GUSSIE, “THE GOOSE”

Having lived for several years in the woods of Maine, my family and I have witnessed many a stray animal passing by: chickens, cats, dogs and even a peacock, but that’s another story. I’ll always remember one creature that showed up during a frosty morning when we were all awakened by some loud knocking noises, in what I thought was the front door. Who could be visiting at this early hou,r as I stumbled to the door in the pre-dawn light. I looked out through the door window and saw no one. But yet the persistent knocking continued and heard the sounds now coming from the corner of the house. Then, all of a sudden, there appeared a large white goose at the bottom of the doorstep. He had his head at an acute angle as he peered back at the likes of me. He seemed to be saying something with his body language that he probably needed a hand out.

Well, this surprised me to no end, and being an animal lover from way back, I raided the breadbox and grabbed a handful of slices, which I tore up and threw to him. He began munching the bigger morsels into smaller pieces and then worked hard cleaning the crumbs up, his beak working furiously to make sure he didn’t miss anything. He was completely ignoring me, as I observed him closely from outside the door. I had no doubt he was going to be sticking around for awhile, but little did I know at that time, that it would be both an interesting and challenging experience for the whole family. That day we adopted him, or should I say he adopted us.

He was a handsome goose, adorned with feathers, white as snow, and clear blue eyes and a large yellow-orange beak that dominated his face. But it was those big floppy webbed feet that made him look a bit clownish, and awkward as he wobbled around to peck at the grass and weeds that made up our front lawn. My young son soon had a name for him-“Gussie”, “Gussie the Goose” as we later called him. It was soon apparent to us that his basic good looks belied his mischievous personality, for Gussie was to become one of the most cantankerous rascals that we dealt with at the farmstead.

He had this sneaky behavior of charging up to you and biting you anytime you turned your back to him. This aggressive behavior of his was incorrigible, even though we walked around with sticks to slap on the ground whenever he threatened an attack, to show him we meant business and biting wasn’t allowed. He remained stubborn and defiant always trying to intimidate all who walked in his path, hissing and faking one of his rapid sneak attacks as soon as you turned your back. Even with those floppy feet, he was amazingly fast.

He did not get along with the dogs, and from time to time would raid their food bowls. The dogs would of course growl and bark at him while he hissed and flapped his wings aggressively in their faces. Many a time, I thought they might grab him by the neck, but he moved in the nick of time avoiding them. Once he got really courageous and snuck up on “Shadow”, our 150 pound Newfoundland, who was lying down just minding her own business. He bit into her bushy tail with a bulldog tenacity and would not let go. Poor Shadow tried to shake him off by running in circles while he stayed attached , flapping his wings like one of those old flying machines, that couldn’t get off the ground. It was a sight to see. Before she could get her powerful jaws on Gussie’s slender but muscular neck, he would let go and retreat, all the time hissing and making a fuss of his displeasure with canines. He was instigating a lot of battles with all the dogs we had and they were always at a disadvantage, since they were chained and he was free. He had a lot of close calls when, for sure, they were going to catch him and make him into pâté, but he always managed to wiggle away with feathers flying all over the place and then would turn around and hiss at them in total disgust, like he was telling them,”I Got cha!”

One day I took out a large 50lb dog food bag filled with kitchen garbage, and he suddenly attacked the bag as I struggled to hold it. He bit into the bag ferociously, beating at it all the while with those powerful flapping wings . It was incredible to feel the power of the wings slamming into the bag ripping and knocking the garbage all over the place, while I struggled to keep it between me and the goose. I tend to think it was that picture of a big dog on the bag that got him all riled up that day.

His main territory that he staked out was around the log shelter, which, unfortunately, you had to go by in order to get to the front door of the house. You had to expect his loud hissing and possible attack from behind, which meant you had to face off with him and carry a big stick, in the beginning. Then, I soon discovered that if you looked him square in the eye and yelled at him, you could call his bluff. Still you were never quite sure you would be nailed by a sneak attack as you turned your head from him. I can’t tell you why we put up with this nasty fowl, but somehow I think we respected his spunk and there was always something comical about him to give you a good laugh, despite bad behavior. I should not leave out that he did possess a few positive attributes- he was a better “watch dog” than the dogs were, with the keen hearing that is a trait of these creatures, we always knew when someone was coming down the 800 foot driveway. He would sound the alarm with loud boisterous quaking, and hissing. This would usually get the sleeping dogs to start their barking. And then he was good for the lawn, for he ate the weeds, especially the dandelions. I always got a treat to see him bathe himself, as he was so graceful, looking almost like a swan grooming his pure white feathery body and enjoying his swim in the nearby stream.

Anytime you parked the ‘73 Buick near the log shelter, he would strut around the car for hours pecking the large shiny bumpers. He was seeing his image and being fooled that there was another obnoxious goose trying to take over his territory. Once we left town in another vehicle for a full day, and when we came back, there was Gussie marching around the Buick as though he was on guard duty at Fort Knox. He had this other bad habit of launching attacks on any vehicle that happen to pass by his guard duty station by darting out, with his long neck stretched out like a lance, head low to the ground. One time he didn’t stop too quickly, and he got hit and I almost thought I had done him in, when I saw feathers flying up by the window. He was squawking and hissing as he somehow picked himself up and limped off to the corner of the shelter. For a few days he was out of action, but eventually he was back to normal. Gussie never learned any lessons from any of his ordeals, and I’m convinced that he thought he had nine lives. Sometimes he would be bloody from some of his battles, but he was fearless and tough as they come.

His wings were clipped, but it was always a magnificent sight to see him take off about three feet above the ground and fly for about 50 feet. I t always impressed me to see him airborne flying along side of me honking in sheer ecstasy. He seemed so proud of showing me this accomplishment.

He was a part of my family for several years and we all loved him. A white goose can live to be 30 years old, from what I was told, but it was a cold winter day when I was driving down the driveway in my old ’68 Chevy plow truck and Gussie came charging out for the attack. Unfortunately it was icy that day and I didn’t give it a thought that he would not be able to stop in time. He slipped, and the right wheel of the truck ran over his neck. I heard a bump and saw him reel back, flapping his wings for a few moments. I rushed out to aid him, it was pitiful to view him struggling with a broken neck, as his head was hanging awkwardly to the side. He dropped over and those beautiful blue eyes were closing before me as I watched him die. He’s buried next to Shadow, the Newfoundland, on the farmstead.

THE STORY OF CHRYSOS, THE GOLDEN DOG

He was on death row with only hours to live before he would be euthanized in the Baltimore County Pound. As I walked down the narrow cement walkway between the stark gray steel cages containing all breeds and mixes of canines, many were barking and howling and crying hysterically, perhaps knowing their fate. Peering out with so many sadden eyes, some just lying in the corners totally withdrawn. One could not help to feel their sadness and the tragedy of it all. I could only hope to save one that day from the executioner, and that came about as my eyes caught the eyes of this unusual Golden Retriever mix that came right down to the door of his cage to make sure I would see him. It was that forlorn look on his face that touched something deep inside of me, as we gazed at each other, and made me pause to read his rap sheet hanging above the cage door. It stated that he had been very destructive and couldn’t be house broken with his previous owner. The owner had paid the necessary 15 dollar fee to have him put down. It was so incredulous to me to throw away such a beautiful creature, not yet a year old, for such a small crime. Instinctively, I had no fear of him, and placed my hand in his cage and he lit up and began licking and wagging that tail of golden fur. We had become instant friends, and, I thought I would name him Chrysos , which is Greek for golden as I paid the necessary 40 dollar fee to free him. It felt so good inside driving him home that day that I could play a part in his timely salvation. Little did I know he would be a worthy companion of my family for the next 14 years.

There was still the problem of how he would get along with the other canine of our family, Lobo, the Great Pyrenees. I knew that the most important thing was to introduce the two of them on neutral ground, before taking him to the house, and that’s what we did. My wife brought Lobo over to the park while I waited with Chrysos, and they smelled each other in the usual doggy fashion, as we watched for any sign of aggressiveness, but both were fine. In a week we had him house broken, but there was no curing him of his propensity to chew wood and this usually meant the furniture, when we weren’t looking. Needless to say, this didn’t endear him to my wife. So he had to be put in the garage with Lobo. Occasionally, there could be a flare up, over a disputed bone or a place where Lobo didn’t want him to go. Right off the start, I noticed Chrysos wasn’t going to be dominated by Lobo, who was twice his size. H e was a fearless scrapper, quick and agile, and instinctively knew how to use these to take advantage of the larger dog by going for his ears. Most of these combats were not bloody, because both dogs had heavy coats, and they usually settled down when I yelled at them. Lobo began to give Chrysos more respect over time and there were less fights.

In many ways, the two of them were personality opposites of each other, Lobo tended to be independent, never craving affection whereas Chrysos would lie next to your feet for hours begging for pet on the head or a scratching of his dangly ears. His body type was Golden Retriever all the way, except the head. His nose and mouth was more sharp like a collies with flappy ears like an Afghan. Chrysos loved the water while Lobo did everything he could to avoid it. Lobo had one strange behavior that always amused me, when you gave him a bowl of water he would always dip his paw into it before taking a drink. Chrysos always loved to play, Lobo was never much for playing, he was the watchdog, always on duty. Fetching was sticks was Chrysos favorite fun, and he could wear your arm out throwing them. He never tired, and when you did, he gave you that forlorn look, that made you feel guilty. I remember when I first took him to a lake, and I was picking up sticks and throwing them in the shallow water. He was retrieving them as fast as he could, so I threw one way out and he charged for it then suddenly sank in the deeper water. He disappeared. What, I thought, he can’t swim? It took few seconds but then he popped up and appeared choking and surprised. It was his first swimming experience, thank God for instinct.

I never worried about Chrysos being around strangers, he was always friendly. Lobo, on the other hand, could not be trusted, for he was a guard dog always wary of anyone that wasn’t family. Six years later, we made the move to Maine. I t was the winter of ’86. We moved to a 50-acre wooded farmstead in Central Maine. On the second day that we arrived, it had been snowing. I let them out of the house for a break, hoping the two of them would return in a few minutes. Instead of heading into the woods, they headed up the driveway. I waited for them for a short while and then headed out to call them back. In a just what seemed like a short time, I hear Chrysos barking and see a strange man trekking down the long driveway. Chrysos was stalking this man, barking, growling and threatening to attack him at any moment. I had to restrain him by grabbing his collar as the man told me he hit a large white dog at the end of the driveway with his plow truck. I was floored when the man told me he was pretty sure the dog was dead. It was ironic to me that we had come from the bustling big city, where Lobo lived for six years, sometimes breaking the chain and somehow surviving in traffic until I caught up with him many times, only to be killed suddenly on the second day of living in the woods of Maine, on a road that seldom had more than dozen vehicles on it all day long. I was saddened by the loss of my Great Pyrennees, but I think Chrysos felt something too, as we was never quite the same dog after that. His behavior changed almost over night to being a dog we could not trust with strangers any more. He took on the role of the departed Lobo as a fierce watchdog. He was never friendly with anyone except the family, no matter what we tried. He had to be chained whenever we had visitors, and he would bark furiously until they were gone. This was a dog that loved to obey me. Lobo seldom listened, he was pretty much a free spirit, very stubborn in many ways, whereas Chrysos would respond immediately to my calling his name. In fact, in order for the two dogs to be free to run on the school grounds, I would connect their collars with a three foot chain, knowing that if Lobo wanted to go too far, I could call Chrysos and he would pull the bigger dog and get him to return to me.

Chrysos never liked cats very much and we always seemed to have a stray hanging around the place. We kept Chrysos in a fenced in area near the wood shop surrounded by large pine trees with over hanging branches. One day one of the stray cats walked out on one of the thinner branches that was hanging over Chrysos about five or six feet from the ground. As the foolish cat continued out to the end of the branch which was now bending, he slipped off, but managed to hang on with his two front paws, clinging with all his might, because right below him Chrysos was aroused and waiting to grab him with his open mouth. As the cat struggled in his utter predicament, the branch began vibrating, moving up and down, all along with Chrysos’ timely leaps, trying to grasp the cats hanging tail. He was missing by only a fraction of an inch from grabbing that tail which would miraculously curl up at the crucial time, avoiding the flying snapping jaws. It was quite a comical scene but I knew it was only a matter of time before the dog could time his jumps in synchrony with the vibrating branch that the cat would surely be a goner. So I raced to the rescue. I began to climb over the fence, and, by the time, I looked up again I notice the cat had somehow righted itself on the branch and was racing to get back to the tree. I will never know how it accomplished this feat, but I’m sure that cat had used up one of his nine lives the day. Poor Chrysos was quite frustrated to say the least.

Chrysos was active all his life except for his final days. He suffered from arthritis in his hind legs and had cataracts which were making him blind. His sense of smell and hearing seemed to compensate as he always would come over for his pet whenever I neared the fence. He died one day and it was really a sad day fro the family that loved him. As I walk the paths through the woods where we roamed I still find sticks with his chewing imprints on them. So many times he fetched these sticks for me. These remain reminders of him and I think back to the day we saved him from the executioner, and gave him another 14 years of the gift of life.

BRENNA, THE “NEWF”

Brenna was a full –pedigree Newfoundland, coal black, except for a small patch of white on her chest. She was actually born on April Fools Day. Her previous owner lost his house in a fire and had to her up along with the other canines he had. My vet knew the owner and was boarding all these unfortunate dogs at his farm and happened to ask me if I could give the Newfoundland a new home. I agreed to accept her sight unseen. Leaving for the vet’s farm the next day I was rather excited to see what this creature looked like. His wife greeted me at the doorway of the barn where I could hear the barking of many dogs. Soon she appeared from behind a inner door, a huge black furry mass. For a second I was shocked and startled, for I saw no dog heading my way, but rather what looked like a small bear. Her girth almost matched her length, she was a massive canine , perhaps 180 lbs. She kind of wobbled over to greet me. I instantly knew she was friendly as the heavy tail was wagging a mile a minute and that red tongue was licking and slobbering over my hands. I was acquiring the largest canine I ever owned. Even for a Newf, she was overweight, and the vet admonished me to put her on a strict diet, about a few cups of kibble for the next few months.

She was about the friendliest and comical dog as one could desire, getting along splendidly with our Golden Retriever mix, “Chrysos”. The only time that we had a problem was in the very beginning, when it came to feeding them. I was keeping them penned up together for the first few days and gave each their own food bowl. Unfortunately, Brenna, thought that both bowls belonged to her. She could wolf down the kibble within a few seconds and then proceed directly to Chrysos’ bowl , who was a slower eater. Forcing him back with that large head of hers and causing and inevitable Battle Royal as she stuffed her mouth into his bowl. Chrysos was a fierce fighter, but she was quite out of his weight class. So before Brenna could make mince meat out of him, I would have to pull him away, for when it came to food Brenna was very serious. In fact, as soon as I would pick up the bowls to fill them, she would begin a series of whinning, howling and weird barking sounds, that could have waken the dead. This cacophony would not cease until the grub was placed in front of her. Of course, by this time, Chrysos was eating in a separate place for his own safety.

I remember one day being delayed by a phone call, when I was preparing to fill the food bowls in my house. Her wailing had already started, and for the whole time I was on the phone, it went on non-stop and was loud enough for the party on the other line to wonder what the Hell was all that noise coming from. She was developing her personality from the very beginning and it only got more interesting.

She managed to break out of the pen a few times and would head straight for the smelly compost bin. Gouging herself on old watermelon rinds, rotten tomatoes and even potato peels. She and that enormous pit for a stomach were a virtual canine garbage disposal unit. There really much that didn’t appeal to her insatiable hunger, but I remember one day taking her some scraps from the table, which included some kale from the garden. As I approached her with the these items, she would be hard to contain herself, making those alien sounds of joy and sadness. I stood by the fence and tried to carefully drop the food into the her, knowing all along that most of it would never get to that destination with her big mouth intercepting it and chopping it away. Was she even tasting it, I thought for a moment? Then I quickly noticed that the green stuff , the kale, was being adroitly discarded from both sides of her muzzle, all during the process of chomping and swallowing the rest of the scraps. She continued to look up for more, completely oblivious to what a small feat that was to her. She was having no parts of that green stuff and it seemed to be the only food she ever rejected.

Whenever, I took the dogs for their daily jaunt in our woods, Brenna would run along with Chrysos . She would try to get ahead of him on the trail and then roll over on her back to block the trail for him. This would provoke Chrysos in a playful attack. He was quick and would get his friendly bites in, but, would always be respectful of the big jaws and her wild kicking hind legs. Sometimes he could not move fast enough and would be caught by her catching him under his chest with those powerful haunches that could send him reeling through the air like his 65 pounds was shot out of a catapult.

Another interesting behavior was her timely charge into the woods on the side of the trail as Chrysos and I stayed on the trail. She could then be heard growling and running around in these larger and larger concentric circles eventually crossing over the trail before us a few times in some strange show of power. She then would narrow down these circles, moving at full speed, as she closed in on her target, which, of course, was Chrysos . As she got closer you could hear her galloping paws carrying all that mass and branches snapping with her large frame preparing to hit poor Chrysos, who foolishly believed he could stand up to the onslaught. A bone- jarring collision would inevitably take place with both animals decked out, confused and wondering what just happened. Usually these were broadsides, but once I remember her coming at full steam straight at us on trail, which made me jump into the woods to avoid being taken out, but Chrysos stood his ground again and took the crushing hit head to head. It was a nasty smashup and both dogs were slow to get up after all the tumbling. As both sat up after the ordeal, I got a huge belly laugh, at these two crazy animals. Looking at their dazed faces, I noticed a piece of black fur stuck to Chrysos’ mouth and a piece of his tan fur stuck to Brenna’s mouth. It appeared so silly to me, as though they had exchanged furry goatees to one another. Both watched me as I enjoyed my hearty laugh at them for the next few moments.

One night, my Newf, was visted by a straying porcupine that paid him an unfortunate visit. I’m sure she tried to eat him. I found out the results in the morning when I went to get her water bowl. There she stood behind the fence with about two dozen well placed quills in her nose and mouth. She seemed oblivious to it, but I didn’t. It has to be a dog’s worst nightmare, but not Brenna. Well, for me, it was time to get the pliars and to face the challenge of holding her down to get at them. I got the first six by head locking her with my left arm and grabbing the longest ones rapidly, but she was struggling with those legs in trying to get away from me and this unpleasant activity. It was like pulling teeth without nocaine. She was prevailing in this wrestling match so I needed another plan: I had to out fox her. I went to the freezer and got a large meat bone, and then allowed her to see it, through the space between the planks of the fence. Instantly that large muzzle of hers protruded through the space, as I allowed her to lock on to the large bone so the she couldn’t pull it through the fence. I knew instinctively that she would lock on to that bone with those powerful jaws of hers and not let go. I t was like holding her head still in a vise, as I adroitly extracted all the other quills. She never let go of the bone despite the pain. She bit the “bullet” like a real trooper, or shall I say “bone”.

There was another breakout of the pen, when she headed over to my neighbor’s house, who had very menacing German Sheppard named Spike. As I ran after her with a leash, she was already creating one hell- of -a -commotion as she did a bee line straight to his food bowl, completely ignoring him as he barked, growled and bit at her to no avail. Brenna was impervious to his attack as she growled back flashing those big pearly whites that looked so threatening against that black fur of hers. Spike had to back off, and she left him bereft of his canine dignity and his food. Newf’s are tough dogs, and usually will not engage in battle unless severely provoked. There is a story in the literature where one fought off a mountain lion.

One morning I came over to her dog house, where she was lying very peacefully with her massive head resting on one of her out-stretched paws. I called her, to show her the milk bone I was bringing her. She remained silent and still, I knew, at that moment, she had passed away in the night. I couldn’t help noticing her face had a kind of dignity and majesty to it, that I had never seen before… gone was the comical expressions, antics and endless hunger of that wonderful creature that was born on April Fools Day.

The fire raged while I was in a deep slumber during that frosty October night. I heard about it on the T.V. news that morning. It was a nearby neighbor’s house up the road from mine about a quarter of a mile. An adult and three small kids were its victims on that horrible night. Although, I did not know the family that well, I felt drawn to do something to help, for my son was a classmate of the oldest child, who was only 7, that was killed in the fire with his two siblings. The fire engines were still heading back to the station, while my son and I waited for the school bus that morning, at the end of our driveway. You couldn’t help seeing the fixed sadden faces of those firefighters as they drove by slowly. I thought, then and there, I would try to do what I could to help this family.

The following day, my wife and I gathered up some provisions and clothing and drove up to the burnt remains of what used to be a large two-storied home of a family of six. Not much was left of the structure only half of a brick chimney, some brick steps to the front of the house and the block foundation straining to contain the tons of blackened partitions and rubble scattered in piles everywhere you looked. It had to be a terrible conflagration, observing how trees 70 feet away were seared and burnt. I also saw the bedspring where the children huddled together in their last desperate attempt to escape the consuming flames. I later found out the children could be heard screaming for help, but it was too late to get them out, even though the father had made several attempts. Another adult, who was upstairs was killed trying to get to the room to get them out. A few people were there trying to pick through the destruction and told us the family, the husband, wife and older son, were staying in a trailer that was further down the driveway in the woods. As we ventured down the driveway now walking, because litter and debris was everywhere, we met the wife, at the door. With teary eyes, we hugged her and shook hands with the husband, for he was in considerable pain from burns he received on his back in his futile attempts to save his children. Being pretty much complete strangers to them, we offered what solace and sympathy we could as they related to us the details as to what transpired that awful night. Their faces so worn with tragedy, it was hard to hold back tears as we tried to be strong for them. They wanted to talk, so we listened sympathetically … and their story only got more tragic, as he told us he was just given a pink slip from his job the day before. They lost their young children, all their worldly possessions and he was without work. All they were able to save was a photo of the kids, which his wife intuitively grabbed off a shelf as she fled from the flames and smoke. We bonded with them before we left, and told them where we lived and if they needed anything to contact us, as we lived just down the road from them. We were neighbors.

We attended the funeral, a very modest one, for all the remains of the three children were all buried in the same casket. The adult that was killed had a separate funeral, he was a troubled lad that the husband was working with to help him. It was his cigarette that caused the fire upstairs… but he was also a hero in going back in an attempt to save the children’s lives, he could have gotten out and saved himself. The funeral expenses were paid for by collections from the local townsfolk.

A few days later, he and his father-in –law, surprised me with a visit, still sore from the burns on his back. He wanted to know if I knew anyone with a bulldozer. He needed desperately to get help removing all the debris from the dreadful sight of that standing rubble which once was his home in the woods of Maine. It was too much for his wife to bear seeing, each time they had to drive into or out of their driveway. I quickly thought of my friend, Jim Cobb, who just recently acquired a bull dozer and backhoe, and I gave him a call that day. Jim, was one of the best friends anyone could ever know, his motto was always:
“If you want a friend, BE a friend”. When I called, he already had heard about the fire and agreed to come over to see what could be done. He came over that day and surveyed the amount of destruction, and promptly told me it was too big of a job for one person… we were going to need a lot of help, but leave it to him.

PART 2

WE decided to call the local TV news people and they came over and brought their cameras. We set a date for cleanup for that Saturday as Jim and I were interviewed and made our appeal for volunteers. Jim called as many contractors that he knew in the surrounding towns to get them on board.

Early that Saturday morning I arose and put out signs on the roads to guide in our help. We had no idea of what to expect, for it looked like it was going to be a cold rainy overcast day. Nobody would be paid that day for doing a lot of dirty work, and it was hit or miss if anybody would show. I knew Jim and I would be there, though no matter what. He would be bringing his dump truck and the bulldozer/backhoe. I hurried up the road praying that people would show. As I neared the drive way of the destruction, my eyes welled up, for right along the road, were parked not one, but three 10 wheeler dump trucks and two more inside the property. The contractors came bringing the heavy equipment: frontloaders, 2 dozers and even a log crane. That piece of equipment with its mechanical arm would be the most important machine there. Looking at the logos on the trucks I saw at least 4 different townships. And cars were arriving with lots of hand labor, even a couple of principals came from nearby schools to get their hands dirty that day. Somehow, they were all waiting for me to get started. I took a few minutes and shook hands with them, all big burly guys, and thank them individually, as Jim made the introductions. Then we started,and the whole enterprize got organized on its own. No yelling and no bosses. It was incredible to watch, as the two bulldozens working from opposite sides began pushing the piles of debris to the center, while the powerful claw grabbed and pivoted the load to the waiting convoy of dump trucks. The hand laborers picked up glass, and boards with nails that could have easily caused an expensive flat tire for the participating contractors. Others drove their cars tailgating the trucks to gather up any fallen material that occasional would fall off on the way to the dump. I did a lot of construction work working my way through school, bur I must admit of never seeing such impressive team work. It almost seemed that the whole thing rehearsed. before. I felt so proud of these guys and the volunteers. As the word got around, some of the local stores brought coffee and donuts and three old ladies, who said they were sisters, showed up with sandwiches and homemade cookies. The men wolfed down this nourishment not stopping, for the clouds were going to open up at any moment and drench us.

The husband and wife came out during the cleanup operation. He was too sore to help and she was weeping, so Jim told them you two go back to the trailer or your going to have a lot of grown men crying here and we will probably never finish. The husband then came to me and asked if I would see to it that the brick steps were not damaged in the cleanup effort, and I gave him my word on it, waving off the dozers more than once when they came close. Those two left us to our work. As load after load went out and they were finally scraping the large slab clean, the first drops of cold rain began to fall on us, spattering the soot and black ashes all around. Then the floodgates opened. The heavy rain was washing those steps clean of ash and grime as i stood there being soaked. I later discovered that those steps had meaning for him, because his kids helped to build them.

Those steps are still there and form the entrance to the new house he built, and when you go into his house the first thing that catches your eye is that photo of his precious children on the wall, the only thing they were able to save, that terrible day.

During Easter break, a group of friends and I ventured a trip to Northern Ontario to check out a 100 acre tract of land bordering the Crown Land wilderness that was bought unseen by my friend Rich an avid hunter that I knew from grad school. We were a party of five.
consisting of three science teachers including myself, a medical researcher, and a nurse, eager to get a chance to camp and see the natural wilderness of this part of Canada. We were traveling in Rich’s Ford pickup with a camper on back, piled to the roof with camping gear and supplies to last a week. The party consisted of Rich, a chemistry teacher, Beth, his girlfriend, who was a field biologist, Jim, a medical researcher, and his wife, JoAnn, a nurse, and myself, a science teacher at the time. There was enough space for two of us in the back with three sitting in the truck cabin.

Rich did most of the driving the first day, as we made it to the Canadian border. near Buffalo, NewYork. Then we took turns. Towards the evening of the second day, we found the right road that would get us as near to his tract of land as was possible, the rest of the way we would have to trek in about 3 foot of snow still in the heavy woods using snow shoes, which we were smart enough to bring along. The snow was coming down the whole day we were driving on this road to no where. The Ford 4 wheel drive was struggling through until all of a sudden , we plowed into a large snow bank and came to an abrupt stop, which threw every one forward. I was in the back of the truck sitting up with Jim, when we hit, we both slid on our butts into all the packed equipment that was jammed in the front of the camper. Jim had a soft impact into some back packs I smashed into a metal bucket and half -crushed it with my back. I had a heavy coat on, so that helped to absorb some of the impact, but my back got bruised, but i kept that to myself.

The truck was stuck and we all got out to do our best to free it, but to no avail. Meanwhile Jim remembered seeing a house back a ways that had a tractor in the farm building. Most of the farm houses we seen along the road seemed abandoned. He thought he saw smoke coming from the chimney from the farmhouse. So we sent him back to get help and soon enough we heard the wonderful sound of a large tractor engine heading our way. It was a Russian built tractor with huge dual wheels on the back. It made short work of freeing the truck, we had come to the end of the road as far it was plowed . Rick was driving when we hit , an easy mistake to make when every thing looks like white. We all met Mr Cowell, the only one living this far down at the end of the road. He invited us to spend the night at his house and meet his Native American wife and his 2 kids. We slept on the floor of his house in our sleeping bags that night after sharing some of our food supplies with him and drinking his hot coffee. I slept near the window and couldn’t help noticing from the glow of his fireplace, the outside thermometer- it read minus 30 degrees F! The next day we all had breakfast of cereal and eggs and got to talking with our host. He told us that he trained the Canadian Military in survival skills of living in the woods in Winter. He also told us to be very cautious about frost bite and its symptoms which can sneak up on you. Now this was April in Northern Ontario with 3 to 4 foot of snow still in the woods and more coming down each day. He also loaned us a large tobogganing sled in which to carry in our supplies. I knew it was going to an interesting adventure and hoped we were all prepared for it.

PART 2

We all filed out of his house that morning, he gave some helpful hints in how to locate Rich's boundary lines. He warned us again about frostbite and the possibility of bears coming out of hibernation. The snow had a good ice crust on it, so we didn't need to use the snow shoes that morning as we got back in the truck and drove down to the end of the road. This time Rich was a bit more careful not to crash into the same snow pile we hit the day before.Jim and I shared the cramped quarters of the back of the truck camper again being able to see the territory we were traversing a little better than the day before. There were these desolate snow covered fields on both sides of the road a few abandoned farm houses and in the back we could see heavily forested hills full of Jackpine. At last we piled out and started organizing the supplies and camping gear for our "Winter" adventure in the wilds. The sled was loaded with food supplies and a large tarp to build a lean to. Our back packs carried other odds and ends, clothing and rolled sleeping bags. All of us had one. Beth and Rich were out front blazing the snowy trail. Joann and jim followed, pulling the toboggan, and I was at the end checking for anything that might fall off the sled. Occasional the sled would get stuck as we were moving up on a high ridge and I would push as they pulled. It's always good to get high when your moving through unknown territory. I tied small red ribbons along the way to mark the trail. Rich's property bordered Crown Land a vast widerness of thick woods, lakes and ponds all frozen over and some interesting rocky cliffs. All Canadian Government land for as far as the eye could see. When we went down slopes I tied a rope to the back of the sled to act as brake, so it wouldn,t advance too quickly on the pullers. It also served to stabilize the sled form going sideways. The job became more difficult when we encountered obstacles that we could get around. Then we had to lift the whole sled and carry it. This was a tedious task at times when our legs started breaking through the ice crust and getting stuck in the deep snow and we had to start using the snowshoes which we were just getting used to. Along the way we would come to a clearing where we could see a large frozen muskeag. about 100 feet down.There was no human habitation anywhere to be seen. All that was few miles back. We were in the wilds of Canada and it was exciting, that we might be treading on ground where no human had gone before.Along the way we saw plenty of moose scats and the tracts of a few snow shoehares. Virtually no bird life to be seen. After trekking a few miles we found a large rocky outcrop, with a gradual slope, this was the beginning of Rich's land. There we made the decision to set up camp. We were faced with the formidable task of digging out a hole about a 16 by 16 foot of 3 to 4 feet of heavy snow. We only had 2 shovels so we took turns , some of us shoveling while others foraged for pine boughs for the sleeping bags, and wood for the camp fire. We could not set up tents, even though we brought them, but, rather we would set up a large lean to for shelter. But we still had many hours to go before that could happen with all the snow we had to move out. After an exhausting 3 hours of moving tons of snow, where before we were in snow up to our waists, we began setting up the large lean to shelter. Everyone was getting powerful hungry, so we let Beth and Joann get a camp fire started and cook our meal. It wasn't long before we began smelling the aroma of soup and bread. We all sat around the logs we had gathered and enjoyed the hot soup that warmed our innards. We finally had a chance to rest and feel good about what we accomplished so far. Then we had some friendly chat and did a little bit of exploring. Our camp looked mighty nice in that wilderness environment and the sky was starting to cloud up. Towards the evening a light snow was falling. Cosmic crystals from heaven, it actually was a beautiful scene as we looked out to the ridge across from us. As we unpacked our stuf ,we discovered that we had left a few items behind in the truck. I volunteered to go back to fetch them. I would have to move quickly because evening was descending on us. I put the snow shoes and headed out, occasionally turning around to observe features in the trail. Downed trees, boulders, whatever, because I knew there would be less light on the return journey. The path the sled left was still available to me, so I made good time to the truck, but then got slowed down considerably as I fumbled with all the duffle bags that were in the truck looking for all the items on my list. The snow was coming down harder and I better get moving or I may not find my way back to camp. Thinking that the temperature might be subzero got me moving. I was using my snow shoe tracks for my compass, but soon, they were disappearing in the falling snow. I hastened my pace as much as I could but I was getting tired with the heavy burden on my back and the awkwardness of the snowshoes. then, suddenly something startled the hell out of me. I t looked like a moving mound of snow. It darted quickly to side before I almost walked on it. It was a large snowshoe hare. As I watched it vanish in into the brush, I caught my breath, and stood transfixed somehow by the silvery haze of the incredible scenery I was gazing out at. An vast desolate frozen landscape for as far as the eye could see. For a few moments, that semed like an eternity, I experienced a profound silence, standing there in a trance-like state. It was absolute silence. It was a sublime feeling of peace of being alone with the ALONE as though I was the only consciouness in the whole universe. That felt sense of stillness I have never encountered since. I managed to find my way back to camp and was relieved to see my friends sitting before a large bon fire. But deep in my inner thiughts that night I knew that experience had transformed me and i would never be the same.