Stepping off the train in Prince Rupert, British Columbia, my new red high heels sank into the mud right up to my ankles. After three days of traveling across Canada without a berth to sleep in, my flowered peasant skirt, with a bit of frill on the bottom, was squashed and rumpled. The white matching dirndl blouse had a hue of grey and that extra thick double rubber padded bra (to add a bit of enhancement) remained stuck to my ribs, like suction cups, throughout the entire trip. The only thing that kept its shape was my beehive hairdo so stiff from hairspray that even a bee couldn’t get into that fortress. But then, I was sixteen years old and the world was my oyster!
My parents were divorced. My father, whom I had not seen in years, was working at a lumber camp and invited me for two weeks during the summer holidays. Waiting on the platform, looking at me aghast, he sputtered, “I hope you brought a pair of pants with you. It is supposed to rain the rest of the week!” Grabbing my one hundred pound suitcase, bursting at the seams, he staggered to his car. He was always on time with his support payments —every penny of which was packed into my suitcase.
Little did I know the camp was located in the middle of the forest—far from the madding crowd (in this case, Prince Rupert)—with zero entertainment for a teenager who is ready to party. It rained almost every day and I had to sit with the camp workers for breakfast, lunch and supper. No one really cared about my new outfits, especially not the lumberjacks. I didn’t see much of my father who spent most of his free time hunting. Days melted into nights and nights into days with nothing to do. The only thing I was missing were a pair of steel toed boots.
One morning, just before my departure, my father announced that he had a special surprise for me. “Finally!” I thought, and rushed to put on my special outfit —pink pedal pushers and matching running shoes. My father looked at me incredulously and shrugged his shoulders. Instead of going into town where I was hoping we were heading, he took me for a boat ride to see his hunting cottage on the lake.
Upon arriving, he jumped out of the boat and started running up to the cottage shouting, “We just missed him! We just missed him!”
Looking around I yelled, “Who did we just miss?“
“The big black bear!” he replied.
I watched him inspecting the overturned garbage cans and food remnants strewn all over the ground. “We scared him away but he should be coming back shortly! Come inside—I’ll get my rifle and wait until he returns!”
Was I hearing right? Rifle, big black bear? He is alive and coming back? I went into panic mode and refused to get out of the boat. My father waited but I stood my ground. Disappointed, he finally got in and we headed home —sitting in silence all the way back to the camp.
Two days later he drove me to the train station and we said our awkward goodbyes. The age difference between a self absorbed teenager and a confirmed “old school” late married bachelor and avid hunter was too big a barrier to overcome. I could hardly wait to get home and see my friends.
That year, on Christmas Eve, a large special delivery Christmas package arrived at my mother’s door from Prince Rupert. It was heavy and took some effort to open. We stared at the gift in disbelief: it was a black bear rug!
I never saw my father again —he passed away three years later. The black bear rug found a place in the middle of my mother’s living room, becoming part of the conversation at every family Christmas, including my children and eventually grandchildren—keeping my father’s memory alive over the years.
