I've Been Working on The Railroad
(Prince Rupert '76) continued

Jake, a forty five to fifty something 'White Russian' by birth (-Canadian by choice) proceeded to take me under his wing until such time as I could fend for myself and "... knew which way was up". He was not a foreman, but rather, the moral back bone and wise man of our crew. He was in fact deemed to be 'holy' by those from overseas.

The few Canadians on the crew- blue collar in orientation, just stayed clear of him.

Jake did not fit any known mold as he did not watch TV that much, did not care for any sport and did not suffer fools. His blunt comments could reach into the root of any situation and deflate the greatest shows of male bravado.

We all climbed into the 'speeder' or 'crew car' by pecking order.

The speeder experience is the most wonderful thing and brings out the kid in all of us until we become jaded by the job itself. Imagine yourself zipping through the wooded and mountainous hinterland on tracks at lightening speed - better than La Ronde any day.

We pulled out of 'Rupert', heading for the Mill down the line, the ponds, trees, sky opening up. Secluded spots where man has never stepped, emerge 50 yards in front. Pools of water, mist rising and quiet - pure quiet- solitude.

The others in the speeder, used to the morning ritual are catching a snooze as we buzz through "the creation". Jake seems interested in watching my reactions . I suspect he's judging me, as if weighing my substance. 'Will the city kid make it -yes or no?'

We turn a gradual corner around a hill and there on the trees and telephone lines as if by magic- a regiment of Bald Eagles.

" Guys! Look!" I shout. "This is incredible..." when on the back of my helmet 'wop' !
"-ow!"

I could not restrain myself. I had never seen a real Bald Eagle 'live' before, let alone this many in one sitting and here they were - at least 8 or 9 of them, all about three feet high, yellow hook beaks, white or yellowing crests.

"Hey - new kid!" one of the workers reaches over from the other side and gives me a shove after hitting my helmet. "Shut up you mouth! Sleeping time!"

Jake observes me, apparently with great interest, to see my reaction, the suggestion of a smile playing in his steady eyes.

"But..." I reach to grab my helmet.
Jake put a finger up to his lips and raised an eyebrow.

"You have to figure" He whispers, "they go through this everyday. They've seen what you see and a great deal more, especially when they were in Angola fighting."

This is when I got my first lesson on culture. Apparently those on the crew with Mediterranean swarthy looks, were either from Greece or Portugal and the Portuguese in particular, ex-army regulars, were in from the colonial Portuguese Angola war.

"The one that just poked you," Jake informed me, ".. is 'Lil Tony'. Don't get in his way. Try to make him a friend. No one will ever bother you once they know he's on your side."

"Oh." I responded.

"You're from 'back East' and there is much that will be new to you. Try not to be an excitable kid, be cool, this is not a travel tour, it's our life and quite mornings on the ride to site are sacred."
I looked at the others , dozing.

"We only really start waking up once on the track, -once we've been on the job for about an hour and all the stiffness, aches and pains from the previous day have worked themselves out."

"..the Eagles.." I point.

"I know" he said, "- quite special, at first, but a regular thing out here, especially behind the canneries where the catch is brought in. Eagles, like gulls, come around for the innards left on the back pile. Easy 'pickins'."

Upon disembarking at our first work site, I cannot help but notice how Tony comes by his name. He stands, all of 4 ft. 5 inches tall, solid rock and I am to soon discover, one hell of a fighter -if not warrior in the traditional sense. 'Fear', I was to learn, has no place in his vocabulary. I could have used him at H.S. Billings.

During the summer, 'Lil Tony' would make a few extra bucks for himself and his shell-shocked buddy, Eduardo by ..well.. I'll get to that later... but I'm sure you'll find it to be rather strange reading when I do get to it.

The speeder made it's way through the hills where fresh crystal water cascaded down- water that one could drink straight from the stream.

Soon the air became thick. My nose wrinked at the stench.

"That's the Pulp Mill." announced Jake shaking his head and looking down almost in shame.
--------------------------
Within myself I had been trying to fend off homesickness that had been bubbling beneath the surface since my buddy Monte had left for for his job in Terrace. But now, the fabric of this new scenic reality and human adventure caught hold of me. I discovered that as long as I was on the job, and had my trusty narrator and home grown Merlin, Jake, with me, I tacitly agreed to become the Arthurian apprentice in this 'quest' - for tuition money, life experience and the Holy Grail -my undiscovered inner self.

The real journey had begun.