were doing a lousy job. They were never trained in gathering sound effects and didn't know a good product from a bad one. I really like a high quality product. I got fed up one day and, being the senior announcer, complained. There was no response. I complained. No response. I phoned the NABET Union, wrote a charter, articles of organization and we started our own chapter of the union. Then I complained and the extra recording stopped. Of course, little did I realize my action to bring a strong union presence to that station threw up a barrier that would prevent me from going higher in the corporation. From my position in the corporate ladder I could see no more rungs. I didn't realize this at the time, that happened many years later when I witnessed a similiar scene unfold with someone else.

Ah, The Good Old Days

I considered my radio days the crown jewel in my experience tiara. It was so much fun, my creative juices flooded not only that station but trickled into the network occasionally too (messy eh?). The people I worked with were, for the most part, great. Sometimes egos would clash but generally it was a peaceful, productive time. I enjoyed a lot of things at the radio station. Some of my favourite moments were: Other remberances of the north included some of the filming of various activities. The government wanted to document the laying of a plaque or some similar memorial about 200 miles north of Yellowknife. They put me in a twin otter, two engine bush plane, and flew me to a lake way up there. I filmed the dedication, or at least tried to film it. The black flies were so bad I had to stop the camera every 20 seconds because all I could see in the view finder was black, the lens was coated with flies. Time and time again I tried to continue filming. Eventually I gave up and shot cut-aways, short 5 to 10 second static shots that could be edited together to support a narrative.

I remember the time I was contracted to film the video for a documentary of the twin otter. I did the standard shooting, from the dock - load cargo, take off, circle, land. From the plane, load cargo, take off, circle, land. Shot local bush plane people doing their local bush plane tasks. Now that's boring. I wanted an exciting shot to rivet the viewers in their seats. In one particular insane moment I acted on a brainwave. I secured the co-pilot's door fully open, did up the seat belt so it formed a loop, then stood on the pontoon with my arm through the seat belt loop. I filmed the take off from this vantage point. It was beautiful, the pontoon pushed water, less, less, we pull away from the surface, we're off, the plane rises, giving me a panoramic view of the city taken through the tip of the pontoon. Really dramatic, not really smart but sure sensational.

A fellow video nut, Brian and I were asked by the NWT Commissioner, the big kahuna, to edit and enhance two travel documentaries the government had filmed. We spent weeks, every evening, writing the sound track, getting the synchronization just right, adding voice clips, music, narrative, edit, edit, edit. Both films were perfect, a good job. The whole package was sent to Vancouver to have the sound track permanently attached to the film. The company messed up and was 4 seconds out at the end of the film, they didn't do a strobe test to see if their equipment was going the right speed... we did. I got a private thank you and a small gold pin from some government person for that effort.

I filmed the first ever Flying Bank. A DC4 or DC6 had a desk placed near the back door. We left Yellowknife, with camera running, recording every move. We landed at a small community and the bank was open for business. On to the next community and so forth. We ended up in Cambridge Bay, left there and headed home.

On one plane ride, the same plane as the Flying Bank, we went up north for one reason or another, landing in Coppermine, the roughest landing I have experienced in any plane.The runway was full of 6 to 8 inch ruts frozen into the runway. We visited a couple of other communities, a fishing lodge and headed for home. When we got close to Yellowknife the tower people said to go somewhere else because fog had settled on the airport. I didn't know the details at the time, I heard about it later from the gang I hung around with, the air traffic controllers. Anyway, we descended more and more, it was foggy, or low cloud, it's hard to tell when they don't provide an altimeter for each passenger. We descended even more, the plane slowed. The stewardess, who was sitting with me, gripped my arm and held on for dear life. We both had a feeling that something was wrong. Then, in a flash, we were going up in a steep climb, banking to the right almost 90 degrees and accelerating. We ascended to the top of the fog, relieving the tension of the passengers. From all over the cabin I heard phew!, phew! along with deep inhaling and exhaling, getting out the bad air in with the good. "Uh, ladies and gentlemen," a voice came over the loudspeaker, "we are unable to land in Yellowkinfe, due to the fog so we are going to take you to Hay River until conditions improve." "He sounded so calm, I'll bet he wasn't so cool a couple of minutes ago!" quipped the stewardess. She got up to tend to the needs of the passengers while we headed for Hay River, landed, waited for a couple of hours until the fog cleared, then returned to Yellowknife. I found out later that night that the plane was heading straight for the tower but pulled up and banked at the last possible second. I asked them if they'd ducked... they didn't see the humour.

A Labor of Love

Yellowknife was a small town but it had big needs. There was always a shortage of public service volunteers. Some people, like me, are predisposed to becoming volunteers. The trouble was, there were needs to be filled but the organization to handle them hadn't been created yet. I am the founding president of the radio club, a group formed to provide a need crying to be satisfied. We were a small group of big boys and girls who got together with our toys, CB radios, most evenings. I became the local CB reseller, selling radios, antennas and peripheral devices in YK. It got to be too much to handle after a while so I took on a partner who eventually took over the business. Some time during that period I was the Motorola rep too, selling much of the same equipment. We CBers spent our spare time honing our craft playing CB hide and seek. One CBer would hide, the rest of us would use our wits and directional antennas to seek.

I worked with the seeing impaired to bring them a new lease on life, CB radio. I lobbied other service organizations to buy equipment and then trained the people to fit the radios into their way of doing things. Just after I left the north, one of my group was singled out as a hero as he stood by his radio one evening and aided the rescue of the Major (our former mayor) of Yellowknife who was adrift (in a boat) on Great Slave Lake. Good for you, Bill! We would help tourists and truckers coming into the city find their way, make phone calls and do whatever was necessary to assist.

At Halloween we would mobilize our group into zone patrols and prevent vandalism. It worked, our presence was enough to convince vandals to go home and watch a movie. We helped with the Christmas Daddies, a charity program that would provide entertainment from professionals and quite often amateurs. If you made a pledge to have one of your friends, or enemies get up on stage and sing, dance or whatever, we went and rousted that person out of their home and brought them to the stage.

One evening I was talking with a person south of Winnipeg when we heard this faint voice ask for help. Now there were a lot, I mean a lot, of people on the channels who acted like idiots so we waited to see if they would speak again. They did, I responded, they were excited about being heard and started telling us their problem. I had co-phased antennas (power, uh! uh!) on the roof and I began zooming in on the signal. My fellow channel rat did the same in Manitoba. We determined the signal was coming from Hudson Bay in the Central Arctic. Sure enough, the scratchy signal told us they were in trouble on Hudson Bay. My friend called the RCMP with the location. We never heard the result of that incident. I didn't want to push my identity since I was running 100 times more output power than was allowed.

I found myself volunteered by a group of people for the City Rec. Board, followed shortly by an election making me the Chairman. I learned disbursement of monies quickly. Political tactics to gain favour was a practice that backfired on the lobbyists. I did not cotton to bribes, believing that everyone was created equal and capable of stating their request for funds in an organized and orderly manner. Those who broke the "law of Royland" paid dearly by having their funding cut. I moved away before I had to go through that again.

Heard For Years, It's Time To Be Seen

The frustration of news talk radio, the new format, slashed budgets, a curtailment of my creative effort in favour of mundane straight forward "read the script" type broadcasting caused me to become soured with radio. I spent time with a friend of mine who, with tape measure in hand, was measuring the city. Yellowknife had grown to about 9500 people now. It was time for cable tv to be introduced to the NWT and my friend Brian did it. The previous winter both of us would travel the back lanes, and every street in the city, marking the position of each power pole on a crumpled street map. Cable TV carries the TV signals to each house using a coaxial cable. The cable is strung on a messenger wire that is secured to the power poles. Inches can make a difference in the placement of an amplifying component so we spent a lot of time measuring and calculating. Of course, I did not tell CBC I was doing this... they would have taken away all of the rungs of my corporate ladder. I was offered a small percentage ownership of the Cable TV station right at the beginning, but I was sure, at the beginning, revenue would not support three of us, Brian, his partner Wes and me. I stayed with CBC. They presented their case to the CRTC, won and began the work of wiring the city. I watched and learned.

I joined Cable TV in the fall of 1972. This was not your regular Cable effort. 10 hours of programming per day was recorded in Edmonton from the CTV station, CFCN, using our own recording facility. The tapes were shipped north each morning but the airline schedule would not guarantee we could play the tapes the next day, so they were played on the second day (Tuesday's programs were played on Thursday). The exception was the CTV national news, it was delayed to early evening the next day. A regular Cable station simply rebroadcasts the signal from one place to another. We ran local station breaks, local programming, local people involved on air just like a regular TV station.

My first duty, since I had an electornics background, was to build a switching console so we could run various feeds on multiple channels. We used two channels for our local programming, channel 3 the CTV program channel and channel 6, the local specials channel. I bought switches, wire, relays and control stuff to mix video and audio signals from a 4 camera studio, telecine chain (my own creation) for slides, 16 mm movies and display cards. I put on my graphics hat and designed the company "on air" logo, then created the slides and cards to display the logo on air. I included a temperature slot for the technician to display the current temperature at the station break.

The boss secured a contract to provide 14 hours of selected programming to remote work sites for various oil and exploration companies. Now, it was a matter of scheduling. We had about 7 sites, each with a different set of program requirements, many overlapping programs, low paid technicians who were forgetting the recording occasionally. We had a bank of video tape decks which I tied into the switching console so programs could be recorded live or dubbed from one to another easily. This may be boring for some readers but it was a big deal for me at the time... now, it's just a memory.

After I got the technical house in order and maintenance schedules underway, according to Brian, I had some free time. He had a brainwave, "Let's do live newscasts!", he said excitedly. "Okey dokey," I said supportingly, "Who would be the best person to do this?" I asked stupidly. "You!", he finalized. Right... as if I didn't have enough to do looking after the technicians and keeping the equipment in top notch running form. I appointed a senior operator to help unload some of the work. Brian took over the scheduling of the recording, shipping and other stuff, leaving me with maintenance and technical production duties. "There, now, do news," he ordered.

I wrote enough productions and read enough newscasts to have much of the method of writing TV news stories rub off on me. After all one of CBC's award winning writers, Val Wake, was in my humble opinion, the best writer of news I had experienced. Even to this day I watch a lot of news and his style and news flair would be superior today. My newscast was built around only local events and concatenated with the CTV National News, me first. Have you ever thought about how little activity there is in a town of 9500? I spent most of my time digging for stories, lugging the portable? video camera to sites and getting a clip for the news. City council was a gold mine. I spent every Monday evening in the chambers documenting every detail so I could have stories for the whole week. I didn't have to worry about anyone scooping me, there was only CBC who looked after regional news and the Newspaper that published only on Thursday. Luckily I was involved with the writing of the city page there too. If there was a good story that required an in depth look, I saved it until Thursday so both TV and the paper could present it. The one story I did not report was my feeble attempt at keeping the rum out of the Pepsi can of the, then, mayor, so he would stay sober for the entire evening.

We had a solid audience night after night, almost everyone watched. About 6 months later many people would talk to me on the street continuing a conversation we never had. Because I was in their living room every night talking to them (on the tube), they thought I was part of the conversation they were having. After reminding them that a TV is one-way communication they went away. I also presented a weekly news magazine/local political interview show, election specials and the standard stuff.

As if I wasn't busy enough, we started making commercials. Revenue had levelled off and expenses were up so we sold air time to make paycheck money. This new venture soon became a lot of work, it takes time to sell a business on the idea, think up a suitable commercial, get initial approval, design a story board, prepare the slides, film, video, audio and script, work with the actors and artists and put it together. To coordinate the artsy side I started NORPRO, a production and advertising company. The money was good but the amount of work was overwhelming.

We did local specials, like Christmas Daddies live, yes, we did it too! Each night we bring live Lion's Club bingo to every home. They made a lot of money each week, I know, I was also a director of the Lions looking after.... bingo. One year I got ambitious, wanting to provide coverage of fastball games. I wanted a center field camera but according to the experts, the video signal from a camera could not travel along a wire more than 50 feet before it became troublesome to use. I wanted a signal from a camera 400 feet away to be mixed in with the first and third base cameras. The city fathers would not let me dig up the field to lay down a cable between home plate and center field so we had to go around - a distance of 400 feet. Being an electronic graduate I put my brain to work to figure out why distance was so harmful to the signal. A while later I got in my truck and drove out beyond the golf course into the bush and scoured the land for cable. I knew there was old seismic cable just lying around after the seismic station did a complete replacement of the wires last year. Seismic cable is very high quality and I was sure it would give me the distance I needed. I gathered up a truck full and brought it back to the station and began testing. Sure enough it was sufficient for running video over a 400 foot distance. We strung the cable, we recorded the game, we watched it later, it was fun. I then used it for all camera cables, it gave us a better picture.

The Arctic Winter Games were held in Anchorage, Alaska one year. We packed every piece of gear we owned and headed for the US. We set up in the lobby of a major hotel, which really attracted attention. There was no live TV in Anchorage, their programs were on a 2 week delay, recorded in California, played 1 week later in Hawaii, played 1 week later in Anchorage. People gathered to watch a live television production. My first interview was Grandpa Walton, Will Geer. He was in the lobby, I steered him to the interview seat. We produced about 8 hours of taped games coverage a day. There were only 5 of us so we moved in a hurry and did many things at a time. I learned how to run the main camera and switcher at the same time, coordination was the name of the game. The tapes were shipped daily to Yellowknife and played that night. Many a night we were eating supper at 3 AM at an all night restaurant. Talk about big time burn out at the end of that session.

I was too busy and burn out hit me like a hammer, I had to leave all that work or lose my sanity. So I took a government job, Information Officer responsible for broadcasting, and local government. The word "frustration" crept into my life right from about the second week. I tried to set up a technology network where everyone would trade tapes, expertise, music, news and anything that would interest small Inuit communities. But the Informatioin department was run by a print journalist and he vetoed any initiative I brought to the table. They gave me a $50,000 travel budget so "I" could go places. What good was that? We needed stuff for the stations rather than another government flunky telling them what would be nice to do. Oh well, I only lasted 1 year before the experience became more than I could bear. I wrote pamphlets on tourism, trade, the trucking industry and anything else they threw on my desk including press releases for newspeople in the media. I also helped organize an audio department that could prepare interesting radio spots for use by remote radio stations, but it turned out to be nothing but a highway to release government propaganda.

9 Lives?

I was sent on a central Arctic tour one winter. I chartered a plane for the trip and we left Yellownife, arriving in Baker Lake after an uneventful flight. My job was to discuss the present and future with the people looking after the radio stations. (Watch out here comes the soap box again) Unfortunately that was not my idea of a good way to spend money. (Soap box is put away now) I talked with the radio people and got the same thing as I have been getting for six months, we need money to operate. The pilot and I stayed over night.

The next morning it was clear and cold... about -40. The pilot unwrapped the plane, started it up and we took off for Rankin Inlet. Once at cruising altitude we just waited for time and distance to pass before decending to the shores of Hudson Bay. About 1/2 hour before landing we hear from the airport person at Rankin, "We are fogged in, you'll have to go somewhere else." The pilot gets out the maps, the calculator and he eyeballs the gas gauges. He looks over at me and tells me we'll have to go to Snowdrift. That was ok, it was a community on our visit list. He changes course heading south along the shore. There was heavy cloud below that seemed to get darker as the miles went by. The beacon at Snowdrift came in loud and clear, we were about 15 minutes away. The pilot contacted the ground, but got the same story, fog, thick fog.

Out came the maps and the calculator. After a few minutes the pilot said, "We haven't enough fuel to make another airport, it's land at Snowdrift or stay up here until the fog clears." What a comedian, I wasn't born yesterday, I knew we couldn't stay up here all night, I was getting hungry and had to eat. A lot of things flash in your mind when you are given an alternative that looks bleak and closes the door on all other alternatives. My heart jumped up and took notice, it seemed higher in my chest. I lit another cigarette, this could be my last. That did it! I panicked inside, wanting with all my might to be somewhere else, anywhere else right now. I didn't want to think about the current state of me and the tin can I was in. I knew we couldn't land without an airstrip, the snow resembled moguls, 2 to 3 foot snow dunes on both Hudson Bay and the adjoining land, we would be ripped apart instantly. The snow in this part of the world packs so tightly you could drive a truck on it and not leave a tire track, then 2 feet away sink to your knees.

Now what? I couldn't yell "cut" and the scene would stop and I would be safe. The next two or three minutes seemed like an entire morning. We both thought of a plan to get us out alive, if possible. This was a twin engine plane, it cruises really fast. If we were in a tiny plane we could jump out at 40 MPH and still live, but this machine was going about 150 MPH, try hitting hard packed snow at that speed, it wouldn't be a pretty sight. Finally, the pilot came up with a possible solution... I was ready for any thread of hope. "We will go out over Hudson Bay where there are no big hills, turn to face Snowdrift, the air strip is plowed snow from the shore straight out into the Bay. We'll descend slowly, with both of us watching for the snow pack on the ice. We'll stay at that altitude until we see the airstrip and land on it, then go have a coffee, ok?"

Ok? As long as he didn't leave anything out like, hit an air pocket and catch a propellor on the snow, or not be able to see the ground, plowing into the snow while descending. That's what I thought but what else could we do? "You're the boss," I said hoping he was a good boss, a kind boss, a boss who loved his employees. We turned left and headed out to sea, so to speak. About 10 minutes later we turned and headed straight for the Snowdrift beacon. The plane descended into the fog, slowly, I wish we could slow down, the fog rushes by so fast. Descending more now, but still slowly. I am staring out the side window looking for anything but fog, that "anything" would be snow. Everything is white, it is so hard to distinguish shapes, contour, changes. We descend for yet another eternity. I think of my kids. Will I see them grow? Will I see them again? I haven't done things I want to do yet. Panic tries to take over but I fight back. Just for a second I glanced over at the pilot. Oh my goddness! All I see is beads of sweat absolutely pouring off his face. This was not good news. I realized I was in the same state, my cigarette pack in my lap was soaking wet. If he was feeling like me then we were in serious trouble. I pushed my face against the side window, where are you snow? There it was! "There is the ground!" I yelled. He saw it too. We levelled off at about 25 feet. The fog was really thick. That snow was rushing by so fast I could hardly think straight, it was a bit mesmerizing.

"If you see any change in the snow tell me right away," he yelled. A change in the snow meant it was no longer on ice but on land. The land sloped away from the shore rising to about 100 feet in just over a half mile distance, Snowdrift was right on the shore, at the end of the runway. The snow was still rushing by, almost faster than I could think. We travelled this route, so close to disaster yet still heading for the runway safely for a few more minutes, then all of a sudden the snow changed! "It's changed!", I blurted as loud as I could. The pilot had already seen the change and pulled back on the yoke crushing all my body parts against my back. Boy, did we go up in a hurry! At that point I didn't care about running out of fuel, we were safe, we didn't crash. I fully expected my obituary would be in the next edition of the local paper, but now everything was ok.

After we gathered ourselves together and thought about our good fortune we both stared at the fuel gauges, the little needles were about to have a nap against the big E on the left. Time to panic again, this was getting monotonous. But the panic was mild this time, I guess if it was my time to die, then so be it, I didn't want a repeat performance of the last 10 minutes. We had run out of options, so both of us, deep in thought, just looked out over the fog. Wait! "Look over there," I said excitedly. I saw something dark, dark is good... it sometimes means air sandwiched between a cloud and the ground. We banked steeply to the left heading for dark. We went right into it hoping beyond hope it was a good thing. There it was... land, the fog lifted, became a cloud and gave us a hole to fly through. We flew as fast as those little blades could pull us. The ceiling was about 300 feet, more than enough for two happy travellers.

We lowered the flaps, landing gear and our anxiety level. The pilot flew the plane over the town, heading for the runway. Out over the ice we turned sharply, lined up with the barrels marking the runway sides and gently touched the plowed airstrip, cut the engine and with all feet and hands, wrestled the plane to a stop. We sat there for a moment, savouring the lack of movement then revved the engine and taxied to a stop beside a truck that came to greet us. The silence was deafening and the stillness dizzying. I didn't care, we made it down alive. I looked out, thankful to be able to do that, and saw a sea of people heading for us, laughing and pointing. I didn't think too much of it, I thought the whole town was being friendly by coming down to greet us. We stepped out of the plane to be encircled by the townspeople. I did not speak the Inuit language and was happy to see an English speaking person approaching, jostled by the crushing crowd of laughers and pointers.

"Hello, my name is...," I attempted to say. "That was you up there a few minutes ago wasn't it?", the English speaking Snowdrifter asked. The pilot nodded. He turned and interpreted the nod to the townspeople. In unison everyone laughed and pointed at both of us, then the plane, then back to us again. "Do you know what happened?" he asked. The pilot said, "We tried to land on the strip but couldn't find it in the fog." Of course, there was laughter when this statement was interpreted to the crowd. "We heard you coming, then all of a sudden we saw you, flying up the street, between the houses!" he said through his laughing. I had to be told twice before it sunk in... between the houses, between the houses. When we saw the snow change and the pilot pulled back on the yoke we ascended at the same rate as the land and flew through town. I am glad the town didn't have a bump in the road. I did a lot of soul searching about flying after that. Although I still am a passenger when I have to be, that trip haunts me on every flight.

Go North Young Family

In a few months I thought, that was it! I have had enough and left that type of work behind and headed for the world of techy. I was hired on at the telephone company, trained in the art of voice switching and headed for Inuvik. The kids enrolled in school, I absorbed every manual on every piece of equipment in the company. I worked with the senior tech finding faults on the microwave system learning mounds of techy stuff every day. I learned even more by fixing a couple of mobile radio channels that had never worked. I learned the complicated wiring and switching of the telephone operator's consoles, and found some faults with the electronic switching gear in Inuvik, Aklavik, Old Crow, Yukon and other sites. I worked on a lot of different types of equipment and learned fast. Housing was great, a 4 bedroom townhouse for $85 a month. A utilidor, an insulated passage way, carried light, heat, and water to our place and took away our waste. I set up a ham shack, VE8TJ and activated my amateur radio hobby. My daughter visited me in the ham shack every evening and learned morse code to a proficiency of 10 word per minute, good for her! She also learned enough theory to pass her level 1 licence. Good for her! When I began my ham hobby in Yellowknife, my first contact was Brian in Inuvik. Little did I know I would move there and we would become friends for years after. I am one of the few operators to talk on two different satellites at the same time. Oscar 6 was disappearing over the horizon into the Soviet Union while I was carrying on a conversation with a Russian. At the same time Oscar 7 was appearing on the southern horizon and I was talking with a ham in Florida. Considering the doppler effect of the two satellites were opposing each other, I did ok.

The sun set the afternoon of December 6. It rose again on January 6 for about 2 minutes. What a long month. The sun cycle is an important factor to many of us and we take for granted its coming and going. At the beginning of winter I went to the Bay, the only store around and ordered a skidoo. "Ok," the clerk said, "I'll have it here waiting for you in July." "July?" I blurted, "The one just past or the next one?" "Next one," came the curt reply. At that moment I realized how far north we had come. "Well, do you have lots of parts for Skidoos?" I asked enterprisingly. "We have everything," was the smug reply. "Good, I'll take one of each." I said back. The clerk questioned my statement. I repeated it. He questioned it. I modified my response this time, "Since you don't have a whole skidoo, I'll build one"

I took the parts home and began building our new family toy. Skidooing was fun. The snow in Inuvik was great. When it fell, it came down gently, each snowflake softly resting on another, forming a powder pack that cushioned us from all the bumps.

My mother died of Parkinsons Syndrome probably caused by a blood clot in her temple. She was misdiagnosed in North Bay years earlier and the problem worsened as time went on. I found out later that she had died on the operating table for a few moments, the doctors in The Honduras hospital brought her back. Yes, my parents lived in Honduras too. For the past 5 years she was living a failing existence in the Chilliwack Hospital, Chronic Care Wing. My father would spend the day with her, feeding and bathing her twice a day. We visited during summer holidays. On the anniversary of the 5th year mother asked father how long had she been there. "Five years, yesterday," he said. She died the next day. There was no funeral, her ashes were spread on the shore of the Pacific Ocean, near West Vancouver.

Spring has sprung, the grass has riz, I wonder where the birdies is? Spring sprang in April. This was good and this was bad. Good, because winter was over, warmth was about to surround us. Bad because of the lack of environmental consciousness of some Inuvikites. I mentioned the utilidor carried waste away from our house. Well, most of the houses were not connected to that sewer system, they had a pot inside the house containing a Glad garbage bag covered by a toilet seat. When someone topped off the bag it was tied and set out at the curb ready for collection sometime that week. Cold weather took over and froze the contents very quickly. Dogs would like the smell and attack the bags, ripping them open, spilling the contents into the snow. This was ok during the winter, but when winter ends, spring begins, a time when the sun was hot and the snow began melting. Other things melted too, the honey pot bags left out in the snow drained their contents into the ditches giving me thought for a song title, "Where the Brown River Flows", or maybe "Brown Ditch, How You Smell"

My first thought was hygene, this was not healthy! I ran to work, phoned a fellow worker in Calgary who I talked with quite often over the winter, explained the problem and asked if there were any jobs down there. He got back to me about 5 minutes later and asked, "How soon do you want to start?" "Today," I replied quickly. He turned away from the phone for a few seconds and in a muffled tone, I heard negotiation underway. "How about Monday next?", he asked. "I'll be there!" I was so excited, all I could think of on the way home was unhealthy, unhealthy. I discussed the move with the family, they agreed quickly, it was time to get out of here.

I'm Going To Be A Cowboy

I left the family in Yellowknife for two months. I had to survey the housing situation, how much I was going to make and how much the bank would give us for a home. The other reason I didn't want them to move was the culture shock moving from the north's school system to Calgary's. The kids needed to stay with the same curriculum to pass the year. They stayed with a friend who took them in without question. Calgary was a culture shock. I went around the city in almost a daze, the people reacted differently than in the north, I had an overwhelming feeling that is difficult to explain. The feeling told me, "Why did you stay in the north for so long?" I found a house, a 4 bedroom townhouse in the subdivision, Bowness, bought a truck for transportation and a camper for family fun. Persuaded the bank, yes, I do make enough money to afford this place; yes, I will make all my payments, I am a responsible human. They finally gave in. A week later I received a phone call from the north, my friend said softly, "I don't know how to tell you this, but..." Pause... "Your wife has moved out." "Where to," I asked. "She and the kids are living with another guy," was the reply. It was like I had been shot. There were no details, no way to call, no one to turn to. I stayed in shock for the rest of the summer, not believing this would happen to me. There is no need to dwell on this negative part of my rememberances, let's just say it takes two to hold a marriage together and it takes two to break it apart. I spent the next week persuading the house owner to give me my deposit back, they eventually did. The truck and camper could not go back so I moved in. I later found an apartment and began life over again.

People going through a break up should not do it alone. The mind plays tricks on you and tells you things that are not true. Dwelling on the negative can be consuming without a person knowing it. The breakup-ee, to heal from the wounds of breakup, should have positive actions, positive thoughts and a positive direction. This is difficult at best if attempted alone. I've now been there and I've helped many others through the same situation. Some people spend the nights pacing through their home, waiting for better times, when the only better times that will be forthcoming comes from positive action. People cannot get comfort from their friends, they think they need companionship from a potential spouse, probably caused by a misdirection of their expectations. Some people pine after a relationship that can never be. A relationship between incompatible persons seems good on the surface, but few investigate the criteria that holds a long term marriage together. I include myself as part of "the people" in these thoughts because I am not alone in experiencing marital discord.

As soon as I figured out me, my surroundings and a direction I wanted to take, I was off to the races. I visited with my father and found him struggling with life. I offered to have him move to Calgary and live in a townhouse with me... he accepted. I looked for a place as soon as I got back, but father died a couple of weeks later from a massive heart attack, pneumonia and probably heartache. He missed his wife so much that he began drinking again. The doctor he was seeing was no help at all. When I went to claim the remains and help my brother settle the estate I found a whole cupboard full of pills he was taking every day. There were pills to do one thing, pills to regulate a side effect, pills to prevent another pill from being too effective, dozens of daily doses. I am not a doctor but, having a rheumatoid arthritis condition called Ankylosing Spondylitis, and having a keen interest in nutrition, I am aware of how fragile some bodies are. And taking large numbers of uppers and downers and miscellaneous maintenance pills is not healthy.

I inherited a small sum of money, furniture and a car. Now, I was the owner of two cars and a truck. I unloaded my father's vehicle to a fellow worker. I kept my sports car, a Datsun 5 speed, fun toy, and the truck and camper. My life changed after a couple of years, I played commercial fastball, put on dinner parties for my friends quite often, bought a house overlooking the mountains, fixed it up and began dating again. Work was great, I was an outside technician called a "rover", working in the telecommunications industry. I worked on microwave systems, land line carriers, satellite feeds, data stuff, voice stuff, telex stuff. Police, Armed Forces, banks, big business, medium sized businesses - no one could escape my repair or installation jobs. I was a techy and having fun with technology.

In the late '70s a setback brought me down. A nagging pain in my right leg refused to go away. In fact, it got worse. The pain started in my hip and continued to the bottom of my foot. Over several months I was having trouble walking, the pain was getting worse. Every step meant more pain, so my mind said, don't walk. But I was alone, who would bring in food and mortgage money? I kept going. My work was suffering, I was down from 7 to 2-3 installations per day. I couln't carry any weight without suffering for hours later. My friends convinced me to go to the doctor. I did - he didn't have any explanation... no referral, no help... bye doc. Another doctor finally sent me to a neurologist, he wanted to operate, "We'll just go and look around," he said. I have heard this story before. He actually said the operation could result in a 50-50 chance I would not walk again. When I was 13, my left leg went numb, from my hip to my toes... no feeling down one side. They wanted to operate too. I learned early in life that doctors want to practice their specialty... on anyone.... often. The pain in my leg was getting even worse. I was sent for X-rays, but they were inconclusive. "We'll do a series of tests, starting with a mylagram, then a diskogram and finally electric stimulation.... it won't hurt a bit.", the specialist said casually. I didn't know any of these terms, or their consequences but this was a famous hospital, a teaching facility, so I guess he was right.

I was booked into the hospital and made myself comfortable. Next morning they wheeled me down to a room full fo X-ray equipment and four people. I laid face down on a table and waited for the mylagram. A needle pricked my skin near the small of my back, then again. All I felt after that was a bit of pressure. "Ok, we have injected you with a small amount of dye," said this voice. I hoped he said d-y-e not d-i-e. I asked, "You don't like my colour?" I could see a smirk through the face mask. "We will now tip the table back and forth and X-ray your spine as we go." he said. "But," he cautioned, "you cannot let any of this fluid go up into your head, it would have serious consequences." "You must put your head back as far as it can go and keep it there," he said clearly. The table moved and my head was heading down. Keep your head back, keep your head back, I thought, otherwise there will be serious consequences. I felt the fluid moving up my spine like water over a washboard. The table was levelled then raised slightly. The fluid went rumbling down my spine again. The table was levelled again and the fluid came to rest on my lower spine.

"We're going to do that again, here goes," a voice said. The table tipped placing my head lower than the rest of my body. The fluid started picking up speed, rumble, rumble, up my spine. All of a sudden the table tipped even more. I heard, "Oops". Then a loud crack in my head as the fluid reached the top of my neck. I kept my head back with all my might. The table tipped the other way. The fluid started moving down my spine. The table passed level and continued tipping. I heard mumbling. The fluid was moving pretty fast now and reaching what I thought should be its resting spot. Wham! The fluid hit my tail bone with a pain so severe I was sure I was shot with a bazooka. I yelled. "What's the problem?" a male voice asked. "Pain... pain in my tail bone," I tried to reply. "Oh, the table was tipped slightly too far but it's ok now," he said. I thought, ok for who... not for me it isn't. They continued to wash the liquid up and down my spine a couple of more times, removed it and plunked me in a wheel chair. The headache was severe, so bad I threw up. The pain continued, more heaving, more pain. I was wheeled back to my room. All I wanted was this pain in my head to lessen. I was getting migrane headaches quite often over the past 10 years but this pain beat them all.

I didn't move, face down, no pillow, no lunch, no nurses. At 1 PM they loaded me into a wheel chair again and took me to another room, similar to the one used for milograms. "We are going to perform a diskogram now", a different voice said. "We see the other side of your spine with the procedure," he continued." "Then the killer statement, "We use freezing so you won't feel a thing, just relax." I should have known, he was probably trained in the mylagram/diskogram school. A needle pricked me in a few places, one right above my hip, which I thought rather odd. Then it happened. I saw this long thin pipe, a hollow needle they called it, coming closer to the last freezing spot, on my side, right above my hip. He shoved it through my skin, heading for my spine. I didn't like this at all. I could feel it moving inside. Wham! Lightening in my legs! "What the hell was that?" I yelled. "Did you feel something?" someone asked. "Lightening, lightening in my legs!", I stammered. "Oh, we probably hit a nerve, it's ok, that's normal," I heard back. Maybe normal for them but I don't go around twanging my nerves and making them hurt. Wham! Wham! Wham! Three different hits, both legs, different sections. This was turning out to be a very unpleasant visit.

Then the icing on the cake, they began skewering body parts. Think about shoving a blunt piece of wire through a turkey. Notice how tough it is to get it started through a muscle? I was now the turkey! My parts would resist, then the needle would pierce the outer layer and slide through a muscle. I felt it all. I suppose the worst part of this procedure was the intrusion of my internal organs rather than the pain of nerve twanging. My mind went crazy and could not tolerate this violation in my body. The hollow pipe was removed because they didn't get it quite right. After the third attempt at "getting it right", I yelled, "Stop this right now, I quit. It is not worth it, I'm not doing this any more!" They stopped, removed the pipe and took me back to my room.

The next afternoon they brought the dreaded wheel chair. "What now?" I asked through a pounding headache that was still extremely severe. And, by the way, the nurses didn't believe it was severe and refused aspirin. "Electric stimulation," I was told. They put me on a table on my back with my legs exposed. "We put these tiny needles in your legs then stimulate them with electricity, watching for a reaction." "If this was like yesterday you better wear a helmet to protect yourselves from my reaction," I warned. "Oh no," he said, "There is very little electricity and the effect is localized." The needles are 4 inches (10cm) long. He tells me to flex that muscle, pointing at part of my leg, then shoves the needle right into it, and they aren't that fine a needle, it hurts. Two needles are put into place, then he throws the switch. Wham! "Wow, that was some shock," I yelled. "I guess I have the current a little high," he replied and turned a knob on his torture console. Move the needles, further apart and wham again! this went on for 1/2 hour until I got tired of it and said, "What are you doing, experimenting? You should have enough results by now." He agreed and turned off the machine. He was right, the pain was localized, it only affected me. But it hurt throughout my legs and into my back.

I spent the next 4 days on my stomach, no pillow, not even a fold of a sheet under my head. I couldn't get to the bathroom without throwing up from the pain. Soon I didn't have to go to the bathroom, I didn't eat or drink for those 4 days. No nurse would believe the severity of the pain, they stopped coming in to see me on the second day. On the 5th day I phoned friends of mine to come and get me, I was escaping. They came, I crawled to the front door on my hands and knees because I couldn't get my head up and no hospital staff person would help. I waited at the front door, no one said a word, I crawled into the car and went home.

My friends wanted me to sue. I had no money and by that time I had no will. I took long term disability from work, my family doctor signed that. My leg was not supporting me any more. I slept beside the bathroom, a shorter distance to crawl. A friend helped with the cooking when she could, I slept most of that month. When I awoke I felt a little better and began the road to recovery. But there was something wrong. My shoes don't fit, they are too small, they must have shrunk. No, my pants are too short too. What's up? A friend measured me and found out I was 6' 5". But, all my adult life I was 6' 4" and now I was 36, this doesn't happen. Well it seemed to happen. I did make a recovery of sorts, my leg gives me pain most days, when it isn't overshadowed by my arthritis. The X-rays showed a couple of years ago that my sciatic nerve is stretched tight between my spine and hip. Other symptoms I exhibited during this period were not medically explained until the late '80s when it was determined I had Ankylosing Spondylitis.

The '70s were over. A lot of death and destruction. I understand my brother had a heart attack during this decade too. He has never given me an answer to that one.

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