Lögberg-Heimskringla - 01.05.2015, Blaðsíða 9

Lögberg-Heimskringla • 1. maí 2015 • 9
ONLINE MAGAZINE: WWW. HEIMSKRINGLOG.COM
It was May 1957. I was 20 years old and had just finished first year at United
College. I had taken the previous
year off to save up enough
money to put myself through a
university year. Now the funds
were running low. Where to go
to earn enough money in five
months to sustain me for the next
seven months of college? Jobs
were scarce that year. A couple
of friends from school had
worked on the Trans-Canada
Pipeline. They had gotten their
old jobs back and were heading
for Port Arthur, Ontario – now
Thunder Bay. Why not join
them? Work would be starting
immediately and we would
be in at the beginning of the
pipeline construction. Another
friend and I agreed.
My meagre resources
were used to buy a Greyhound
ticket. Before I left, my usually
supportive parents tried to
dissuade me from my quest.
Seeing that it was useless, my
father slipped a $100 cheque
into my shoe to be used for
emergencies. During the 500-
mile bus trip to Port Arthur, I
enjoyed watching the beautiful
countryside of rock and bush
roll by, but I could not help but
notice how tinder dry it was.
Upon arriving in Port Arthur
we contacted our two friends.
They had good news and bad
news. The good news was they
were working at their old jobs
with the pipeline company. The
bad news was that, due to the
extreme fire hazard, work on the
line from Port Arthur to Nipigon
was to be delayed upwards of
a month. They had rented the
basement of a house and they
generously offered my friend
and me accommodation until
we could earn some money.
We dutifully reported in at the
pipeline office but, with the fire
hazard level being so high, our
prospects were as slim as our
bankroll.
After about a week without
work, my growling stomach
cashed the cheque my father had
given me and I picked up some
beans and bread. We checked in
at the pipeline office each day
for news. Walking back from
the construction yard, I passed
the divisional office of Ontario
Lands and Forests. One day, I
spotted an old school chum there
and went over to talk to him. Ray
was a game warden but, with
the high fire danger, he had been
reassigned. He asked if I had
ever fought a forest fire – they
would be needing people and he
asked where I was staying.
As luck would have it, within
a few days he knocked on my
door. A CNR train hauling iron
ore from Steep Rock Mines had
started a huge fire in Hornepayne
Township near Atikokan, a very
remote location. They needed a
camp clerk on site and he had
recommended me.
While I gathered my warm
work clothes, Ray filled me in.
The Ontario government had
taken a page from the British
Navy’s press gang program
and had literally emptied the
working-class New Ontario beer
parlour of able-bodied men.
Anyone who did not have job
was pressed into service. As the
camp clerk, I would ensure that
all the firefighters – volunteers
and “voluntolds” – had what
they needed while fighting the
fires. There were a lot of people
in the camp, Ray said, including
over 200 resettled Hungarian
refugees, who would be helping
fight the fire.
Our adventure began at the
CNR station. We were loaded
into day-cars where we were
given a sandwich and a fruit juice.
Due to scheduling commitments
by CN, the trip took all night.
We arrived in the early morning
hours at our new home – a
tent city on the burnt banks of
the beautiful Kaministiquia
River. There we reported to a
Finnish-Canadian Forest Ranger
named Peter Harkema. This
incredibly organized individual
had recruited fellow Finnish
Canadians and had erected a tent
city. They sorted out sanitation –
an aspen log wired to two trees
over a shallow ravine. They had
built green log cribs, two feet
high, on top of which they had
strung steel bars (borrowed from
CN). Safely inside the cribs,
roaring fires were stoked to boil
water for endless pots of coffee.
Now you can’t fight fire on
an empty stomach. The fare was
incredible. Huge frying pans
yielded steak every day. Lots
of vegetables and fruit juices.
Potatoes were cooked in the
roaring fire. Breakfast was bacon
and eggs. For someone who had
been living on beans and toast,
I thought I had won the lottery.
The cooking operation was
overseen by Pierre, a world-
class chef from Montreal.
The story goes that he had too
many girlfriends and bookies in
Montreal, so he went to Inco’s
mine in Thompson, Manitoba,
to dry out and build a nest
egg. While on his way back to
Montreal, he and six lady-friends
– and a carload of booze – had a
great time in Port Arthur. When
he woke up he was broke, hence
the temporary assignment in our
camp.
My years as a shore hand in a
fish camp on George Island were
to serve me well and I quickly
got to work in our moonscape
surroundings. My job as camp
clerk was to man the radio, keep
track of the personnel hours for
payroll, order equipment and
supplies, and provide medical
assistance if necessary. Most
importantly, we had to ensure
that a hot meal awaited the
crews at day’s end. It was a
key role – there were no stores
around, there weren’t even any
roads, and CN had to bring in
the equipment and supplies I
ordered. Some of firefighters
gave me the nickname “Boss
Man” and it stuck.
Given that we tracked the
hours of work so that everyone
got paid correctly, Pierre (the
cash-strapped chef) regarded
us as an essential service. He
insisted on personally cooking
our steak and serving it in our
tent. The rangers had liberated
two bunk beds from a nearby
trapper’s cabin and put them
in our tent, so while the other
300 fire fighters slept on ground
sheets, Ray and I were in a tent
with beds. We immediately
named our tent Kamp Hilton.
Eventually, the fire burned
itself out. We dutifully packed
up our equipment, thanked
everyone for their efforts, and
proceeded to await the CN train.
We saw that one tent had been
purposely left standing. While
gambling had been strictly
prohibited in camp during the
firefight, now some of the ‘press
gang recruits’ decided to have
some fun. A huge poker game
erupted. For some reason the
cards came my way that day.
Two of Pierre’s Finnish cookies
stationed themselves on either
side of me. They raked in the
cash, counted it, and guarded it.
A cheering section sprang up for
the Boss Man.
Luckily, the train arrived
before the cards turned on me. I
don’t know if Pierre ever made
it back to Montreal but I was
able to return to Port Arthur
with a down payment on my
next year’s tuition.
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Ken Kristjanson
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Firefighters in the fight against forest fires
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