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BUSHED!
I lived on a homestead north of Ft. St. John for a couple of years. My first husband was a Mennonite who had a hankering to be a farmer. He acquired a section by applying for a homestead land grant. Homesteading was a cheap way of acquiring marginal farming land. The federal government doled out parcels of land with the stipulation that a number of acres must be cleared per year. In the summer, he would clear land and worked, on the oil rigs, in the winter. We were 40 miles from town and the nearest neighbour was over a mile away. We lived in an 8x28 foot trailer with no phone, no running water and no electricity. I had come from a company town with all the amenities but I adjusted in order to survive.
Our garbage pit was visited by wolves and the nearby beehives would be raided by black bears occasionally. Moose, deer and prairie chickens were hunted to provide us with meat. I learned how to hunt, butcher and cook game. I already knew how to light a Coleman lamp and ride a horse. At the age of seventeen, everything seemed to be an adventure.
Winters in the Peace River country were harsh. Forty below weather for weeks on end. Icy winds would whip the powder dry snow into hardened snow drifts. Driving through the drifts was similar to hitting waves, head on, with a speed boat. Whiteout conditions kept you from seeing where the drifts were. Trips into town, in the winter, were done once a week when my husband was home.
My first winter there, my husband left one day, looking for work, and didn't return for three weeks. The trailer needed to be banked up with snow in order to provide some insulation from the winds which howled across the open fields. That winter, there was a cold snap with no snow. The floor of the trailer was icy and creaked ominously when walked on. The trailer had a coal oil stove which provided heat. In the winter, it needed to be filled from a forty-five gallon drum every day. Two weeks into my husband's absence, the heating fuel ran out. I had wrestled the drum onto it's side to drain the last dregs. I began to get concerned about my chances of survival. My Siamese cat, Samantha, complained and fretted. Samantha was my bellwether. She would broadcast my internalized emotions . A mile walk to the neighbours, to get help, was out of the question. Only a lunatic would attempt a journey in such weather. Walking for any distance in the wilds would result in disorientation and possible freezing to death.
I considered bringing in the wood burning airtight heater from the granary but knew this was not feasible. Ever resourceful, I turned on the oven of the propane stove and cranked up the temperature. Three days later, the propane ran out. I grabbed Samantha and went to bed. Huddled with my cat, under the raw wool comforter, I contemplated our fate while falling asleep. I began to dream.
The road out was a long hardpacked mud trail. I trudged through the drifts while watching for movement through the willows. I arrived at Ben and Helen Gunther's place late in the afternoon. Helen told me Ben was away, with the truck, but would deliver me some fuel when he got home. Helen suggested I wait there but I was worried about Sam being home alone. I began my trek home when dusk was descending. I took the right turn down our road as it became darker still. As I walked, I had a feeling I was being watched. I turned and saw a lone wolf about thirty feet away. He was the big black wolf who led the pack which visited our dump. I looked at him, while he eyed me with interest. We stood appraising each other. He with a curious stare and I with false bravado. I stamped my foot and he leapt sideways with a hop. I turned and began walking more quickly. When I glanced over my shoulder, the wolf was still following me. I wheeled about and jumped towards him waving my arms. He retreated a few feet and stopped. He then did a small hop towards me lowering his head and front legs. Then with a small yip, he rolled in the snow, righted himself and did another hop! I laughed and hopped myself. The wolf mimicked my movement. Here in the wilderness, I doing a Mexican hat dance with a fearsome predator! I resumed my walk home with a lighter heart. The wolf continued to follow me, always maintaining the distance between us. I would stop occasionally and our dance would be repeated. When I reached the trailer, I waved to my traveling companion as he melted away into the willows.
I could hear a faint rumbling noise. Ben's coming to my rescue with fuel. I awoke to Samantha's purring. Oh My God!, I thought to myself, I am becoming BUSHED!
(Bet you thought I was going off on a rant about the American President.)
* Footnote
Bushed is a term used for people who live alone, in the wilds. for extended periods of time. It is recognized as a temporary condition which delivers humans into a state of confused rationality. If the isolation continues, it may result in a permanent eccentricity. I hesitate to use the word insane because many who suffer from this ailment, live and survive, on their own and without help, for years.
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