Lögberg-Heimskringla - 01.04.2012, Page 7

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Lögberg-Heimskringla • 1. apríl 2012 • 7
Shortly after arriving at the Booth Fisheries Station on Georges Island in July
of 1950, I started to explore the
camp. We had eight whitefish
boats, each boat crewed by
four men. Across the harbour,
Sigurdson Fisheries had ten
and Armstong Gimli Fisheries
had eight.
My father informed me
that as a Junior Shore Hand, I
had duties and he proceeded to
hand me a list. This included
repairing wood fish boxes – of
which we had hundreds. The
boxes were used to ship the
Station’s catch twice a week
via the M.S. Red Diamond to
Selkirk for further processing.
Each box held 50 pounds
of fish. The box and the
accompanying ice added
another 25 pounds so the box
had to be in good repair.
Other duties included
making sure the cook shack
had a sufficient amount of
wood to burn. The cook shack
had a monster of a wood stove
that had come out of a fine
Winnipeg Hotel. The beast
was like a drunken sailor on
a Saturday night spree – it
gobbled cord wood length
pieces of birch and pine as fast
as we could shovel it in. It was
all the Cookie and myself could
do just to keep up. The Cook
had to be able to feed 50 hungry
fishermen a hot evening meal
all at once and so a roaring fire
was what the Cook ordered.
Once the meal was over the
ashes were banked and the
Night Watchman looked after
the fire for the 4 a.m. morning
breakfast.
When the M.S. Red Diamond
arrived for her twice weekly
pickup of our stored catch, we
had to off load the cargo she
brought for us before we could
fill her hold with the pre-iced
boxes of fish. We unloaded
mail, gasoline, groceries,
miscellaneous items and more
boxes. Also disembarking on
this trip were two men, both
rather shabbily dressed and
unshaven. They had their
personal gear plus some other
strange supplies with them. My
father greeted them warmly
but no one else seemed to pay
them any attention. He helped
them load their supplies on to
a trailer which was pulled by
a crawler tractor. The tractor’s
main job was to haul the offal
(fish guts) to the north side
of the
i s l a n d
in the
e v e n i n g
after the
f i she rmen
had finished
p r o c e s s i n g
the day’s catch.
Except now it was
taking these two men
and their gear there instead.
After the strangers were
settled, they were invited in
for the evening meal. They ate
heartily. Ravenously as I recall.
All evening, my inquiries about
these newcomers were greeted
with shrugs by the fishermen.
So I took it upon myself to
investigate. After all, the Cold
War was raging. The Korean
War was about to begin. The
world once again was headed
for turmoil. Were these spies
setting up a clandestine
radar base to monitor Lake
traffic? How or why was my
father involved? Why all the
secrecy? Was he, perish the
thought, in the employ of
a foreign government? All
these thoughts raced through
my 14-year-old mind. So
I made my way secretly to
the strangers’ camp to check
things out. Just as I got there,
the tractor came by, hauling six
gut barrels of fish guts. From
my hiding place, I saw the
strangers inspect the barrels
and chose two. The tractor and
remaining cargo proceeded to
the dumping area. I was even
more confused than before
and sought out my father to
confront him about being a spy
or harboring spies or whatever
was actually happening.
As it turned out, the
strangers were two old friends
of the family who had fallen on
hard times. In the days before
wide spread old age security,
they were simply trying to
make a living rendering fish
oil. As was the custom on the
Lake, everyone helped where
they could. Our family agreed
to supply them with the raw
product and to board them free
of charge. They went about
their smelly work and inside
of a week they had rendered
sufficient fish oil to catch the
next boat south. I never ever
saw them again.
And so I turned in my Junior
G Man badge and returned to
being a Junior Shore Hand.
Part two of a young man’s Georges Island adventures
Ken Kristjanson got his
Junior G Man badge in a box
of morning cereal
Mystery at Georges Island
PHoto: Ken KristjAnson
Ken Kristjanson
Winnipeg, MB
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