A Pioneer Alaska Highway Vacation
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A Pioneer Alaska Highway Vacation |
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Chapter XIII
Someone was moving about when I woke at half past five the next morning. The whole eastern arc of the sky was radiantly alight, sweeping the mountains with the colour of autumn roses while far beyond the Lake, the peaks lay white against a sky still darkly blue with night. A leisurely quiet pervaded the Lodge when I came downstairs several hours later and Mitch, pottering around in the kitchen asked what I would have for breakfast. “What’s the hurry anyway?” He went on when I said something about being late. “You’re here to enjoy your vacation aren’t you?” While he was cooking eggs and bacon I talked with Norma, sitting near the stove giving the baby his bottle. She agreed when I remarked what a good baby he was. “Yes, he never cries – unless he’s hungry”, she laughed, adding shyly, “It’s just as well he is good because I don’t know anything about babies!” She looked scarcely more than a child herself, fair and quiet in her pink dress, I had been surprised when Mary told me she was twenty-three. She and Mitch had their own small cabin down by the Lake shore, but soon after their arrival, finding it lonely with Mitch up at the Lodge all day, she had asked if she might come up too and help – she didn’t mind about being paid – but if she might bring the baby and be near Mitch, she could wash up and help in the kitchen. That is how it began, and now Norma herself had become a valued member of the little community. Indeed, Mary would have found it hard to do without her. The baby thrived, sleeping outside in the sunshine or when it was too cold, in his pram in a corner of the bar. And the little gentle girl was always busy: washing dishes; sweeping; serving; ironing. She was a companion for Mary, too, when Mike was away, and on the rare occasion when she accompanied him into town, Norma was able to take her place, looking after the travellers who dropped in any hour. For until its doors closed at midnight, the Lodge provided perennial coffee and/or a hot meal for anyone who chanced along. The stout lady heading for Anchorage had already left, Mitch told me now. She was who I had heard moving about soon after dawn, and she had had her breakfast and was on her way by half past six. While eating mine I watched Mitch making raisin pies and he told me about his War experiences. He was born in southern British Columbia, then had worked in the U.S. and in South America, journeying up the Amazon before spending four and a half years attached to the Military Police in the Canadian Army overseas during the War. He had been in the Nimeguen raid, and also through the Italian campaign. Later for several months he was in France and Belgium and finally, in Germany. Concisely and without heat he expressed his opinion of the German character, past, present and probable future, based on a remarkably shrewd perception.
Speaking of his time in England I heard he had been stationed for a time at the big Canadian base not far from my own home, and he recalled with approval various pubs in the neighbourhood. I wondered if he had been one of the many robot-like figures on motorbikes so often clattering past when I had been on the way to stand in the fish queue or other such routine activity of the time. “I’d like to go to India”, he went on, clipping the edges from the wafer-like lid of pastry he had just laid on top of a generous heaping of raisins – he made superlative pies and was an excellent cook. He set it aside, dumped another lump of dough on his board and sprinkled it with flour. “Yes, India, China and Japan”, he continued. “I want to go to all of those. I had figured on going North this year but – there was complications – another addition to the family!” He jerked a floury thumb at the baby. “So…” he laughed, and rolled dexterously, twitching the dough, “we had to postpone it this time!” Mike came in by the kitchen door and stole about with his curiously light tread, beating up eggs to make himself French toast and talking with Mitch about his next hunting plans. He had already driven off to Whitehorse for supplies when, about ten o’clock, Mrs. Whitehorse Billy appeared, stumping purposefully down the trail. She had come to add various items to her list of grocery requirements, and also to request the loan of a rifle for her forthcoming hunt, some unspecified mishap having befallen her own. This last however, Mary adroitly but firmly refused, knowing that if not damaged, the rifle would certainly never be cleaned. To her assurances that Mike had already gone into town and there was no spare rifle the visitor listened, unconvinced. “Mike have little rifle -- .22 – he lend me?” She persisted wheedling, casting an eye towards the kitchen. Mary, repeating her regrets, remained adamant; but after Mrs. Whitehorse Billy had departed, huffed and without her usual salutations, she told me that of course there was a spare rifle – two in fact, hanging inside the kitchen door, but it would never do to let Mrs. Whitehorse Billy know this. “That’s why I never like to have her hanging around the back of the Lodge”, she explained. “She’s a dear old thing but I wouldn’t altogether trust her if she knew they were there. Mike would probably let her have one if he were here – he’s so soft-hearted where that old woman’s concerned she can get anything she wants when he’s around! As it is he’ll probably spend hours running around town to get want she wants and quite likely come back without half the stuff we need for the Lodge!” She finished good-naturedly. I went out and scrambled down between the cottonwoods to the Lake shore where a cress-like plant grew among the stones. Much of it had seeded, but a few tiny flax-like blue flowers still lingered, very delicate and fragile. Overhead a squirrel chattered in a spruce, his fur matching the colour of its cones as he whisked, rather like an animated cone himself among their slender clusters. The sun came out and I sat on a boulder and watched seven brown ducks float past a few yards away. With a splatter of foam the drake joined them and they all sailed away round a rocky point. A chipmunk was twinkling up and down a big stone a few feet away. His whole body, all four inches of it, quivered as he uttered his imperious ‘’twink, twink” that rang like a miniature hammer on the immense silence. “Fritt!” he was on top of his stone, “twink, twink! – fritt!” He had vanished behind it. Back and forth he darted, swift as an eye blink. At last, disturbed by some warning sense, he skipped off just as three of the huskies came sniffing down the bank to wade in the water. A faint breeze shivered through the cottonwoods,
bringing their little painted leaves flittering down to lie in the moss
like scattered coins. I picked up a bit of white agate through which the
light shone milkily, and cones from the spruce scented with resin. Heart
shaped yellow leaves and fragrant, sticky lumps of amber gum – worthless
treasures – yet adding, in their scent and form to a contentment, an
awareness of happiness and a moment one cannot forget. Previous Chapter | Next Chapter
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