I picked up this ground-stone granite maul on the Canadian prairies many years ago. I decided to try and make one like it. Hopefully by making one I would understand better the methods Indigenous peoples used, and also the amount of work involved.
In a previous post (https://canehdianstories.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=2853&action=edit) I discussed Indigenous ground-stone technology on the Canadian prairies. I decided that because we knew so little on how some objects, such as grooved stone mauls, were made I would try to make one. This method of inquiry is known as ‘Experimental Archaeology’ – a sub-field of archaeology intended to gain insight into prehistoric methods people used by replicating them. These are a few of my thoughts after a little over a week of working on this project. As usual, whenever I take on projects like this there are some real eye-openers. So far, I haven’t been disappointed.
I managed to get in about four hours of work on the quartzite cobble I chose to make my ground-stone maul. Below is a photograph showing my progress pecking and grinding the stone maul. Most of you, after looking closely at this photograph, will probably think: ‘What progress? I don’t see any.’
My quartzite cobble that I chose to make a ground-stone maul, after about four hours of work. As is quite evident, there are some scratches on the cortex (the outer oxidized layer of the cobble) and ever-so slight grooving.
Well, let me explain. Perhaps another photograph will help. If you look at the cobble closely, at just the right angle, with just the right light, you can see a slight indentation on the cortex (the outer oxidized layer on the rock). You can actually feel it better than see it.
A closer view of my attempt to start a groove on the maul after about four hours of work. In places I may have broken through the cortex. But barely. I’m also finding it hard to aim the stone grooving tool and keep it straight. It kind of wants to wander everywhere. Once I have established a groove, it should become easier to direct my aim.
In short, it’s going to take a little longer than the eight hours someone estimated it took to make a granite grooved maul. At this rate with the methods I’m using, you might add one or two zeros to the number eight. I’ll explain my methods, and the tools I’m using to make the maul, to give you a better understanding WHY it’s taking me so long to make any progress.
Pecking? Forget It
First I thought I would try to peck the groove using a small quartzite pebble having the same hardness as the maul. That didn’t work worth a damn. Not only was the impact area of the pecking stone too round, it wore down faster than the cobble I was pecking. And, after forty-five minutes of banging away I was getting nowhere, fast. At first the surface of the cobble looked good with all the stone flour on it. Then I realized that the flour was coming off my pecking stone and not the cobble.
This method was a waste of time. At least for me. It might work better to form basalt hand-mauls, but is difficult to make an initial groove in the quartzite cobble this way. Also, the hammerstone I used was too large with too blunt an end to be accurate. And, while there was a lot of stone flour on the quartzite cobble, it was mostly from the hammerstone.
The end of the hammerstone I used to peck on the quartzite cobble, after about forty-five minutes. It was getting me nowhere. Quite a bit of wear on the hammerstone though.
Sawing and Grinding
Next, I found a small coarse-grained sandstone flake. I used a sawing motion across about two centimetres of the flake edge to grind a groove on the cobble. This method worked much better than pecking. After one hour, I thought I saw some of the natural pockmarks on the cobble surface begin to smooth out. But, there was no point measuring my progress. I don’t think they make instruments capable of measuring that small a depth. I was averaging about 150 – 155 strokes per minute using this sawing technique. Or, with one hour’s work, 9,000 – 9,300 strokes. My fingers cramped pretty badly after only one hour’s work.
I started grinding the cobble with this orthoquartzite or hard sandstone flake. I used the entire thin edge length of the flake to grind away on the cobble surface. This method worked moderately well, but after about one hour, the flake no longer had an effective edge and will have to be replaced or resharpened.
Continued Search for Just the Right Tool
The coarse-grained sandstone flake worked well enough. But, was there something better? At this stage of the project I’m still guessing and experimenting with different methods. Next I fashioned a few more quartzite flakes. But this time I looked for flakes having burin-like tip (a type of handheld lithic flake with a chisel-like edge which prehistoric humans used for cutting wood or bone), or graver tips (lithic tool with a slightly more pointed tip than a burin), so that I could better gouge the surface of the maul.
This close-up view of a lithic burin tool used for cutting wood, bone and antler, also seems to work for grooving the quartzite cobble. From: https://www.quora.com/What-is-a-burin-used-for
In this photograph I’m using a burin-like quartzite flake tool and pushing it forward on the quartzite cobble. I’m slowly but surely removing microscopic bits of quartzite to form the groove for the maul. At first I just hand-held the flake. But after a while it was doing more damage to my fingers than to the cobble. So, I wrapped it in paper towel to prevent blisters (a real authentic touch). After about two hours of using this tool, the tip got dull. I retouched the edges of the flake to resharpen it. It should still work until at some point it becomes too small to effectively hold. I am also thinking of using a heavier, larger flake to apply more pressure on the edge. It might also be easier to hold.
If I held the flake at just the right angle (about 20 – 30 degrees) and pushed real hard, I felt I was scouring the cobble better than with the other two methods. However, if the flake point is held to low, not much scouring happened. If I held the flake too high, I couldn’t push it very well, or accurately. Blisters were starting to appear on my fingers, so I wrapped the flake in a paper towel. A piece of leather would do quite nicely as well. Occasionally I found my fore-finger scraping across the cobble as I pushed the flake.
Closeup of the tip of the quartzite flake, showing the wear from grinding on the stone maul. Also, the wear on my fingers holding the flake to grind the maul.
I’m working with rocks, which are good conductors of heat. I’m causing a lot of friction and heat when using the sawing methods. Perhaps dunking the flake tool in water, or adding water to maul surface, would prevent heat build-up.
A Few Closing Observations
It’s pretty obvious already that this project is going to take a long, long time to make. Unless I figure out a better method of incising my cobble. So far, both the sandstone saw and graving/gouging with considerable force on the flake work the best.
Patience is a key here. We live in a society of instant results and gratification. This project would be something you worked on all winter when there was less other work to do. Like knitting sweaters or large rugs, which took many hours to fashion. I also find that grinding away is a lot like distance running. Eventually, through repeated strokes which take little thinking, it puts your mind in a different place, relaxing it. We could all use a bit more of that in our present-day society.
Given the amount of work that I expect to put into making this tool (if I ever do), I would highly value it. In archaeology we call this curation. People would have valued these mauls because of the effort involved making them. If people were not carrying their mauls from one camp to another, then they would have carefully cached them for safety. Or there was some sort of agreement among families using the same camp, to leave the mauls after use. In a previous post (https://canehdianstories.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=2016&action=edit), on stone axes in Australia, I noted how highly prized they were among the Australian aborigines. Similar processes might have been operating here in the Americas with these mauls.
Indigenous people on the West Coast of Canada used more ground-stone technology to fashion stone tools than people on the prairies. The major reason may be related to access to more relatively softer (than quartzite) types of stone, such as basalt, for fashioning ground stone tools. I’m making my ground stone maul out of quartzite, the hardest and most common material available on the prairies. If I had a choice, knowing what I already know about this process, quartzite would not have been my first choice. Yet, most ground-stone mauls on the prairies are made from quartzite. The trade-off, however, is that a quartzite maul would not break as easily as mauls made of softer types of rocks.
These rather ornate hammerstones and grooved mauls are from the North West Coast of Canada. They are made mostly of basalt which is slightly easier to work than my quartzite cobble. However, even so, it would have taken a considerable amount of effort and ingenuity to fashion them. (Image from: Hilary Stewart, 1973. Artifacts of the Northwest Coast Indians. Hancock House Publishers.)
I just finished reading an article on how First Nations peoples in British Columbia, Canada, made nephrite adzes. Nephrite, on the Mohs hardness scale, is between 6 – 6.5. This material is slightly less hard than my wonder cobble, but still not that easy to carve. According to author, Hilary Stewart, people sawed nephrite boulders using a sandstone saw, with sand and water added for greater abrasion.
This series of sketches shows how archaeologists think nephrite boulders were cut into thin slabs which were then edged to make the highly prized nephrite adzes. As a sedimentary stone, sandstone has a hardness between 6 and 7. But the quartz fragments that it is composed of have a hardness of 7. So, as a saw this material would work well to cut/grind the hard quartzite. (Image from: Hilary Stewart, 1973. Artifacts of the Northwest Coast Indians. Hancock House Publishers.)
Maybe I’ll use a larger piece of sandstone next, and add a sand/water compound for more grit. And, a saw makes more sense since there is a greater surface area working to groove my cobble. With the flake burin I could only use a forward motion. Thus, a sawing tool having a greater edge area and back and forth motion should be much more efficient than a tiny tip of stone being pushed in only one direction. However, having said that, often what we think works best, doesn’t always materialize into reality. That’s why experimenting with these techniques is so important.
But, what kind of edge should the stone saw have to be most effective?
In this series of diagrams a piece of nephrite is cut using a sandstone saw. Note the upper three diagrams. Before use the saw blade edge is a V-shape. Then after grinding/cutting the nephrite, it becomes rounded from use, probably making it less effective to cut a thin groove, but still useful to form a wider groove in the rock, which is necessary for my grooved stone maul. Perhaps this is a natural, necessary progression. We start with a thin, deep groove when the sandstone edge is thin, then as it gets rounder it widens the groove. (Image from: Hilary Stewart, 1973. Artifacts of the Northwest Coast Indians. Hancock House Publishers.)
Stay tuned. I’ll check in again after reaching another sort of milestone with my project. However, I’m going to rethink what type of grinding tool to use and what it should be made out of. That’s what happens when, after four hours of hard work, you can barely see any progress. Suddenly creativity sets in.
Where do you go if you want to get to the heart of any small Canadian prairie town? Coffee Row is where it’s at.
A Small Town In Trouble
You can take the pulse of a town by the number and vintage of vehicles parked in front of the local restaurant. If coffee row is healthy, then so is the town.
They gathered at Frank’s restaurant across the street from the local Co-op grocery store. There was no set time. Just a steady stream of people all day long. Some even came twice a day, if gossip was brisk. Some came so often they had preassigned seats. No one sat in Jim’s place.
Coffee row was where people discussed and sorted out things. Exchanged information. Solved the world’s problems. Well, at least in the minds of those sitting there.
Frank, owner of the small prairie restaurant, slowly glided around serving coffee, saying little. What was there to say? No one ever asked him what he thought.
Stan, Erna, Jim, Mary, Sarah and Bill were already there. Slowly drinking their coffee, as if they had all the time in the world. But this morning they had troubled looks on their faces, gazing at the scene across the street.
Erna finally spoke up. “Well, I’ll be darned. Shame that Jackson’s hardware is shutting down. That was a good business once. Bought all my stuff there. I don’t know what ever happened to the place.”
Bill thought he knew. “Old man Jackson was a good businessman. His kid ran it into the ground. Everyone supported the store. Where did the money go?”
Mary, sitting beside Bill, knew better. “I don’t buy that, Bill. The kid parties a little. A lot less than your kid.” This got a rise out of Bill. And a snicker or two from coffee row.
She went on. “But he’s not showy, spending all his money on toys. Fact of the matter is people are shopping more in the big cities. And slowly leaving our town, Bill. Nothing to do. No work here.”
Bill, now a little huffy after Mary’s comment, shot back. “We should do something about it, instead of just sitting here drinking our coffee.”
“And what are we going to do, Bill? Strike a committee? Maybe order people not to leave town, or go to the city to shop? You got a plan, buddy? Let’s hear it.”
Bill was silent. He had no plan. No one did. Instead, he turned and watched intently as the Jackson kid cleaned out the store and boarded up the front windows. Was this a sign of rot and gloom setting into their small town?
Sarah was beginning to tear up. “Fifty years and suddenly it’s all gone. Who’s next? When’s the bleeding going to stop?” Everyone looked on in silence as the kid continued to board up a lifetime of work and memories. Usually coffee row could solve the hardest problems. But this was a tough one.
Frank glided down coffee row behind a now solemn looking bunch on coffee row. “More coffee anyone. Made fresh pot just a few minutes ago. Maybe some fresh apple pie?”
Everyone absently nodded for a refill. As if Frank didn’t exist. Some ordered pie. Heck, no sense leaving now. There was still the weather and politics to sort out. And then the Thornton girl’s unwanted pregnancy, the local hockey team’s recent poor play, and Harry’s drinking problem. The list was long this morning.
Then Harry came in. Looking slightly tired and smelling of gin. Well, stroke Harry off today’s agenda. There was still lots to talk about though.
Talking about these matters could take time. A person might even have to stay for lunch if Frank offered one of his specials. Often coffee row turned into lunch row.
Across the street the young boy watched his father board up their store. He was crying, not letting his mother console him. Young Everett loved the store. The town. His friends. He didn’t want to leave. So, he screamed even louder. Hoping to convince mom and dad to stay. It didn’t help.
A Big Gamble
They were older now. And professing to be wiser. They sat in silence on coffee row. Slowly stirring their coffee. Hoping that with enough stirring, things would improve. Staring out the window at the boarded up Jackson’s store. Over the years a few other businesses had joined Jackson’s fate. Jim noticed a few weeds growing out of the town pavement.
Jim spoke first. As he looked over at the Jackson building, he slowly shook his head. “Jeez, Jackson’s closing was bad enough. But this? This is a hopeless disaster. What’s the town going to do now?”
“You mean what are WE going to do, Jim? It’s OUR bloody town.” Mary felt a slight headache coming on. Sometimes it was hard to listen to this pain in the ass sitting across from her.
“Don’t get me involved in this. I don’t live in town. I farm.”
“Farm. Ha!,” snorted Sarah. “You call that farming? You’re in town more often than on the farm, Jim. I don’t know who farms out there. But it’s sure not you.”
Jim said nothing. They had no idea how hard it was to farm. Occasionally he needed a break. To get away from it all.
Frank, a fresh white apron wrapped around him, jumped in. “More coffee anyone? Trying out new brand. Nice aroma, very tasty.” Hopefully more coffee would stop a fight from breaking out. Coffee row occasionally became a testy place. Tempers flared. Solving other peoples’ problems did that to a person.
Just about everybody ignored him. The tension grew. Frank worried. He tried his last and best gambit. “Today’s lunch special, everyone. My specialty, Chop Suey. All fresh. Very tasty. Only five-ninety-five, with dessert.” This usually calmed them down. Today it had no effect whatsoever. Frank worried even more.
“I heard the town invested over a hundred grand in infrastructure, hoping the Company workers would live here. But they didn’t come. Everyone from the new mill settled up the road in Morton instead. Kind of stupid. A much further commute to work than if they lived here.”
“I didn’t know the town had a hundred grand.”
“Well, where do you think our taxes go, Sarah? Of course the town has a hundred grand. We’re not dead yet.” Then they all looked out across the street at the boarded up store-fronts. Wondering about the truth of those words.
“But, how could our town council be so naive? To even think that was a good idea? Morton’s bigger. It even has a Tim Horton’s. Hard to compete with that.” Jim, now sounded as if he were living in town again. This gained him a few haughty looks.
And a chewing-out. Sarah had enough. “First of all, Jim. It’s not your town council. You live on the farm. You really got no say in this matter. This is town peoples’ business. Don’t you have some cattle to feed? Crops to harvest? That sort of stuff.”
Jim stood up in a huff and flung his quarters onto the table. And left quickly. Swearing never to return. He would. They always did. Frank glided by and deftly picked up the coins. Dropping them safely into his big brass cash register till behind the counter. Smiling at everyone. As if nothing had happened.
“Well, I’ll tell you why the town got bamboozled and took that gamble. It’s our mayor and council. They don’t tell anyone what they’re up to. There’s no oversight. They’re desperate. The town’s hurting. Anything that comes along that sounds half good, they jump at it. That’s what happened.” Stan usually said little on coffee row. But, when he did, people listened. That’s what eight sections of farmland and money in the bank could buy you on coffee row. Respect. Lots of it.
And Stan, unlike Jim, now lived in town.
Just then, Randy, their mayor stepped through the restaurant door. He badly needed a pack of cigarettes to get him through the day. As he nervously looked around, he realized everyone on coffee row was staring at him. ‘Probably not the best time to stop at Frank’s,’ realized Randy a little too late.
“Morning everyone. How are we all this morning?” Silence greeted him. Randy put on his best smile as he looked down coffee row. What he saw wasn’t good. Randy didn’t take official polls in town. He just needed to stop at coffee row occasionally to see how his political future fared. This morning it looked very bleak. Hopeless in fact.
Frank got Randy his cigarettes and looked on. “Randy, maybe you stay for lunch. Nice special today. Chop Suey. And I think maybe a side of fried rice with it.” Randy paid for his cigarettes, mumbled something about not feeling that hungry, and quickly left.
The others on coffee row continued arguing about one of the biggest screw-ups the town had ever seen. Frank worried about Randy. He was trying to save the little town. Frank had watched the careers of many mayors over the years. Through the eyes and ears of coffee row. Coffee row was a finely tuned machine in predicting their political futures. It wasn’t just Frank’s rice that was frying. Randy’s political future was also taking a little heat.
Salvation
Virtually the same people sat on coffee row. But now, more stooped, older and white-haired. Canes rested by chairs. A wheel chair stood in the corner. A few regulars were missing. Maybe watching over coffee row from above. Or below. There were some new faces. That was promising.
They all stared across the street where a young man was working diligently taking the boards off the windows of the old Jackson Hardware Store. There was hammering and sawing and a bunch of other stuff going on inside. But no one knew what. And that wore on coffee row. Not knowing what was going on in town was the worst thing that could happen to a person on coffee row.
Sarah was itching to find out. If she could break this story there would be free coffee for her. She was first to arrive, so she got in the first question. “I heard he’s setting up some kind of video and gambling center. Is this another one of town council’s lame brain schemes at revitalizing our town?”
Sarah was an expert at getting people talking. Just ask a simple, even a dumb question that people could react to. She’d learned that from watching certain reporters on TV.
“Don’t know. But that guy looks familiar. Isn’t that the Jackson boy’s oldest son? Sure looks like it from here.” They all squinted harder through watery eyes and thick glasses.
“Well, he’s sure busy and it looks like he’s throwing a lot of money into that building. You must have made some money with that sale, Stan, after buying it years ago.”
“Yeh, that’s Jackson’s oldest. Don’t know what he’s doing back here. I made a bit of money off that sale. Enough to buy everyone coffee this morning.” They all thought this very good of Stan. Some were hoping Frank would have a lunch special today. Maybe Stan would spring for lunch too.
They all looked back out the window across the street. A sign was going up on the store front. In big bold letters it read: MUSTANG ENTERPRISES.
“What? He gonna sell horses? I don’t think that will get him very far.” Jim knew. He’d tried horses years ago on his farm. Fancy ones. Not mustangs. That didn’t work out too well. Jim never seemed to have enough time to properly train and work them.
The young man across the street stepped back and looked at his handiwork. Then he put down his hammer, took his son by the hand, and walked across the street to Frank’s restaurant.
A dozen pairs of eyes followed him across the street and through the restaurant door. Jackson’s father would never have come to coffee row. And, according to experts on coffee row, that was one of the problems. Maybe even why the business failed. You had to talk to people in the community. Get to know them. Especially those on coffee row.
As he stepped through the door, Everett looked around. Some things never changed. He still recognized a few faces. Now older with whiter hair, if they had any. But the alert, inquisitive eyes told him everything. They wanted to know what he was doing here. They could barely contain themselves.
“Morning everyone. Mind if I join you. Could use a little more caffeine this morning.” Without waiting for an answer Everett plunked himself down on a chair at the end of the table. His son sat down beside him.
His greetings were returned by a few polite, cautious responses. Couldn’t trust these outsiders anymore. Especially after that last town debacle. Frank glided up, coffee pot in hand. A little more stooped and not walking quite as smoothly as years ago.
“Coffee, Everett? And for the young guy? A coke maybe?”
“That’d be great, Fan. How’s your family, your wife, Feng?”
“Oh, everyone good, Everett. Children move away. Nothing here for them. Feng cook, still put up with me.”
There was shock and silence up and down coffee row. Fan? They all thought he was just Frank. Few bothered to find out his real name. And how did Fan know Jackson so well? It would be hard finding the answers on coffee row. Without Fan listening in. Well, maybe they could just ask him.
“Nice sign, Mr. Jackson. You now sell Mustang cars, right? You get me a bright yellow one. With big motor. I pay cash.” Everyone wondered how Fan could afford a fancy new car running a restaurant. The fact that he worked sixteen – eighteen hours a day hadn’t crossed their minds.
“No, Fan. I don’t sell real mustangs, or cars.” Jim the horse expert, and Bert, who owned a small car dealership, were relieved to hear that.
Mary couldn’t hold back any longer. She just had to know. “Well, if not cars or horses, what do you sell, or do, Mr. Jackson? What does that sign mean anyway?”
“You know what mustangs are, Mary. Wild, free and a bit of an independent bunch. They do as they please and make their own way in the world. That’s us.”
Everett was just about to continue when the mayor walked in. He quickly gazed around taking the pulse of the town down coffee row. Looked safe enough. So he sat down beside Everett.
“Morning everyone. Dad, how you keeping?” Stan just nodded and waved.
“So, how’s it going over there, Everett? Lot of banging and sawing. Where did you learn how to do that?”
Some of the members of coffee row looked concerned. Everett and the mayor knew one another? The newcomer seemed to know everyone. If he joined coffee row it could upset the delicate balance established over many years. He could be a real threat in the gossip department.
“Going well, Jason. Learned a little carpentry by renovating my house in the city. Only way to learn anything.”
Everyone on coffee row thought those words exceedingly wise. A few wished they’d learned that lesson long ago.
Everett idly scratched the back of his neck, as if something was irritating him. “That refit’s not my biggest problem, Jason. I need to hire three or four really good computer tech people and two secretaries. Seems to be a shortage of those around here.”
Stan, or Fan, overheard Jason. “Seriously, Everett? First son, Fook, looking around for different job. Want to get out of city. Too big, too expensive.”
“Actually, Fan, that might work. I remember Fook. What’s he do? I need one person specializing in computer machine and assembly languages. Another one in algorithmic languages. FORTRAN. ALGOL. C. I could use someone who knows BASIC, Pascal, Logo, or Hypertalk. Or someone with a background in C++ C# Ada, Java, Visual Basic or Python.”
Fan casually took in Everett’s words. The rest of coffee row only gaped. As if Fan and Everett had just invented some sort of new language? “I text him immediately and see what he specialize in.” Fan left in a hurry, forgetting the coffee pot on the table.
Everett looked around. There was silence on coffee row. No one knew what to say. Even Mary was afraid to ask again what Everett did.
“Well, time to go. Nothing ever got done sitting around here. Let me know if there are any town folks that might need jobs.” That was an understatement thought Mary. She’d help if only she knew what the jobs were for.
Everett was about to get up and leave when he thought of something else. “Oh, and we’re going to need houses. I saw a few boarded up driving around town. Anyone know who owns them?”
All eyes turned towards Stan. Some of them now not in a too friendly manner. Fully knowing that Stan bought those places almost for nothing years back. Another great real estate opportunity squandered.
Stan gave a nervous cough. “I could probably help you out, Mr. Jackson. Heard prices for housing were going up though in these little towns. Seems a lot of people are moving out of the city and need homes.”
“Now dad. Everett needs some houses for his people at a fair price. To get his business going.” Everyone on coffee row fully supported their mayor on this point, and gave Stan a withering look to show it.
“Well, got to get back to my coffee row.” Everett stood and poured his unfinished coffee into his thermos.
“But, this is coffee row, Mr. Jackson. You know of another one around here? You opening up a restaurant or something? Maybe one of those fancy internet cafes?” Fan, who rarely ever showed any emotion, now had a worried look on his face.
Everett only grinned. “I collect information. Just like you folks. My coffee row sits on six big computer screens, connected to the rest of the world. Last time I looked there were 22.5 million of us, sipping coffee, collecting and exchanging information. But the information we collect is valuable to the right people. We repackage and sell it.” Only stunned silence greeted his words. Had they known, they could have made millions off coffee row over the years. Even Jim would have fared better, than farming.
As Everett walked across the street he looked around the small town. There were fewer ‘For Sale’ signs and more ‘Sold’ signs on homes and businesses than when he first had checked it out. Always a good omen.
Even coffee row was recruiting, it seemed. And with a healthy coffee row there was always hope for a small town in Canada.
I grew up around or in small towns on the Canadian prairies. As a grocery boy working part-time at the Co-op store through high school, right across from the local restaurant, I watched the proceedings at coffee row quite often. This is where people gathered to casually socialize, exchange information, or barbs, and just generally be part of the community. It was an important institution. And, not just in my home town. It was common across the Canadian prairies. And elsewhere too, I’m sure.
I also saw first-hand how small towns struggled to stay afloat. And how hard people worked to keep them going. But eventually over the years, ever so slowly, they dwindled away as more people left, businesses closed and infrastructure couldn’t keep up. One author in a recent magazine called this the Slow Burn.
In a recent article in Maclean’s Magazine (https://www.macleans.ca/killing-rural-canada/), that same author, journalist, Aaron Hutchins asked the big question: What’s Killing Rural Canada? There were multiple reasons. I touched on a few in this story. But there were few solutions on how to fix the problem.
I’m an optimist. Perhaps a bit of a dreamer. I don’t know if all small Canadian towns can be saved. Do we need one every eight or ten miles along a stretch of highway in rural Saskatchewan? Perhaps long ago we did. Even in the 1950s, when I first arrived in Canada, some of those towns were already struggling. But I think some might be saved. Computers and the internet are changing where many Canadians work or run a business. The pandemic has also helped the process along, as more people work from home.
Of course, this method doesn’t work for all businesses or industry. Virtual baking can’t replace the real thing.
In Alberta, the shift to smaller towns outside the large urban centers is underway. The recent Covid pandemic is partly responsible, as people try to isolate in the less densely populated rural communities. But there are other reasons as well:
“Another driving factor is that people can work from home since remote working is still being encouraged by many employers. Some businesses are offering more flexible working environments such as work from home at least a few days a week, with a requirement of going to the office occasionally. This allows home buyers considerably more flexibility when looking for a new home, no longer bound by the requirement of being in close proximity to the office. This explains the surge of families exploring quieter, more remote areas that traditionally only attracted retirees.” https://blog.remax.ca/canadian-real-estate-alberta-an-ideal-buyers-market/
On British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast, where I live part-time, the local real estate market in the community of Powell River is going bonkers. For many of the reasons listed above. Plus, a lot of babyboomers in the large urban centers are cashing in on their multi-million dollar properties in the city and moving where living is slower and cheaper.
No one currently knows where this will all end. But the signs are encouraging. So, maybe there’s still hope for that small town and coffee row in Canada. Or, perhaps I’m just dreaming and being overly optimistic. But, that’s usually what writing fiction is all about.
A grooved stone maul. A prehistoric object, found on many continents, made by grinding or pecking the groove to attach a handle. An incredibly labor-intensive activity taking many hours to complete.
In Alberta, stone mauls were used for thousands of years. One maul was found in an archaeological site dating over 10,000 years in Alberta (Fedyniak and Giering, 2016). Unfortunately very few mauls are found in an archaeological context, allowing accurate dating. There is currently no known change in their shape and/or size through time. And, these mauls mainly occur on the southern prairies and not further north.
In the mid-1970s, while out hunting in southern Saskatchewan, I picked up this grooved stone maul in a cultivated field near the edge of a slough. The maul is made from a coarse granitic stone. This one is about 11cm high and 10cm wide. It weighs 1.3kg (2.8lbs). The groove goes almost all the way around the maul, but gets shallower on one side. The groove is about 15mm wide and 5mm deep. One side of the maul has been damaged, either through use or when hit by a farm implement.
Considerable chunk missing on one side of the maul. There is a thin, deep cut line at one edge of the fracture. Possibly made by a cultivator blade rolling over the maul, breaking off a piece.
Close-up view showing the grove in the maul that is polished and smoothed and not as rough as the rest of the stone.
At the time my buddies gathered around to see what I’d found. I confidently stated it was a grooved maul. First Nations people made and used them for pounding things.
How could anyone know so much about a seemingly foreign-looking object by just picking it up and looking at it? Good question. There’s nothing really obvious about the maul to give us a clue what it was used for. Is there? Most people would have walked right by it without even noticing it was a tool.
One method to discover the function of an object is to closely examine it. I looked at both the distal and proximal polls. The proximal poll (smaller end) contained small surface indentations and pocking from use. The distal poll showed smoothed areas, possibly from grinding. It was also slightly flattened from use. Likely from pounding or grinding things. More sophisticated methods, such as microscopic use-wear analysis, would reveal even more about how these abrasions were made.
The base of the proximal poll of the grooved maul, showing indentations and pocking from pounding.
The base of the distal poll showing a combination of indentations but also smoothing on some grains, possibly from grinding something.
Another method we use to determine the function of an object are historic references and ethnographic sources. If an object was used in a certain manner historically, then it was also possibly used in the same way thousands of years ago. This is known as ethnographic analogy. It can be dangerous and it’s always best to use multiple lines of evidence before determining the function of an object.
In his journals explorer David Thompson mentioned First Nations women used stone hammers to smash up deadwood from the trees. According to early ethnographers, “The hammers were of two sorts: one quite heavy, almost like a sledge-hammer or maul, and with a short handle: the other much lighter, and with a longer, more limber handle. This last was used by men in war as a mace or war club, while the heavier hammer was used by women as an axe to break up fallen trees for firewood; as a hammer to drive tent-pins into the ground, to kill disabled animals, or to break up heavy bones for the marrow they contained.” (Grinnell, G. B. 1892. Blackfoot Lodge Tails; The Story of a Prairie People. Scribner, New York.)
This rare photograph of a Northwest Coast Kwakiutl warrior shows a rather larger, fearsome looking stone hand maul near his right arm. Northwest Coast First Nations peoples made a very sophisticated array of ground stone tools. The shapes and varieties of these mauls are considerably different than those used by people on the Canadian prairies. (From Hilary Stewart, 1973. Artifacts of the Northwest Coast Indians. Hancock House Publishers.)
There are other ways to determine the function of an object, which I discuss in later posts. However, first we have to talk about how these mauls were made. Based on ethnographic sources and examination of the stone hammer, the groove was made by patiently pecking, or grinding away at the stone with another preferably harder stone.
The question I often ask myself is why would anyone go through all the trouble to make a stone grooved maul to pound berries, meat and other things, when you can just pick up a suitable rock and use it to pound something, then discard it when you’re finished? You wouldn’t want to carry this object too far. My colleague, Robert Dawe, Royal Alberta Museum tells me that people used the mauls at campsites and left them there when they move. The mobile Kalahari bushmen did the same thing with their heavy metal axes.
There are a few possible reasons for carrying a maul with a hafted handle permanently: 1) warfare and defense; 2) it had sacred or symbolic meaning and was used in ceremonies; and, 3) it created more leverage and force. The American ethnographer George Bird Grinnell described an old Blackfoot man’s attempts to heal a sick child. He instructed two women to sit near the doorway of the tipi facing each other. “Each one held a puk-sah-tchis, [a maul] with which she was to beat in time to the singing” (Grinnell 1892:163) (In (Fedyniak and Giering, 2016).
A hafted grooved stone maul from rawhide and wood. A handle on this stone maul would create more leverage and force. The author of this post said it took about eight hours of pecking and grinding to form the groove on this fine-grained granite rock. From, ‘Sensible Survival’: https://sensiblesurvival.org/2012/04/28/make-a-hafted-stone-axe/
As I mentioned before, making ground stone tools is very labor-intensive. But, I have read few articles on just how much work it takes to make a stone maul. One researcher conducted an experiment to make a mortar from a basalt cobble. Below are some basic results of that research.
In this particular experiment, it took about two hours to peck a cavity about 8cm in diameter, 3cm deep into a basalt cobble. From, Andrea Squitieri and David Eitam, 2016. “An experimental approach to ground stone tool manufacture. Journal of Lithic Studies Vol. 3:553-564.
Pecking the mortar hole from a basalt cobble. From, Andrea Squitieri and David Eitam, 2016. “An experimental approach to ground stone tool manufacture. Journal of Lithic Studies Vol. 3:553-564.
Finishing the mortar by polishing it with water and basalt powder. Andrea Squitieri and David Eitam, 2016. “An experimental approach to ground stone tool manufacture. Journal of Lithic Studies Vol. 3:553-564.
I guess there’s only one way to find out how long it takes to make a grooved stone maul out of quartzite. And that is to make my own grooved stone maul. I’ve nothing but time on my hands during these Covid days. I mean, how hard can this be?
The Experiment
First I went down to my local river to find some suitable rock candidates to make a stone maul. What was I looking for? Having never made one, I wasn’t sure. I checked some of the mauls at the Royal Alberta Museum collections. They come in all shapes and sizes. And they are made from various types of rocks: granite, basalt, sandstone and quartzite. But, according to research at the Royal Alberta Museum, in Alberta, First Nations people used quartzite (67%) most often to make a stone maul (Fedyniak and Giering, 2016). The reasons? Quartzite was the hardest and most abundant rock available.
A sample of stone grooved mauls in the Royal Alberta Museum collections. This photograph is taken from an article by Kristine Fedyniak and Karen L. Giering, 2016. “More than meat: Residue analysis results of mauls in Alberta.” In: Back on the horse: Recent developments in archaeological and palaeontological research in Alberta. ARCHAEOLOGICAL SURVEY OF ALBERTA, OCCASIONAL PAPER No. 36.
Looking for suitable rocks to make a stone grooved maul along the south bank of the North Saskatchewan River, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. These rocks along the shore have eroded out of a higher layer of Saskatchewan Sands and Gravels. Although these deposits contain a variety of types of rocks of different sizes, by far the most common is quartzite, a hard metamorphic rock. I looked at thousands of rocks before picking one or two particular specimens.
After searching for some time, the cobble I finally decided on felt the right weight to pound things and was almost round and symmetrically shaped. This cobble was about 12cm high and 11cm wide. Before pecking, it weighed 1.38kg (3.0lbs).
The unmodified quartzite cobble I chose to make my grooved stone maul.
I’ve read some literature about stone tool pecking and grinding. According to most sources the hammer used to peck out the groove should be a harder material than the stone maul material. This is somewhat problematic since quartzite is a 7 on the Mohs hardness scale. Even granite is slightly softer being only around 6.5-6.6 on the Mohs hardness scale. And basalt is only a 6. This then posed the first problem. If prehistoric peoples were pecking and fashioning grooved stone mauls out of quartzite, then what were they using to make them? None of the local rocks in the Edmonton area were harder than quartzite.
And were they just pecking, or incising and grinding the grooves? The smooth finish on the stone maul I found didn’t help answer that question. When I used a magnifying glass I could see the granite granules were crushed and smoothed. Examination of the groove under a low-power microscope might tell me even more.
I chose these two rocks to peck and groove the maul. The one on the left is a granite (1.6lbs or 0.73kgs) and the one on the right is probably a quartzite (0.44lbs or 0.2kgs) (hard to tell with the cortex still on the rock). Only experimentation and time will tell whether these two rocks will work. I’m not that optimistic though.
I have no idea how long this will take. It may take weeks, or perhaps months. I’ll record the amount of time I spend pecking away, whether I peck or grind and how my pecking stones hold up. I’ll keep you posted on my progress, problems, success. We’ll turn this post into experimental archaeology, since there are still relatively few studies on how to make ground stone tools. Especially grooved mauls found on the Canadian prairies.
That’s it for now. Time to get to work….
The Viking Ribstones, near Viking, Alberta, Canada. In a former post (https://canehdianstories.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=1776&action=edit) I mentioned these sacred rocks have lines and holes pecked or incised into the stone. The lines depict the ribs of the buffalo. The holes possibly to kill the buffalo. An example of ground stone technology on a massive scale. I marvel at the amount of work that went into making these objects.
Hockey captures the essence of Canadian experience in the New World. In a land so inescapably and inhospitably cold, hockey is the chance of life, and an affirmation that despite the deathly chill of winter we are alive. Stephen Leacock
Pregame: The Dressing Room
Harry Reed finally arrived at the rink. A little late. It was a dark, chilly, -25C Alberta night. As he stepped into the dressing room, he was greeted with loud cheers, jeers, and hellos. And the strong smell of sweaty equipment seldomly laundered.
The boys cheered loudest when they had a full dressing room. Didn’t have to work so hard in the game. ‘Things sure change,’ thought Harry. ‘Years ago we hoped three or four guys wouldn’t show up. So we could get more ice-time.’
Harry looked for a spot to park his gear in the aged rink’s crowded dressing room. Judging by its size it was built for a team of twelve-year olds, not fully grown men. Finally squeezing himself in between two players, he looked around as his white-haired teammates (at least those with hair) dressed for the game. He saw knee braces, thick black plastic Hanson-like glasses, and other protective gear in sight. A set of crutches stood in one corner. Harry wondered about that. A necessary precaution?
Unlike younger teams preparing for the game, talk focused on who did the stupidest thing the last time out. There were always plenty of fodder for that topic. Tonight discussion focused around Frank’s defense of the team’s name, arguing that he tried to stay sweat-free when playing. This got a round of applause and some cheers from his teammates, the NeverSweats.
Finally, donning their jerseys with the team logo, NEVERSWEATS etched on them in big blue letters, their goalie, Howie, led the team onto the ice. Ready to do battle. Some, more with their own physical shortcomings than with the opposition.
First Period: A Slow Start
Harry and his line mates sat on the bench looking despondently on as the other team rushed down the ice, into their end, and put another puck past their goalie. Four goals in five shots. Looked like Howie was ‘fighting it’ again tonight. Whatever ‘it’ was. Right now Howie couldn’t stop a beach ball.
Someone on the bench mumbled the S***e-word, a good hundred feet from where Howie stood in net. A word you never said in the presence of a goalie. Howie suddenly looked at his bench, yelling. “I heard that, dammit. One of you jokers want to play in net?”
Of course none of the jokers on the bench responded. Why would anyone want to throw themselves in front of a hard, fast-moving missile that could hurt you? That just seemed counterintuitive to survival.
Everyone wondered though how a goalie, supposedly hard of hearing, picked up certain words about his goal-tending prowess, at that distance. Theories abounded. The man could read lips. He had the bench wired and was listening in. He wasn’t really deaf at all.
“Come on, boys, pick it up,” shouted Coach Larry. “They’re beating us to the puck.”
‘Pick it up, boys. Pick it up,’ thought Harry. He looked over at his center man, Big Dale. They both shared that knowing look. ‘Pick it up boys, pick it up.’ Their coach, whom they lovingly had dubbed, ‘Captain Obvious’ was living up to his name. If there was anything left to pick up they would have done so. Even at this age, losing wasn’t fun.
The half-dozen fans in the rink were also shouting, ‘Pick it up, boys.’ Obviously Larry’s relatives were in attendance.
As the first period ended, the score was four-nothing for the visitors. Harry wished Roger Neilson was coaching. By now he would have put a white towel on the end of a hockey stick, raised it, and waved in surrender. Harry looked around and noticed those towels neatly stacked behind Coach Larry, who it seemed, recalled a similar incident a half-dozen games ago. Well, that’s what coaches were for – to keep the troops in line and fighting.
The players sat in the dressing room, backs slouched up against the wall, half listening to Coach Larry. Some of the players were already eyeing the beer cooler. But Coach would have none of it, deliberately sitting on it.
“Now, boys, I saw a bit of sloppy play out there. Clean it up and a little more back-checking and we’re right back in it.” Coach suddenly stopped talking and looked around. A squabble in the corner had broken out where a beach ball mysteriously appeared and was being thrown at Howie.
The rest of the team were politely nodding at Coach Larry’s sage advice, trying to avoid Howie’s glares, knowing full well that wasn’t going to happen. But Coach meant well. He became coach not because of his great insights into the game of hockey. As his last comment had just demonstrated. He often bought the team a round of beer after the game. Coaches like that were hard to find.
Plus, the boys felt bad for Coach Larry, perhaps also thinking about their own rather fragile invincibility. After blowing his knee out Coach couldn’t play anymore. He missed the boys, the camaraderie, and needed to be around the rink to stay happy.
Coach Larry, now standing but still keeping one foot firmly planted on the beer cooler, exclaimed. “And another thing boys. Stop Malone. He’s killing us. Slow him down, get in his way. Dan, whisper in his ear how you’re going to get him. You’re good at that sort of thing.
Harry looked at Dan and rolled his eyes. Dan was good at that sort of thing. Like a loose cannon out there running into everything that moved. Including his teammates. It didn’t matter.
“But coach, I can’t whisper in his ear. I can’t get near him. He’s too bloody fast. I could maybe yell at him to slow down. Or bribe him with a beer. I mean the guy had a tryout with the Oilers.”
The rest of the team nodded. Malone was hopeless. And with Howie in net. Well, the score could get really ugly.
The whistle finally blew to start of the second period. Everyone put away their smelling salts, re-taped their wobbly knees, and rubbed ointment on their already aching bodies. Thankfully now the smell of ointment, instead of smelly equipment, pervaded the room. Time to stop Malone. At least yell at him to slow down.
Coach left the room last to make sure nobody got into the beer on the way out.
Second Period: Overcoming Adversity
As Harry stepped onto the ice for his warm-up skate, there was a roar of laughter behind him. He looked back to see his defenceman, Tim, lying on the ice. Most of his teammates were bent over the boards howling with laughter. The four remaining fans were also having a good laugh.
Coach Larry looked on with feigned concern. The boys weren’t taking the game too seriously. Always a bad sign. Meanwhile, Tim was still on the ice, struggling to get up until someone suggested he take his skate guards off first.
The other team now watching, all slapped their sticks on the ice in appreciation as Tim finally stood. The sportsmanship displayed at these games was often inspiring. Especially when the other team’s foolishness threatened the integrity of the game.
The second period started much like the first. Malone was tearing the ice up. And Howie was still having trouble seeing the puck. Mumbling and complaining bitterly about the lights and shadows. No one said anything. If Howie saw shadows, so be it.
“Jeez, it’s f*****g cold in this rink. What’s the temperature do you think, Harry?”
“Well, Gerry, if it’s -25C outside, then I figure it’s about -27C inside. I don’t know their secret but they seem to be able to keep it colder inside than outside.” Right above the team bench hung a line of gas heaters. But these were never turned on for Beer League hockey.
The boys laughed at that one. This started stories about playing in cold weather. Harry remembered one time in Swift Current. “We were about ten years old and playing on an outdoor rink in January. It was hellish cold. There was a stiff breeze making little snowdrifts on the ice. Occasionally we had to stop play to remove them. Our feet were froze solid by the end of the first period. After the game the moms and dads of eleven screaming kids were carefully trying to pry their skates off.”
“Are you guys going to play hockey or jabber?,” barked Larry. “Keep it up and you’ll miss your shift.”
“Personally, I’d like to just sit and jabber the way this game’s going,” whispered Harry to Big Dale.
“I heard that,” yelled Larry. Pick it up, boys, pick it up.” Larry’s hearing seemed as acute as Howie’s.
Then the NeverSweats got their first break of the game. Dan managed to somehow bump into Malone as he was careening down the ice. It really was an accident of sorts. Trying desperately to stick-check the speedster, Dan did a toe pick, followed by a rather awkward pirouette, crashing into Malone, sending him flying into the boards. Dan was ejected from the game. Malone never returned.
With Malone gone the momentum of the game changed. The NeverSweatspicked it up. And Howie suddenly regained his vision. The puck now looked as big as a beach ball. He stopped everything. That little training session during the last intermission had kicked in.
Near the end of the period, Don had a breakaway. He rushed toward the opposition goalie, head down all the way, and let fly. Never once looking at the net, or where he was shooting. He focused only on not losing the puck off his stick. That would have brought a hail of laughter from the bench.
The puck hit the motionless goalie square in the logo. Don cursed, but ever the sportsman, slapped the goalie on the pads after, what seemed to him, a great save. Laughter burst out from both benches.
The referee blew his whistle to end the second period. The NeverSweats had closed the gap to within one goal.
No Second Intermission: The Beer is Safe
There was no regular second intermission. Just a short break. The remaining fans had seen enough and had gone home. The ice was still pretty clean and didn’t require a flood. As fatigue set in sudden stops and starts diminished. Instead, the players used long gliding turns to change direction. Creating little snow on the ice.
During the break the referee disappeared into his small dressing room.
“What the hell does he do in there every break? Weak bladder, or what?” The team had their suspicions, but no one said anything. It seemed though, as the game progressed, the referee’s vision was becoming a lot like Howie’s. But, getting a regular referee was almost harder than finding a goalie. Even one who couldn’t always see well.
Big Dale, Harry’s center, was leaning over the boards urging the boys on. Now mouthing Coach’s words,”Come on guys, if we pick it up a bit, we can beat these guys.”
Everyone went through the motions of buying in. Even though most minds were already on the ice-cold beer in the dressing room.
Then John, standing beside Big Dale, bent over and closely examined his gloves. “Heh, big guy, where did you get those gems? Museum? Are they hockey gloves or jousting gauntlets? They nearly cover your elbows. I mean, who even sells those things anymore? They look like they’re right out of the fifties or sixties.” The others now looked on, chuckling.
“I get them where I buy all my equipment. At the local Sally Ann thrift store. Fifteen bucks. You can’t beat that.”
“Well, Dale, they certainly blend in nicely with that trendy Jofa helmet and that straight-lasted wood stick. Do you get your sticks custom-made? Who still sells wood straight-lasted sticks?”
More chuckling. Dale was forever stuck in the 60’s. He would remain there until the day he died. Once they quit making straight-lasted sticks, Dale would retire from hockey.
Finally the referee appeared, a big smile on his face, and blew his whistle to start the third period.
Before starting, Coach Larry had a few parting words for his troops. “Let’s see if we can break out of our own end a little cleaner, boys. One time we couldn’t get out for two shifts.
Martin, the team wise-ass (at least for this game), put Coach’s mind at ease. “That’s a set play, Coach. It’s a trap of sorts. Lots of teams we play fall into it. We trap them in our end, and don’t let them out, until their arms and legs get weary. Then we break out. Or when they score. Whichever comes first.” The others thought this an exceedingly clever cover-up for having no plan whatsoever on how to get out of their end.
Third Period: The Comeback?
The referee dropped the puck and surprisingly play picked up. A sort of Old-timer urgency had set into the game. There were actually some stops and starts again. Plumes of frozen breath shot into the air as players battled for the puck. And low and behold! Sweat broke out among the ranks of the NeverSweats. This rarely happened, especially on a cold winter night in the Ice Palace.
The other team was feeling it too. During the brief intermission some players went to their dressing room to don more clothing. Or so it appeared.
Harry and his line mates looked on as the Rusty Nuts looked rustier by the minute. “Remember that time, boys, when we played at the Mall rink. It was -35C outside so we put on extra layers of underwear for the game.”
“Ya, I remember that one,” said Big Dale. “Nearly died of heat exhaustion by the second period. That was a real weapon that team had. Nothing like this Ice Palace.”
“More like a Sweat Palace. And the worst ice in the City. And the costliest from what I heard. It was like skating in putty. And the space behind the net was narrower than in other rinks. I remember when I first played there, watching the beauty of my pass one time, and running into the back boards cracking three ribs.”
Coach Larry shouted, “Next line. Come on boys, get out there and score.” As if anyone on this team could score at will.
“His memory is sure short,” whispered Dale. “Is that what happens when you quit playing and start coaching? You get a memory transplant. They replace the ‘player’ chip with a ‘coaching’ chip?” Dale stopped talking when he saw Coach giving him a steely stare.
Big Dale won the face-off in their end. Back to his defenceman and then over to Harry. Harry deftly chipped it up the boards to an already breaking Dale. Dale, now one-on-one with the D-man, made his custom power swoop beating him cleanly. As he moved towards the goalie he did some little thing with his stick and wrists, putting the puck over the goalie’s shoulder into the net. Harry vaguely remembered having to do something similar with his straight-lasted stick years ago to raise the puck. He didn’t remember exactly what it was anymore. Dale could score with that stick.
4-4. The only cheering Dale heard was from the players on his bench. The rest of the rink was silent except for the Zamboni getting ready to flood the ice. Two minutes left. Could the NeverSweats hang on? Maybe even win?
Sitting on the bench, Harry overheard his second line talking strategy. There seemed to be some disagreement on how to generate more offense in the other team’s end. Eric, their center man was explaining attacking tactics to his teammates, “I said dump-and-chase, guys. Not dump-and-watch. We need to pressure them in their end more.”
His winger, Trevor, responded, “Well, we’re kinda playing the neutral zone trap by staying high. Don’t want to get caught too deep in their end.” A now exasperated Eric said nothing. There was no use.
The boys were tiring. “Hurry, get up, Al. Get in the box. We’ve got too many men on the ice.” A tired Al had fallen near the team bench and was desperately trying to get off the ice. Just as he got up, a line mate bumped him and down he went again. As he tried the second time, he stepped on his stick and went down once more. Finally, a now exhausted, desperate Al gave up and just crawled the rest of the way into the team bench. There were howls of laughter from both sides. The referee looked the other way, letting the play go on.
Now with only thirty seconds left in the game, Len, their best D-man decided take matters into his own hands to get out of his end. His forwards had the offensive trap play firmly working in their end. He was making another move around an opponent, between his blue line and the center line, when a Rusty Nut stripped him off the puck and went in on Howie for a breakaway.
Players on both benches stood up and watched, holding their breaths. After a few deft moves, cleanly beating Howie, the player shot the puck at an open-looking net. Howie, however, had lost his balance and now went into to his last-effort Dominique Hashik move. Falling backwards into the net, his glove hand shot out, somehow catching the puck.
Howie was mobbed by his teammates, congratulating him on the incredible save. With time it would become the best save ever made in the minds of the guys watching. Soon to join Old Timers hockey lore.
As the teams were shaking hands, a few of the Rusty Nuts mumbled something about ‘fluky goalie’ just as Howie was about to step off the ice. “I heard that. Nothing fluky about it.”
Harry bent towards one of the Rusty Nut players. “How’s your goalie’s hearing….”
The ‘After-Flow’
There was lots of shouting and backslapping in the dressing room. You’d thought the boys actually won the game. Or the Stanley Cup. The beer was flowing freely and and stories began, breaking down the game. Trying to recreate and suck out every enjoyable minute from it. The bad parts were already forgotten.
It usually took longer to get out of the dressing room than to play the game. This became somewhat problematic if you played at seven AM on a Sunday morning. And started drinking beer at eight-thirty. Fortunately the NeverSweats had an evening ice-time. But it still needed to be carefully explained to wives and girlfriends that the post-game decompression ritual was an absolute necessity in hockey. It took hours to re-hydrate and return to normal after a strenuous workout like that.
Harry was sitting in the corner, Big Dale beside him, listening to the stories. And watching the new player, Norm, sitting off in the other corner, by himself. “Has he ‘thawed out’ yet?,” asked Harry, nodding towards Norm.
“Don’t know, Harry. Was he frozen?”
“Don’t be so thick, Dale. You know what I mean.”
“There’s hope. He’s still in a bit of shock. Leaving his former younger team, and walking into a dressing room looking more like an old folks home. I was. He’s not fighting it like some guys who think they can still make the NHL. It takes time.”
Suddenly one of the players got up, raising his beer towards Norm in the corner. “Here’s to Norm, guys. Saved at least one goal tonight on that two-on-one.” Norm, now jolted out of wherever his mind was, beamed with delight.
‘Ya, he’ll be alright,’ thought Harry. ‘All the guy really wants is to be part of the team, no matter what age or level he’s playing.’
Then Harry remembered a very blurry image of the Cabri Bulldogs crest and joining the local senior men’s team in Cabri, Saskatchewan at the age of sixteen. He was young and scared. And just wanted to fit in too with the older guys.
Harry rummaged around in his hockey bag and pulled out the now nearly 50-year old Bulldog jersey. He just didn’t have the heart to toss it. Too many memories in that sweater reminding him not only of the game but his teammates. Maybe that’s why Dale kept that ancient equipment.
He looked at his sweater, then at Dale’s gloves, helmet, and stick. “Dale, I think my old team sweater goes nicely with your equipment. Same vintage.” They both had a chuckle and talked more about their early days playing hockey.
Finally Harry stood and raised his can of beer to the his teammates . “Here’s to the best game in the world, boys. I guess the puck stops here.
…………………………..
EndNote
An increasing number of older men are playing hockey in Canada. And I’m that with time, more senior women will continue to play. Accurate statistics for Old Timer Hockey for the entire Country are hard to come by. But judging from the local Edmonton scene, Old Timer’s hockey is on the rise. To the point where it is getting increasingly harder to accommodate everyone. Fort example, the Vintage Hockey League which I had played in had three levels, based on a combination of both age and skill. The third tier contains some players in their eighties.
I used two team names, the Rusty Nuts and the NeverSweats, in this story. They nicely reflect both the age and the nature of Old Timer hockey teams. These were/are still actual team names. The Rusty Nuts were an Edmonton-based team in the 1990s (and they may still be around). The NeverSweats are an Old Timers Lloydminster team. They never seemed to sweat when they played us.
Many of us have gathered numerous great hockey stories over the years. While this story is mostly a work of fiction, some of the incidents happened during my time in Old Timer’s hockey. There are many more stories out there, as you can imagine; some are best not to repeat. I’m sure that if I interviewed those of you who played the game over the decades, I could fill a book of some pretty good Canadian hockey memories. It’s been a project on my mind for a while now. Perhaps some day it will come to fruition.
This story is dedicated to the late John H. Brumley (1946 – 2020), an archaeologist, who categorized and researched the many stone medicine wheels on the Northern Great Plains. His efforts have enriched Canadian history.
The northern Great Plains of Canada contain many places where rocks seem to grow out of the ground. At least according to the local farmers who year after year painstakingly picked them off their fields only to find new ones in the spring. Rock piles along roadsides and fields are a common sight in Alberta, Canada. This view is from near the Rumsey medicine wheel with the Hand Hills on the far distant horizon.
When I was a little kid, I would walk with my dad and pick rocks off the fields in southwestern Saskatchewan. We would toss them onto the stone boat and then dump them on a large pile along the edge of the field. These rock piles are still a common sight when driving along the country roads on the western Canadian prairies.
But, other piles of rocks on the northern Great Plains of Canada, particularly in Alberta, are not the product of seemingly endless rock picking. These are referred to as ‘medicine wheels‘. Or, “atsot-akeeh” (from all sides) by the Blackfoot.
The term ‘medicine wheel’ originated from the Bighorn medicine wheel, located on top of Medicine Mountain, near Lovell, Wyoming. Today it refers to numerous stone alignments with a central hub, spokes and circles found on the Northern Great Plains of North America. Image from: https://www.atlasobscura.com/places/bighorn-medicine-wheel.
Various types and configurations of medicine wheels. A medicine wheel is made mostly from unmodified natural stone and must have a combination of at least two of the following primary components: 1) a prominent, central stone cairn of varying size; 2) one or more concentric stone rings, generally circular; and, 3) two or more stone lines radiating out from a central point of origin, central cairn or the margin of a stone ring. (This image and definition taken from “Medicine Wheels on the Northern Plains: A Summary and Appraisal.” by John H. Brumley, 1988. Archaeological Survey of Alberta, Manuscript Series No. 12)
According to First Nations informants, these ancient stone features had religious and spiritual significance. They were often markers where prominent individuals died and occasionally were interred. Some informants claimed the spokes pointed to hunting or warpaths. Scholars think the spokes and ancillary cairns pointed to important times of the year, much like Stonehenge. Still others believe the functions of these alignments changed over the centuries.
By 1988 John Brumley had compiled a list of 67 medicine wheels in western Canada and the United States which he then categorized and described in the monograph cited below. Many more likely existed but were cleared off land intended for agriculture. Additional wheels may have been added to this list since 1988. Most medicine wheels occur in Canada, and primarily in Alberta. (Map from “Medicine Wheels on the Northern Plains: A Summary and Appraisal.” by John H. Brumley, 1988. Archaeological Survey of Alberta, Manuscript Series No. 12)
Some medicine wheels may not have been single-event constructions. Instead, rocks were gradually added to the cairn and spokes for many years. The Suitor No. 2 medicine wheel in Alberta had eighteen spokes, some over thirty metres long, radiating out from a central ring.
EgOx-1, Suitor No. 2 medicine wheel, east-central Alberta, is of considerable proportions, containing additional stone circles and a possible effigy. (Image from “Medicine Wheels on the Northern Plains: A Summary and Appraisal,” by John H. Brumley, 1988. Archaeological Survey of Alberta, Manuscript Series No. 12)
Others, such as the rather sizeable Bighorn medicine wheel in Wyoming and Majorville medicine wheel in southern Alberta, would have taken a long time to build and/or a considerable number of people to assemble them.
Perhaps one of the most complex and elaborate medicine wheels in North America, the Bighorn medicine wheel is still mainly intact. However, the middle cairn was vandalized and the area around the wheel is highly disturbed. Researchers believe the outside ancillary cairns had an astronomical function. (Image from “Medicine Wheels on the Northern Plains: A Summary and Appraisal,” by John H. Brumley, 1988. Archaeological Survey of Alberta, Manuscript Series No. 12)
Lacking any ethnographic accounts, the Majorville medicine wheel (and others) was partially excavated to better understand its age and function. When excavating this wheel, archaeologist Jim Calder found that it was built over a period of 5,000 years. A few of the many artifacts recovered were for ceremonial and spiritual purposes including the presence of red ochre in the central cairn. (Image from “Medicine Wheels on the Northern Plains: A Summary and Appraisal,” by John H. Brumley, 1988. Archaeological Survey of Alberta, Manuscript Series No. 12)
Keeping an Eye on My Children: Respect the Stone Piles
On my way to Empress, Alberta last week I stopped at the Rumsey medicine wheel. As a previous Parkland Archaeologist for the Government of Alberta, once responsible for archaeological sites in this area, I have visited Rumsey many times, occasionally alone or with Blackfoot elders and interested parties. This medicine wheel, like many others, sits at the highest point in the region. It is located close to the Red Deer River Valley.
The Rumsey medicine wheel, near Rumsey, Alberta, Canada. The cairn, like many others, has been vandalized. It did contain human remains.
A drawing of the Rumsey medicine wheel. Part of the outer ring of the cairn is missing, probably from vandalism, or was still being constructed. The two excavation pits are from looting and vandalism. (Image from “Medicine Wheels on the Northern Plains: A Summary and Appraisal,” by John H. Brumley, 1988. Archaeological Survey of Alberta, Manuscript Series No. 12)
Prairie crocuses in full bloom near the Rumsey medicine wheel.
Nothing but blue sky and a great view. Like others, the Rumsey medicine wheel sits on the most prominent hill in the region, just east of the Red Deer River. From this point, you can see the surrounding countryside for many miles. These high places may have been chosen as vantage points and for spiritual reasons, but also practical ones. Imagine walking across the open prairies trying to find this particular spot. The Red Deer River acted as a linear reference point. Once you found it, you could then more easily find these high points along it.
The British Block medicine wheel on the Suffield Military Range near Medicine Hat, Alberta, has been badly messed with. People made their initials from the rocks, destroying parts of the original stone outer ring. If you look at about two o’clock just inside the outer circle, you will see a stone effigy or human figure. Artifacts found in the cairn suggest the medicine wheel dates back thousands of years. (Image from “Medicine Wheels on the Northern Plains: A Summary and Appraisal,” by John H. Brumley, 1988. Archaeological Survey of Alberta, Manuscript Series No. 12)
Markers for Important Places, People, and Events
There are still several undisturbed stone tipi rings near the Rumsey medicine wheel. And perhaps many more were there before rocks were cleared off the land for agriculture. Many medicine wheels were important places where people came back repeatedly over the centuries for a variety of reasons.
At other places in Alberta, such as the forks of the Red Deer and South Saskatchewan Rivers, medicine wheels were part of a much larger First Nations land use history. This was an important place for people for centuries, leaving behind not only medicine wheels but stone effigies, countless stone tipi rings and extensive stone drive lanes for antelope and buffalo.
The bull’s forehead on the hills in the foreground, on the south bank of the South Saskatchewan River. A prominent hill at the confluence of the Red Deer and South Saskatchewan Rivers, near the Saskatchewan-Alberta border. This area of the northern Great Plains contains considerable evidence of an Indigenous presence going back thousands of years. These two prominent hills (on the north side) occur near the confluence of the Red Deer and South Saskatchewan Rivers. The Roy Rivers medicine wheel sits on the highest hill on the left. From the highway, these hills are well over a mile away but the stone mounds are visible on the top. Most medicine wheels were recently named after places and people. They likely had First Nations names, now lost to us. Close-up view of the Roy Rivers medicine wheel looking south. The larger main central cairn of rocks is on the highest point and a lesser stone cairn sits west of it. One of the chief factors, limiting where these stone features could be built, was the presence of rocks. There were plenty of those in this area just north of the ‘forks’ in Saskatchewan.
A view from the edge of the Red Deer Valley with the Roy Rivers medicine wheel in the distance on the horizon. There are ample rocks and boulders strewn on the prairie surface in this part of Saskatchewan.
The Roy Rivers medicine wheel is unusual with an aisle or doorway oriented towards the south. The wheel contains a stone effigy at approximately ten o’clock near the inside of the outer ring. Within the wheel are fifteen small stone cairns, possibly for astronomical purposes. (Image from “Medicine Wheels on the Northern Plains: A Summary and Appraisal,” by John H. Brumley, 1988. Archaeological Survey of Alberta, Manuscript Series No. 12)
A Unique Piece of Canadian History
These rock alignments and features are important and unique pieces of Canadian history. Once disturbed or removed, they are forever lost to us. However, they are not always appreciated or respected by people who visit them. This is all too evident from the amount of disturbance to them.
I leave the last words, about the significance and meaning of these stone features, to a few Blackfoot informants, whose people were likely responsible for the construction of most of the medicine wheels in Alberta:
“I heard that when they buried a real chief, one that the people loved, they would pile rocks around the edge of his lodge and then place rows of rocks out from his burial tipi. The rock lines show that everybody went there to get something to eat. He is inviting someone every day. People went there to live off him.” (Adam White Man, South Peigan. From “Medicine Wheels on the Northern Plains: A Summary and Appraisal,” by John H. Brumley, 1988. Archaeological Survey of Alberta, Manuscript Series No. 12)
“…the lines of rock show the different direction in which they go on the warpath – they were the dead chief’s war deeds. If they kill someone, they pile rocks at the end of the rock line. If there is no rock pile present, then they just go to the enemy. Short lines are short trips.” (Kim Weasel Tail. From “Medicine Wheels on the Northern Plains: A Summary and Appraisal,” by John H. Brumley, 1988. Archaeological Survey of Alberta, Manuscript Series No. 12)
Canada’s Pied Piper, Bobby Gimby, somewhere in Canada, 1967, leading a group of children in one of the many parades he marched in that year. http://www.bobbygimby.com/#gallery_1-8
I grew up in Cabri, Saskatchewan. A community in southwestern Saskatchewan, so small some said the trains didn’t stop there, only slowed down.
Like most prairie kids, I lived hockey, curling and the Saskatchewan Roughriders. Fishing and hunting were on the top of the list too. But unlike many Canadian kids I was fortunate enough to play in a real brass band. The Cabri Brass Band. Formed in 1917 and disbanded in 2007.
You won’t find much information on this rather iconic band if you google it. In 1967, it was one of the few true brass bands in Canada. None of those reedy-sounding clarinets or squawky saxophones. Flutes? Are you kidding. Only brass instruments and drums. Majorettes, marching and lots of parades.
I was about ten years old when I started in the band. I played the trombone. Or should I say, blew into it and occasionally the right notes came out.
The year 1967 was an important year for Canada and for the Cabri Brass Band. The band turned fifty years old and Canada one-hundred. It was time to celebrate. In style. Like never before. We needed something special for this occasion.
And that somethingspecial turned out to be none other than Canada’s Pied Piper, Bobby Gimby. Author and arranger of the famous Canada Song. He was invited to come to Cabri, Saskatchewan to play his song with the Cabri Brass Band that started his career many years earlier. And rumor had it we might get to play with him.
Bobby Gimby
A teenage Bobby Gimby (left) smoking cigars with his buddies in Cabri, Saskatchewan. On the far right is Cliff Peterson. Next to Cliff might be Tom Lyster. The fellow next to Gimby has not been identified. http://www.bobbygimby.com/#gallery_1-1
Born on October 25, 1918 in Cabri, Saskatchewan, Bobby Gimby went on to become a successful professional musician and songwriter in Eastern Canada. But deep down Bobby was a prairie boy. Honest, humble and pretty down to earth.
A story in the Cabri Herald described the Gimby family as very talented musicians. Bobby in particular. Bobby joined the Cabri Brass Band at age ten and played until 1935 when the family moved to Chilliwack, British Columbia. As his neighbor Harvey Peacock recalls, Bobby honed his skills with his trumpet often practicing in his back yard. Why the back yard? Harvey thought because his mom threw him out of the house whenever he practiced.
Photo courtesy of the Cabri Herald. The Cabri Brass Band, c.1933. Bobby and his brother are seated in the first row.
“His big break came in 1941 when he joined Mart Kenney and His Western Gentlemen as lead trumpeter and toured the country. That was followed in 1945 by a starring role in CBC radio’s “Happy Gang,” a gig that lasted through the 1950s. He capped the decade as musical director for the popular “Juliette” show on CBC television.” (from the Saskatoon StarPhoenix, July 4, 2017 )
Bobby was asked to write a song for Canada’s centennial. And boy did he deliver. “I was terribly worried, because I knew the government was taking a gamble by going into show business,” Gimby recalls. “But after we’d marched in the rain to the train and given our performance, I saw a little old lady wiping tears from her eyes and she was saying, ‘I’m so proud to be a Canadian.’ I thought to myself, ‘Holy cow! We’ve scored a bull’s-eye.”http://expo67.ncf.ca/expo_gimby.html
“I’ve never seen anything like it during my 20 years in the Canadian music publishing business,” says Thompson president John Bird. “Three-year-old kids are dancing to it. High school swimming classes want to swim to it. Bike riders want to cycle to it, and drum corps want arrangements so they can beat a tattoo to it. By the end of 1967, I predict every school choir, every school band, every family with a piano in the parlor, will be playing it.”http://expo67.ncf.ca/expo_gimby.html
Bobby Gimby went on to record the largest selling recording in Canadian history. Secretary of State, Judy LaMarsh presenting Bobby with the award for his efforts. http://www.bobbygimby.com/#gallery_1-23
Bobby Gimby Comes Home
The Cabri Brass Band, around 1967. I’m in that trombone section somewhere. Probably in the back, because I played too loud.
The question was, if invited, would he come? Fortunately he still had many friends and acquaintances in Cabri, including our then band leader, Albert (Bert) Culham.
Albert (Bert) Culham my band leader throughout my time with the Cabri Brass Band. (Courtesy Michelle Culham)
Bobby Gimby playing his Canada song with the Cabri Brass Band, c.1967. (Courtesy Cabri Herald)
But Bobby didn’t forget his Saskatchewan roots. In March, 1967 he returned to Cabri to play with the Cabri Brass Band. He also marched with us at the Moose Jaw Kinsman Band Festival. Band majorette, Nancy Scott, recalls that Bobby, when offered a car to ride in for the parade, refused, marched and played with us instead.
Bobby wasn’t just an excellent musician, he was a superb entertainer. That infectious smile never left his face. He was a natural with those kids.
Bobby Gimby gave each member of the Cabri Brass Band a signed brochure of his Canada song. (Courtesy Michelle Culham)
The one thing I remember about him, when he played he was having a good time. He marched proudly with us, his old brass band, as we wound our way around the streets of Cabri and in the Moose Jaw Band Festival parade. I played that Canada song so many times that day, my lips turned purple and numb.
Bobby Gimby’s comments about the Canada Song: “The idea first came to me when I was playing an orchestra date at Manoir Richelieu in La Malbaie, Que., back in the summer of 1964,” he replies. “On St. Jean Baptiste Day I saw about 50 kids parading through the streets. The boys were dressed in quaint sacking material, and the girls had flowers in their hair, and they were all singing some delightful folk song in French.” http://expo67.ncf.ca/expo_gimby.html
Bobby said he was thrilled at how he was received in Cabri. The people of Cabri, “…spread the red carpet for me down on the gumbo mud and – oh, boy! – actually presented me with the key to the city.”http://expo67.ncf.ca/expo_gimby.html
The ever-humble Bobby Gimby thanking Bert Culham for the opportunity to visit Cabri and play with the band. (Courtesy Michelle Culham.)
Perhaps my favorite photograph of Bobby Gimby surrounded by young Canadians. A truly an iconic moment in Canadian history. (Courtesy Getty Images).
In 1967, in recognition for his work for Canada’s centennial, Bobby Gimby was made an Officer of the Order of Canada, and was named Broadcaster of the Year. In 1968, he was awarded two Lloyd E. Moffat Memorial Awards, for Best Middle-of-the-Road Record and Best Example of Canadian Originality and Creativity.
Bobby left us on June 20th, 1998, at age 79.
Here’s to you Bobby, and your great legacy. And personally, I’ve had some wonderful Canadian moments. Few surpass those few days playing with the Cabri Brass Band, and Canada’s Pied Piper, Bobby Gimby.
EndNote
It’s been over fifty years ago since we marched and played with Bobby Gimby. As someone interested in how our collective histories are passed on, this story was a bit of an eyeopener. I asked over half-dozen people, who experienced those few days with Bobby, to give me a few of their personal thoughts on the event. Only one person recalled some personal stuff not written in the newspapers. The rest of us, myself included, had trouble recalling some of our own experiences with this man. Without a strong oral history, if not written down during the moment, it’s hard to reconstruct the smaller aspects of that time.
“Now of course, the great thing about the solar system as a frontier is that there are no Indians, so you can have all the glory of the myth of the American [Canadian] westward expansion without any of the guilt. (Sarah Zettel, brackets mine)
A small group of very powerful men sat in the room, on chairs pulled closely together, bent over talking quietly. Almost in whispers as if not wanting to be overheard. On seeing this meeting one would wonder. Why? Why are they whispering? There’s no one else in the room.
One of the more prominent members of the group was speaking. “We must act soon if we are to join the Territories to the rest of Canada. The Americans just bought Alaska and are beginning to look north at our North-WestTerritories, now mostly run by the Company. Soon their greed will overcome them and they will find an excuse to move north. First, we have to buy Rupert’s Land from the Hudson’s Bay Company. We must acquire those territories at all costs.” Everyone nodded in agreement.
“And, I think if we promise British Columbia a railway, linking them to the east, they may join the Confederation.
The speaker sighed as he mentally went through the long list of things that needed doing. “We can’t build it until the Indians are removed from those territories. We need to deal with that issue as well.” He looked over at the others. Again, they nodded their heads in agreement.
“Then our course of action is clear, gentlemen. If we are to unite this Country we must face these, shall we say, somewhat distasteful realities.” At those words, the speaker’s mouth twisted into a shape suggesting he had just sucked on a lemon.
He wasn’t finished. “First we buy Rupert’s Land from the Company. Then we remove the Indians and Metis from the territories and settle for treaties and reserves. Next, we search for capital to build this blasted thing. It won’t be cheap.” He hesitated, scratching his head, as if there was something he had missed. The others looked on expectantly waiting for him to continue.
Finally, after some pause, he spoke. “Oh yes, there is one more small problem. We need cheap labour to build the railroad. Many hands will be needed which will increase costs. The work will be dangerous and there may be fatalities.”
Those present waited for him to continue. As if expecting a solution. “At this moment I don’t have a solution, but will start looking into the matter.” Again, heads bobbed in unison all around. As if this last statement was merely another one of many obstacles to overcome in their eventual quest. Nothing, it seemed, could get in the way of the national dream.
The Cree leader and his band, the Young Dogs, were tired from their long ride. His one name was Piapot or Payipwat(One Who Knows the Secrets of the Sioux). The other Kisikawasan. In his hands he held his Winchester repeating rifle. He sat on his horse, looking out onto the rippling prairie grasses at the territory he had chosen for his people, just north of the Cypress Hills. And smack in the way of the proposed new CPR mainline.
He turned to one of his men. “First the Blue Coats humiliate us, escorting us back like children to our lands. Now this man closes the fort of the Red Coats and stops feeding us unless we move to another territory. The buffalo are gone. Our people are starving. Gather them. We must move. Or many will die.”
Edgar Dewdney, recently appointed Lieutenant Governor of the North-West Territories as well as Indian Commissioner, which brought him an additional stipend of $2,000, looked on as the bands began to move north and east to other territories.
One of his subordinates, also looking on, turned his way. “Well, I guess your plan worked, Sir. You sure showed them. They go willingly enough when starving. And, finally we have removed them from the railway right-of-way. That defiant one, they call Piapot, would have put his tipi in the way of the proposed railway line if we hadn’t interfered.”
Dewdney only grunted and shook his head, in a noncommittal manner. He had just closed Fort Walsh to the Natives and stopped giving the Cree rations, unless they cooperated and moved off these lands. It was a grim business this railroad building but that was what Macdonald wanted. Even if it meant breaking the treaties, which they were already doing.
Some of the other men in Dewdney’s party overheard his assistant’s comments. And soon the rumors and stories spread. ‘The great lieutenant governor stood up to Piapot and his Young Dogs, and along with the NWMP, kicked them off their lands.’
Truth was soon twisted. And the new truth became myth.
………………….
Piapot, Saskatchewan today.
The Saskatchewan family were driving down the newly built Trans Canada Highway on the Canadian Prairies alongside the Canadian Pacific mainline. A young Harry Reed peered out the window in the back seat of his father’s car. As they passed the little village and the road sign bearing its name, Harry asked, “Piapot? What does that name mean, dad?”
“I don’t know, Harry. Makes no sense, this word, Piapot. Maybe something to do with a pot.” Harry shrugged. His parents didn’t know much about Canadian history. He would ask his teachers.
“Well, according to the stories I heard, Harry, that is the name of a prominent Cree Chief who at this very place put his tipi in the way of the new CPR line. He claimed these lands as his and was going to battle the Canadian Government for them. The NWMP came and kicked over his tipi and dragged him off the line. He was then moved to other lands.”
Harry thought about the teacher’s answer. He shook his head, imagining that past. Thinking to himself. ‘But, if he was so bad, why did they then name a village after him? To mock him?’
Myth is embedded in history. So, how can it not be true.
Put A Tax on Their Heads, 1884
“It is simply a question of alternatives: either you must have this labour or you can’t have the railway.” (John A. Macdonald, 1882, Canadian Parliament, speaking in defense of bringing in cheap Chinese labor, against the wishes of many Canadians, to build the Canadian Pacific Railroad)
Chinese workers on the Canadian Pacific Railway. Given poor food, no medical help, the lowest pay, the hardest, most dangerous work, and then abandoned to fend for themselves when the railway was completed. (Image D-07548 courtesy of the Royal BC Museum and Archives)
Williams, one of the CPR herders of the Chinese work crews, opened the door and entered the crowded Chinese living barracks beside the CPR track, deep in the Canadian Rockies. The crews were building the Canadian Pacific Railway through one of its toughest stretches. The Fraser Canyon, British Columbia.
A large plume of blue tobacco smoke, and the smell of sweat of fifty men, passed him on its way out. Williams looked at the scene. They were gambling again. Hands thrust in the air with money frantically trying to place their bets.
Williams leaned over to one the of Chinese workers who spoke broken, but decent English. And yelled at the top of his voice. “What are they doing, Li Qiang?”
Li Qiang only shook his head. “You must speak louder.”
“Are they placing bets?,” roared Williams almost losing his tonsils in the process.
“Yes, Mr. Williams. New game.” Winner makes lots of money.”
“What new game, Li Qiang? How do you fellas have enough energy for games considering how hard you work?”
“We bet on everything. Even how many railroad ties needed for certain section of track. Or, maybe how many spikes bent laying that track. You want play? Cost you your four dollars a day wages, not my one dollar a day wages.”
“That’s rather sad, Li Qiang! Why do you bet on such trivial things?”
“Why sad, Williams? Everyone count, then bet. Might as well gamble. It keeps our minds off the hard, dangerous work.”
“But why do you gamble away your hard-earned money? You should be saving to go home or bring your families to Canada.”
“We not save enough to go home. Or bring families. Only way is to gamble. This way at least some get rich.”
“Maybe we even gamble when you have accident herder, or that pig, Oderbunk.” With those words, Li Qiang spat on the floor as if trying to remove a bad taste from his mouth. Oderbunk was the Chinese contractor who brought the Chinese to work on the railway. The mere mention of his name raised the hackles of these men.
A now somewhat worried Williams noticed the room had gone silent, with the mention of Oderbunk’s name. Many of the workers were looking at him. And in a not too kindly way. He only shook his head and left, opening the door and taking more smoke and smell with him on the way out. Behind him he heard the shouting and betting start again.
‘That stupid, greedy Andrew Oderbunk is behind a lot of this madness. Treating them like animals. No wonder they almost killed him in that strike in 1881. Given their work and future, what have they got to lose? Besides their lives.’
The railroad work crews were having lunch outside one on the many tunnels in the Fraser Canyon, below the majestic peaks of the Rockies. Suddenly the blast came, followed by the concussion of air knocking them off the rail cars and onto the shaking ground. Then silence as the large plume of dust enveloped them.
Eventually out of the silence and debris, a dust-covered Chinese worker staggered, barely coherent screaming in Cantonese. Most of his clothes had been torn off, his hair and eyebrows singed, still smoldering.
“The tunnel entrance. Cheap explosives go off too soon. Everything smashed, everyone gone…” His last words failed him as he collapsed in a heap on the ground, blood now coming out of his ears.
…………………..
Chinese barracks for construction crews along the Canadian Pacific Railway. Image I-30869, Accession Number: 198401-006, 1883, courtesy of Royal BC Museum, BC Archives.
At the end of the month Williams walked into the Chinese workers’ barracks again to the same commotion and racket that had greeted him before. On the bench beside the booky stood a rather forlorn looking young Chinese man. The booky had propped his hands in the air as if in victory.
Williams looked for Li Qiang, finally seeing him among the men. “Are they betting again, Li Qiang?”
“No. First announcing winner.”
“So, I take it that’s the winner standing on the bench. He guessed how many rail ties it took to build that stretch this month? Or, whether I would die? If he won, why is he looking so gloomy? He probably won a month’s wages, or more.”
“Won bet, but lost brother in explosion.”
“But why are you betting on these things ? Surely, without betting, you can save enough money to go back to China.”
Li Qiang cocked his head to one side considering Williams. “We save little. That swine, Oderbunk take much money. We hear head tax coming. Must pay head tax to bring our families from China.”
Then Li Qiang walked off getting ready to place another bet, leaving a gaping Williams only shaking his head. Head tax? So the rumors really were true.
Chinese men gambling in railway camp, British Columbia. Image B-09758, Accession Number: 193501-001, 1886, courtesy of Royal BC Museum, BC Archives.
…………………….
Victoria, British Columbia, 1884
Telegram from John Alexander Galt, High Commissioner, London to John A. Macdonald inquiring about all the Chinese deaths building the CPR railroad. Library and Archives Canada, MG26-A, Volume 220, Page 93790, From London to Sir John A. Macdonald, “Correspondence, June 11, 1883.”
“So just how many Chinese workers died, Oderbunk? I’m getting writing cramps trying to keep up with the Prime Minister’s telegrams.” The chief commissioner was not a happy man. And he sensed this man was not being forthright with him.
The nervous Oderbunk fidgeted in his chair, licking his lips. Beside him sat Williams, one of his chief foremen to help with the details. Finally Oderbunk answered. “Well. We’re not quite sure, Commissioner, how many we’ve lost.”
The now fuming Commissioner next asked like what seemed a series of very sensible questions. “What do you mean you’re not sure? Don’t you record the deaths? You’re responsible for compensation to their families and returning their remains back home, are you not?” You pay them. When they don’t show up, well, they must be dead?”
“Well, Sir. Often we can’t recover the bodies. They fall into the canyon or the river and are swept away. And, many of these men desert to find work elsewhere. So, when they don’t show up, we’re not always sure what happened.” Oderbunk hoped this answer might appease the Commissioner. And avoid that nasty little business about not recovering the bodies or compensating the families. It did not.
After the meeting a rather shaken Williams walked away thinking some nasty, nasty things about Oderbunk. Almost ready to return to the camps where the Chinese were betting. ‘No, no, I can’t do that. Put that thought out of your mind, Williams.’
Later Immigrants and the CPR
A friend of mine gave this galvanized spike to my father, made into a bottle opener, on his retirement from the CPR. Whenever I crack a beer with it I think back to both my father and the CPR extra gangs, summer 1973.
Harry Reed sat in the living room listening to his father and uncle talk about their days with the CPR. Occasionally the conversation became quite animated. In fact, almost hostile.
“Why don’t you agree, Walter. The Company was good to us. We made a living, fed our families. Yes, we had to work a little, but at least we had work.”
‘That’s an understatement,’ thought Harry. ‘Work a little?’ But then that’s what Uncle Bob thought because Harry, in his short years on earth, had never met a harder worker. While others grumbled, Uncle Bob thrived. He loved the work.
Walter did not. Unable to listen any longer, Walter got mad. “The CPR, Robert, was SCHEISSE! They treated us worse than animals. Vie Verschissende Hunde, Robert. “While Walter’s English was a little rough, his vocabulary in swear words seemed well rounded. In English. German. Even a few Polish and Ukrainian gems occasionally thrown in there.
Walter picked up the silver railroad spike opener from the table and cracked a few beer. Red-faced he needed a drink when talking about the CPR with Robert. He looked down at the silver opener.
“See this spike, Robert. This was given to me by my son’s friend. That’s more than that God………… CPR ever gave me. One-hundred and sixty dollars pension a month after thirty years of working for them. And a piece of paper thanking me. That’s all I got. You know what I’d like to do with this spike. Shove it up some big-shot CPR’s as….” Della, also listening cut Walter off before his words landed him in the abyss.
“Now Walter. I don’t think swearing at the CPR is going to help anything.”
“Cripe-No-Mighty,” grumbled a still steaming Walter. He had designed a unique series of cuss words all his own.
Then he touched the permanent reddened part of his ear, which always itched, remembering what else he got while sitting on the little open railroad scooter inspecting the tracks on a breezy winter Saskatchewan day with windchill of minus forty degrees Fahrenheit.
But Robert, ever the optimist, continued. “Well, if you had joined the CPR extra gangs, you would have made more money and been promoted. And now your pension would be much better. Like mine.”
“Those were nothing but slave camps, Robert. What kind of life is that? Being months away from your family with little time off. How could you like that life? Nothing but a sweat house for dumb, uneducated immigrants like us. Who couldn’t find any other work.” Words that perhaps were a little over-exaggerated, but Walter didn’t care anymore. Finally he stopped and drained half his beer, hoping to drown the memories of the CPR and all it stood for.
Uncle Bob continued, but Walter had tuned out thinking about one of the many dark times he had on that cursed railroad.
Harry kept quiet and just listened. When Walter and Bob talked railroad, it was best to just stay of out of the way. Pretend he wasn’t even there.
Harry was suddenly jolted out of his referee, realizing that Uncle Bob was talking to him. “See Walter, even your son got along with the CPR extra gangs. He liked it. Even got promoted. Right, Harry?”
Harry, out of respect for his uncle, simply nodded and said nothing. ‘Wrong, Uncle Bob. I love and respect you. But on that count you are wrong. That was an awful job.’
Then Harry thought back to the CPR extra gangs. Glorious times indeed. He’d hoped those memories had disappeared into the past. But, some of them were hard to erase.
Myth, if repeated long enough, becomes the new reality.
These are the tracks that my dad and my uncle worked on, making sure the trains went through safely. Cabri, Saskatchewan, Canada on the horizon.
College Boy Meets the CPR Extra Gangs, Spring, 1973
Harry had just been interviewed by Parks Canada for a summer job as an interpreter at the historic National Site, Fort Walsh, Saskatchewan. It would have been the perfect job. It was close to home, paid well, and was the kind of work he was studying at the University of Alberta. But it didn’t happen.
“I need a job, Uncle Bob. I have to pay my university tuition and board. There’s little work out there.”
“Well, maybe I can get you on the CPR extra gangs. It’s good, steady work and I think you can handle it.”
“When can I start, Uncle”, asked the somewhat forlorn looking Harry? Walter was standing by, shaking his head. He said little, thinking. Maybe this was a good thing. His son needed some harsh lessons in reality. He was treating university like a training ground for the fine art of partying.
“O.K. Harry, give me a few days, and then I’ll phone you. We’re working on the main line near Medicine Hat. Not too far from home with your one day off.”
Harry gulped. Did he hear right? ‘One day off.’ That of course meant working six days a week. But, the worst was yet to come.
……………………
It was still dark outside. Pitch black in fact. Suddenly someone was walking through the rail sleeping car, shouting. “Time to get up boys. Breakfast is on the table. The cook grumbles when you’re late.”
Harry and others groaned trying to wake up. Sleeping was tough on the mainline. When every two hours another freight train raced by them at fifty miles an hour, eight feet away.
That voice almost had a cheerful ring to it, which made it even harder to listen to at four AM in the morning. His friend Phil, bunking next to him finally sat up. “One of these mornings I’ll strangle that cheery bastard.”
“They’ll just replace him with another one. I think they get paid extra for that voice.”
Harry finally got up and dressed. Ready for the day. After three weeks working on the gangs, his muscles were no longer screaming in agony. The blisters on his university hands had finally healed and hardened up. “Well let’s get something to eat and see what cookie burned this morning.”
As they neared the rail cook car, the noise and hubbub grew louder. Suddenly one of the the windows of the cook car blew out, closely followed by what looked like a platter of cold meat.
Then there was a lot of yelling inside the cook car. Harry heard one of his other friends, Jim’s voice, screaming. “How can you put that shit on a plate and serve it to us? Look at it. It’s green. Meat isn’t supposed to be green. I’m going to kick your ass all the way to Medicine Hat…” Then Harry heard running as cookie, fearing for his life, quickly existed the cook car. Never to return.
Well, another day starts on the gangs. What will happen next? There was still twelve hours of back-breaking work ahead. The day was young. A lot could happen.
…………………….
The ballast crew was running beside the ballast cars, on the sloped, rocky rail track trying to open the bottom doors with their hand cranks. To pour out the crushed rock around and between the new ties and track. It was a smoldering hot prairie afternoon, the air was choked with dust from the ballast.
This was one of the toughest jobs on the gangs. But, you got a little extra time off at the end of day because of the hard work. And if you wanted to get promoted to a machine, this was one way of doing it.
The train had to go at just the right speed so that the ballast could be poured evenly onto the rail bed and tracks. Too slow and too much ballast came out, derailing the cars. Too fast, and there wasn’t enough ballast to fill the tracks.
As the train reached the slope heading into Medicine Hat, it sped up. Harry’s lungs were about to burst as he ran along his rail car, trying to keep up. Someone screamed. “We’re going too fast. Tell that engineer to slow down or this will be a disaster.” In the distance Harry heard foremen screaming into their radios.
But the engineer didn’t slow down. And soon Harry’s buddies started to abandon ship. He saw John, bent over puking up the ballast dust he ingested. Then out of the corner of his other eye, he saw Amos desperately trying to hang onto his crank, sent tumbling off the grade disappearing into the rail ditch. Finally the rest of crew, including Harry, had stopped cranking.
Another day, another dollar on the extra gangs. Well, not quite that bad. Thirty-nine dollars to be fair.
………………….
The work crews stood in line for their midday lunch beside the tracks. Which was brought out to them by the cooks. One half-hour to eat and then it was back to work.
The prairie sun was blazing down on the exposed track sending heat waves into the air. The shimmering railroad track looked like a mirage in the distance. It was exposed, lying naked on the rail bed with no ballast to keep it in place.
Someone in the lunch line started pushing. And the yelling and cursing started. “Out of the way, turban-head. We need to eat and get back to work.” One of the crew, who seemed to have a particular dislike for the East Indian workers, was trying to butt in line and get his lunch before disaster struck.
Then the fighting in the lunch line broke out in earnest. Pushing, shoving. Kicking and punches thrown before the foremen stepped in and broke it up.
“Stop it, Kenny. They don’t understand English very well and you’re not exactly Mr. articulate either. They think you’re butting in. Here, step aside and I’ll sort this out.”
Uncle Bob was patiently trying to explain Kenny’s rudeness to the East Indians. “These men have to eat first. There’s no ballast on the tracks…”
His words were cut off by a loud SNAP. Followed by another SNAP. And then it happened. The Canadian Pacific railway, which had lain on this track for nearly one-hundred years, decided to take a walk. Off the rail bed towards the ditch.
Men scrambled in every direction, fully knowing what was taking place. Karl, roadmaster of the extra gang, ran up, breathless. “Hurry up. Let’s get out there before it…”
Everyone stared as the entire mile of rail turned into a writhing steel snake and began moving toward the ditch, as the now hot steel rails expanded in the noonday heat.
“Or what Karl, before the tracks go in the ditch.”
The CPR mainline was shut down for many hours. Backing up freight trains in both directions. Because of one overzealous gang boss who was trying to repair too much track at once and not paying attention to the weather. Or the laws of physics.
Harry watched with fascination. How could a mile of steel rail suddenly look like a wet noodle? And then he realized what this meant. Overtime. The men wouldn’t leave here until eight or nine tonight. Maybe midnight. That mainline had to be opened or heads would roll.
And another day on the extra gangs was finished.
………………….
“See Walter. Your son could do it. He worked on the gangs and made some good money.”
Harry rolled his eyes. Hardly. He’d managed to get on one of the machines for three weeks and did make twice as much money as before. And then they all went on strike because of the poor working conditions and wages, and Harry went back to school.
“Those were good boys, Walter and Della. They worked hard and sometimes they got into a little trouble. Some were a little rough around the edges. Like the time they got into a fight in a bar and spent the night in the Calgary jai…”
Harry, having taken lessons from his mother, cut off his uncle’s words. “Uncle Bob, I’m sure mom and dad don’t want to hear that story.” Harry anxiously looked at his mother who now had that knowing look on her face.
“Come Harry, tell your mother the rest of that story. I like stories. I can hardly wait to hear it.
……………………
EndNote:
I am not a great fan of the Canadian Pacific Railway. Or other similar corporations. I’m not anti-capitalist. I just don’t like it when large corporations become greedy. Yes, a transcontinental railway was sorely needed to tie together an enormous country and its shareholders and owners had to pay off the $100,000,000 it cost to build it. But throughout its history the CPR made considerable profits off the backs of immigrant labourers, treating them poorly, or worse. There was a lot of labour unrest and discrimination against some minorities even in the 1970s when I worked there. And today the Company still makes tremendous profits. In 2016, the CPR had a $6.2 billion revenue and $1.6 billion dollars in profit and held assets valued at $19.2 billion dollars. Its top CEO made close to twenty million dollars a year, with perks and shares in the Company.
When I was a kid, we learned that the Cree Chief Piapot tried to stop the building of the CPR mainline by pitching his tent in the way. Presumably somewhere near today’s Piapot, Saskatchewan. The story goes that he was forcefully removed by the North West Mounted Police. Historians have pored through the documents and there is not a shred of evidence to support that story. But it somehow seems to resonate better among Canadians than: ‘First Nations people were starved to force them off the lands, so that the railway could be built.’
The story of the Chinese immigrants brought over by the CPR to help build the railroad is equally sad. Their struggle and sacrifice is finally being told and recognized. In this story, I mentioned the Head Tax put on Chinese immigrants to prevent them from coming to Canada. Many Chinese workers could not save enough to either return to China or pay it to bring over their families. In the story I have deliberately changed the name of the chief contractor, responsible for bringing in Chinese workers and the horrendous conditions they had to put up with. With a little research you can easily find out his real name. Because of the poor records kept, even to this day no one knows for certain how many Chinese workers died building the railway (everywhere from 600 – 2,000).
Although I try not to judge history, and instead document and research it, I can’t help but have some deep emotional feelings for the many many ethnic minorities who toiled to build the intercontinental railway and then maintain it. My parents, relatives and some of our friends were among them.
As was I for what seemed like one of the longest summers of my life. I saw firsthand the poor working conditions and continued racism even in the 1970s. The East Indian workers were now the new Chinese. After that summer of ’73’, my university career outlook became more focused as I realized that I didn’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps. I ended up shoveling dirt anyway, but had way more fun doing it.
Whenever I think of everyday objects that bind, I think of duct tape first. And one Red Green show in particular where Steve Smith tries to prevent Quebec from separating by duct taping it to Ontario.
“A museum should not just be a place for fancy paintings but should be a place where we can communicate our lives through our everyday objects.”
(Turkish novelist, screenwriter, academic and recipient of the 2006 Nobel Prize in Literature.)
In a recent news article an Edmonton reporter trashed the 1966 Mercury pickup truck display at the new Royal Alberta Museum, Edmonton, Canada. It was too ordinary and boring and really was not museum worthy. I can’t imagine what she would have said about my choice of the first image for this post.
This 1966 Mercury M-100, on display at the new Royal Alberta Museum, talks to Albertans’ love for the pickup truck in the 1960s. It represents the many people who owned one for either travel or work in our province. In has meaning and a connection to our society.
The dilemma we often face when dealing with material culture, be it thousands of years or a few years old, is choice and selection. Museum staff are faced with the often impossible challenge of meeting the many expectations of many people. As formidable an experience as I have ever faced, either when curating a museum collection, or writing about human history using material culture as the medium.
We are expected to conserve and curate, inform and educate, entertain and stimulate, with the objects we choose to display or write about. Therein lies a problem. Many of those unique, precious, or rare artifacts certainly stimulate and entertain. They catch our attention. But, often they don’t inform a lot about the majority of society, past or present.
The rare bone toothbrush I posted on in an earlier blog has a certain WOW! factor to it. But, it says little about most of the people of the fur trade who didn’t use these articles. The more common duct tape however, informs more about Canadian culture than the toothbrush. I’m almost certain we have no duct tape in our Royal Alberta Museum collections. Perhaps had the Red Green show continued, duct tape would have reached museum status.
The more common folk artifact is often is underrepresented in displays or literature. While informative, it’s boring. Is there a solution?
Not be deterred or ignore the common artifact, I have chosen to write about the most mundane artifact I could think of (there are many to choose from). The common nail and that clunky railroad spike.
Even everyday things often have a complex history and perform an important role in society. And as one of my mentors, historical archaeologist James Deetz, in his book, In Small Things Forgotten once said, all material things, regardless of their size, value, or context have meaning and a story to tell. It’s up to those of us studying them to tease out that meaning and those stories.
We are all familiar with the common wire nail. Nails, like many objects, have a complex history and changed over time.
Nails, of every shape, size and material, were used for boat building, furniture making, attaching horseshoes to horses’ hooves, and of course the construction of log and wood-framed buildings. They occur in just about every society in the world that had some sort of metal forging technology. And they change in form and method of manufacture in time and space. The common wire nail you are most familiar with has had a shorter history than many of those before it.
In Canada we used hand-forged nails until about the middle of the 19th century (other dates, depending on where you live). To fashion a hand-forged nail a blacksmith heated a piece of square nail rod, then tapered it to a point. Then he put it into a nail heading jig and fashioned various types of heads depending on its function. In cross section, a hand-forged nail is tapered on all four sides from the head down to the tip.
These corroded ferrous hand-forged nails were relatively rare at the Fort Vermilion I (c.1798 – 1830) site, Alberta, Canada. Heavy iron nail rod had to be shipped inland for thousands of miles to these forts, so nails were used sparingly. Because the fort did not have a blacksmith, these nails were likely made at Fort Chipewyan and shipped upriver. This was the major nail type in western Canada until approximately the middle of the 19th century.
This rare artifact which we think is a nail heading jig was recovered from the blacksmith’s shop at the NWC Fort George (1792-1800), Alberta, Canada.
The machine-cut nail was already invented in the 1780’s (perhaps even earlier) but not present in western Canada until the mid nineteenth century. In this process a tapered nail shank is cut from sheet metal of uniform thickness (usually iron), and then a head shaped on it. In cross-section this nail is tapered on two opposite sides but the other two opposite sides are parallel to each other. This more mechanized process produced more nails faster, probably with fewer people required to make them. It was cheaper.
Machine-cut nails, from the HBC Fort Edmonton V (c.1830-1915) site. Because this site spans such a long period of time, we found hand-forged, machine-cut and common wire nails in the archaeological record.
The modern wire nail was developed in about 1880 in America and Europe. Pieces of steel wire were cut at an angle to make a point on one end, and a flat round head was fashioned on the other end. These nails were much cheaper to produce than square nails. The common wire nail began to appear by the turn of the 20th century in western Canada (likely earlier in the east).
A variety of common wire nails found at the HBC Fort Edmonton V site, Alberta, Canada.
Whenever I look at buildings of unknown age, I check out the nails. If they’re wire, the building likely dates after the turn of the 20th century. Even the common wire nail was superseded by the spiral shank nail in the early 1970s. Many different varieties followed.
This priest’s log house, at the St. Louis Mission, Fort Vermilion, Alberta was built in c.1909. Wire spikes were driven into the dovetailed log corners to better secure them. No square nails were present. Mind you, those spikes could have been driven in thirty years later.
If I were to only display this spiral wire nail there’s not much of a WOW factor here. But if I added that Gilbert Laughton, blacksmith at Buckingham House (c.1782-1800) was experimenting with some spiral square-shanked nails already 220 years ago, the story becomes more interesting (sorry, I don’t have good photo). I’m sure it didn’t leave you speechless, but more interesting nevertheless.
Many of these different nail types were gradually replaced by the newer types. However, some nails, such as the horseshoe nail and common railway spike maintained their square or rectangular shanks.
Common horseshoe nail has been around for a long time. Head shapes changed but the tapered square/rectangular shank remained.
Nails were made from various materials, depending on their function and method of manufacture. Probably one of the earliest type of fastener, performing the same function as a nail, was a wooden dowel. Dowels are still used today. And in the western Canadian fur trade, and early settlement period, where the transport of heavy finished nails or nail rod was costly, they often replaced nails in log building construction.
The logs in this building in northern Alberta were held together by wooden dowels between the logs.
The log corner of this cellar cribbing under the trader’s shop at the HBC Fort Victoria (c.1864-1898) contained a well preserved wood dowel to keep the corners together.
Other materials for nail-making include the more rust-resistant copper alloy nails used to build the first York boats in the western fur trade. However, for centuries the most common nail material was iron.
These copper alloy nails come from the HBC Fort Edmonton V (c.1830-1915). York boat building was an important industry at this fort. Boat nails had to be rust-resistant.
Both hand-forged and machine-cut nails had different head types either for decoration or better holding power. T-heads, L-heads, Rose-heads, and Gable-heads are just some of the head types found at our historic sites in Canada.
Different types of nail head types found at the HBC Fort Victoria site, Alberta, Canada. From Archaeological Investigations: Fort Victoria, 1974. Losey, Timothy, et. al. Occasional Paper No. 2, 1977. Alberta Culture, Historical Resources.
Square-shaped nails were superior to round wire nails for holding power. According to some research, the holding power of the square shank is almost double that of the round shank nail.
So, why change from a square to a round shank? Round-shank nails were easier and more economical to make despite not being as effective. However, once spiral or galvanized nails were introduced, they likely came close or were superior in holding power to the square shank nails.
So after that brief exposition on the common nail, can we now elevate it to national status, placing it beside the equally common maple leaf of national significance? Alas, despite its importance in Canadian history (what has maple leaf ever accomplished?), I just can’t visualize an image like the one below.
The Canadian flag with the common nail as the symbol of a Canadian identity. The following source seems to read a lot into a leaf: “Maple trees symbolize balance, offering, practical magic, promise, longevity, generosity, and intelligence. One reason behind these meanings is that maple trees have the ability to adapt to many different soil types and climates.” https://www.google.com/search?client=firefox-b-d&q=the+meaniing+of+the+canadian+maple+leaf
Well, I tried. Alas, the poor common nail can’t compete with all the ideological baggage the maple leaf carries. There are few national flags that have an object(s) as a symbol. Angola, Mozambique, Portugal. The hammer and sickle of the former Soviet Union, representing contribution of the common people, is probably the best known.
Railroad Spikes
The common railroad spike. Does it have greater potential for national significance than the lowly common nail?
The 19th century railroad spike, used to build the Canadian Pacific Railway had a square or rectangular shank. As I was trying to drive these damn things into the railroad ties in the summer of 1973, I wondered (between curses) if the square hole on the rail tie plates and the square shank prevented the spike from turning (resulting in failure to hold down the rail), either during attachment or the constant pounding and vibration as the trains passed over them.
Tremendous holding strength was required from a rail road spike to make sure the rails stayed in place with the hundreds of tons of trains moving over them every day. The common spike was made from a softer iron, usually with 9/16 inch thick stock, approximately 5 1/2 to 6 inches long. The point was tapered so the spike would cut across the the grain of the wood tie to prevent it from splitting.
It cost over one-hundred million dollars to build the Canadian Pacific Railroad which was completed in 1885 at Craigellachie, British Columbia. Thirty-thousand workers labored four-and-one-half years to build the 3,200km (1,939 miles) long track across Canada. A ribbon of steel finally bound the country in which the lowly railroad spike played a huge part.
I’ve done a bit of math. Wood ties are about nineteen inches apart. There 3,250 wooden ties per mile. It would require 26,000 spikes for each mile of track laid. That number multiplied by 1,939 miles comes to a staggering 50,414,000 spikes (some claim only a mere 30 million were used) required for the job. Just for the CPR mainline. Clearly the common railway spike is one of the most important artifacts ever made and used in Canadian nation-building.
Perhaps one of the most iconic photographs in Canadian history. The driving of the last spike by Donald Smith at Craigellachie, British Columbia, 1885.
Yet this very important artifact receives little recognition. There are a few exceptions, mind you. The last spike driven at Craigellachie by Donald Smith in 1885, should be famous. It represents the completion of a national dream. Made of gold or silver perhaps. But no, it was just plain iron. And there wasn’t just one, but four.
The first one, made of silver, never reached Craigellachie in time to be used. The second one was bent by Donal Smith, when trying to hammer it home, and kept, eventually made into jewelry. The third one was pulled and mysteriously disappeared and has only recently surfaced. And the fourth one is still in the tracks at Craigellachie.
The silver spike that was to be driven at the last spike driving ceremony at Craigellachie, British Columbia by Donald Smith in 1885. But it never made it in time. Good thing. He probably would have bent it. Courtesy of the Canadian Museum of History.
What a mess. The first one doesn’t get there in time. Smith bends the second spike and makes it into jewelry. And the third one mysteriously disappears and is now a knife. How could you lose the last spike that symbolized one of the greatest engineering achievements of the time and the coming together of a nation?
We celebrate and revere the sensational, often at the expense of the common and mundane. Granted, the last spike, or the silver one on display, symbolize and solidify a great moment in Canadian history. But it’s not the only spike of significance in this story.
On that same November day, in 1885, workers who built the railway near Donald, British Columbia. This may be their version of the iconic photo of the Last Spike. Courtesy of BC Archives/D-02469. Story from https://www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca/en/article/the-other-last-spike-feature#
The above photo and the common spike in contrast to the silver one bring up an important point. There is always an alternate story or narrative about any given object. Like the photograph above we should also revere the common railway spike as it symbolizes the sweat, work and deaths of thousands of men who built the ribbon of steel. It represents men like my father and uncle, who maintained it after it was built. Their contribution are as important and meaningful as the completion of the railway and that silver spike.
Perhaps the best way to tell these stories is to display both the silver spike symbolizing one of Canada’s greatest accomplishments alongside the common railroad spike symbolizing the work of those who built it. As close to a solution to entertaining and informing as can be expected from this particular artifact.
Working on the Railroad
I’ll end on a personal note which also partially reveals my choice of content for this post. My father and uncle worked on the CPR for many years. As did my cousin and I. We lasted one summer on the ‘extra gangs.’ I have seen way too many railroad spikes up close on certain sections of the CPR mainline. One summer was more than enough, thank you.
Our family owns a last spike of sorts. In recognition of my father’s contribution to the CPR. He received this galvanized spike from a friend of mine when he retired from the CPR in 1983. This one was repurposed for an equally great cause. Perhaps it could serve as our national emblem.
This galvanized spike sits in my kitchen drawer. As I get older it takes on more meaning than I ever would have imagined.
This modified version of the common spike reminds me of dad. And my uncle. However, whenever I open a refreshment with it, I reflect back to much tougher times working between the rails. That story is still being written.
……………………
A Few Blog Notes
I’ve been thinking of setting up a membership list for my website. I would divide my posts into those that are free to read and a ‘silver’ category, which only paid subscribers could access. Subscribers would be charged a fee of perhaps $20.00 CAN per year to access this category. It would contain all my short stories, novelettes, etc. My rationale is quite simple – to cover costs of running this website. I have no illusions about getting rich, but feel that paying to inform and entertain you just doesn’t seem right.
Lately more visitors from the rest of the world are checking my website. Those of you looking in from the USA (some of you whom I know), Ireland, Brazil, or any other country, let me know why you dropped into my site.
In the last few years the phrase ‘cultural appropriation‘ has popped up increasingly in just about every context imaginable. One definition of the phrase is: The unacknowledged or inappropriate adoption of the customs, practices, ideas, etc. of one people or society by members of another and typically more dominant people or society. Literature is no exception. Including mine. Many publishers are more cautious in what they publish. I think the two words I underlined in the definition are key. But they are widely interpreted. I’d like your opinions on the subject. Especially those of you who are of Indigenous background.
Note: This is a self-solve murder mystery story. All the information needed to solve it is in the story. It’s your job to find the murderer and state the reason you chose that particular person. The name of the murderer is in the story. You have one chance. Remember, no guessing. You have to tell me why you think it’s that particular person. The evidence has to be conclusive.
The fur press at the reconstructed HBC Fort Edmonton, Edmonton, Alberta, Canada. Furs were pressed into about ninety pound bundles in preparation for shipment to York Factory, Hudson Bay, and then eventually to England and the European markets. The long log pole was capable of applying tremendous force to the furs in the log rack, reducing them to a manageable compact bundle.
He was the fur press man. That was his job. First inspecting all the furs to make sure they were vermin-free and dry. Then squashing them into a compact bundle using the enormous fur press at Fort Edmonton. Once satisfied, he wrapped the bundle in oiled canvas, then tied it securely, so it wouldn’t get wet on the long journey from Edmonton to York Factory, Hudson Bay.
Now, he was the fur pressed man. Very flat and part of a bundle of furs sitting in the courtyard at Fort Edmonton. Bleeding.
Sarah, strolling by the fur press in the early morning light saw it first. Barely having time to scream, she fainted and collapsed. Isobel, seeing Sarah fall, rushed out to the fur press to help. Then she too saw it and also fainted. Andrew ran out to the ladies’ aid, saw it, bent over and threw up his breakfast.
Chief Factor, Ronald Jones, rushed out, saw it, exclaiming, “What a goddamned mess! Now who’s going to press the furs? LaCoine was our best man.”
His wife, Mary, right behind him, cuffed him on the back of the head. “Here we have a very dead man, Ronald. One of yours. And all you can think about is who will press the furs?”
“No, Mary. That’s not all I was thinking. I was also thinking how we’ll have to cook the books to make up for the loss of those bloodied, spoiled beaver pelts.” For his words he received another cuff from Mary.
Now everyone rushed out into the middle of the compound. Including the killer. The growing crowd was somewhat mesmerized as they stared at the gore. ‘Nice job,’ thought the killer. ‘Looks even better in the daylight.’
“How do we know it’s even LaCoine. I mean there’s not much to see. Look. His one eyeball is close to his …..”
“That’s enough Katherine. We can all see where his eyeball is lying.” Mary seemed to be the only one who was thinking clearly.
Katherine turned to the Chief Factor. “How do you know who it is, Ronald? He……., it’s totally unrecognizable.” She gave the Chief Factor a suspicious look. Only the killer might know who that was.
The Chief Factor bent down and opened one of the hands sticking out of the bundle. It was clutching something in the closed fist. He produced a shiny object, holding it up. A silver cross of Lorraine. He turned it over and there on the other side were the Montreal silversmith’s initials, JC etched into the silver.
Silver ornaments and jewelry were a common trade item in the early western Canadian fur trade. This silver Cross of Lorraine was recovered from the North West Company Fort George (c.1792-1800), Alberta, Canada. Most likely a possession of one of the many French Canadians who worked for the Company.
“Must of been made by the Lord himself. Initials are identical.” The somewhat drawling, booming voice came out of nowhere. Everyone turned toward the man uttering what seemed, under the circumstances, rather crass words. There standing near them was a rather large man dressed in black. Perched on the stranger’s head was a black beaver felt top hat, of unusual style. Instead of a black band, a thin, red band circled the crown of the hat. He was inspector of the forts of the Western Territories for the honorable Hudson’s Bay Company. John A. Beeston.
Beaver felt hat styles changed through time or differed depending on one’s occupation. When developing the ‘World’s Meet‘ gallery at the new Royal Alberta Museum we searched in vain for an authentic beaver felt hat to put on display. There are none in Canada and those few remaining in museums in other parts of the world, were not for loan. Rather ironic, don’t you think. The leading exporter of beaver fur for making felt hats, and we don’t have one original left to show Canadians. At least that I know of.
“Well, Beeston, glad you showed up. This is now in your hands. You are an inspector after all.” The Chief Factor stepped away, wanting nothing more to do with this gruesome affair.
“I’m a building inspector. Inspector of forts. Not a detective of crimes. No, this doesn’t fall in my bailiwick. Look for someone else to deal with your mess.” Beeston then bent over to examine the severely squished body. He reached out and picked something off the corpse, quickly putting it in his pocket.
John Beeston was a tall, gangly-looking man. Upon first seeing him, people gawked at those enormous hands. And those feet. He seemed slow and awkward, with about as much grace as a lumbering elephant. Whenever people looked at his scarred face they imagined all sorts of things that might have caused them. Few had the courage to ask. Both his demeanor and size inspired both respect and fear.
Ronald Jones pushed his point. “Look at it this way, Beeston, it could have been anyone of us standing here who did it. Crushed poor LaCoine into a contorted bloody blob.” At his words, Sarah nearly fainted again and Mary felt a little light-headed.
“Beeston, you’re the only one here that’s sort of neutral. You have to take charge.”
“How do you know I’m neutral? I could have done it, same as anyone else.”
“What motive would you have had, Beeston? You just got here and don’t even know the man. You’d be my last suspect.” Those around the Chief Factor all nodded in agreement. The killer too liked the idea. Beeston didn’t look like the swiftest buffalo on the prairie. In his hands, which admittedly were rather large, the murder investigation would likely go nowhere.
“But, why would any one here kill LaCoine? He was just a ordinary worker. You have no obvious reason to harm the man.” Beeston, not realizing he was already beginning the investigation, looked around at those gathered. Most eyes were downcast, not wanting to meet his.
“Well, why are you all suddenly looking guilty. You, what’s your name?” Beeston pointed a large finger at an elderly looking man with graying hair and spectacles on his nose. “You, Sir, tell me what you know of this man.”
“Name’s Edward Sinclair, Sir. I’m the clerk of the fort. I keep the books.” Beeston simply stared at the man. ‘Well, a clerk who takes care of the books and a man who takes care of the furs.’ There could be some dark things going on there between those two. He would follow that up with further questions of this clerk. And have a close look at those books.
“So, tell me why would anyone press poor LaCoine here into a pancake?” Hearing those words, a few of the men, especially Andrew, looked like they were going to sick-up. Again.
Everyone, including the killer, remained silent. The only sound came from some restless shuffling feet.
Beeston patiently waited but no one spoke. “I see. It seems you all didn’t like this man – for various reasons, I presume.”
Not a word from anyone. Finally the Chief Factor broke the silence. “I’ll tell you now, Inspector Beeston, that he wasn’t very well liked by anyone. But, I don’t think he was hated enough to be murdered.”
“Well, obviously he was, Chief Factor. See, he looks quite dead to me.” To make his point Beeston lifted up a limp arm and let it fall. Someone had certainly hated LaCoine enough. Or needed to get rid of the man to hide something.
Finally a somewhat recovered Sarah blurted out, “All the women in the fort loathed LaCoine. Whenever he came near us he would pinch and grope us and tell us what he’d like to do to us in the dark when our husbands were away.” The women around Sarah then started telling stories about LaCoine. Some were truly awful. They had reason to dislike him. But to kill him. Was that enough?
And Beeston wondered. ‘Would a woman be strong enough to press a man to death.’ Then he glanced at Sarah and had his answer. ‘For someone so sturdy looking, she sure faints easily.’
The usually stoic fort Native interpreter, Bear-Child, piped up. “He hated us. Anyone who was Native or of mixed-blood. He thought himself better than us. He would often taunt me or the others, hoping to start a fight. He was a mean man. Especially when drunk which he was often enough. One night he fell in the river yelling for help. I didn’t go help. I hoped he would drown. But someone else heard and pulled him out.” A now shaking Bear-Child stopped. It was obvious he hated LaCoine with a passion.
Jack Smith, the fort cooper, an enormous man, almost Beeston’s size, spoke next. “You’re not the only one he hated. He detested the English even more. Kept reminding us we should not have won that bloody war down east. Said, he would get revenge on us some day. I, and others, didn’t much care for that bloody French blowhard.”
Beeston now realized that most of the women, those of mixed-blood and Natives, and English servants disliked this man. That was about the entire fort population. That left only the French Canadians. And those present weren’t shedding any tears.
Beeston sighed. This case wasn’t going to be easy. “OK, that’s enough for today. Let’s clean up this mess and take the rest of the day to calm down. Tomorrow I’ll start interviewing and questioning all of you again. I’ll continue until we can make some sense of this.”
“So, you’re taking on the investigation, Beeston?,” asked a relieved-looking Chief Factor.
“Yes, it seems so.” Beeston then strolled over to the fur bundle and with one enormous hand grabbed its ropes and walked off with the entire mess, making sure it didn’t touch his finely pressed trousers, toward one of the shops. “Well, come along, Chief Factor. Let’s have a closer look at the body for clues.”
“Me?,” sputtered Jones. “Surely, you can use one of my other men. I don’t need to be there to see this up close. I’ve seen enough.”
Beeston kept walking. And finally yelled back. “Bring your clerk, Jones. We need to record this properly for my report. Edward will do nicely.”
Both a sick-looking Edward Sinclair and Ronald Jones hesitated, but then reluctantly followed the inspector of buildings, into one.
…………………..
“You seem to know your way around dead bodies, Beeston. Something you want to share with me.”
Beeston only gave Jones an icy stare. Then he continued looking at what was left of LaCoine. Now straightened out, laying on a wood table in the trading room of the fort.
Edward sat in the corner taking notes as Beeston described details about LaCoine’s remains. He looked ready to pass out but managed to coherently write down what Beeston said.
“Someone very powerful must have done this. Look at him.” Jones too wasn’t feeling well either, looking at the blood and gore, now all nicely spread out.
“Why do you think that, Jones? This mess was caused by that fur press. With that press it wouldn’t take much strength to do this.”
“Oh, I guess not. That press could crack a rock if enough pressure was applied to the end of the pole. So, what happened, inspector?”
Beeston went over to the shattered head and pointed. “See this here, Chief Factor. There is a deep indentation on the skull caused by a blunt object of some sort.” Jones reluctantly bent over and yes there was a large indentation on the back of LaCoine’s head, which could not have been caused by the fur press.
Then Beeston strolled over to the man’s feet and his boots. “And see here, Jones, the dirt on the heels of his shoes. As if he had been dragged some distance.” Jones looked and yes, there was dirt on the boot heels and pants which seemed somewhat unusual from just walking. Dragging an unconscious LaCoine to be pressed would have taken some effort. LaCoine, in his former unpressed state, wasn’t exactly small.
“LaCoine was smacked on the head elsewhere then dragged to the fur press, perhaps still alive, and pressed into a nice little bundle, it seems. I noticed the heel marks in the compound near the fur press. They ended here at the trading store.”
“But, why no screaming, Beeston? Surely, if he was still alive he would have yelled.”
Beeston went back to the head. Opened the man’s contorted jaws. And pulled out a very large rag. “I guess, that’s why, Jones. Maybe he wanted to….”
Beeston was about to say more when the door suddenly opened and Father Broussard walked in. Unannounced. Had the good father been listening outside? Beeston wasn’t sure. “Evening gentlemen. Terrible, just terrible. I was at the scene by the fur press, but didn’t want to interfere. I want to pray for this poor man’s soul, one of my sheep.” The Father was wringing his hands, clearly in some discomfort.
Beeston causally asked. “And what kind of man was this sheep of yours, Father? Everyone paints him as having rather black fleece. Do you know anything that might help in the investigation? A murderer walks among us. We must find him. Or her.”
“I can’t divulge his confessions, Inspector. He was, however, a difficult, often troubled man. I had hoped he would find solace in the Lord our Savior. And perhaps learn to treat those around him with more kindness.”
Beeston only nodded. “Well, we’re done for the evening, Father. I’ll leave you with your crumpled sheep. In prayer.” A bewildered Father looked at Beeston, then at the remains of LaCoine. As his stomach started churning from the sight, he decided the prayers weren’t going to take too long.
Hearing Beeston’s words, Edward ran out of the store as if shot from a cannon. Thinking. ‘How can that Beeston be so cool and calm with that gory mess?’ Truly, there was something strange about the man. Building inspector? And that accent wasn’t British. Edward wondered who he really was. Best to be careful around that one.
………………..
Early next morning Beeston woke suddenly to screaming outside. For a few moments he didn’t know where he was. Everything around him looked unfamiliar. Then he remembered. Fort Edmonton. The screaming and shouting continued and then Beeston heard the footsteps running out into fort compound.
Beeston strode out of his room, stood on the Big House second storey balcony and looked down at the small crowd gathered around the fur press. There beside the fur press stood Father Broussard, Isobel and Katherine with their hands over their mouths, the French Canadian labourers, Louis, and LaFrance, and the fort tailor, John. Jack Smith was conversing quietly with the fort interpreter, Bear-Child, on the other side of the fur press.
Then Beeston looked at the fur press. Hanging between the large posts with a noose around a hooded head was what looked like a scarecrow. Beeston descended the stairs and walked towards the scene.
Chief Factor Jones came running up. “What is it? Oh, not again. Is it real or just some joke?”
Beeston first saw the blood oozing from under the hooded head. He reached up and pulled off the hood. And, there in all it’s gory glory, was LaCoine’s broken face, with his one eye, staring back at him. Everyone around gagged and gasped at the site. The killer wandered over, trying to look as sick and confused as everyone else. Followed by the cooks, Ted and Marie, who both had worried looks on their faces. And flour on their hands.
“Who would do such a thing?” asked Emily. “This is awful. He’s been murdered twice it seems. Our killer can’t seem to kill LaCoine often enough.”
Now Marybell and Martin were inspecting the scarecrow’s gloves which functioned as hands. Martin was just about to open the closed glove, when Beeston stepped in. “Don’t touch it. Let me look at it first.” Beeston bent over and examined the scarecrow’s hand and opened it, prying out a flat circular object. He raised it up and showed it to those gathered around.
“Here’s what he was holding? A 1MB piece.”
The Hudson’s Bay Company developed a form of currency in exchange for furs, thus avoiding a direct bartering system with Natives. When Natives brought in their furs they were given a value for them in ‘made beaver’ (the value of one prime male beaver pelt). If they couldn’t spend all their tokens on trade goods, they kept the remaining tokens to spend at some future time.
“Is it a clue for us?” asked Edward the clerk. “Is the killer leaving a message for us?”
“Perhaps,” sighed a perplexed Beeston. “Or perhaps he or she is misleading us by leaving these clues.” Beeston personally felt all these ‘clues’ were nothing but a smokescreen. And then while everyone was chatting and speculating on what the Made Beaver token meant, Beeston opened the other glove and removed something else, quickly slipping it into his pocket before anyone noticed. But the killer noticed. And smiled inwardly, thinking Beeston would be fooled by what he had found.
“What does it mean, inspector Beeston? It’s obviously a clue. First a holy cross and now a MB token. I can’t figure it out.” Chief Factor Jones looked as puzzled as everyone else by this supposedly new clue.
“I don’t know, Jones. Maybe it’s a clue. But why would the killer try to help us solve the murder? That doesn’t make any sense.” Beeston continued to muse in silence.
Finally Beeston spoke to the gathering. “Let’s clean this up and get LaCoine’s head back with the rest of him.” He looked around for help but the clerk Edward had already disappeared. In anticipation of being asked to help again. ‘Coward’, thought the now smiling Beeston. ‘Doesn’t like to be near the gore with those delicate clerk’s hands of his.’
Beeston went to remove LaCoine’s head from the scarecrow only to find it sewn onto the shirt and coat. He looked closely at the delicate, precise stitching. As if a tailor had done it. Or one of the fort women, many of whom were excellent at sewing and embroidery. Or a surgeon, with very skilled hands, accustomed to such work. And that 1MB token. Who would have access to those tokens other than the clerk and Chief Factor.
Finally he just picked up the scarecrow, head and all, and walked back to the store with it. Jones followed him. The others went back to their cabins or work.
“Can we lock that door tonight, Chief Factor? Obviously the killer is not intent on murdering this man just once.”
“After we’re finished here, Inspector, I’ll lock up. That should keep him safe until we bury his remains.” Jones was about to leave the inspector still thinking about this new turn of events and who might have done it.
Before he could, however, Beeston asked, “Chief Factor, do you have a surgeon or doctor at the fort?”
Jones thought for a moment before answering. “No certified medical doctor, inspector. Our tailor studied medicine before he joined the Company. He often administers medicine and does small medical things when necessary.”
“Thank you, Chief Factor.” ‘Interesting,’ thought Beeston. ‘A tailor who knows medicine. I’ll have to keep an eye on that John fellow. But, what’s his motive? Why would a tailor have reason to do such a thing? Twice.’
For the rest of the day Beeston interviewed the fort personnel. Some in their living quarters. Others while at their assigned tasks around the fort. By the end of the day he was no closer to finding the killer. It was never easy, but sooner or later the murderer would slip up and leave a clue. They always did. It was just a matter of time.
Then he thought about the two objects he’s removed from the body without anyone seeing them. Or, least he thought no one saw them. Two HBC officers’ pewter coat buttons with what appeared to be a beaver design on the face. He chuckled to himself as he looked at the buttons in his hand. ‘Beaver? Look more like pigs to me.’ Another clue? Or diversion? Did LaCoine’s killer put them there? Or perhaps someone else who wanted to implicate a person they disliked? He would check closely who had lost a button.
I received this sterling silver button as a gift after my first stint at the then Provincial Museum of Alberta. With this gift was a little note that went something like this: “This a cast replica of a Hudson’s Bay Company button recovered from the HBC Buckingham House (c.1792-1800), Alberta Canada. The design appears on the central part of the HBC coat of arms. Obviously, the button’s English designer had never seen a beaver; hence, the name “Hudson’s Bay Company ‘pig’ buttons was bestowed upon this charming button.”
…………………….
That night Beeston set up a chair in the dark at the window of one of the cabins nearest to the fur press. He was certain the killer would return. It was now three in the morning and nothing had happened. Beeston needed to pee. As he headed to the privy he heard something behind him. He started to turn. But it was too late. The blow caught him in the back of the head and he went down like a ton of bricks.
The next thing he remembered was someone shaking him. “Beeston, are you alive? Wake up man. Are you OK?” Beeston opened one eye to see a blurry Chief Factor standing over him. His head hurt like hell. Slowly he tried to get up and finally managed to sit.
“I’ll live, Chief Factor. Just a lump on the head.”
“Jesus, what happened, Beeston? Have you been lying here all night?”
“No, just since about three in the morning. I went to the privy and someone came up behind me and smacked me a good one. That’s the last thing I remember. Good thing it’s spring. Or I would have frozen to death.” Beeston was now rubbing himself all over, trying to expel the early spring Edmonton chill of the night from his sore body.
“What were you doing out here at three in the morning, inspector?”
“I was watching the fur press. I had a feeling the killer would return.” Ronald Jones thought about that. ‘Maybe Beeston hit himself on the head to avoid suspicion.’ There was just something a little off about the man.
“Well, you were right about that, Beeston. He, or she, returned. Look over there.”
Beeston turned toward where Jones was pointing. There stapled to the fur press was a figure, dressed in LaCoine’s bloody clothes with a painting of his face for the head. The figure was punctured with about a dozen arrows, looking more like an oversized pin cushion than a man.
Around the figure stood a small crowd of fort workers, whispering among themselves and wondering what this meant. Emily, Marybell and Martin looked rather stricken. James, the blacksmith and Henry the carpenter looked curiously at the arrows. Ted and Marie didn’t know what to think. The killer looked at last night’s handiwork from a distance, before wandering out from behind one of the buildings to join those already gathered.
Beeston walked up to the clothed figure with the painted head, still rubbing the rather large lump on the back of his head. He looked at the painted face which had an uncanny resemblance to LaCoine. Who painted at the fort? Beeston would have to check his notes. Maybe there was a connection there.
He was about to leave when he happened to look down the arm of pincushion man. There tied to the left shirt sleeve was a small peculiar looking tubular bone object with linear incisions on it. Beeston looked closer and then took the object from the sleeve. With his exceptional memory, he turned and casually looked around and finally met the killer’s eyes, watching him.
This bone object with incised lines on it was found at the NWC/HBC Fort Vermilion I site. Its function is a bit of a mystery. We think however, it might have been a Native gaming piece used in the hand gambling game.
Beeston pointed a large, meaty finger at the killer. “You! You did this, didn’t you. I saw this object in your cabin when I interviewed you yesterday. I’ll bet there aren’t many like it in the fort. Where were you last night? The nights before?” Beeston barely finished his sentence when the killer suddenly bolted, bursting through the crowd and running toward the fort gates. With the good Inspector Beeston of the honorable Hudson’s Bay Company in hot pursuit. Beeston, suddenly looking as agile and quick as a deer, had finally found his killer.
…………………
Now, with the information in this story, you should be able to identify the killer.
“…the beaver does everything to perfection…he makes for us kettles, axes, swords, knives, and gives drink and food.” (Seventeenth century Mi’kmaq hunter commenting on the trade. From LeClercq, Chrestien, 1910. New Relation of Gaspesia: With the Customs and Religion of the Gaspesian Indians, William F. Ganong ed. and trans. Toronto: Champlain Society, p, 277)
University of Alberta, 1970
Harry Reed, first year student at the University of Alberta, sat in class listening to his professor drone on about White contact with Indigenous peoples of Canada.
Finally, an impatient Harry raised his hand. “I don’t understand Professor Langdon. It’s obvious, isn’t it? When Whites came, they brought knives, axes, and guns superior to anything Native peoples had. And the Natives readily accepted or traded for them. What’s so complex and threatening about that?
Professor Langdon stared at Harry, as if he had just grown another head. Instead of answering the question, because the class was just finishing, he motioned to Harry.
“Mr. Reed, perhaps a word with you after class.”
Harry, just fresh out of small town Saskatchewan, groaned inwardly. He had already learned in his short time at the U of A whenever a professor felt you needed more instruction, it meant more reading. Endless reading. Hundreds, thousands of pages of reading.
“Mr. Reed, you’re unconvinced with my lecture?”
“Well, Professor Langdon, when you talk about trade for those fur trade articles, you seem to imply there’s more to the story. How does the acquisition of things change peoples’ lives? Their entire culture?”
“I only have one hour to lecture, Mr. Reed. I can’t elaborate as much as I’d like to on certain subjects. So, to better understand this topic I’d like you to do some extra reading.” With that the good professor gave Harry a list of articles to read.
“And start with this one, Mr. Reed. I’m sure you will find most of the answers there.”
With that Professor Langdon left the classroom, and Harry groaning. ‘More reading.’
Harry looked at the title of the first article his professor suggested. Steel Axes for Stone-Age Australians by Lauriston Sharp. Now just how was reading about stone axes and Australian Aborigines supposed to answer his question about White-Indigenous relations in the Canadian fur trade?
Courtesy, The Beaver, Autumn, 1983, Special Issue. An array of articles used in the Canadian fur trade. Just how quickly Indigenous people adopted these articles and abandoned their traditional technologies, is a matter of debate:
“Our supper was made on the tongues of the wild ox, or buffalo, Boiled in my kettle which was the only one in camp.” (Alexander Henry [elder], 1772, among the Blackfoot)
“The Peigan would not, “…kill a beaver or any other fur animal to enable them to purchase an ax or other European utensil….Many families are still destitude of either a kettle or an ax.” (Alexander Henry [younger], 1810, among the Blackfoot)
……………………….
A few days later before his next Anthropology class, Harry read about the Yir Yoront, an Australian stone-age people contacted by White missionaries in the 1930s. Professor Langdon asked him to paraphrase what he learned. And what he learned was quite astonishing:
The Yir Yoront lived at the mouth of the Coleman River, west coast of Cape York Peninsula, in today’s Queensland, northern Australia.
First studied by Anthropologist Lauriston Sharp in the 1930s, the Yir Yoront were relatively isolated. They maintained an independent economy, supporting themselves entirely by means of their old stone age techniques. However, their polished stone axes were being rapidly replaced by steel axes they acquired from European missionaries.
The Yir Yoront traded for stone axes some distance because local stones for making axes were lacking. Its acquisition, and subsequent production (making the handles and binding axe heads to them with local resins) was the domain of the more prominent Yir Yoront men. The axe therefore was the property of the men, although family members could use it. In short the stone axe, a very important tool for Yir Yoront economy, was connected to both gender and age identity in Yir Yoront society. It’s ownership, and who could borrow it, defined age and gender relationships among the people. And just as importantly its manufacture and use was closely tied to the peoples’ history.
The introduction and eventual adoption of steel axes changed these relationships. Women and children now had direct access to axes and men no longer were able to control either ownership or their use. Men in Yir Yoront society lost their distinct identity and gender relationships began to change. Confusion about sex, age and kinship roles emerged, for the sake of more independence by women. Trading partners were either lost or prestige relations between partners changed and leadership roles changed. And the last effect of the introduction of the steel axe was an emerging deep hatred by some Yir Yoront males for Whites.
Sharp concluded that, “The closed system of totemic ideas explaining and categorizing a well–known universe as it was fixed at the beginning of time, presents considerable obstacles to the adoption of new or the dropping of culture traits. The obstacle is not insurmountable and the system allows for the minor variations, which occur, in the normal daily life. But the inception of major changes cannot easily take place.”
Harry finished reading, surprised that the introduction of a simple metal axe had such a profound effect in other parts of Yir Yoront society in a relatively short time. The light bulb was slowly coming on. Still dim but gaining strength. Harry drew up a graphic summary of what he learned.
Confluence of the Boyer and Peace Rivers, Northern Canada, 1801
He was known as the Two-Hearts. A powerful leader among his people, the Dene of northern Canada. One heart was for the love and care of his people. The other for his enemies. Including the Whites who were encroaching on this country. His land, his people.
He stood on the edge of the river valley looking down as the White traders built their new house on his lands. They were back. His steely gaze was filled with disdain for the new arrivals. Around his neck hung a dark stone knife and a green stone axe attached to a leather thong. Both were beautifully crafted and rare. Only the Two Hearts knew where to find the grey banded stone or trade for the green stone axes west in the mountains. Among his people he, and a few other elders, was the keeper of the stones.
Local chert biface or stone knife found in the Fort Vermilion area, Alberta, Canada.
As keeper of the stones, he was powerful and revered among his people. Whoever wanted these beautiful knives or axes had to request them from him.
But his power and control of the stone knives and axes was waning. For years now the White traders brought steel knives and axes to his people.
He worriedly watched the traders build their house. The Two-Hearts faced an impasse. A dilemma of considerable proportions. How to protect his people, his lands, his resources, from these Whites, their gifts and pestilence. And how to prevent his neighbors from acquiring those goods, especially the new steel knives, axes, or firearms, thereby increasing their power and diminishing his. There was no easy solution.
Personally he despised the Whites, and everything they brought with them. But many of his people desired these new things. They could not be dissuaded from acquiring the shiny metal pots, the sharp axes and knives. But everything had its price. And what price would his people pay for those objects? By adopting them, gradually the people were losing knowledge of the old ways.
The Two-Hearts’ nephew stood beside him watching. A beautiful stone knife also hung around his neck, given to him by his uncle. He looked down at his knife, and then enviously at some of the metal daggers hanging on the chests of the other men. Traded from another group of Dene downriver.
“You look anxious, Uncle. This is a good thing. They build in our territory. Now we can trade with them directly.”
“You have much to learn, Nephew. This is not a good thing. It only brings grief and uncertainty.” The Two Hearts continued to watch but said no more.
These metal knives, often referred as ‘hand dags’ were a common trade item. They could be used as knives shown here. Or attached to poles and used as lances/spears. https://www.pinterest.ca/pin/605241637405085074/
………………………
John Blackburn, trader for the newly formed XY Company, stood in what would be the new fort compound, beside the river, glaring up at the group of Dene standing on the valley edge. Then he slowly turned towards one of his men with that same scowl, as if he was little better than the Dene. “What the hell are those heathens staring at, Pierre? They don’t trade. They just watch us and do nothing.”
“That’s one of their principle men, Sir. He seems unhappy about something. But I don’t know what. We gave his people gifts. Steel knives and axes. Still he seems reluctant to trade.”
“Well don’t just stand there, Pierre. Go bring him down. Maybe we can get him drunk and he’ll be more cooperative.” Blackburn’s solution to most problems was alcohol.
As soon as those words left Blackburn’s, Pierre bolted up the hill with his translator in tow. As he came near the Dene, he could see the look in their leader’s eyes resembled those of his boss. Hard, dark and menacing.
Pierre turned to his translator. “Tell him that my leader invites him to the fort to talk. To smoke and drink. Tell him we have much in common and the trade could benefit everyone.”
The Two-Hearts listened to the translator. Then he continued to stare at Blackburn below. A few minutes passed. The silence was beginning to affect an already restless Pierre. This meeting was not going well. He was beginning to feel that his words were going to displease both his boss and this Dene man.
Finally, the Two-Hearts turned toward Pierre and his translator. “Tell your leader I won’t meet with him. Tell him to stop giving my people gifts. Those gifts must be given to me and I will give them to whom I choose. If he does not cooperate, there will be trouble. The kind he shouldn’t be looking for.”
The Two-Hearts turned and walked away with his men. Leaving Pierre sputtering.
“But we come in friendship. We can give you great things. Tools superior to yours…” His words were cut off as the Two-Hearts returned. In his hand was his sharp stone knife, which he pressed up against Pierre’s throat holding him with the other remarkably strong hand.
“You think our tools are not sharp enough that they cannot cut.” With that he pricked the frightened French Canadian in the neck with his knife drawing blood.
“Go back to you leader and show him how sharp my knife is. It cuts quite well.” The Two-Hearts let go of the trembling Pierre who rapidly left, his translator trailing after him, telling him what the Two-Hearts had said. Pierre didn’t need translation. He got the message.
Blackburn watched the incident above and had drawn his musket, ready to shoot. But finally Pierre was loose and running and the Dene were gone.
Pierre stopped in front of Blackburn holding his bleeding neck.
“Well, man, what did he say? From here they didn’t look too pleased. Can’t you negotiate anything, Pierre? You seemed to upset him.”
A trembling Pierre finally managed to stammer out the Two-Hearts’ words to Blackburn. An incredulous Blackburn lost his temper. “He what? He threatened me? How dare he threaten me. That soulless heathen! I trade with whom I want, when I want, how I want.”
Then Blackburn kicked at Pierre almost knocking him to the ground. “You useless French scum. You ruined our trading relations. I will trade with and gift any of these primitives whenever I want. That man can’t tell me what to do.”
………………….
The Two-Hearts’ nephew finally reached camp. His hands were bloodied and raw and he was tired from the long journey. He had traveled with his uncle the last two days searching for the rare stones best for making stone tools. His uncle, who had no children of his own, was passing the knowledge of the stones to him.
Some of his friends saw him stumble into camp. Bear Fang shouted out. “Where have you been Two-Minds? Out searching for pretty rocks again. And making stone knives.” The others nearby chuckled.
Two-Minds was not Two-Hearts’ nephews’ real name. His real name, given to hm in a dream, was Standing Elk. His friends started calling him Two-Minds, because he could not decide whether to follow the traditional ways of the Dene, or the new path of his friends.
Bear Fang wasn’t finished. “Well it looks like whatever you made cuts well enough judging by all the blood on you. Why do you continue this foolishness Two-Minds? We can trade for knives and axes and no longer have to make them.”
“It’s my uncle’s wish that I learn the old ways.”
“Your uncle fights change, Two-Minds. These new things the traders bring give us freedom. Now we can acquire them without the meddling of the elders. Or your uncle.”
Two-Minds listened to his friends. Part of him believed them. But, part of him believed his uncle also. He simply shrugged and walked off toward his lodge.
Behind him the snickering and taunting continued. “Try not to cut yourself, Two-Minds. Perhaps you’re not ready for these sharper steel knives.”
This chert, ideal for stone tool making, is known as Peace Point Chert (named after a large prehistoric archaeological site it was found at, near Peace Point, Alberta, Canada). We believe it sources somewhere along the Boyer River. Because of its unique visual qualities it is easily identified from other local cherts. When found in an archaeological context, it allows us to determine either how far people were trading or moving it from this source.
……………………
Blackburn was good to his word. He traded with any Dene who came to the fort with either meat or furs. He gave lavish gifts to any who would only trade with him. And threatened those who would not.
In the Dene camp, the Two-Heart’s watched his nephew cautiously approaching. “He continues to defy you, Uncle. He trades with others of our people and gifts them lavishly.”
The Two-Hearts didn’t answer, only staring at the camp fire. Finally he spoke. “I had a dream the other night, on how to deal with these Whites. I saw smoke and flames approaching the fort. Smoke everywhere and frightened people who do not understand fire. Its power. Its usefulness.” With those words he got up and strode off into the woods toward the fort where the rivers met.
His nephew looked on. Without another word he casually gathered a few men and followed his uncle. As if knowing what was about to happen.
……………………
Blackburn lay in be in his new house, barely awake as dawn approached. Outside he heard shouting. And then many feet running. Then he smelled it. Smoke. He quickly dressed and rushed out the door, into the new spring morning. All around him he could see the fires. One in particular was moving rapidly towards the fort.
“What the hell is going on, Pierre? Where are all those fires coming from? It’s spring. There’s no lightening this time of year.
Pierre, out of breath from running, barely managed a squawk. “I don’t know, Sir. That one there though could burn us down and kill us if we don’t move. It’s coming right at us and moving fast. I think we should leave, Sir. And fast.”
A worried-looking and suspicious Blackburn considered. Why so many fires in the early spring? It just didn’t feel right. He was about to order his men to pack and move down to the river, when suddenly the winds changed. The large-looking fire heading toward them turned on itself and within a half hour was almost burned out.
Everyone sighed with relief, realizing that they were no longer in danger. As the smoke cleared, Blackburn looked up to the valley edge. And there he was standing with some of his men. Watching.
‘Watching what?,’ thought Blackburn? ‘Watching me die?’
Blackburn cursed at no one in particular. “It’s that barbarian. He set the woods on fire and tried to kill us.” Blackburn removed his musket from his belt and was about to shoot at the Two-Hearts, when Pierre finally grabbed his arm.
“Sir, I don’t think that’s wise. If you shoot at them they will retaliate. They outnumber us and we will surely die.”
But Blackburn was having none of it. Although he did lower his musket. “They tried to burn us down, Pierre. Those fires were set intentionally. Those ruthless heathens. I want answers, Pierre. Go up there and ask him why he did that.”
At Blackburn’s words Pierre turned pale, rubbing the wound on his neck. ‘No, please, not again,’ he thought. “Sir, perhaps you should send up someone else. I didn’t do so well the first time.”
“Get up there you coward, and deal with him,” roared a red-faced Blackburn.
‘Who’s the coward here. Why don’t you go, Blackburn?,’ thought Pierre. Finally, he reluctantly gathered his translator and trudged up the hill toward the waiting Dene.
The Two-Hearts watched Pierre approach, a slightly amused look on his face. Now wearing a bandana around his neck where he had scratched him with his knife. ‘Maybe this time I’ll hack one of his fingers off,’ thought the Two-Hearts. No. Better not. Violence was not the answer.
Finally Pierre and his translator arrived. The fidgety French Canadian turned to his translator. “Ask them why they set the fires and nearly burned us down.” His translator asked Two-Hearts.
The Two-Hearts turned toward his men, laughing. They talked and laughed more. Finally the translator turned to Pierre. “He says that his people always burn in the spring. To freshen the grasses and burn down the undergrowth. This brings more game to the region. He says if he really wanted to burn down your fort he would have set the fires from another direction.” Then his translator hesitated.
“Well, is there more, Jean Baptiste?”
“He asks why you build in the middle of a forest? Why do you not clear the land around the fort of trees. Fires are dangerous.”
Pierre frowned. Blackburn was not going to like that answer. Blackburn thought everything the Dene did was a threat to him. “Tell him my leader thinks it a threat, and you deliberately frighten off the animals so trading your meat will be worth more.”
The Two-Hearts merely laughed as he heard the translator’s words. “Your leader has quite an imagination. Perhaps too much alcohol makes him think these things. Those fires look worse than they really are in the spring. A lot of smoke. They don’t burn hot and the snow still among the trees slows them down. Tell him that perhaps the next time we will set the fires in a different direction. Unless he stops giving out gifts to my people.”
‘Oh, God. I really don’t want to deliver his words to Blackburn,’ thought Pierre. ‘He will only get angry and kick me again.’
Before Pierre could ask any more questions, the Dene turned and left. Pierre felt like going with them. Better than facing Blackburn. That man was becoming insufferable. He did little else except pray and drink. And not always in that order.
Blackburn, arms folded across his chest, was waiting for Pierre to come down the hill. “He told you what? He threatens me again? I will trade with whom I please. For God’s sake Pierre can’t you get anything right.”
“Perhaps Sir we should deal only with him in the trade. That may appease him. And these shenanigans might stop. He is a powerful man, to be respected.”
“I won’t give into that heathen. He deliberately sets fire to the countryside and then tells us this is normal. He threatens us. We must stand firm. And not put up with this nonsense.”
“But, Sir. It’s a small enough gesture. As long as he brings the trade, what does it matter?”
“He only brings us trouble. Nothing else. I prayed last night, looking for guidance. I was told we must oppose him.”
A confused Pierre wondered, ‘Was it the liquor that spoke? Or the Almighty?’
Blackburn sent out a volley of curses and then stomped back to his cabin, slamming the door behind him.
‘Well some progress,’ thought Pierre. ‘No cuts or kicks this time.’ But he had an uneasy feeling that this was not the end of things. They were playing a dangerous game with these people. Blackburn’s arrogance and stupidity might get them killed.
………………….
A gathering of First Nations men near Fort Garry, Manitoba. The man in front of the group is wearing a trade captain’s coat and hat, in recognition for his trading achievements from the traders. He would also receive gifts of tobacco and alcohol which he then distributed among his followers. A Peter Rindisbacher painting.
The summer rolled on. Most of the Canadians from the little fort were hundreds of miles away, paddling their large freight canoes back to Montreal with their furs. In the fall they would return with more trade goods. Blackburn, who usually went with his men, stayed at the fort and continued to defy the Dene leader. He traded and gave out gifts lavishly with his people, in hopes of attracting more trade.
“There. What do think Pierre? I made two of them trading captains. That should solidify trade in furs and meat for us for the rest of the winter.”
Pierre looked on nervously. He knew enough that the men Blackburn had selected were of minor importance among their people. “Sir, by making them leaders you purposely snub one of their principle men. That could cause more confusion and trouble.”
“Oh come now Pierre. They have no organized system of leadership. There’s no harm in this. And now more of them will have our superior metal knives and axes instead of those stone ones. This can only do good Pierre.”
Pierre remained silent. What could he say. Blackburn was not to be crossed with that temper of his. Only recently he had beaten one of the men for some trivial act of insubordination.
Later. ‘Arrogant bastard. I’ll show him. I’ll trade with whomever I want. He can’t stop me.’ Blackburn was half drunk by now, both slurring his words and his thoughts. Why, he had half a mind to walk into the Dene leader’s camp and shoot him. Fortunately the other half of his mind was not as brave. Instead, he poured himself another drink.
……………………..
It was late fall and the northern winter was fast approaching. Before they reached the camp fire, the Two-Hearts’ nephew said in a low voice. “He still defies you, Uncle. He trades with everyone. Your stone knives and beautiful stone axes are no longer sought after as much. The people have new steel knives and axes. They follow those leaders who now trade with the Whites. Your power and authority diminishes.”
The Two-Hearts ignored his nephew as he continued walking towards the camp fire. Once there he looked at those sitting around it but said nothing. Then he sat, silently looking into the camp fire flames. As if the answers to his problems lay in there somewhere. Finally he spoke.
“I had a dream the other night about the Whites. It told me what must be done.” And then the Two-Hearts told those around the fire about his dream. He was a powerful dreamer among his people. He was also a powerful orator and the people became frightened when they heard his words.
One of the more prominent men, and the Two-Hearts’ strongest adversary, stood and spoke. Often challenging him. “These things the Whites bring us are useful and benefit all. You’re just jealous because now you no longer control who gets the knives and axes.”
Two-Hearts’ nephew was holding his breath, knowing what this challenge meant. He saw the darkness cross his uncle’s face.
There was silence around the fire, as the Two-Hearts remained standing. Staring off, it seemed, into a distant future only he could see. The people waited for him to speak.
Then barely in a whisper he began. “For years I have risked my life visiting our neighbors and setting up trading alliances with them. Yes, I do benefit from those visits. But I take the risks, so I deserve most of the rewards.”
“But that’s my point Two-Hearts. It’s all about you. Some of us would like to trade as well. Be our own men and not always be dependent on your goodwill.”
But the Two-Hearts had just begun. “Let me finish. Those trading relations are important for all of you. They are not just about some pretty stone objects or the red paint I trade with them. Remember that bad winter a few years ago when the snows were deeper than usual and game was hard to find in our territory. Our neighbors to the west kindly allowed us to hunt on their lands. How do you think that happened, Running Otter?”
Many around the fire nodded in agreement. That had been a bad winter. If it weren’t for their neighbors they would have suffered terribly. Even died in the unforgiving northern winters.
The Two-Hearts continued to speak. Again everyone was silent. “Also remember not so long ago, our neighbors to the south became not so neighborly. And violence between us almost broke out. How do you think bloodshed was prevented, Running Otter?”
Again there was murmuring around the fire and heads were nodding. The people remembered. It was the Two-Hearts’ gift-giving and veiled threats that his allies to the west might intervene in the dispute, that prevented further violence.
“If I and a few others are not allowed to control the trade, then these alliances will fall apart. And our people will suffer. In these matters I must lead and you must follow, Running Otter. Your skills as a great hunter and our hunt leader are admirable and I always follow you on the hunt. But I am the keeper of the stones and trade. I must control those, or we are doomed.”
Running Otter reluctantly nodded in agreement. As did many others around the fire.
The Two-Hearts looked solemnly at his people. “And has it dawned on any of you what would happen if these traders move past our territories further upriver and start trading with our sometimes not so friendly allies. Arming them with muskets.” There were gasps among the people. No one had really thought of that.
“We must control the trade and where these Whites can build. Or we face even greater problems in the future.” Finally the Two-Hearts sat down. He had made his point.
Two-Hearts’ nephew sat in silence, shocked. What his uncle said made a lot of sense. He looked down at his stone knife hanging on his chest. A little more proud of it now than a few moments ago. Some of his friends were looking at him with slightly more respect.
Later when everyone had left, Standing Elk spoke. “But, Uncle, if we do what you propose they could starve.” He listened incredulously as the Two-Hearts spoke.
“They don’t listen. They threaten our way of life. Our beliefs. Belittle our leaders. Get our people drunk to take advantage of them in the trade. Trade should be an honorable undertaking. These Whites are not honorable. Especially that evil leader of theirs. Did you notice even his men don’t like him. They fear him. There’s no honor in that man. He must learn a hard lesson.”
“As you wish, Uncle. Some say he prays to a God like you, Uncle. For guidance. And sees things to lead him on the right path. Our people talk. He wears a special symbol around his neck that he prays to. The people wonder if it might be more powerful than your dreams.”
The Two-Hearts merely chuckled. “I think his God mocks him. If he tells him to hoard his wealth, scorn others, and respect no one. Surely that is not what his God is telling him. That is what his black heart is telling him.”
Standing Elk looked at his uncle. This time in a different light. All he gained in trade, he gave away to his people. He followed when he felt it was not his place to lead. He respected those in the band with knowledge he did not have. Many of these things were changing among the people.
“I have noticed changes among our people, Uncle. Some of them are not good. Before we had hunt leaders. Men who knew the hunt path. Now everyone can be one making a terrible racket with those muskets, driving off the animals. It becomes harder and harder to find game. These Whites require so much meat. Our game animals dwindle.”
His uncle sighed. “Yes, we trade ourselves to starvation. Tomorrow we will carry out our plan. The snows will soon come.” The Two-Hearts seemed to be talking almost to himself, as if in a dream. But his nephew knew. Soon it would begin.
…………………..
“…the greatest philosophers, as they never give themselves the trouble to acquire what they can do well enough without.” (Samuel Hearne among the Denesuline (Chipewyan), c.1771, and their attitude towards European trade goods)
Pierre stumbled into Blackburn’s cabin, coughing and hacking, only to find him sitting by the fire, drink in hand, eyes barely open.
“They’re at it again, Sir. The entire country around us burns for miles. All the winter meadows have been fired. It will be hard to find game nearby.”
Blackburn sat up, suddenly somewhat sobered by Pierre’s words. “It’s that damned leader of theirs, isn’t it? He’s at it again. That scoundrel! Thank God we have good hunters. Even if the game is further away, we should still manage.” Blackburn took another drink, satisfied that the problem was solved.
Pierre didn’t move. Blackburn finally looked at Pierre, only to see the young French Canadian turning somewhat pale in the late afternoon light. “Well, what is it, man? What else is wrong?”
Pierre stood near the cabin door as if his next words might require a rapid exit. “Well, Sir, it seems our fort hunters have disappeared. We don’t know where they’ve gone.”
Now the wobbling, crimson-faced Blackburn was started shouting. “What do you mean they’ve left, Pierre? We hired them for the winter to supply us with game. They just can’t leave. Without my permission.” Blackburn stared at Pierre, waiting for some sort of answer that would remedy this problem.
“It seems, Sir, the entire band has moved further west up the river. Their leader convinced them to follow him. There won’t be much game here this winter and none of the Dene will hunt for us.”
“We treated those devils well enough, Pierre. What else do they want?”
“Apparently their leader feels slighted by you, Sir. It might have been better to respect him and trade through him, Sir.”
Blackburn took a chair and threw it at Pierre. “Get the hell out of here you idiot. Don’t you dare tell me what we didn’t do right. I don’t respect those savages, especially their leader. Tell the men, that they must hunt this winter. It shouldn’t be that difficult. If those savages can do it.”
Pierre left. Rather rapidly before another chair came flying his way. Not just his head was shaking. Blackburn did not know the half of it. This half-wit leader of theirs thought hunting was easy? Just moving around in the northern winters was hard enough. They were about to die. And all Blackburn did was sit there and drink and rage. And pray to a God for guidance, whom Pierre felt, he was not listening to.
………………….
It was nearly the end of February. The north was freezing cold, the temperatures sometimes so unbearable to even go outside. Blackburn woke up in his cabin. He could see his breath in the dawn light in the cold room. The cabin’s fires had burned down to embers giving off little heat.
As he tried waking up, he sensed something was wrong. There was an eery silence outside this morning. By now, he should have heard more noise as his men awoke and the little fort came to life.
‘God I’m hungry. I could eat my boots right now,’ thought Blackburn. He and his men hadn’t seen any fresh meat for weeks and were down to their last rations. The hunting had been poor and his men really didn’t know how to find the game without the help of the Dene.
‘Why is it so quiet out there? What are those lazy men of mine doing?’
Now fully awake Blackburn rushed out the cabin door only to be greeted by a low rustling of the trees as a slight breeze blew through them. And bitter cold. He saw no one. He heard no one.
“Hello. Anybody hear me? Where are you, you lazy scoundrels? This is no time for tricks.” Nothing.
A frightened Blackburn started running from cabin to cabin frantically searching for his men. They were gone. Not a single man to be found anywhere in the fort. Even the sled dogs were gone.
He rushed into Pierre’s cabin. There on the table was a letter peeking out from under a few beaver parchment skins.
Dear Sir,
We begged you to leave this place before we all perished. But you obviously had other ideas about our welfare. So we decided to leave for Fort Chipewyan before disaster befell us.
We have taken most of the green beaver parchments which we now eat to stay alive. We have left you some on the table. They are best boiled then chewed thoroughly before swallowing.
Pierre La France
An enraged Blackburn crumpled up the letter and threw it at the wall.
He rushed out the door into the fort courtyard, screaming. “You cowards. You worthless scum….” Blackburn suddenly stopped screaming as he noticed movement on the ridge above the fort. There in the distance he thought he saw people. A chill, even colder than this northern morning, ran through him. The Dene were watching. He was all alone. Perhaps best not to scream too loudly lest the wrong people hear him. He was about to turn when he saw the Dene leader raise his stone knife in his hand, as if saluting him. Blackburn quickly hurried back into his cabin, shutting the door to keep out the cold. And the reality of his situation.
The Two-Hearts watched the fort. He had seen Blackburn’s men leave. He saw the helpless Blackburn screaming his lungs out in anger. Would this lesson be enough? For now, perhaps. But this was not the end. Only the beginning of a long struggle his people faced. He turned and left an enraged Blackburn preparing his parchment skin breakfast.
……………………..
It was a hot, dry summer. They ran for their very lives. Through the bush and down the trails until they reached the river, and crossed. To safety from the raging fire. They had left everything behind in their hunting camp. Occasionally the fires in the northern forests obeyed no one, only the laws of Nature.
“We’ve lost everything. Not even a knife among us. We are a many days travel away from our people. And the traders have left.” Bear Fang, their young hunt leader looked rather frightened and forlorn as he spoke of their plight. The group of young Dene hunters stood soaked on the river bank, realizing all too well what could happen.
Standing Elk, also with the hunters, strode towards the river edge and started searching. Then he picked up some stones and was soon banging away, fashioning something from them. The others walked over and looked. Finally Bear Fang asked, “What are you doing Two-Minds? This is hardly a good time to be playing with rocks. We are in trouble.”
Standing Elk looked up and simply said. “I’m making a stone knife, Bear Fang. Without knives we can’t do much of anything. You all need to make a knife so we can fashion other weapons. Soon. Or we will die.”
The others looked nervously on. Then, at one another. “But Two-Minds, we don’t know how to make stone knives. We didn’t need to know since we got our metal knives. Our fathers or mothers didn’t teach us.”
“There’s always a need to know, Bear Fang. Here I’ll show you how it’s done.”
…………………………..
“Of what use to us are the skins of beavers, wolves, and foxes? Yet it is for these we get guns and axes.”
(First Nations leader Kootenae Appee talking about trade. From David Thompson’s Journals, c.1809. 1971. Travels in Western North America, 1784-1812, edited by Victor G. Hopwood, p.269. Macmillan of Canada, Toronto).
EndNote:
Although a work of historical fiction, parts of this story are based on historic facts.
The Yir Yoront are real and so is Anthropologist Lauriston Sharp. Her study has become a classic piece of anthropological fieldwork still used today. Here is the link for those of you who are interested: http://web.mnstate.edu/robertsb/380/steelAxes.pdf.
At the time of contact First Nations people throughout the Americas had well-established trade networks. Trade, therefore, was not something foreign brought by Whites. In prehistory there is little evidence of these networks except for the most durable items. Rocks, such as nephrite from British Columbia found their way along the Peace River as far as the current community of Fort Vermilion. And perhaps further. Other exotic rocks, from other areas of Canada and the United States, are present in Alberta prehistoric assemblages.
The study of culture contact is difficult and controversial. And often emotionally and politically charged. As the historic quotes used in this story show, the fur trade documentary evidence, mainly compiled by Whites, is conflicting and contradictory. If you search the historic documents long enough you can support just about any argument you choose – Indigenous people welcomed the trade, despised the trade, or were indifferent about it. And attempts at understanding how contact and trade affected various parts of Indigenous society are even more difficult. We do not have the advantage Lauriston Sharp had, of being there to carefully document it.
We also cannot generalize from the Yir Yoront example and assume it was similar everywhere in the world. We do know that trade and contact between North American Indigenous peoples and Whites occurred. Precisely how and with what intensity it affected traditional ways is often very difficult to document. White traders made trade captains of people who brought in the most furs, often unknowingly (or knowingly) undermining traditional Indigenous politics and social relations. European goods eventually replaced traditional goods and technologies. But how quickly and at what rate is difficult to ascertain. Some of these material things likely had little impact on people, being simply incorporated into traditional ways. Others, like the horse, firearms, alcohol, and disease, had profound impacts on Indigenous culture.
The Boyer River, Fort Vermilion region, was one of the first areas along the Peace River to be occupied by fur traders. That trade between the local Dene population and the different Companies was not always smooth, is understatement. And certainly, trade was not always welcomed by everyone in the Native community, or carried out fairly by the White traders. There was lots of politics involved on both sides and almost outright violence when Companies did not listen to the local Dunne za. The HBC’s Thomas Swain’s remarks, in 1802, about the turmoil caused when the XY Company tried moving up the Peace River is telling:
“Mr. Leith and his Canoes was obliged to return down the River again as the Natives this Morning told them if they offered to go up the River they would kill them. Their reason was owing to some disorder that came amongst these Country people this summer which killed 10 of them, and they said it was the New Co. [XY Company] that brought bad medicines amongst them which was the occasion of the deaths.” (from the Journal of Thomas Swain, October 6, 1802, HBCA B224/a/1; brackets mine)
North West Company policies towards First Nations people were often brutal. They threatened and bullied the people if they did not trade. The HBC’s Thomas Swain’s Native hunters abandoned him, forcing him and his men to eat the green beaver parchment skins to stay alive. The rival NWC had a lot to do with their predicament, and either drove off his Native hunters, or bribed them to not work for the HBC.
The superiority of one article or technology over others is the single-most used explanation for the acquisition of European goods in the Americas by Indigenous people, and elsewhere. In some ways steel knives and axes were better than Indigenous equivalents. But, there was always a trade-off. Abandonment of traditional technologies assumed constant supply of European goods. That was not always the case. What happened when your musket broke or you ran out of ammunition, and at early contact your source of repairs or supplies was thousands of miles away? As a mobile hunter-gathering society just how much material culture could you carry around without changing transportation methods?
Years ago I had a photograph of an Inuit hunter on his snowmobile heading out onto the ice pack to hunt. Behind the snowmobile he pulled a sled with his sled dogs in it. I can’t find the original so the one below will have to do. The message the image depicts is clear. Rapid abandonment of traditional technologies was not wise. Best to always have a back-up plan. You can always return to camp with your dogs if the snowmobile breaks down. Or, if worse comes to worse, you can eat the dogs to survive. Not snowmobile parts which are even less nutritious than those green parchment skins the traders were forced to eat.
