Excerpts from Awakening In the Northwest Territories
The Gypsy’s Prophesy:
I sat down and she asked to be paid. She spoke with a foreign accent, which I immediately took to be east European – some exotic far-away place that I didn’t know much about at the time, such as Bulgaria or Hungary – or maybe she was a gypsy: they were rumoured to be magical and mysterious.
I told her that I wanted to know the meaning behind a dream I kept having. She smiled, moved closer to the table, put her hands on the magic ball, and nodded. I told her as much about the dream as I could remember. As I spoke, she moved her hands slowly and theatrically over the orb, rotating them gently from right to left and up and down in a mystical fashion. She concentrated deeply for a few seconds, peering into the ball that glowed eerily in the reddish light, and asked, “Is there anyone else in your dream?”
No. Never.” I hadn’t noticed that before, and then she asked another question.
“Is the road straight or curved?”
“Straight. It’s always straight, and it goes on forever.”
“Do you ever stop on the road?”
“No. I can’t. I feel that I have to keep going. I don’t know why, but it feels as if that isn’t an option,” I replied.
She pulled back from the table, looked me straight in the eyes, and said with the confidence of a doctor settling on a diagnosis after listening to the symptoms, “The road is your future, your destiny. You will have many obstacles to overcome in life, but you will overcome them through patience, persistence, and plodding! I see a lot of travel in your future, mostly by yourself. You will never settle down in one place for a long time.” She looked down at the ball and that was it. I sensed that was all she was going to say and that there was no opportunity to ask questions.
SUSPENSE:
Around hour four, we pulled over to the shore of an island for a pit stop. We built a fire, made tea and ate sandwiches. Harry disappeared over a small hill for about ten minutes while Miki and I chatted about the experience and our concerns about the rough waters. Harry reappeared, hurriedly announcing that we had to go fast because the wind was picking up and the waves would get bigger. He rushed past us, jumped into the boat and fired up the engine. We doused the fire, packed the basket and hastily followed. As soon as I had one leg in the boat, Harry let out the throttle and we roared away from shore.
After a few minutes, the engine spluttered and died. We were out of gas. Our boat bobbed erratically in the heavy waves. We gripped the rails. Harry grunted at me, “Pull the plug.”
“What?”
“Pull the goddamn plug,” he growled.
“What plug?” I yelled back, rattled by his language and tone of voice.
The old salt shook his head, stormed off his chair, scrambled over the bags to the back of the boat and “pulled the plug” by putting the plug in! He then condescendingly explained, as if I were a five year old, that you pull the plug out when the boat’s moving and you put it in when the boat stops. The look on his face said it all. He thought I was useless. I felt useless.
HUMOR:
On the fourth day, Lars said, “I don’t know how to tell you this Al, but you’ve been peeing in the honey bucket and it makes the bag too heavy to carry down the lane. You'll have to go in the bushes from now on – same as me.”
“What? Good God! What a pain in the ass it was to get up in the middle of the night, put on every piece of clothing I owned, and now he wants me to stumble around in the bushes on the hill in the dark in minus forty degree weather to take a leak. “That's insane,” I replied. I knew, from previous conversations, that he was sensitive to the culture shock I was experiencing, and I could tell by the pained look on his face when he made his request that he felt bad for having to ask. As I didn't want to touch, let alone lug the “poo” bag anywhere, I willingly agreed to his request. I cut back on the amount of fluids I drank during the day and stopped drinking totally after supper to minimize nightly visits to the bush. But even so, there were times when I had to go.
SURPRISE:
I put the key in the lock and it turned. Thankfully it worked. Great, because that meant the cold porch that Joe built last year did what it was supposed to do. I entered the house, and just like that, the insanity of the north returned. It was at least twenty degrees below in there. My breath vaporized as I exhaled. The ice-cold, hardwood floor cracked as I walked to the fridge. The liquids in the fridge were frozen. I checked the kitchen tap and it wouldn't turn. In the bathroom, one toilet bowl was cracked in half and the water in the tank was a big block of ice. As I descended the steps to the basement in my big, insulated winter boots, the stairs made a disturbing crunching sound, as if they were going to snap at any moment. The sewage and the water tanks were frozen solid and the cast water pump was split.
And then I realized the enormity of the situation. I had a 10,000 lb. ice cube, instead of a water tank sitting in my basement. I shook my head and thanked the Universe for the serendipitous event that led to my getting the sewage tank pumped out before I left on vacation, or else I would have another 10,000 lb. block of something that wasn't ice!
THE SPIRITUAL GATHERING:
“One of em’s my grandson ya know,” George said, with a smile that only a grandparent could produce, pointing a thick finger in the general direction of the canoes.
“Where are they coming from?”
“Artillery Lake. There's ten of 'em. Three are youth leaders. They left last Tuesday. Been paddling four days. Gonna meet up with their families for The Gathering.”
The throng now numbered at least a hundred merry souls; half in the water up to their waists; some clinging onto babes in arms and hugging towels close to their bodies to keep dry.
Ten athletes in birch bark canoes frenetically racing to the finish line on a glass-surfaced lake, was what it was all about. Paddling in perfect unison, worthy of an Olympic Gold Medal in synchronized paddling – if there ever was to be such an event – the proud warriors thrust their crafts forward with each stroke, breaking the mirrored surface cleanly, leaving shattered ripples in the wake. What a sight!
I sat down and she asked to be paid. She spoke with a foreign accent, which I immediately took to be east European – some exotic far-away place that I didn’t know much about at the time, such as Bulgaria or Hungary – or maybe she was a gypsy: they were rumoured to be magical and mysterious.
I told her that I wanted to know the meaning behind a dream I kept having. She smiled, moved closer to the table, put her hands on the magic ball, and nodded. I told her as much about the dream as I could remember. As I spoke, she moved her hands slowly and theatrically over the orb, rotating them gently from right to left and up and down in a mystical fashion. She concentrated deeply for a few seconds, peering into the ball that glowed eerily in the reddish light, and asked, “Is there anyone else in your dream?”
No. Never.” I hadn’t noticed that before, and then she asked another question.
“Is the road straight or curved?”
“Straight. It’s always straight, and it goes on forever.”
“Do you ever stop on the road?”
“No. I can’t. I feel that I have to keep going. I don’t know why, but it feels as if that isn’t an option,” I replied.
She pulled back from the table, looked me straight in the eyes, and said with the confidence of a doctor settling on a diagnosis after listening to the symptoms, “The road is your future, your destiny. You will have many obstacles to overcome in life, but you will overcome them through patience, persistence, and plodding! I see a lot of travel in your future, mostly by yourself. You will never settle down in one place for a long time.” She looked down at the ball and that was it. I sensed that was all she was going to say and that there was no opportunity to ask questions.
SUSPENSE:
Around hour four, we pulled over to the shore of an island for a pit stop. We built a fire, made tea and ate sandwiches. Harry disappeared over a small hill for about ten minutes while Miki and I chatted about the experience and our concerns about the rough waters. Harry reappeared, hurriedly announcing that we had to go fast because the wind was picking up and the waves would get bigger. He rushed past us, jumped into the boat and fired up the engine. We doused the fire, packed the basket and hastily followed. As soon as I had one leg in the boat, Harry let out the throttle and we roared away from shore.
After a few minutes, the engine spluttered and died. We were out of gas. Our boat bobbed erratically in the heavy waves. We gripped the rails. Harry grunted at me, “Pull the plug.”
“What?”
“Pull the goddamn plug,” he growled.
“What plug?” I yelled back, rattled by his language and tone of voice.
The old salt shook his head, stormed off his chair, scrambled over the bags to the back of the boat and “pulled the plug” by putting the plug in! He then condescendingly explained, as if I were a five year old, that you pull the plug out when the boat’s moving and you put it in when the boat stops. The look on his face said it all. He thought I was useless. I felt useless.
HUMOR:
On the fourth day, Lars said, “I don’t know how to tell you this Al, but you’ve been peeing in the honey bucket and it makes the bag too heavy to carry down the lane. You'll have to go in the bushes from now on – same as me.”
“What? Good God! What a pain in the ass it was to get up in the middle of the night, put on every piece of clothing I owned, and now he wants me to stumble around in the bushes on the hill in the dark in minus forty degree weather to take a leak. “That's insane,” I replied. I knew, from previous conversations, that he was sensitive to the culture shock I was experiencing, and I could tell by the pained look on his face when he made his request that he felt bad for having to ask. As I didn't want to touch, let alone lug the “poo” bag anywhere, I willingly agreed to his request. I cut back on the amount of fluids I drank during the day and stopped drinking totally after supper to minimize nightly visits to the bush. But even so, there were times when I had to go.
SURPRISE:
I put the key in the lock and it turned. Thankfully it worked. Great, because that meant the cold porch that Joe built last year did what it was supposed to do. I entered the house, and just like that, the insanity of the north returned. It was at least twenty degrees below in there. My breath vaporized as I exhaled. The ice-cold, hardwood floor cracked as I walked to the fridge. The liquids in the fridge were frozen. I checked the kitchen tap and it wouldn't turn. In the bathroom, one toilet bowl was cracked in half and the water in the tank was a big block of ice. As I descended the steps to the basement in my big, insulated winter boots, the stairs made a disturbing crunching sound, as if they were going to snap at any moment. The sewage and the water tanks were frozen solid and the cast water pump was split.
And then I realized the enormity of the situation. I had a 10,000 lb. ice cube, instead of a water tank sitting in my basement. I shook my head and thanked the Universe for the serendipitous event that led to my getting the sewage tank pumped out before I left on vacation, or else I would have another 10,000 lb. block of something that wasn't ice!
THE SPIRITUAL GATHERING:
“One of em’s my grandson ya know,” George said, with a smile that only a grandparent could produce, pointing a thick finger in the general direction of the canoes.
“Where are they coming from?”
“Artillery Lake. There's ten of 'em. Three are youth leaders. They left last Tuesday. Been paddling four days. Gonna meet up with their families for The Gathering.”
The throng now numbered at least a hundred merry souls; half in the water up to their waists; some clinging onto babes in arms and hugging towels close to their bodies to keep dry.
Ten athletes in birch bark canoes frenetically racing to the finish line on a glass-surfaced lake, was what it was all about. Paddling in perfect unison, worthy of an Olympic Gold Medal in synchronized paddling – if there ever was to be such an event – the proud warriors thrust their crafts forward with each stroke, breaking the mirrored surface cleanly, leaving shattered ripples in the wake. What a sight!
