My wife and I, like many Canadians, own a pet. Well, pets actually. Four cats, three dogs and a horse. Two of our four cats come from animal shelters; the other two were strays. My wife, Gabriella, likes to collect them. Our cats, and my aging three English Springer Spaniels (I like to collect them) cost a lot of money for care. (Above photograph, front to back: Laser, Keagan, Ceili, and Pepsi; We re-homed Keagan.)
Canadians love their pets. Over fifty percent of Canadian households own at least one pet. We spend nearly seven billion dollars annually on our pets.
But when it comes to the proper care of pets, there’s often a downside. It’s the cost of providing for them. When does it become just too costly to own one? And do the benefits of owning one outweigh those costs?
Gabriella with Bandit. Adequate food, regular hoof trimming, fencing and shelter, and the occasional medications have kept this guy healthy for thirty years.
Pets and Your Well-Being
I couldn’t agree more with a recent post in Reader’s Digest, on the benefits of owning a pet. They’re great companions in a sometimes lonely world. They help increase our activity levels, and reduce our stress levels in a sometimes all too stressful world.
Dogs can also detect early signs of cancer. Pets help reduce heart disease. Having dogs or cats around your kids will decrease their sensitivity to allergies. And perhaps build some compassion for the animal world out there. Pets also help ease our pain when we’re sick and keep our brains sharp. This last benefit caught my aging eye (that’s why I own three dogs).
The Cost of Pet Ownership
But are those cuddly fur balls worth doling out nearly seven billion dollars a year in Canada? As Canadians, have we taken the pet thing too far? Well, if we have, we’re not alone. Most of the more prosperous countries in the world are either close behind, or ahead of us, when it comes to spending on pets:
Country
Amount Spent on Pets/year (billions of dollars)
Percent Households with Pets
Amount Spent by Person/Year
Amount Spent by Household/Year
Canada
6.6
38
$175
$1,234.4
USA
70
39
$213.3
$1,402.2
UK
5
41
$74
$424.9
Australia
12.2
42
$610
$3,458
We’re not the leaders, when compared to these three countries, on how much we spend on our pets. According to international statistics, Norway spends the most per capita on pets than any other country.
Poly, our six-toed wonder. She wandered onto our property. Dwarfed size because of early health issues. Enlarged heart and hip issues (probably from being hit by a car). Life expectancy – months.
Health Costs for Pets in Canada
In Canada the average amount spent on either a puppy or kitten during its first year of life is $710.00 and $621.00 respectively. But that’s only the beginning.
Then comes care and the medical bills. Here are parts of a table from the Canadian Veterinary Journal, March, 2016. It lists the fees for a few basic veterinary procedures across Canada:
Treatment
NFL
PEI
NB
NS
QC
ON
MB
SK
AB
BC
Companion animal examination
$66.11
$68.13
$84.03
$84.21
$63.67
$74.67
$73.51
$71.79
$62.59
$70.13
Canine examination and vaccines
$106.17
$110.62
$123.33
$111.29
$136.57
$110.02
$115.34
$101.72
$95.87
$109.39
Feline ovariohysterectomy
$309.12
$227.68
$270.99
$264.49
$191.00
$327.49
$249.13
$232.47
$242.99
$234.38
Average cost of living adjusted fee for bellwether companion and large animal treatments in 2015.
Even when adjusted to average cost of living in each province, these veterinarian fees are highly variable across the Country. But what caught my eye was how this variability then justified raising treatment fees:
“In an economically ideal situation, once the cost-of-living adjustment is applied, each treatment should have a very similar, if not identical, average fee in all provinces. For provinces that are lagging their neighbors, this investigation can serve as evidence for those veterinarians that there is indeed room to increase their fees.”
Interesting. The authors, instead of suggesting that veterinarians in some provinces might consider lowering their fees, they suggest raising fees instead.
Pepsi. Eleven year old springer spaniel. Recently, growth on toe removed. Teeth cleaned and worn teeth removed.
Should Veterinary Costs Be Regulated?
Is it time to starting thinking about regulating and standardizing fees in the veterinary industry in Canada? Is it even legally possible?
These median wages for veterinarians, in my opinion, don’t seem out of line. Given what these people have to deal with on a daily basis, and the service they provide. This would suggest that overhead costs are mainly responsible for the high cost of veterinary care.
I tinkered some more with these numbers. I compared the median wages of veterinarians to the sum-average costs of the procedures mentioned above for each province. The correlation was very poor. In other words, higher median wages aren’t related to higher cost of procedures.
Then I made the same comparison between the highest mean wages per province to the mean costs of the procedures in each province. The results were a little surprising:
With the exception of Ontario, there is a weak inverse relationship between average cost of procedure and veterinarians’ wages. In other words, the provinces with some of the highest veterinary wages had the lowest costs for procedures. Keep in mind, the number of plot points is small (data not available for all provinces).
Occasionally there’s an outcry in the media and the public about the high costs of veterinary services. Many of us assume that the reason for those high costs are veterinarians’ high salaries. Check out this post by Dr. Debora Lichtenberg, VMD. There’s anger on both sides of the debate. But, it certainly isn’t exorbitant wages that are driving up those costs in Canada.
So, when one of my dogs or cats gets really sick and I have to fork out a lot of money, what’s really to blame? In one year alone, I spent nearly five-thousand dollars on my thirteen year old springier spaniel, Ceili. And I have two more aging dogs to go. That’s a lot of money to spend to keep my mind ‘sharp’! (I’m debating whether it’s even working.)
Like our human health care system in Canada, veterinarians have a lot of bills to pay. It’s likely the high overhead (rent, cost of equipment and procedures, staff, etc.) that’s driving up those costs for pet owners.
Laser. Twelve year old springer spaniel. In the last year, neutered, teeth cleaned and surgery to remove worn and broken teeth.
Operating a Dog Pound in Canada
Our dog boarding and pound facility near Leduc, Alberta.
Does the high cost of keeping an animal lead to more abandonment of animals in Canada? Because their owners couldn’t keep up with the bills? Part of the answer lies in the many shelters where these animals end up.
My wife and I ran a dog boarding business (Blackgold Kennels) near Leduc, Alberta for about ten years. We also operated the local pound for the County of Leduc, City of Leduc, and nearby Beaumont. It was a great experience but also a bit of a reality check.
What we saw in those ten years was occasionally quite horrifying and heart-breaking. And, when an owner picked up their lost pet, or we re-homed an abandoned animal, there was a short period of satisfaction. At least until the next lost or abandoned animal arrived.
The number of owners who reclaimed their pets was on average about sixty-percent for dogs and less than twenty-percent for cats (we have yet to come up with an adequate explanation for the differences in the reclaim rates of these two animals).
For ten years we fought a mini-war trying to re-home or adopt out the abandoned animals in our shelter. Instead of euthanizing them. Fortunately, we teamed up with a number of great dog and cat rescue groups and managed to save most of the ones not reclaimed.
Smoky’s story. Abandoned in our pound in c.2014. We kept him as a kennel cat for four years. Then he was re-homed twice and eventually returned to the pet rescue group. So, Smoky became our number four.
But the reality is that tens of thousands of sound animals are euthanized every year in Canada. Here are some sobering statistics from SPCA organizations in Canada and a few other countries:
Country
Total Animals Sheltered per Year
% Animals Surrendered per Capita
Reclaimed (Percent)
Re-homed (Percent)
Euthanized (Percent)
Canada
110,000
0.29
11
58
14
USA
6,500,000
0.20
11
49
23
Australia
124,146
0.62
7.2
40
12.9
UK
102,900
0.15
—
40
—
Germany
15,000
0.02
—
90+
—
Some national statistics on numbers of animals sheltered, reclaimed, re-homed and euthanized in SPCA facilities of four other countries. Statistics are from the last two – three years. Canada ranks right up there with animals re-homed, and a relatively low percentage euthanized. From what I’ve been able to determine, Germany has one of the best animal protection and care systems in the world. And one of the worst Countries, where over 82% of animals ending up in shelters were euthanized. Japan. According to this article, “More than 204,000 pets — 82 percent of the total taken into public “animal shelters” that year — were euthanized in 2010, according to the latest available government figures. Just under 52,000 of these animals were dogs; the majority were cats.”
Here’s how our pound stacked up the National and International numbers:
Clearly, we were ahead of the curve in many categories. But it took an almost herculean effort to accomplish this. In the process we managed to convince one of our clients that it was in their best interests to promote their shelter as a ‘zero-kill’ facility.
Were we the norm when it comes to other animal shelters across the country (aside from the SPCA)? We wish it was. We believe not. And the reason for thinking so is the wording and interpretation of various provincial animal protection acts.
Do the SPCA Figures Represent the True Reality of Abandoned Pets in Canada?
Keep in mind that the SPCA represents only a small fraction of shelters taking in animals across the country. Every town, City and local municipality, much like our facility, has their own shelter to deal with abandoned animals. And there are many animal rescue groups working out there as well. This means that the total number of dogs and cats abandoned across Canada is essentially unknown. And what’s done with those animals is also mostly a mystery.
All those shelters and pounds operate under provincial government legislation guidelines regarding the care and protection of domestic animals. Once the animal is brought to our facility, then what? Here’s where things get a little murky and are open to interpretation. For example, under Section Eight of the Alberta Animal Protection Act:
“Destruction of animal 8. A humane society, in respect of an animal that has been delivered to it,or a peace officer, in respect of an animal that has been delivered to a caretaker, may destroy the animal or cause the animal to be destroyed if it has not been claimed by its owner and in the opinion of the humane society or peace officer, as the case may be, the animal is not suitable to be sold or given away in accordance with section 7.”
The exact intent of this clause is rarely followed in Alberta. It clearly states that if an animal is not claimed by its owner and “is not suitable to be sold or given away…”, it can be destroyed within a certain number of days. In Alberta, this last part of this clause is mostly ignored. After a certain number of days, if the owner is not found, the animal is destroyed. When we first started the pound, that was generally the method of operation one of our clients had previously adopted. Little effort was made to re-home animals who, for the most part, were once peoples’ loving pets. Most certainly were quite ‘suitable’ to be sold or given away.
Wording in the Animal Protection Acts of other provinces are relatively similar to ours. This clause should be rewritten emphasizing re-homing first: “every effort should be made to sell or give away a suitable animal, before it can be destroyed.”
The truth of the matter is no one really knows what other towns, cities and municipalities in the country are doing with abandoned animals. Hopefully it’s not along the lines of what a former Alberta premier once said when faced with mad cow disease in the province: ‘Shoot, Shovel, and Shut-up.’
Why Do People Abandon Their Pets?
I read an interesting article by Lisa Towell who lists five reasons people abandon their animals. They range from having to move, to allergies, or a new landlord that doesn’t allow pets. There are also those troublesome behavioral problems (aggression, cleanliness, etc.).
However, in a recent article in the Dodo, according to a major study in the US, a major reason for pet abandonment:
” A major reason? Economics….But, if there is a villain in all of this, the study suggests, it’s economics. According to the study, people with income below $50,000 were significantly more likely to re-home due to cost and housing issues.”
Is the major culprit for pet abandonment also economics in Canada? I don’t know. I’m not aware of any similar Canadian studies to the one conducted by the ASPCA (American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals).
Ceili. My thirteen-year old springer. In the last year, spayed, recent kidney infection requiring considerable blood work, ex-rays, ultrasound, and medication. Was near death but pulled through.
Another Possible Reason for Low Pet Reclaim Rates in Canada
We found one contributing culprit that potentially leads to abandonment. No proper I.D. on the animal. And when it did have a tattoo or micro-chip, often the owner’s personal information (address and phone number) was out of date.
Please I.D. your animals properly and keep your personal information up to date if you move or change phone numbers. You’re protecting your pet by doing so.
After our animal pound experience, we feel it should be law to have every animal properly I.D.’d. Thousands more animals would be reclaimed. And the cost of dealing with lost or abandoned animals would decrease.
Any Good News?
In Canada’s 2018 SPCA annual report, over 80,000 cats and approximately 30,000 dogs were sheltered. A lot of animals are still being abandoned, that we know of. Even more that we don’t know of. But here’s the good news. Over the last decade these figures have steadily dropped:
Are they also dropping in the many local pounds across the country? There’s no way of telling. The only thing we noticed over the years was a slow change in attitude and perhaps more care for animals. Also, more pets have proper I.D’s. What about the ones that still enter a pound or shelter? Over the years we noticed it was becoming more popular to say to your general public that you are a zero-kill facility. Meaning, every effort is made to try first to re-home abandoned animals, before destroying them. Hopefully that attitude has caught on across Canada.
Life with Our Pets
Visiting outside Lac La Biche Post. Dogs were an integral part of Canadian life in the nineteenth century. In some parts of Canada, they were more important than horses as a means of travel or moving goods in the winter. (Painting by Frederick Remington, courtesy Glenbow Archives)
Humanity’s relationship with animals goes back tens of thousands of years. Horses and dogs, for example, played invaluable roles in Canadians society.
Over the last one-hundred years, our relationship with animals has gradually changed. They are no longer primarily work animals. They are our loved companions, who bring a lot of joy and completeness to our lives. The cost of keeping them, however, continues to grow. In fairness, so does the quality of health care for them.
Should it be the right of every Canadian to enjoy a pet if they choose, regardless of their income level? Perhaps. But that may no longer be possible. The high cost of owning and caring for an animal is no longer within financial reach of many Canadians.
If this current trend continues, in the future will we see history repeat itself? Will ownership of pets will be solely for a select few in society with the means to properly care for them? Is pet insurance the new future for Canadian pet owners? Or will many Canadians be forced to make some very hard ethical decisions about where to draw the line with the cost of caring for their pets?
…………………….
To end on the lighter side of pet ownership. A friend of mine recently just sent me this cartoon.
The grave of John Rowand (1787 – 1854), renowned fur trader and Chief Factor of the Hudson’s Bay Company Fort Edmonton.
In 1854, John Rowand, Chief Factor, Fort Edmonton, while trying to break up a fight among the men at Fort Pitt, suddenly clutched his chest and fell over, dead. Probably from a heart attack. But, we’ll never know for certain.
John Rowand, Chief Factor of the HBC Fort Edmonton, was sixty-seven when he died. Only a few years younger than the average life of a fur trader.
The Things That Eventually Kill Us
Researchers currently list nine major factors that affect human longevity: Gender, genetics, prenatal and childhood conditions, education, socio-economic status, marital status, ethnicity, lifestyle (diet, exercise, tobacco use, excessive alcohol consumption, etc.), and medical technology.
In my last post, I examined the dietary habits of 18th and 19th century fur trade employees in western Canada. Many Company men and women ate a heavy meat protein and fat diet. I ended my post asking: How did a diet rich in animal protein and fat affect the health and well-being of Company employees? Without detailed medical records, there really is only one way to investigate this question. I examined how long these people lived compared to the rest of Canadians. Or, among their peers who might have eaten a different diet.
Many of the above factors also dictated how long people lived in the fur trade. But it is not possible to research all of them. Among the easiest to investigate are: 1) socio-economic status (Company officers versus laborers); 2) ethnicity (English/Scottish, French Canadians, Metis/Native); and, 3) other lifestyle factors (diet, alcohol and tobacco consumption, degree of physical labor, etc.). I examine a few of these factors here with the available fur trade records.
Fur trade company employees differed in many ways, including their status (officers versus laborers), ethnicity (Indigenous, French Canadian, Orkney, etc.), degree and type of physical labor, and other lifestyle differences (including diet). The above painting and sketch depicts many of these differences. Officers were mostly of English/Scottish descent, were the best educated, ate the best and most foods, and did the least physical labor. Fort laborers were poorly educated, of mixed ethnic descent (French Canadian, Indigenous, Orkney, etc.) and did the hardest physical labor. (Upper left image, painting by Rex Woods for the Hudson’s Bay Company; lower right image, National Archives of Canada, C-2771)
The Hudson’s Bay Company Archives (HBCA): Employee Records
We face many problems when researching immediate cause of death, or its more remote, major underlying causes, in 18th and 19th century Canada. First, there is the unreliability and absence of records and diagnosis of patients. So, for example, when I ask how a meat fat-protein rich diet in the fur trade may have affected human health, there are few ways to answer this question. It’s hard enough to answer in present-day society, let alone two-hundred years ago.
However, if lifestyle, inequality, ethnicity, or even place of work, were detrimental to the health of fur trade employees they may show up in their mortality rates, or age of death. But, where do we find these types of data?
Fortunately, the Hudson’s Bay Company Archives in Winnipeg, Manitoba contain a list of former employees. It often includes their ethnic background, birth and death dates, dates and years of service, position, post and fur trade district they worked in.
Example of Hudson’s Bay Company Archives lists of former employees, often (but not always) including their dates of birth and death. Example of my HBCA data base. I selected employees with last names starting with A, B, and C. In some cases, when I needed a larger sample of certain type of data, I continued investigating the records further, beyond the letter C.
From the HBCA data base, I compiled a list of ninety-one men, with known birth and death dates, who worked in various regions and time periods. Sometimes the list also described their positions (e.g., officer, clerk, laborer), ethnic origins (English, Scottish, French Canadian, Metis, and Native, etc.) and years of service.
Unfortunately these data have their limitations. Many records don’t contain birth or death dates. Occasionally place of birth or ethnic background is not recorded. I included the Columbia District employees, although they likely had a different lifestyle than employees living further inland. I also included employees working at York Factory/Eastmain and Red River. Both areas and their forts would have been regularly supplied by ships from England or had well established agriculture by the early 19th century (Red River).
I only have data for men. While many women lived and worked at the Company posts, they were not officially recognized as Company employees. However, in almost every human population where statistics are available, women on average live longer than men. Finally, most of the HBCA records list no cause of death. So, I really can’t directly connect death to diet (heart disease leading to a heart attack) or tobacco consumption (lung cancer).
And until recently I didn’t have any basis for comparison of these mean ages of death to people in eastern Canada, or populations from other parts of the world. But that changed when I found a great data base on human mortality and life expectancy. It’s called Our World In Data. Check it out. I will use it here to compare to our fur trade mortality rates to Canada and the rest of the world.
What was the Average Age of Death of Fur Trade Employees?
The average age of death of the employees I sampled is an incredible seventy years (ranging between 1705 – 1963). The youngest man died at age thirty-five; the oldest at age ninety-nine. Let’s put that into a global perspective. Life expectancy at birth at the beginning of the 19th century in the Americas, was approximately thirty-five years. In the rest of the world it was less than thirty years. The chart below shows life expectancy of various countries and the world through time.
This chart comes from courtesy of Our World in Data. First, some definitions. Life expectancy means the length of time that a human being is expected to live (based on statistics). For those of you interested in knowing how life expectancy is calculated, go to this page. Mortality refers to the death of large numbers of people. Mean age of death refers to the average age of death of a population (or sub-group) at any given time or place.
However, this chart gives the life expectancy of people at birth. So, these data are really not directly comparable to our fur trade data. Instead, we have to make a comparison of life expectancy at a certain age. All the statistics show that as you get older your life expectancy increases. For example, in 1850 life expectancy in Wales and England was around forty years at birth. If you reached the age of twenty, then your life expectancy was sixty. And at forty, you would be expected to live to sixty-seven years. Through time these figures all increase, as the chart below shows.
Unfortunately these data aren’t available for Canada. At least that I’m aware of. But they probably follow the English and Welsh data relatively closely. In the fur trade most Company employees were approximately the age of twenty or older when they entered the Company’s service. In Wales or England, during the 1840s, a person reaching twenty years of age could expect to live to age sixty. Our fur trade employees are living an average of seventy years.
Let’s look at the data another way. The chart below shows the percent of people who reach successive ages through time. So, for example, in 1850 approximately forty percent of the Welsh or English population reached the age of sixty. And only ten percent reached the age of eighty.
This chart comes from courtesy of Our World in Data. Keep in mind that these estimates include men and women. They would be somewhat lower for men only.
The men in the Canadian fur trade far surpassed these figures. Below is a breakdown of the percent of men reaching certain percentages.
This chart comes from courtesy of Our World in Data. The yellow line represents my fur trade data.
In the Canadian fur trade sample there is one death (drowning) listed under forty years of age recorded. (Remember, this is a sample. If I examined every record, more men likely died under the age of forty; but the sample data suggests, very few.) Over seventy percent of the men reached an age of sixty years. Twenty-four percent reach eighty, while nine percent reach the age of ninety or over. Quite remarkable, considering the living and working conditions and the somewhat high protein and fat diets of many of these people.
Is There a Difference in Life Expectancy Between the Officers and Laborers?
In my last post, I noted that the officers: 1) received more meat and fat rations; 2) were of different ethnic backgrounds; and, 3) did less physical work, than the laborers. Therefore, any/all of these factors (diet, type and degree of physical labor, and ethnicity) might account for possible differences in mean age of death.
Although this chart shows an approximately one year difference of mean age of death of the two groups, the difference is not statistically significant.
There is virtually no difference (statistically speaking) in the age of death of these two groups. None of the factors listed above was influential in shortening, or prolonging, the life of each group.
In this chart I calculated how many officers and laborers reach the age of sixty-five and over.
However, as the above chart shows, more officers are living at ages sixty-five and over than the laborer group. However, whatever is causing this difference, high meat protein and fat diet isn’t a significant factor in age of death. If it was, more laborers than officers would have lived over sixty-five years of age (because the officers consumed more meat protein and fat than laborers).
How Well did Company Employees Fare in Respective Fur Trade Districts?
The major fur trade districts of the Hudson’s Bay Company, c.1830. Borders and names occasionally changed over the years. Image from Richard Somerset Mackie. “Trading Beyond the Mountains: The British Fur Trade on the Pacific, 1793-1843. ” (Vancouver: UBC Press, 1997)
Company employees were often unwilling to work at the northern posts because of the extreme hardships they faced. Such as the Athabasca or Peace River Districts which takes up most of northern Alberta. Or the even further northern Mackenzie District in the Northwest Territories.
In the words of Chief Factor John Lee Lewes, at Fort Simpson, in 1840: “…for from it [lack of food] arises more than 9/10 of the anxiety we all have to suffer from it [lack of food] in this hardest of hard Districts. Provisions, provisions….” (Brackets mine) Times were often tough in the far north.
How tough? Tough enough to affect human health, and perhaps average age of death? I grouped the data into major fur trade districts and checked. The results are shown below.
The fur trade districts in western Canada are ranked from easiest (Saskatchewan, Red River, and York Factory/Eastmain ) to hardest (Athabasca/Peace River, Mackenzie District). Not only did the more southerly Saskatchewan District and Red River posts have access to more wild game, they also acquired domestic stock and started agriculture relatively earlier. In the Athabasca/Peace River and Mackenzie Districts, this was not always possible. Also, at York Factory and Eastmain there was a more constant supply of foods coming from Britain, reducing hardship considerably. The Columbia District results are a bit of an enigma. However, they certainly didn’t increase the mean age of death. Instead, they lowered it.
With the exception of the Columbia District (coastal), there is virtually no difference in the mean age of death among the men of the different fur trade districts. Despite the constant hardships and complaints of not having enough food and supplies, which may have been real enough, the men at the Mackenzie, Athabasca/Peace River District forts did not die at an earlier age than those further south. Periods of starvation can have detrimental health affects (fatigue, dizziness, constipation, drop in blood pressure, etc.). And if too severe or prolonged, even death.
I have not conducted any detailed research on how smoking and alcohol consumption might have affected age of death (although those data are certainly available in other fur trade documents). However, a preliminary check indicates that far more employees from the Saskatchewan District, smoked and drank alcohol, than in Districts further north. But there are no discernible differences in mean age of death in these districts.
Did the Average Age of Death Change Through Time?
In the chart below, I plotted the average age of death through time. As wild game populations declined, many fur trade posts began to produce more agricultural goods and import domestic stock to supplement their diet. Thus, dietary habits changed through time, but at different rates geographically.
In the last part of the 19th century, there was a more balanced food supply and likely better medical technology for the Company men. However, the results above show a similar age of death among Company employees through time.
Was There a Difference in the Mean Age of Death Among the Different Ethnic Groups in the Fur Trade?
Given their different types of work, access to food, and genetic makeup, did certain subgroups in the fur trade fare better than others? Did those French Canadians, for example, who did most of the back-breaking work in the fur trade, die at an earlier age than their Canadian counterparts? There are suggestions they did, but never backed by any hard data. The results are shown in the chart below.
Although there is a difference of over four years between the English/Scottish group and the Metis/First Nations group, the difference is not statistically significant. Even though they worked harder, and had significantly less access to food, both French Canadian and Metis or First Nations working for the Companies fared about the same as their English/Scottish counterparts.
But, where the real difference shows up, is how many men of each ethnic group lived past the age of sixty-five. The results are shown in the chart below.
There is a significant difference in the number of French Canadians who reach the age of sixty-five and over, compared to both Metis/Native and English/Scots categories. And, if you’ve ever read how hard some of these men worked, and played, this figure is not really that surprising. My research (Pyszczyk 1987, 1989, 2015) also suggests that on average French Canadians spent more money on tobacco and alcohol than their English and Scottish counterparts (laborers).
Were Metis and First Nations People Better or Worse off Than Today?
My last question concerns the well-being of our Indigenous populations in Canada. Did they fare better during the 18th and 19th centuries, than today? Historic population data for First Nations and Inuit peoples are very hard to find. I managed to only compare Metis populations over time.
The results are a bit of a shocker. The percent of Metis who reach an age over sixty-five years are significantly lower today than during the 18th and 19th centuries. They are also lower in the fur trade than non-aboriginal employees. Here are the latest present-day statistics for the three Indigenous groups.
While I don’t have the statistics for historic First Nations and Inuit, the present-day statistics certainly tell the tale of all three groups falling behind the non-aboriginal Canadian population as they age.
All three Indigenous groups have a lower percentage of people surviving sixty-five years and older than the Canadian non-aboriginal population. Studies indicate that death from disease, drugs and alcohol, suicides, etc. are significantly higher in today’s Indigenous populations than earlier, and in the contemporary Canadian non-Aboriginal population.
What Do These Results Tell Us About Fur Trade Society?
Firstly, that rather wicked high meat protein and fat diet didn’t reduce the average life span of these people significantly. Nor did the occasional bouts of near starvation and hunger, harder work and poorer living conditions significantly reduce their length of life. Some of these factors only become important as the population aged (e.g., percent living over sixty-five).
Secondly, why did this population of men, when compared to the rest of the world and other Canadians, fair significantly better? I have some ideas. But currently no real proof or definitive answers. The men chosen for the fur trade may have been selected for their superior fitness and general good health. They therefore don’t represent the norm in either White or Indigenous Canadian society, or other world populations at any given time.
Thirdly, this population of people was relatively isolated from the rest of Canadian society. Some of the men working on the canoe brigades traveled to Montreal or York Factory annually to resupply, thus having short contact with larger centers. But most of their time was spent at the remote inland fur trade forts. Was there less chance of catching some disease, getting sick, and dying? The men living at the most remote forts in Canada don’t seem to live any longer than those less isolated, such as at Red River settlement (with a much larger population).
Or, is it my data and bias in the records? Many of the laborer class had no documented history, and therefore no birth or death dates. This is a common problem for a people without a written record. Is this sample similar to the famous 1936 Literary Digest US telephone and car registration presidential polling fiasco? When not everyone had a phone or car, and thus the polls were very skewed when using only these data. And they got the winner of the presidential election wrong. I simply can’t answer that question right now.
My last concern is with the health and welfare of our Indigenous populations. Their state of well-being seems to be heading the other direction compared to the rest of Canadian society. The cries of concern and need for more help from these people is well grounded in some of the historic population statistics. And in particular the life expectancy data.
David Thompson’s grave marker, Montreal, Quebec, Canada. One of Canada’s greatest explorers and cartographers underwent considerable hardships in the wilds of western Canada. Impoverished and destitute in old age, he lived to a ripe old age of eighty-seven.
Note: There’s always a fine line between providing too much detail (yawn) and ‘dummying down’ in these posts. Because of my background, I tend to err on the former side. I believe everyone should know what my results and interpretations are based on. And, I also know that many of my regular subscribers would prefer more than less information and facts.
Let me know what you think. Too much? Not enough?
References:
Pyszczyk, Heinz W. 1987. Economic and Social Factors in the Consumption of Material Goods in the Fur Trade of Western Canada. Ph.D Thesis. Department of Archaeology, Simon Fraser University, Burnaby, British Columbia.
Pyszczyk, Heinz W. 1988. Consumption and Ethnicity: An Example from the Fur Trade in Western Canada. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology 8:213-49.
Pyszczyk, Heinz W. 2015. The Last Fort Standing. Fort Vermilion and the Peace River Fur Trade, 1798 – 1830. Occasional Papers of the Archaeological Society of Alberta. Number 14.
Good afternoon all. If you go to my main page menu, you will see a category named ‘Guest Blog Directory.’ If you try to scroll down it, you will realize it’s empty. But, it should be teeming with stories. I know there are many out there just waiting to see the light of day.
So, I’m inviting you to send me your story. We can do it a number of ways. I can interview you by phone or email, and write it up. Or, you can log in as a guest blogger and compile it yourself on my site. Whatever works for you. I’m quite willing to do all the heavy lifting if you’re not up to it.
There are many of you out there from various parts of Canada that are reading my posts. Unfortunately I can’t be everywhere. Although I’d like to be. Or know everything. So, I’m counting on you to send me some grist for my mill.
Brent, how about a ‘Newfy’ story? Shelly, maybe one from the arctic on food. Jamie, Kaia, something from the West Coast. All you prairie folks have stories, right? Gabriella, how about some arctic archaeology? I could use a Canadian Springer Spaniel story. Many of you are archaeologists and historians. Or, a hockey or curling story. Can’t get much more Canadian than that.
There should be lots of stories out there. My only stipulation. It has to be Canadian and preferably appeal to a wide audience.
Looking forward to hearing from you and posting those great Canadian stories that I know are out there.
As some of you have probably noticed, if you have frequently visited my site, the main menu board has changed. As I develop this site, I’m beginning to divide my posts into a number of major categories or topics. In hopes of making it easier for you to navigate to subjects you might want to read about.
What may seem logical and intuitive to me, may not be what you see and experience as a visitor. I would like your feedback about this new menu reorganization. Especially critical feedback:
What parts of the menu layout don’t work well?
Is the menu easy to navigate?
Are other ‘major’ categories required?
And, while we’re on the topic of feedback:
Are the contents of this site what you expected?
Are there topics that you would like to see covered that I might be able to help with?
I look forward to hearing from you, either on the comments section of this site, email, or twitter.
When my mother and I arrived in Canada, in the winter of 1954, she had to drag this wooden trunk full of her possessions, along with a two-and-one-half year old, through Canadian Customs, Pier 21, Halifax, Nova Scotia. It’s old, in bad need of a paint job, and missing some hardware. But, I can’t seem to make myself part with it. Like losing a piece of my family history.
The Iron Curtain, East Germany, 1948
She ran for her life. Stumbling in the dark, splashing through the frigid water. Muzzle flashes all around her, and bullets flying everywhere. Some coming too close for comfort. Women, young children, running with her. Trying to escape. Screaming for help. Falling. Pleading and begging the guards to let them go.
‘Lying, rotten Russian bastard. I thought after I gave him those nylon stockings and the bottle of vodka everything would be OK.’ A rarity for a young twenty-three year old Adelgunde Kleister. To swear. Finally she stopped running. Exhausted, alone, frightened out of her wits, but now at least safe in West Germany. Then she began to cry. And the reality of what she had just done hit here like a ton of bricks.
‘My family. Our farm in Poland. All gone. My father, my mother and brother. I’ll never see them again. Gone. I hope my sister made it across?’ She continued crying and sobbing as she walked slowly away from the treacherous Iron Curtain, dividing East from West. Away from a life she had known, a family she had loved. But dragging with her the heartbreak and memories that would cling to her for the rest of her life.
……………………
In West Germany, around the same time, Walter sat stunned listening to the Red Cross worker. “I’m sorry, Herr Pyszczyk. We’ve looked everywhere, checked every known record. They’ve disappeared, vanished.”
“But that’s impossible. They must be somewhere. My parents, my three sisters, gone? You just haven’t looked hard enough, damn it. You don’t care enough. I’ve lost my entire family, and you just calmly stand there and prattle on.”
The worker sighed. He had heard all of this too many times before in the last few years. “I’m so sorry, Herr Pyszczyk. But, you must understand. Millions of Germans from Poland went missing when the Russians moved west in 1944. They tried escaping, but the reports we’re getting are grim. If we find anything more about your family, we will contact you.”
The worker left Walter sitting there, now crying pitifully. Later he got very drunk. To forget. That didn’t work. Wishing the bullet that had gone through his leg in the war, had gone through his head instead. To end this nightmare. Walking aimlessly for miles through the city, looking for what? A miracle? He couldn’t go back and look for them. He had to move on.
Pier 21, Halifax, Nova Scotia, 1954
SS Arosa Kulm out of Bremerhaven, Germany, which brought us to Pier 21, Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.
Adelgunde pulled her large, heavy blue wooden trunk behind her toward the Canadian customs agent. Made by her friends in Stade, Germany before she departed for Canada. Heading for a new life, a new start. All her worldly possessions were in that big blue trunk. With her other hand she was holding tightly onto to her two-year old son, who was desperately trying to escape and go exploring.
“Muti, Ich muss gehen. Lass mich gehen.” (Mom I want to go. Let me go.) The young Heinz was restless, after being cooped up on the SS Arosa Kulm for three weeks while crossing the Atlantic.
He started crying. “Ich wollte auf dem Schiff schwimmen gehen. Aber, würden Sie mich nicht lassen.” (I wanted to go swimming on the ship. But, you wouldn’t let me.) Adelgunde, still looking a little pale, having suffered badly from sea sickness on the voyage, only sighed. On the ship they had to hang onto Heinz during the lifeboat drills because with his life vest on, he wanted to jump overboard and go swimming.
“Your passport and papers, please Ma’am.” The customs agent yawned as he unceremoniously dumped all the belongings in her trunk onto the counter. Then rummaged through them, caring little about keeping any order.
“Was sagt er Mama? Ich verstehe ihn nicht.” (What is he saying mom? I don’t understand him.)
Adelgunde looked worried. She didn’t either. Finally the custom agent took the papers out of her trembling hands and checked them.
After a somewhat lengthy appraisal, he nodded, pointed toward the doors, and strode away, leaving her pack her belongings back into the trunk.
‘Entlich. In Kanada.‘ (Finally. In Canada). And the start of her new life out west, in Saskatchewan, where Walter was already waiting.
Stade, West Germany, c.1953. Picture of my parents and myself taken just before my father left for Canada. Mom and I followed in 1954.
RCMP Security Services Headquarters, Ottawa, 1956
Police Constable, 1st Class, Frank Bettner, Royal Canadian Mounted Police Security Services, walked stiffly into Chief Superintendent Samuel Rolson’s office, saluted, then spoke.
“You wanted to see me sir? On a matter of some urgency, I understand.” Bettner calmly waited for Rolson to respond. The man seemed to be too busy writing to pay full attention to his special agent. Showing off his self-importance to Bettner, after his new promotion to Chief ‘Super’.
Rolson finally looked up. “Ah, yes Bettner. Take a seat. It’s the bloody Germans, Bettner. Out west in the Swift Current – Leader area, in Saskatchewan. More have arrived recently. They might be up to no good, Bettner. All crowded together like that out there. This could be a national security issue. Of vast importance. We can’t let those people organize. They could be a menace to Canadian society.”
Bettner couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘All crowded together like that?’ There were more jackrabbits than Germans in that part of Saskatchewan. He had heard rumors about Rolson. Fresh out of a smaller center from eastern Canada. Hardly an authority on the West. Newly promoted to the RCMP’s Security Service Division and ambitious as hell. Always ’tilting at windmills.’ The worst kind.
“Sir, I hardly think a few farmers, just soundly beaten and bruised in the war, want to cause more trouble in their new country.”
Rolson, now staring at something on the ceiling, replied. “Bettner, Bettner, where have you been? I have all the reports right here. When that first wave of Germans settled in the area before the First World War, they tried to turn it into a little Germany. And it would have happened if we hadn’t stopped them. Did you know they initially called the town of Leader, ‘Berlin’ and gave all the streets German names. We put a stop to that of course, before they took over the whole province. No, I think we should go have a look and see what they’re up to.”
Bettner already knew where this was heading. ‘We’ meant Bettner was going into the area, and then report back to Rolson. So, he took the initiative. “Where do you want me to go Sir? And when?”
“I’m glad you asked Bettner. Leave as soon as possible. Go out into the Portreeve – Leader area. Take on some form of disguise and fit in, Bettner. I hear there are quite a few newly arrived Germans out that way. Some of them might even be Folksdeutsche.”
Bettner, looking a little bewildered, “Folksdeutsche, Sir? What are those?”
“The worst kind I’m told. Germans from other countries, like Poland for example. Some of them Nazi sympathizers. Some were even German soldiers. They’re here now. They have to be carefully watched. Who knows what they’re up to.” Rolson, by now, had driven himself into a bit of a frenzy, fueled by his endorphins, produced by his paranoia.
“Alright Sir. I’ll leave in a few days. And see what those ‘Gerries’ are up to. I’ll report back in a couple of months.”
“Good Bettner. Take as long as you need. And don’t let me down. These people must be put in their place. They could be troublemakers.”
‘And you want trouble. Hoping for it. Maybe so you can get another promotion, you ambitious, pompous ass. So, you need a little dirt on these people. Well, I’ll find something for you alright.’
…………………….
A Farm, North of Portreeve, Saskatchewan
Claud Vigar, owner of about six sections of land, and renting even more, north of Portreeve, Saskatchewan waved Walter and Adelgunde to come over. “Della,” as he liked to call Adelgunde, “Come and meet the new hired hand, Frank Bettner. Frank, this is Walter and Della, my farm hands. They’ll show you what needs doing. You can sleep in the bunkhouse, and join them for meals.”
Frank shook hands with the couple. “Gutten Tag, Herr Pyszczyk, Frau Pyszczyk.”
Walter, a little surprised at Bettner’s German, shook hands with the tall, blond man. So was Claud. But then he realized, this was a good thing. The couple’s English was still a little shaky. Frank could help them with it.
” Bist auch ein Deutsher? Wie lange sind Sie shon in Kanada?” Walter was curious.
“I’m third generation Canadian, Walter. Born and raised here. But, I can still speak a little German. And my German laughter is excellent.” Walter nodded and smiled. Bettner calmly looked around the little house. Taking it all in at one glance. Poorly constructed, but ‘German’ neat and clean. A big blue wooden trunk sat in the corner, used to put kitchen stuff on and for storage in the small kitchen. He wondered what was in it. Maybe secret plans for the invasion of Saskatchewan.
When Claud left, Walter took a closer look at Bettner, thinking: ‘About thirty-two years old, a good six foot four inches tall, all muscle. Well over two-hundred and twenty pounds. I bet he can throw bales up on the hay wagon all day long, without breaking a sweat. And take a forty-five gallon barrel of fuel and lift it onto the truck box. He’ll do fine.’
“Come, I show you where you sleep. Bring your stuff. In one hour come for supper and we talk about work.” Walter showed Bettner the bunk house and then went back to his own house to get cleaned up for supper. The cows were milked. Chickens, ducks, geese and pigs fed. It was almost time to wrap up the day.
My mother and me, c.1955 – 1956. With all the ducks. On the farm, north of Portreeve, Saskatchewan.
…………………………
The weeks flew quickly by. There was a lot to do on the farm in August and September. It was harvest time. Bettner fit right in. And worked like a horse. Ate like one too, according to Adelgunde. He seemed to know a lot about farming and Walter was impressed. The two men got along well. About the same age. There was an endless amount of talking and the conversation occasionally turned to politics and the ‘old country.’ Whenever the conversation took this path, Adelgunde grew nervous.
“So, Walter, you were in the German army, yah?”
“Yah, air force first. When I puke all over the cockpit, they put me on the ground. Army supply transport truck driver. Until I was captured by Canadians in 1944 on western front.” Walter smiled at that. It could have been worse. He could have been captured by the Russians. He would now probably be quite dead.
“And your family, all still back in Germany I presume?”
At Bettner’s words, Walter’s mood changed. “No more family. All gone.” After that Bettner couldn’t get another word out of him about family.
“It must have been hard for both of you to pack up and leave? Everything. Everyone.” Bettner was gently probing.
“Not so hard for me. Families gone. Germany ‘kaput,’ broken. Nothing left. No work. No food. No hope. No future.”
“But your sympathies must still lie a little with the ‘Vaterland‘ and the loss of the war. That must have been hard?”
“We went through hell and back. Never knowing whether we would live or die, from day to day. I was a soldier. Did as I was told, and hoped I would see the sun rise next day.”
Adelgunde was getting more agitated by the minute. “Walter, I think that’s enough…”
“But not all soldiers were Nazi sympathizers. Not all of us believed or agreed with what Hitler was doing. In this country, they treat us like we are all Nazis.”
“Walter enough.” By now Adelaide’s voice had reached another octave. “Enough politics. That’s what we left behind. Don’t bring it into my house.” Walter shrugged and fell silent. Frank took one look at Adelgunde’s face, and didn’t prod any more.
After supper, when Frank had left and Heinz was sleeping, Adelgunde looked at Walter. “You shouldn’t talk about stuff like that. You don’t know Frank very well. Who knows what he could be telling others, the authorities.” She looked worried.
“‘Gunde, this isn’t Nazi Germany where everyone is an informant and a spy for the government. This country is different. You worry too much.”
“Maybe you’re right Walter. But, please try to be a little more careful. With our neighbors, the Schneiders and the Hecks, we can be a little more open. But you don’t know this man. Just be careful what you say.”
A few hours later, lying in bed, listening to her husband’s steady breathing, Adelgunde worried some more. Even out here in this desolate place, inhabited by few people, most of them Germans, she still could not rid herself of the repressive antics of the Third Reich that she left behind. That ghost was still following her.
And then there was Bettner. ‘Er ist zu wissbegierig und schlau.’ (He’s too inquisitive and sly.) ‘He seems to look around and take in everything at once, noting every detail. Watching us carefully. When we’re not paying attention. He reminds me too much of those German Gestapo fellows. Always on the prowl. Turning over every rock.’ But then she considered Bettner’s eyes. Those deep, deep blue eyes.
‘Seine Augen sind freundlich und vertrauenswürdig. (His eyes are kind and trustworthy.) I think he’s a good man, but there’s something about him that still makes me uncomfortable. I guess I can’t keep acting like this though. We’re in a new country and it certainly can’t be as bad as home. Can it?’
………………………
A few months later, when Bettner walked into Rolson’s office, the man was sitting behind his desk and seemed to be studying the same spot on the ceiling since the last time Bettner was here.
Bettner waited. And finally said: “Special Agent Bettner reporting back, Sir.” And then waited some more.
Rolson had seemingly solved the problem on the ceiling and looked his way. “Ah, yes, Bettner. You look tanned and fit. Farm life has treated you well? Report what you’ve found, special agent.”
Bettner merely shrugged. Then put a worried, concerned look on his face before answering.
Rolson wasn’t used to being kept waiting. “Well, Bettner, you did find something, right? All that time out there, you should have uncovered something. What are those ‘Gerries’ up to?”
“I don’t know where to start, Sir. You were right though. There are certainly some strange things happening out there. But, I’ll just describe them and let you draw your own conclusions.”
“Yes, Bettner, go on. Get it out.” Rolson was getting excited, now fully engaged. At last, maybe something he could take to his superiors.
Bettner shrugged again, taking his time. Rolson grew increasingly agitated. Finally Bettner began. “First of all they produce enough food to feed a small army, Sir. In the fall they work twelve to sixteen hours a day, harvesting the fields, gardens, canning, butchering. And there’s still more to come. I don’t know why they need all that food. My boss, Walter, put on at least ten pounds this summer.”
Rolson considered this. Food. Army. Yes, of course. Fishy-sounding alright. “Go on Bettner.”
“Most of the farm families have built these bunkers out of earth and timbers. With no windows and thick, thick, doors. I’ve watched them haul all this food in there. And store it. As if getting ready for something big, Sir.”
Rolson nodded. Maybe an invasion? Of course. Army. “Maybe we should do some aerial photography over those farms, Bettner, and see how common this really is.”
“Good idea, Sir. I never would have thought of that.”
But Rolson wasn’t listening, instead furiously writing. Already compiling his report to his superiors. As he wrote, he mumbled, “Any more Bettner? What else did you notice.”
“Perhaps the strangest behavior I noticed though is their soap making.” Before continuing, Bettner waited since Rolson was still madly writing.
Finally Rolson looked up, “Soap making? What’s so strange about that?”
“It’s how they make it and what they call it, Sir. That’s the interesting part. First they fill a large barrel full of ash from their cooking and heating fires in their stoves. The barrel has a small spigot at the bottom for drainage. When it rains the barrel fills with water. They drain off the liquid and then mix it with lard to make the soap.’
“That sound interesting Bettner, but I don’t get it. It’s just soap, right?”
Bettner, now looking grave, leaned over the desk of his superior, almost nose to nose with him. And almost in a whisper said, “It’s what they call the soap Sir. That’s what’s a little strange. They call it Lie soap, Sir.” Bettner looked conspiratorially into Rolson’s eyes, before backing off.
Rolson looked perplexed for only a moment. And then slyly smiled. “Lie soap, Bettner? How do they spell that?”
“Don’t know, Sir. They can’t write English very well, so I never asked.” Bettner did notice Rolson madly writing in his journal: ‘LIE SOAP’.
“Did they say how they used it Bettner? This lie soap.”
“Rumor has it Sir, if you wash your hands with it, you’ll come clean, if you’ll excuse my pun, Sir.”
Rolson looked flustered. “Pun? Never mind. Did you try it Bettner?”
Bettner thought this question rather foolish. But, then he looked solemnly at Rolson. “Sir, if I did that, well, my cover might have been blown. Anyway, I brought you back a few bars. Try it on some prisoners you are interrogating and see how it works.” With that Bettner plunked two large bars of white soap on Rolson’s desk.
Rolson, now looking more pleased than ever, asked, hopefully: “Anything else Bettner, that you noticed? I can’t help but think we’re onto something big here.”
Bettner only nodded even more solemnly, then went on. “Hockey, Sir. There’s going to be trouble there.”
“Hockey, Bettner? What does hockey have to do with new German Canadians?”
Two things, Sir. First, the Leader Hockey team calls themselves the ‘Flyers’. Leader Flyers. Could be nothing more than a name, but you never know. We’ve had troubles with those people before, as you pointed out in our last meeting.”
Rolson, was now rapidly connecting the dots as soon as Bettner opened his mouth. ‘Flyers, yes, maybe a secret German air force of some sort.’
Then he looked up at Bettner. “And the second thing, Bettner?”
“I noticed the young Heinz already has skates and a hockey stick. His father told me he is making great strides learning how to skate and play.” Bettner waited for Rolson to take the bait.
“What’s so important, or threatening, about that, Bettner?”
“Sir, think about it. Germans playing hockey! Where would that end? Strategic breakout plays, defensive zone coverage. Endless drills and practices. They would put skill and strategy into the game, and take all the fun out of it.” Rolson nodded again. Yes, he could see where that could ruin the game.
“And the worst of all, Sir. The father, Walter, is making a helmet for Heinz, so he wouldn’t smack his head on the ice. Can you imagine Sir, helmets in hockey? Those ‘Gerries’ with their helmets…”
“I see Bettner. That kind of thinking could ruin the league. Who ever heard of such an absurd thing? We can’t let them get started.”
Before Bettner could continue, Rolson interjected. “OK, Bettner, that will be all for now. I have more than enough information here to get me started. I have another meeting to attend in the next few minutes. What’s your next move then?”
“Oh, I’m afraid I have to go back for a few more months. This is the best time of year to gather the really good intel. You see, they all gather in the late fall, early winter, eat and celebrate. They’re having a huge gathering and fresh ‘Schwein–Gebratenes‘ (pig fry) this weekend. I can’t miss that.” Bettner was almost drooling with anticipation as he said these last words.
Rolson looked a little worriedly at his special agent. ‘Why do I get the feeling he’s really enjoying himself out there.’ He shrugged, stood, getting ready to leave for the meeting.
Before he could get around his desk, Bettner blurted out.
“A few more things, Sir. Of utmost importance. You need to hear this, Sir. Before you leave. It could really affect your career.”
Rolson hesitated. Thinking, ‘Well, so I’m a little late for a budget meeting. I hate those damn meetings anyway. And besides. What could be more important than the safety of our country.’ He looked expectantly at Bettner.
“Sir, I hear rumors about a gathering, and the words ‘sauerkraut’ keeps popping up when I’m among them. It could be code, Sir, for something. Remember, we always call them ‘Krauts’ during the war. Well, ‘Säure’ means sour. They might be putting together a crack fighting unit. The Säurer Krauts. A bunch of nasty young German mens with a chip on their shoulder. That would explain why all that food is necessary.”
“Good point Bettner. Anything else? Do they have weapons?”
“None that I’ve seen, Sir. But, sometimes when the German men get together, and have too much to drink, they start talking about, ‘Die Grosse Berta.’ (The ‘Big Bertha’). And they roar with laughter. As soon as the women approach, they shut up as if keeping some big secret.”
“Big Bertha.” I don’t understand Bettner?”
“As you recall, Sir, that was the name of the long-range artillery gun they developed in the Firsts World War. Could shoot your eye out, lobbing a shell half the size of this office all the way from Swift Current to Regina.” Rolson visibly shuddered at the thought.
“And when they get together they sing in German, and read Der Courier, a German newspaper out of Winnipeg. And occasionally I hear some sort of chanting. Something like, Sind Heil. Sind Heil. Not sure what to make of that yet, Sir. But, this next trip might tell me.”
“At their last party, one of the neighbors got so drunk, he hitched the horses backwards to the sleigh, to take his family home. They’re a rowdy bunch, Sir. That I can vouch for.” Rolson, nodded, now desperately trying to get away from Bettner, to attend his meeting. But, before he could escape, Bettner was at it again.
“But of all the things I’ve seen, what worries me most is that blue wooden trunk of Adelgunde’s. It’s always locked, and not one can look in for some reason.”
Rolson was thinking, ‘Maybe holding secret plans of some sort. What else could it be for.’
“And one last thing Sir before you go. Also, of utmost importance.” Again, Bettner leaned over conspiratorially toward Rolson, almost whispering in his ear. “I’d take this right to the top, Sir. Don’t go through the normal channels. Why, you may wonder? Well, think about it. What’s your superior’s last name?”
“Shultz,” blurted out Rolson. ‘Yes, of course, Schultz.’
“Can’t be too careful now can we, Sir? Your never know. They probably already have spies everywhere….”
Bettner winked at his superior and finally left the room. Rolson, a little shaken by these last words, just stood there, motionless. ‘That Bettner is right. Who can I trust these days?’ Then he turned and managed to catch the end of his budget meeting.
Those partying Germans, c.1956-1957. For many of you their names don’t mean much. For those of you reading this who are from the Portreeve – Shackleton area, you may recognize a few names. From the top left: the late Adelgunde Pyszczyk; the late Gustov Gotzman; the late Ida Berg; the late Walter Pyszczyk; the late Olga Gotzman. Bottom row: the late Ralph Berg; Erica Berg (Minor, Undseth), and Heinz Pyszczyk.
…………………….
Ottawa, Three Months Later
Special agent Bettner strode into the Chief Superintendent’s office, back after two more months of undercover work. Still a little hung over, and a little fatter. Gosh those Germans could cook. He looked around. ‘Strange, something’s not right here. The office is reorganized, a new secretary.’
He looked at the secretary. “Yes, I’m here to report back to Chief Superintendent Rolson.”
The secretary looked at him a little quizzically before answering. “I’m sorry Sir. Bettner is it? Chief Superintendent Rolson is no longer here. He’s been reassigned.”
Bettner put on a surprised look on his face. “Reassigned? But he just got here. Where did he go?”
The secretary shook her head. “It’s best if the new Chief Superintendent briefed you, Sir. He’s expecting you, so go right in.”
“Special agent, Frank Bettner, reporting, Sir.” Bettner eyed the new superintendent. Who was eyeing him as well. More like sizing him up. Boring into him, as if wanting to extract something.
“Sit down Bettner. How was the field work?”
“Tough, Sir. Hard keeping up with those Germans in the fall. They work their tails off to get ready for winter. And then eat and celebrate even harder.”
Superintendent Kirkland was in the process of closing a huge, fat file, with the bright red letters across its cover: CONFIDENTIAL. He continued to stare at Bettner.
“Sir, if you don’t mind me asking, what happened to Superintendent Rolson?”
Kirkland appraised Bettner further, as if deciding how much to reveal and whether to trust him. After what he had just read in the file, this one was a sly buggar.
“Yes, well, ‘Corporal’ Rolson was reassigned after what happened with this German investigation.” He waited for Bettner to speak.
“Reassigned, Sir? He’s a corporal now? Where too?”
“He’ll be working out of Cambridge Bay, and points north. All the way to Alert Bay in the territories.”
Bettner gasped in disbelief. ‘Holy shit, that’s almost in Russia.’ “May I ask why, Sir?”
“You may Bettner. But I’m sure you already know the answer. Since our now ‘Corporal’ Rolson has such a keen imagination for potential enemies of the state, we sent him north to deal with the next expected menace.”
“I didn’t know we had any menaces up there, Sir. Just ice and snow and hardly any people.”
“Oh, Rolson will find something. Real or not. He’ll conjure some up. You can appreciate that can’t you Bettner?”
Bettner gulped. He didn’t like where this conversation was heading.
“You see Bettner, his mandate up there is to warn us if the ‘commies’ prepare to invade Canada across the arctic. And the ice. He has to watch the ice.”
“Watch the ice, Sir? I don’t understand. It’s all ice up there. Nothing but ice.”
“That’s his job Bettner. To watch the ice doesn’t become a threat. And report back bi-annually, if he sees anything suspicious. Last time I talked with him, he asked specifically about you. Whether it would be possible to transfer you up there to help him out. You seemed to work so well together on this last assignment. Thought we might send you along with him.”
Bettner gulped again. A small trickle of sweat began running down his spine. ‘No. Anywhere but there. No.’ “I’m hardly suited for the arctic, Sir. I’m too tall. I would freeze instantly, and intimidate those shorter Inuit.”
Kirkland smiled. ‘Fast thinker, aren’t you Bettner. Now that your shorts are in a bit of a knot.’
“Agreed Bettner. You’ll continue to work here. For me. But, let’s get one thing straight. No more bullshit, like what I’m reading here in Rolson’s report to the Commissioner. The Commissioner. Can you believe that? Why would he do such a thing? Bypass the chain of command?” He looked suspiciously at Bettner, who now was studying that same spot on the ceiling as Rolson had before.
Gradually Bettner looked down, at Kirkland. “Yes, Sir. But, it wasn’t quite like that. I told him things and he probably used his slightly over-creative imagination I guess. Thought the information I gave him was really important to move right to the top.”
“Bettner, we’re starting off on the wrong foot here. Is there are real German threat out west? Or not?”
“No Sir. They’re a hard working bunch of people who just want some peace and stability in their lives. Good food. And, a little fun. They get together, mainly because there is no one else up there, and they understand one another.”
“The shit really hit the fan Bettner, when Rolson accused the land owner Claud Vigar of being a German sympathizer. Word got out and Claud got pissed off and went to the politicians. And reamed the crap out of them. Then they in turn reamed the crap out of us. And so on. Vigar contributes to all the strong political parties. He’s always got friends in government no matter who’s in power. Pretty stupid of Rolson to single him out. I wonder where he got that idea Bettner?” Kirkland was staring rather icily at him again. Waiting.
“Well, he might have misunderstood what I said, Sir. All I said was that Mr. Vigar seemed very friendly with his German hired hands, and his name didn’t really sound too English. That’s all I said, Sir.”
“Is that so Bettner. Maybe he should have checked his history. Vigars arrived in England, from Normandy, with the Norman Conquest of 1066. They lived in Cornwall.”
Bettner, now feeling extremely uncomfortable, just wanted to get out of Kirkland’s office. “Will that be all, Sir? I’m sure you’re busy with other more important things.”
Kirkland looked at him one final time. Again, as if sizing him up, as if fitting him for a winter parka for the Canadian arctic. “One last thing Bettner. The only good thing that came out of this pile of shit in front of me was the hockey helmet idea. The commissioner really liked that. He’s going to meet with NHL officials to discuss it. Right now we have Canadians’ brains being spattered all over the ice. That has to stop. It may take years though.”
Kirkland was already eying another file in his in-basket. Without so much as even glancing at Bettner, he just pointed towards the door. “Close the door on your way out.”
“Yes Sir. Nothing more important than national security and hockey.”
“Get out Bettner, before I change my mind and send you to Cambridge Bay. I’m sure Rolson will have a welcoming party ready for you. I hear you’ve been playing hockey with the Leader Flyers. Maybe in Cambridge Bay you could play all year ’round.”
Bettner left in a hurry. Wondering where his next assignment might be. Hopefully not in Cambridge Bay. Oh, Please God. Wondering too, ‘I never did find out what was in that wooden blue trunk of Adelgunde’s. Well, it sure wasn’t blueprints for a new weapon to take over Saskatchewan.’ He nodded to himself. Now that was solid intel.
A Few Final Notes:
I struggled writing this story. And when it was finished, whether to even post it. As I wrote it, I got a little choked up. Thinking about my parents and what they went through, as new Canadians. And, looking through those old photographs brought back a flood of memories.
I guess what finally convinced me to post it is our attitude towards newly landed Canadian immigrants. There is still a belief among some Canadians that immigrants just suck our tax money away. And somehow are a threat to our Canadian way of life.
We sometimes forget that many Canadian immigrants went through hell just to get here. Just happy to be alive. For many there were two choices: Leave, or die. I heard that a lot when growing up over the dinner table, from my parents. For my father, the loss of his family after World War II was so emotional that he didn’t want to talk much about them.
In 1999, my mother finally hooked up with what was left of her family in what was formerly East Germany. Over fifty years after escaping across the Iron Curtain, into the West. It was a very special time for her. For all of us.
As first generation Canadians, we struggled, but adapted quickly enough. Yes, we were discriminated against. The emotions of war were still raw among many Canadians. It wasn’t that long ago, we were the enemy. I was called a ‘Nazis’ at school. Some of the other kids had a great time with my last name. But we fit in a lot more smoothly than many other immigrants who come to this country. And most Canadians were considerate, sympathetic, and very kind.
How to tell this story? It runs the gamut of emotions and mood. In short story writing 101, you’re supposed to set a mood and then stick with it throughout the narrative. I had a hard time with that. The first part of this story is dark, filled with fear, hopelessness, grief and despair. The second part with the RCMP is mostly political satire and humor. Usually these emotions in one story don’t mix very well.
But, some of the things I hear about immigrants, and how they supposedly threaten our Canadian way of life, while dark, are almost humerus and hard to believe. Almost. But, scary as well. Because behind all that paranoia and xenophobia, are good people that I worked with, play hockey with, or go have a few drinks with.
I have the utmost respect for Canadian law enforcement and what our police are faced with trying to figure out who is ‘naughty’ and who is ‘nice’. There is a Rolson or two in every profession. Clearly, from the little literature I read, before and during the first world War and during the Second World War, our Canadian police were watching out for German and Japanese sympathizers. Even going so far as to inter entire families. As they did with many Japanese Canadians.
It is less clear how much RCMP surveillance there was after the Second World War, as another wave of German immigrants arrived in Canada. Many settling in western Canada. Including the Swift Current – Leader corridor. Was there an RCMP dossier on German Canadians? Perhaps on the Berg’s and the Pyszczyk’s? If those documents exist, they are probably so deeply buried in the Canadian archives it will take more than a century before they ever see the light of day.
Now that I look back on those early years, our families didn’t much ‘rock the Canadian boat’. Not even in hockey. Fancy breakout plays were not foremost on my mind when I played. I, like my Canadian teammates, was just trying to survive.
These are just some of the countries where this popular food is made and eaten. Its many different names speak highly to its popularity around the world. In Canada, where we have such a diverse mix of peoples from all over the world, it’s not too surprising that our pierogies come in many sizes, shapes and tastes, even when made by people from the same country. Canadians have given them at least one unique name that I’m aware of – ‘Prairie Pillows.’
Yum. Everyone’s eaten them. Or even made them. Those oversized doughy dumplings with fillings ranging from assorted meats, cheeses, potatoes, cabbage, onions and sauerkraut. Even fruits. Then boiled, and fried, if desirable. And topped with a variety of ingredients such as the ever-popular sour cream.
After doing some research on this tasty food, and making my own pierogies for many years, I realized people have put just about anything in a pierogi. And, on it. And Eastern Europeans, where it’s so popular, have been creating different varieties of pierogies for centuries. The most popular commercial frozen pierogies in Canada are the mashed potato and cheddar cheese varieties. Specialty shops in larger Canadian centers will likely have a much larger assortment to choose from.
For more history on the pierogi in Canada, read Gabby Peyton’s article on some iconic foods in Canada.
Our Family Background
As a small child, I watched my mother make pierogies for hours on end. A very time-consuming undertaking, if you’ve ever tried it. She made them the Polish way. Both our families (Pyszczyk and Kleister) come from Poland. My mother’s side (Kleister) farmed along the Vistula River, north of Warsaw, where they had lived for over three-hundred years, after immigrating from there fro western Germany. And my father’s side (Pyszczyk), moved from the western Ukraine, and farmed south of Krakow, closer to the Czechoslovakian border. Both families considered themselves Germans. But, they made and ate Polish-style pierogies.
Growing up, I wasn’t always sure what I was. German? Polish? Or Ukrainian? It wasn’t too long before it was pretty obvious. Canadian. Regardless of my ethnic background(s).
Polish Pierogies
In Poland the pierogi is of considerable significance. In fact, it is one of the country’s national dishes. In the thirteenth century it was peasant food and a staple of the Polish diet. It soon spread through all the social classes. By the seventeenth century, special kinds of pierogies, each with different shapes or fillings, were being created for each of the many Polish holidays. And also for everything from weddings to wakes.
My Mom’s Pierogies
Mom’s pierogies were pretty simple. As are many traditional pierogi recipes. She always filled them with quark (milk curd, similar to cottage cheese), made from fresh milk. I always marveled at the process. Mom would take a small flour sack, fill it with milk, and then hang it up in the kitchen. Then she put a pail under it and let the liquid slowly drain out of it for a couple of days. And before you knew it. Quark. (Note: I wish I had paid more attention to this process. Can’t remember now if she used buttermilk or just raw milk, or both.) She added a little salt to the quark along with chopped onions, and the filling was ready.
Mom’s dough was quite simple too. White flour, water, maybe an egg or two, and a little milk. Mix it all up and knead it. Using her hands, mom would roll and stretch the dough into a long, thick rope, and then cut it into approximately one-inch sections. Then came the time-consuming part. Roll out each section of dough. Then make each individual pierogi by hand, boil them, and then fry them in bacon fat and onions. Mom’s pierogies were bigger than what I see in stores and restaurants today. We would add a dollop of sour cream on top, and they were ready to eat.
My Pierogies
I began helping mom make pierogies when I was pretty young and then eventually started making my own. Soon I was developing my own style and tastes, experimenting with different fillings. Even today, I’m still dabbling with new fillings and spices. And when I did a little research on Canadian pierogies, I realized when it comes to pierogi fillings and toppings, the sky’s the limit.
Like my writing style, I cook ‘by the seat of my pants’. My batches of pierogies are rarely ever the same size, shape, or taste. Sometimes, I add a certain spice or ingredient I haven’t tried before. There’s no written down, detailed recipe of specific measurements of ingredients. Occasionally when I make a real good batch, I think, ‘maybe I should write this one down.’ But, I never seem to get around to it.
Here are the three main varieties of pierogies I make. I’ll just briefly describe and summarize the first one. I’ll go into a little more detail on the last two varieties which I made recently (and took a few photographs while making them). I created these two types out of more traditional recipes over the years. I won’t bore you with the proportions of the ingredients. It all depends how many pierogies you want to make and what your tastes are like.
Dough
I use only white flour, water, and salt for my dough. I’ve tried egg dough and find it gets too rubbery and hard when boiled. I’ve tried milk in my dough’s and find the dough gets too flaccid and is not elastic enough. (Maybe I should try the two together?) Don’t make the dough too dry. It has to be slightly sticky so you can seal the filling inside.
Large ball of dough ready to be made into pierogies. A lot of ingredients were added to pierogi dough over the centuries. Mashed potatoes, creating a smoother texture. The Czechs and Slovaks add curds and eggs to their dough. The Ukrainians add fermented milk products to bind the dough together. In Slovenia, they make the dough out of buckwheat, instead of wheat flour.
Cabbage and Mushroom Pierogies
I found this recipe in a Ukrainian cookbook years ago and adapted it slightly to my tastes. It consists of boiled, chopped cabbage, with sauteed mushrooms, and onions. Mix the cabbage in with the mushrooms and onions. Add salt and pepper according to your tastes. Add enough lemon juice to the mixture so it tastes slightly tangy. Or, add more lemon juice for a more sour, stronger taste. These pierogies go well with a meat or cottage cheese pierogi. In Poland and the Ukraine, sauerkraut is often used instead of the cabbage and lemon.
Ground Beef Pierogies
First, break up and fry about a pound and a half of lean ground beef in a skillet. I add finely chopped onions, salt and pepper to the mixture. Occasionally I add some thyme and oregano for extra flavor. Once the mixture is thoroughly cooked and browned, drain away as much of the grease as possible. Set aside and let cool before filling the pierogi.
Grease is the enemy when making pierogies. If it gets on your hands or on the edges of the dough, the dough won’t stick together very well. And you’ll end up with ‘sinkers‘ (pierogies that leak when being boiled and sink to the bottom of the pot).
Preparing the ground beef and onions in a large frying pan. I use salt and pepper liberally, and some oregano and thyme. Season as you see fit. The more seasoning, the stronger the taste. I spread out a ball of dough with a roller for each pierogi. No cooky cutter approach here. Then I add two heaping tablespoons of meat filling, fold and close the dough up by pinching the ends together. Don’t get grease on the edges, anywhere, or there will be trouble when you boil the pierogies. I’ve made a tomato paste and ground beef filling before. Although they tasted great, I found these pierogies were even harder to seal than just a ground beef mixture.
Cottage Cheese and Cheddar Cheese Pierogies
These are my favorites and truly a hybrid of what my mom used to make. I like spices and strong tastes. I always found mom’s pierogies a little bland. Dad didn’t like spices very much. So, over the years I spiced my pierogies up a bit.
Ingredients include dry cottage cheese, the strongest cheddar cheese you can lay your hands on, a bundle of green onions, salt and lots of pepper. Dump the cottage cheese into a large bowl. Then shred the strong cheddar cheese into it, and mix well. About one-third cheddar to the cottage cheese. Or more, if you want a cheesier, stronger taste. Sometimes I pop in an egg and mix it all up. Sometimes I forget…
Note: There’s one thing I have noticed about pierogi fillings. When you boil the pierogies, it seems to suck a lot of he flavor out of the filling. That’s why I make the fillings really strong-tasting. By the time they’re boiled, then fried, they mellow out.
Dried cottage cheese, strong/old cheddar cheese, and green onion filled pierogies. As with the meat-filled pierogies, I put two heaping tablespoons of filling onto a rolled out dough ball. Then seal it. This variety of pierogi is not as difficult to seal as the greasier meat-filled pierogies. The finished product. Ready to boil.I’ll make anywhere from three to six dozen pierogies at a time. It may take hours of work, but then I have many meals. Divide the pierogies into meal-sized portions and freeze. With the size of my pierogies, I find three pierogies per person is usually enough.Place the pierogies in low boiling water for about three to four minutes. Boiling them too hard might burst them. Oh, I think I see a ‘sinker.’ Once boiled, fry the pierogies on low heat in a large frying pan with a bit of oil or bacon grease. I like to slice in a third to a half of a medium onion when frying them.
Pierogies in Canada
I’m betting there aren’t many places in Canada where you can’t find pierogies on the restaurant menu. Here in Edmonton, with its high Ukrainian, Polish, and German populations, many restaurants make and serve them. I selected two restaurants in Edmonton, and a few more across the country to see what they put in, and on top, of their pierogies. Because of the coronavirus outbreak, I didn’t personally check out the two restaurants in Edmonton. But I will.
Located on 4532 – 99 Street NW in Edmonton, this small diner specializes in Eastern European cuisine. It has very good ratings and lists a variety of pierogies on its menu. In fact, Eastern Europeans probably wouldn’t recognize some of the varieties. Like Jalapeno & Old Cheddar.
Wendy’s lists ten different varieties of pierogies (spelled ‘perogies’ on her sign). It’s pretty obvious from her menu, that there’s a wide variety, including fillings adapted more for the Canadian palate. Restaurants are experimenting with different fillings, as they probably have for centuries.
Loaded Pierogi, Edmonton
Located on 10815 Jasper Avenue, Edmonton, this small restaurant really loads up their pierogies with all kinds of toppings. From the few photographs I looked at, it was often hard to find the pierogies under all that topping. This establishment receives very high reviews, including some from Polish folks who claimed they were excellent.
The Loaded Pierogi restaurant in Edmonton lists a variety of toppings on its pierogies, which you can pick and choose from. Like Wendy’s Perogies, this restaurateur is experimenting with a variety of new fillings and toppings. Including: Roast Chicken and Avocado Club Pierogi; Wild Mushroom and Truffle Pierogi; and, Montreal Smoked Meat Pierogi, just to name a few. Always looking for that great Canadian pierogi experience.
A-R Perogies in Saskatoon lists seventeen different varieties on their menu, including ‘Beef Tortellini.’ In Winnipeg at the Fusion Grill you can order pierogies with duck sausage in a thick creamy sauce. The Marion Street Eatery, Winnipeg, occasionally serves sweet potato pierogies with chicken apple sausage. In Toronto at the European Delight, you can order veal pierogies, among others. When in Montreal, check out the MTL Blog, for a list of restaurants serving great pierogies. The Euro Polonia restaurant in Montreal serves pierogies filled with bacon or kasha (porridge made usually from buckwheat groats). In St. John’s, Newfoundland, the Pyrohy Kitchen offers a variety of pierogi fillings.
‘Canadianizing’ the Pierogi
Of all the Canadian restaurant menus I researched, my favorite turned up in Victoria, British Columbia. It speaks loudly to what I’m talking about: Pierogies, and other foods, are constantly changing. The Sult (umlaut over the U) Pierogi Bar in Victoria takes ‘Canadianizing’ their food to a whole other level. And the ‘Pierogi Poutine’ on their menu wins first prize.
Pierogi Poutine. Where else but in Canada. This restaurant is working hard at making a genuine Canadian pierogi. The restaurant’s mission statement. I changed their dark writing to white so you can read it easier here. Besides feeding Canadians, this restaurant has a purpose.
The Pierogi Has Risen to Great Heights
If monuments speak to the popularity of a person, animal or food, then the pierogi has surely arrived in some places in the world.
This varenyky statue near the village of Synky, Cherkasy region, Ukraine. Image from Wikipedia.Some places in Canada, not to be outdone, have erected monuments to their foods. In Alberta you can combine these statues to make an entire giant meal: The Vegreville Easter egg, Mundare sausage, and the Glendon pierogi. I’ve often wondered what future Canadians might make of all these giant statues standing in the Canadian countryside. Pierogi on a Rope soap, anyone? Only in Pennsylvania, where pierogies are popular. Wonder what the favorite scents would be? Onion? Maybe a little bacon and cheddar…And, you can’t have too many pierogi ornaments hanging around.
Some Final Thoughts
In all seriousness, the pierogi has had a long and storied history among many peoples in the world. Although its origins in eastern Europe are somewhat obscure, I see a connection to far eastern dumplings made in China, Korea, Japan, southeast Asia and India. It’s not too far of a stretch to imagine these dumpling spreading from Asia into Russia and eastern Europe. And then slowly changing in composition. However, sometimes, like other innovations in history, the pierogi could have developed independently in eastern Europe.
In Canada, there is an incredible variety of pierogi fillings and toppings to choose from. Some, very traditional. Others, more exploratory, looking for that balance between traditional and Canadian experience. And then there are those pierogies that are right off the charts.
No matter what your tastes, I’m sure you will find a pierogi filling or topping out there that suits your palate.
Note: Next Blog
Now that I’ve got everyone hungry and in the food mood, I’m going to go turn the clock back a few hundred years and see what people were eating in Canada. In particular western Canada. And, how did this diet affect the their health and welfare?
Double Jeopardy: Risk of loss or injury arising from two sources at the same time.
Peter Pond was an 18th century American explorer who played a significant role in western Canadian history. And was likely well armed as well, given his reportedly violent temper. And a few shooting incidents. This pistol may have belonged to him during those rather exciting excursions in the Canadian northwest.
He was dreaming. His father was beating him mercilessly for dropping his fork on the floor while eating his supper. The pain was excruciating. “That will teach you to be more careful at the table, Peter.”He only nodded and continued crying.
1778 Northern Saskatchewan
Peter Pond, American peddler, now partnered with Joseph Frobisher and Simon McTavish and Company, Montreal, tried to ignore his competition. Who were now boldly standing and shouting at him from their canoes, quickly approaching the shore of the long, narrow lake. This was bad. ‘Not only is this wilderness against me, but now the opposition is breathing down my neck. I’m always fighting two enemies. Two battles. At the same time.’
His head was swimming. His breath coming in short gasps. He started to hyperventilate, feeling one of his sudden rages coming on. Never a good thing. Especially for whoever happened to be near him. His men looked on. Worried.
Pond had taken the northern route west past Lake Winnipeg, following Thomas Frobisher’s instructions. Along with the crude map given to him by Frobisher. He muttered to himself, ‘Somehow there has to be a passage into the rivers and lakes flowing north, and not into Hudson Bay. Somewhere. But where? Is this where?’
He stood scratching his head, staring at the little sketch map in front of him. It didn’t make much sense. They had traveled the length of a long, narrow lake and didn’t know which one of the many channels, leading off the lake, to take west. He took another reading with his compass. His head was throbbing. And now those bloody fools from Montreal were nearly on top of him.
Part of the Churchill River canoe route, through Ile-a-la-Crosse, up the Churchill River into Churchill Lake and Peter Pond Lake, northern Saskatchewan. The yellow line marks the routes Pond and Paul Black took, searching for a way into the Athabasca drainage. It’s not too hard to imagine how someone in a canoe could get hopelessly lost without guidance. Or, a proper map, which was non-existent then.
“Where to now Peter? I see nothing but endless water. And now our competition’s barking up our arses.” Elliot waited patiently. He knew Pond wouldn’t answer immediately. And he dared say no more. This man, although usually kind and understanding with his men, and the Natives, had sudden flashes of anger and violence. Sometimes over the smallest things. So Elliot simply waited.
Pond finally turned toward Elliot, reluctantly taking his eyes off the horizon and the sun. He was just about to speak, when one of the men in the incoming canoes shouted across the water.
“Well, if it isn’t the American retired soldier, Mr. Peter Pond. What? Lost your way? There’s no one to kill or duel way out here, Pond. Why are you looking so puzzled? I thought you were a good navigator and mapmaker, Pond? Are you lost?” Paul Black, an independent peddler out of Montreal scowled at Pond. He, and many other concerns in Montreal, hated the American. He was too good. Serious competition. He had no business in their country.
“We’re six canoes to your four, Pond. So, don’t get trigger-happy or there will be trouble. I promise you that.”
Pond stared back at Black, feeling nauseous, his headache getting worse. He was trembling. It was always like this before something bad happened. As he reached for his musket, he tried desperately to control himself. ‘No. Not yet. Don’t do this. Not yet.’ With these now somewhat garbled thoughts, he barely managed to pull his hand away from his pistol. Elliot looked on worriedly. The others looked away.
Finally the parties broke up, barely having avoided flying fists or duels with pistols. Pond turned to his guide. “Well, which way? This bloody map is useless. A blob for the lake on a piece of paper, showing a river running out the west side, but little more. A note saying, ‘turn west at five-five degrees north latitude.’ What, was Frobisher thinking? That I carry a sextant in my pocket? To measure latitude?” His Dene guide, Yakecan just shrugged, pointing at the water.
Pond, messaging his forehead, trying to make the headache go away, was still irate. And continued his tirade. “We paddled the entire length of this lake and there are at least four major channels that turn west. Each channel is a third of a degree, or less, apart. I couldn’t measure our position that accurately even if I had a sextant. And that fool Frobisher, draws a thin oval for a lake. It’s damn more complicated than that.” He turned to his guide once more. “Which is the right channel, Yakecan?”
Yakecan shrugged, again, then replied rather cryptically: “Many fish swim in muddy waters. Find the fish and the muddy waters. That’s the right channel.”
At first Pond only grimaced, thinking, ‘Did I hire an idiot for a guide? He’s supposed to be the best there is. Fish, muddy waters? What the hell is that supposed to mean?’ He started shaking again, but then suddenly grinned, finally realizing what his guide meant. His men looked on in bewilderment, still wondering what the Dene was talking about?
“OK men, gather ’round. Those scoundrels from Montreal are waiting for us to take the correct channel. They’re so foolish, they probably need our help to find their way out of their freight canoes. Without our help, they’re lost. With our help, they’ll soon be lost again. Here’s what we’ll do…..” Pond carefully laid out his plan for his men. They grinned, delighted. Now they also knew what Yakecan was talking about. They lived to trick and beat their competition.
……………………….
After breaking camp the next morning, Pond’s four canoes traveled back up the long, narrow lake again before selecting a channel that led northwest. They knew their competition was watching them, but pretended not to notice.
“OK men, set a steady, but medium pace. Let those bastards catch up and pass us, before we make our next move.”
Black watched from his hiding place along the shore, as Pond’s canoes turned into the channel. “Well, you showed me the route Pond. Not so clever after all.”
He turned and shouted at his men. “Get those canoes into the water, you lazy turds, and follow him. Quick. Before we lose him. That’s the channel we need to take, to get to the Arabosca country.”
His men reluctantly obeyed, eyeing him with disdain. Once Black was out of earshot Daniel whispered to LeTour. “I hope that arrogant asshole knows what he’s doing. He leads like an emperor. More with the whip than his brains. We could all get lost out here in this godforsaken water-wilderness and perish, because of his conceit.” LeTour nodded knowingly. But there wasn’t much they could do when Black took the ‘full bit between his teeth.’
“We’ve almost got them,” shouted Black at his men. Soon we’ll pass them and get into the Arabosca country ahead of them, and then secure the trade. Once we debauch the Indians with enough liquor, and put them in our debt, the furs will be all ours.” Then Black started singing, forcing his reluctant men to sing along. But their voices sounded more like they were attending a funeral march.
A worried LeTour bent over in the canoe and whispered to Daniel. “How’s this supposed to work, Daniel? So, we get ahead of Pond. Black doesn’t know where he’s going. And he doesn’t bother hiring an Indian guide. I don’t like this at all, Daniel.” They kept on paddling, worried looks on their faces, wondering how all this would end. And, then there was Pond’s temper. That worried them most. There were rumors…
Finally the six opposition canoes pulled up beside Pond’s canoes, waving and jeering. Some men swore at him. Others spat. Black, majestically standing in the back of his canoe, waved at his competition. Then he fired his pistol over Pond’s head. “Thought you could outrun us Pond? No bonus for you this year, Yankee. We’ll be coming back, laden with furs, before you reach the Arabosca country.”
One of Pond’s men had heard enough. He took the steersman’s long paddle and gave Black a shot in the ribs, sending him overboard into the freezing spring waters. Black surfaced, sputtering, and was somewhat reluctantly grabbed and thrown into the canoe by his men. Still sputtering and coughing. Now furious.
He pulled out his wet pistol only to realize how useless it was. “I’ll get you for this you Yankee toad. I won’t forget.” Now Black didn’t look very splendid anymore, his uniform soaked and his knee-high leather boots full of water.
As the opposition canoes sped past, Pond’s men roared with laughter, giving their opponents some French Canadian cheer, then stopped paddling. Time for a smoke. And something to eat. They pulled out some pemmican and began chewing. Soon the other canoes were a mere speck on the horizon.
Pond felt a little better after seeing Black humiliated. He ate some of his pemmican before asking his men. “So, how’s this fare? Can you live on it, if you have to? This is the first time I’ve used it with the brigades, and I need your advice.”
Lizotte, usually silent, sitting up front, piped up. “It’s good Peter. Rich. Fills the stomach. Gives me strength to paddle for hours. And it takes so little to make a meal. A bag of this will get us across the continent.” The other men nodded in agreement.
Pond looked pleased. “Well done men. Especially sending that asshole Black into the drink. That will teach him. Now let’s turn around and take the right channel, before they figure out what we’re up to.”
……………………….
Pond’s men peered over the side of their canoes marveling at the sight. Below them in the clear, shallow water a steady flow of fish swam up the lake channel toward the running water coming out of the river at the end of the lake, to spawn. “This one, right, Yakecan?” His guide merely nodded at Pond.
As they got closer to the mouth of the river, at the end of the channel, the water grew murkier from the spring runoff, laden with sediments. “Many fish swim in muddy waters,” his guide exclaimed again. Yes, the spring spawn was on. They had found the right channel. And a sizeable river at the end.
That evening the men feasted on fresh fish and rested, before journeying up the river to the next lake. Now a little closer to their destination. Elliot glanced at Peter. “I wonder where those stupid, arrogant Montrealers are now, Peter? They will be even more dangerous and threatening after this little incident. If they ever catch up to us.”
In another channel, things were not going so well for the Montrealers. Black’s six canoes finally reached the end of the lake channel only to find a very small creek with a trickle of water coming out of it. There was no passage this way. Tricked.
Black, screamed at his men. Spittle flying everywhere. “How could this happen? Was no one watching that bloody American?” He glared at his men, almost daring them to say something.
“You told us to paddle hard sir. So, we put our backs into it, never looking back.” As he said this, LeTour also wondered why Black wasn’t paying more attention while they were paddling.
‘Now what,’ thought Black? ‘I have no idea what channel to take. We’ll have to check each one before we find the right one. That could take days. And we could lose him.’ He swore again and told his men to turn around. ‘I guess I’ll try the largest one first. As good as any.’
Luckily Black turned out to be right. He yelled in triumph and then pushed his men relentlessly up the river, trying to catch Pond’s party. Finally they reached the end of the river, and there on the shore of another enormous lake stood Pond. His men were busy repairing their canoes which had taken a beating on the journey up the river. Black got lucky, again. But, luck could be a double-edged sword.
Paul Black, red-faced, glared at Pond. “You tricked me once Yankee. It won’t happen again.” He was about to reach for his musket and shoot at Pond. But, then he saw the look in Pond’s eyes. Vacant. Staring. His hands trembling, and sweating. Black thought the better of it. ‘Wonder what’s wrong with him? He doesn’t look so well.’
Pond tried to calm down. “Why don’t we just work together Black? There’s enough furs for all of us in the northwest. No hard feelings. Just a little joke. What’s wrong anyway, Black? Lost your compass? You couldn’t find the right channel by yourself?”
“You know goddamned well why a compass or even a sextant wouldn’t work here my friend. Those instruments are too crude to measure latitude in such small increments. Or, determine the right angle for each of those channels, all pointing in almost the same direction. And these pieces of shit maps are useless. I still wonder how you found your way?”
Black looked sideways at Pond, who had now stopped shaking, hoping for an answer. And only received silence in return. Also, a slight smile from Pond’s Dene guide. Black wondered,’what’s that stupid Indian smiling at?’
Pond mused, ‘Maybe if you’d quit treating the Natives like fools, you might learn something. Who would ever, in his right mind, travel in this wilderness without a Native guide. Or Native help. Only that arrogant Canadian, dressed in black, would dare.’
“Why don’t we just break out the kegs and have some drinks, Black. I’ll make you a present of a few casks. Talk things over like adults and tomorrow be on our way. You know the way from here, right Black?”
Black nodded, trying to look confident in front of his men. He really wasn’t too certain. His maps were even worse than Pond’s. His navigating skills almost non-existent.
“Agreed Pond. But, no more tricks.” That afternoon Black and LeTour watched as Pond stood by the lake with his compass pointing it steadily along the east shoreline. Nodding, as if confirming to himself that it was the right direction to take.
“Did you see that LeTour? North-to-northeast on the compass. At least now we know which direction to take.” Black turned and went to the fires, preparing for the evening events. His men would be happy. The drinks were on that fool Pond.
LeTour looked on uneasily. Pond was as shifty as they came. He didn’t trust him. And, he feared that look in his eyes. He would listen carefully by the evening fires to see if he could find out more from Pond’s men about which route to take. ‘Rum loosens tongues, and someone will talk.’ With those misguided thoughts he too turned towards the camp fires.
That night the men celebrated. A few fist fights broke out, but nothing serious. And the tongues wagged on which direction to take tomorrow. By the time the party finished, every direction on the compass had been whispered to Black and his men. That night Black’s men slept more soundly than usual.
…………………….
Pond and his men were already on the water two hours before sunrise, having crept quietly out of the sleeping camp.
Elliot looked at Pond. “What did you put in those kegs you gave Black, Peter? His men are out cold, and not just from too much drink.” He waited for an answer which finally came. Pond was busy looking at the dwindling stars. Making notes.
“I laced those kegs with Laudanum. Those men won’t wake up for some time. And they won’t have any dysentery problems for months.”
After looking at his compass, Pond glanced over at Yakecan. “This isn’t the right lake or channel is it my friend? According to my readings, we’re heading too far northeast.”
Yakecan simply shrugged, before saying, “Find the moving water, Peter. Then follow it.”
By now Pond was accustomed to his guide’s rather short, calculated answers. Not a word wasted. ‘Follow the moving water.’ He wasn’t about to argue. Without his Dene guide, he wouldn’t have gotten this far.
By sunrise Pond’s canoes had moved around a spit of land and found themselves in a channel, between an island and the shoreline. They were just about to pass a narrow opening along the shore, not thinking much of it because it looked like a dead end. Then Pond felt it. Moving water. Coming from the narrow opening. Toward them. “Turn in there men.” Yakecan nodded knowingly.
The canoes moved up a narrow channel, the current against them, which eventually opened into an enormous lake, nearly twenty-five miles long. Pond marveled at the sight. The lake was oriented in the direction they needed to take.
“This one Yakecan, right?” Yakecan simply nodded again. Pond’s men broke out into a canoe song, continuing their journey west up the enormous lake. And with the help of their Dene guide, over Methye portage, and eventually into the Arabosca country.
………………………….
“Wake up Black.” Black opened one eye, only to see LeTour staring down at him, his breath reeking of last night’s festivities. “They’re gone. Not a trace of them anywhere.”
Black, now fully awake, stared at LeTour. “Who’s gone? What are you talking about?” Then he remembered the party. The drinking. He gingerly touched his sore head.
“The American and his men have disappeared.”
At LeTour’s words, Black sobered up fast. “Gone? Well, to hell with them. We know which direction to take, LeTour. You heard the rumors last night, right?”
“I heard all sorts of rumors. Not sure what to believe. I don’t trust that Yankee dog. He already tricked us once. He might again.” LeTour was scowling, obviously in a foul mood.
“You take two canoes and travel along the east shore of the lake, LeTour. I’ll take the other four and go along the west shore. One of us has to find the river or channel leading out of this lake, and when he does, just waits for the other to show up.” LeTour nodded. Soon they were on their way.
“Well, this must be it. It’s big enough. I think the water is moving slightly.” The two men stared at the channel that led out of the end of the lake. LeTour didn’t seem convinced.
“This has to be the channel, LeTour. There is no other opening along this lake. And he’s gone.” Black had missed the channel Pond took. Both men stared up the channel which looked relatively wide and promising enough. They got into the canoes and pushed off into the opening.
A week passed. After canoeing endless miles and traversing many channels and lakes, which were now all beginning to look alike, they finally came to the end of the last lake. And a dead end. Now almost exhausted, fly bitten, and nearly out of food, they looked forlornly at the solid lake shore in front of them. No river, no channel. Nothing but dense forest.
“We’re totally, completely lost Black. There’s no way any further by canoe. We have to turn back. We’ve missed something.”
“Black only looked sourly at LeTour. “Find our way back? In this incredible maze of channels, lakes and marshes? I didn’t draw a map as we were moving up. Or take directions. Did you?”
LeTour only looked despondently back into the distance, shaking his head. Thinking, ‘double jeopardy.’ They had lost. To Pond, and nature.
The Little Fort on the Athabasca River
The men saw it immediately, and moved away. Pond was growing irritated. “These goddamned blood sucking mosquitoes. They’re driving me crazy.” He started wildly swinging his musket at a swarm of bugs above his head. The men moved even further away. Finally, in a great outburst of rage, he fired his musket into another swarm of bugs. “There, that’ll show them.” Suddenly Pond was calm again. Almost looking relieved. So were his men.
Two of his men stood out of earshot, whispering. “Paul Black threatens him, ridicules him. He’s swore at, spat at. Shot at. And he does nothing. Then he totally loses it over a swarm of mosquitoes. I don’t understand, Elliot.”
“Neither do I, Roy. But, at least he gets us to where all the furs are, alive. No complaints from me.” They talked more about what they would do with all their money, once they got home.
1780, Montreal
“You understand Mr. Pond, this is not a trial. Only an inquiry.”
“Yes Sir, I do.” But before Pond could go on, Black’s widow jumped up and started screaming and pointing a finger at him.
“He killed my husband. That Yankee bastard is to blame. String him up. Oh, my poor husband, and all those men. Their children will never see them again.” With those words she broke into tears, and had to be led out of the room.
The inquiry continued. “Mr. Pond, it is my understanding that Mr. Black followed you northwest and you were in contact with him.”
Pond, pondered the question for a while, before answering. “Yes, Black’s canoes were behind us, following us.”
“And was there any incident that might have led to their disappearance?”
Pond merely smiled. Thinking, ‘What a stupid question.’ Then he answered. “Yes, there probably was Sir, or they wouldn’t have disappeared.” The magistrate merely scowled when hearing the Yankee’s answer.
A few more halfhearted questions followed before the inquiry ended.
Peter Pond stood up and strode out of the room. Now a much richer man, having taken so many furs out of the Arabosca country, he would have to go back next year, to collect the rest that he cached. Perhaps he should give Black’s widow a few pounds sterling. No. The public would then think he had done something wrong.
Author’s Notes:
I can’t imagine navigating northern Saskatchewan’s or Manitoba’s numerous lakes and rivers in a canoe to find the route to Methye Portage, then eventually into the Athabasca River. What a monumental task that would have been. And what courage it would have taken.
In 1976 I took a boreal ecology course at the University of Manitoba. Part of the course involved traipsing around the lake district northeast of Lake Winnipeg, in the dead of winter. It was there that I fully comprehended the vastness of the many northern lakes, rivers, islands and channels. You could get seriously lost in a heartbeat. If you didn’t freeze to death first.
Of course, we had compasses to help us find our way. Or so we thought. One cloudy afternoon our professor told us to traverse an island in the lake. He would meet us on the other side. After many hours we finally made it, frozen, exhausted, and somewhat bewildered. It was then that our spiritual leader informed us the island contained a considerable iron ore deposit beneath it. Of course, rendering our compasses useless.
During the late 18th century, when this story took place, the American, Peter Pond probably used a compass. Not likely a sextant or watches, to calculate latitude and longitude accurately, judging by the quality of his maps. While latitude was relatively easy to calculate, even a sextant could not have measured locations to one-third degree very accurately. Pond needed more than instruments to find his way into the Athabasca drainage, through the Methye Portage route. Certainly his Native guide(s) played a major role.
Even after becoming more familiar with the region, this is what Pond mapped in 1785. The map is very simple (leaving out a lot of detail) and quite distorted as well, when compared to a modern map of the area. The long, narrow lake at the bottom of this image is Ile-a-la-Crosse. The orange writing is mine.
The main character in this story, Peter Pond, was the first White man to set foot along Methye Portage and eventually find his way into the Athabasca drainage in 1778. Although his maps are rough, they certainly paved the way for later explorers to move further northwest. Especially his protege, Alexander Mackenzie.
While Pond is real enough, Paul Black and his men, and their encounters with Pond in this story, are fictional.
I have often wondered about Peter Pond’s personality. And that reportedly bad temper of his. David Thompson wrote: “He was a person of industrious habits, a good common education, but of a violent temper and unprincipled character.” Pond was involved in a duel in the US, and two murder incidents in the Canadian northwest. He was acquitted of both murders, but the rumors swirled.
Was Pond’s temper just an occasional lapse? Or, perhaps something more sinister? When it comes to understanding afflictions and illnesses in the past, historic records are often difficult to interpret. I started doing some research (for my not so soon to be published novel) on what might have ailed Pond. And came across a psychological malady, known asIntermittent Explosive Disorder. Check it out.
Some psychologists believe one of the possible causes of this disorder stems back to a violent childhood. The child is physically abused, and then later in life finds a sense of redemption by putting others through pain. Once the rage is over, the tension is released and relief is achieved. Other potential causes include genetics and differences (function, chemistry and structure) in how the brain operates.
Peter Pond often had real reason, and not some trivial incident, to turn violently against his rivals. Regardless of what may have plagued him, which we can only guess at, Peter Pond was occasionally a very violent man. And a very organized, calculating individual. Also, someone who contributed significantly to the exploration of the incredibly challenging 18th century western Canadian frontier.
Outside of Edmonton’s Green Onion Cake Man restaurant, which opened in 2018, located on 118th Ave and 91st Street.
I was surfing the web reading about all the great Canadian cuisine. And then I thought of green onion cakes, made right here in Edmonton. So famous that there is an exhibit about them at the new Royal Alberta Museum. And so popular, it was suggested they be named the City’s official food. Then I checked Wikipedia only to find that green onion cakes were not listed on its Canadian Cuisine web page. How can that be?
I texted the recently opened Green Onion Cake Man restaurant in Edmonton and asked them for an interview. Maybe they knew why their highly popular Edmonton food, now found in many major cities in North America, was not on Wiki list of Canadian cuisine? Cuisine, from East Indian to Scottish food, and everything in between, was on those lists. Why not green onion cakes?
Fresh green onion cake, from the Green Onion Cake Man restaurant. When I tasted them, I wasn’t disappointed.
Green Onion Cakes: A Little History First
Chinese green onion pancakes, or Chong Yao Beng (green onion, oil pancake) is a unleavened flatbread folded with oil and finely minced green onion. It varies somewhat in ingredients and production, depending on where it is made. Traditionally a street food, it is now served in many restaurants in North America.
There are many green onion cake recipes and cakes out there to choose from. But I had to try the ones at the Green Onion Cake Man, and ask restaurant owner, Mr. Siu To, about their Edmonton origins. And, why wasn’t this cake adopted earlier in other North American cities as more Chinese people immigrated to Canada? It wasn’t long before I got some answers.
The Green Onion Cake Man Restaurant
Current research suggests that Siu To and his wife Yeenar were the founders of green onion cakes in Canada. They started making them soon after immigrating from Shandong Province, northern China in 1975. In northern China, traditional Mandarin cooking differs from southern Cantonese cooking. ‘More simple, less ingredients’, Mr. To explained to me. But Mr. To’s cooking has caught on. Recently the green onion cake story has been covered by many news outlets, especially after the opening the Green Onion Cake Man restaurant (CBC, Edmonton Sun, The Star, Jennifer Bain).
Siu To, now 79 years old, opened the Happy Garden and the Mongolian Food Experience restaurants in the late 1970s and 80s in Edmonton. His first customers were mostly Taiwanese who really liked his cakes, even though this was not typical southern Chinese fare. According to Edmonton’s historian laureate, Chris Chang-Yen Phillips, “It represents a bit of a shift in Chinese cuisine in Alberta from being a Cantonese-style cuisine to sort of experimenting with other food traditions in China.”
But it was Edmonton’s major festivals in the 1980s, Taste of Edmonton, EdmontonFolk Fest and the Fringe, that really put green onion cakes on the map. They were great festival food favorites and Siu cooked them right there.
My interview with Mr. Siu To, showing me two of his frozen products. Read on for more details below.
One of the first questions I asked Mr. To: ‘Why all the media attention in the last few years?’ He thought it was because people like genuine food being made fresh, right in front of them. That also explains why his cakes caught on at the festivals. Because he fried them right there.And they tasted great.
I entered the restaurant. It was a small, neat place, seating about twenty people, and the emphasis was all on food, not decor. Once in the door, you looked right into the kitchen and watched the cooks preparing your dishes. It reminded me of the original The Only restaurant on East Hastings Street, Vancouver, in the 1980s. Straightforward and simple. But, some of the best seafood I have ever tasted, anywhere.
Standing at the counter of the Green Onion Cake Man, I watched as Linda made fresh green onion cakes for me to take home.
I sat down with Mr. To, hoping to find out a little more about this simple, but delightful food. After only a few minutes of chatting, I already knew one reason why his cakes were so popular. This man was passionate about his cooking. And sharing it with other Canadians. As we talked, he explained that cooking was more than throwing a bunch of ingredients into a frying pan. It was an art and had to come from the heart. I couldn’t agree more.
I asked Mr. To whether the cakes he makes are like the traditional ones in northern China? Mostly, he said. But there was one major difference (which I had not read about before). He said, traditionally green onion cakes were leavened. He explained that he uses baking powder in his cakes, instead of yeast. With baking powder it was easier to control how high the dough rose.
We got around to talking about Edmonton’s numerous festivals. I asked why he choose green onion cakes for festival food, and not something more familiar to Canadians? Like Chow Mein, for example? And not surprisingly, one reason was, practicality. By preparing the green onion cake dough beforehand, he could then quickly flatten the dough balls into cakes and fry them on site. There were fewer ingredients to prepare, fewer pots and pans to carry, than cooking Chow Mein.
My last questions dealt with the popularity and origins of green onion cakes in Canada. Mr. To explained that most Chinese immigrants to Canada came from southeast China, including Taiwan and Hong Kong. Many Chinese Canadian restaurants focused on Cantonese cooking, and not so much northern Chinese cuisine. Lucky for us, Mr. To ended up in Edmonton.
And the reason for its almost instant popularity. Simple – easy to make, easy to cook, inexpensive, and very tasty. A hard combination to beat.
Have Green Onion Cakes Spread Beyond Edmonton?
After my interview, one question remained: After over forty years of existence in Edmonton, do all areas in Canada now have those yummy green onion cakes on their menus? (I asked my wife if we could do a road trip to all major North America cities to do the research. Still waiting for an answer.)
The faster, easier way to find answers was to check the web. I typed in “green onion cake restaurants in…..,” and then the name of the city. Before I get to Canada, surprisingly the few major American cities I checked some restaurants had green onion cakes listed on their menus (New York, Boston, Chicago, Seattle, Washington DC, Los Angeles, San Diego, Los Vegas). And also, London, England and Paris, France. Certainly not like Mr. To’s originals, but something similar.
Next, I checked the major Canadian cities, especially the capitals of every province, and a few extras (i.e., Montreal, Calgary, Vancouver, Saskatoon). Did any of their Chinese restaurant menus list green onion cakes? Restaurants in seven provinces (Nova Scotia, Quebec, Ontario, Manitoba, Alberta, and British Columbia) listed green onion cakes. No green onion cakes on menus of any restaurants in the other six provinces (Newfoundland/Labrador, Prince Edward Island, New Brunswick, Nunavut, Yukon and North West Territories). The four other cities listed above had at least one restaurant that served green onion cakes (a few had over ten).
Along with these facts, and further chats with some Facebook friends, living in less populated areas of Canada, two things became apparent: 1) restaurants in the provinces with the top seven highest Chinese populations listed green onion cakes; and, 2) once you leave the high population centers, even in Alberta, green onion cakes are still a relatively unknown fare for many Canadians. I really feel for you people.
But we still don’t know whether the green onion cake idea spread from Edmonton where it originated, or, was independently conceived by new Chinese arrivals in other cities. Which ever way they spread, it required a sufficiently high Chinese population first to support this food. And that only occurred in major Canadian cities.
And like many other foods and fashions, green onion cakes are being modified according to the tastes in a particular area. In one Toronto restaurant, you can order a folded green onion cake with a chive filling. In another, the green onion cakes are thinner, flatter and flakier than what Mr. To makes.
Called ‘Chive Pockets’ on their menu, these filled pancakes from the Golden Dumpling restaurant, Toronto, look like folded green onion cakes with a filling. These thinner, flaky green onion cakes, from the Juicy Dumpling restaurant, Toronto, are similar to Mr. To’s, but with perhaps less baking powder in them.
What’s Next for the Green Onion Cake Man?
Although Mr. To isn’t exactly a spring chicken, he is still thinking of new ways to share his knowledge of northern Chinese cuisine with fellow Canadians. Now he has developed dishes for Edmontonians to cook at home.
During our interview, he brought out two samples of his frozen Chinese dishes: 1) Singapore Noodles; and, 2) Yaung Chow Fried Rice. Take them home, thaw them, cook briefly and enjoy. I can’t wait to try them.
Singapore Noodles with shrimp and a sauce to pour over the ingredients.Yaung Chow Fried Rice bowl, frozen. Just warm it up and you’re ready for a great eating experience.
Siu has now developed six frozen dishes and three frozen soups that you can cook at home. But, it wouldn’t surprise me if there is more to come.
Nothing Like the Real Thing
I had to ask Siu whether he tried green onion cakes at other restaurants. Yes, he had, but they weren’t like his. Did other restaurant owners call him for advice or for his recipe? He said, very few had but he knew they came in and tried his cakes, without talking to him.
If you are ever in Edmonton, or somewhere near 118th Avenue, go grab some green onion cakes and those new frozen dishes that you can cook at home. Even though there may be other green onion cakes out there, there’s nothing like the real thing. Made by Canada’s original Green Onion Cake Man. Mr. Siu To.
Siu To, at the Green Onion Cake Man restaurant talking to his customers.
Note: My ‘fly by the seat of my pants’ research in this article is hardly state of the art. But, it’s the best I could do on short notice, without extensively traveling. There may be other places in Canada where you might find green onion cakes, that I missed. If so, please let me know.
In a former blog I talked about Historical Fiction as a possible genre to personalize historical facts. I continue in that vein with another short story. What happened at a remote late eighteenth century Canadian, Saskatchewan River fur trade post when the brandy supplies kept disappearing? The story is based on North West Company’s clerk Duncan M’Gillvray’s Fort George journals, John McDonald of Garth’s memoirs, and archaeological investigations at the fort site in the 1970s. Our main man, chief trader Angus Shaw, faces a problem. Pilfering. By his men. How does he deal with it? Read on and find out.
The Story
Fort George, Alberta, 1793
One of the fort Engages rushed into chief trader Angus Shaw’s rather spacious private quarters in the Big House, sitting on the high banks of the North Saskatchewan River. Before Shaw could ask what the man wanted, the words came tumbling out.
“They’re here Sir. And there must be a least two-hundred of them.”
“Who’s ‘they’ LaFrance? The King of England and his court? Quit talking in riddles man. Speak English.”
“Blackfoot, Sir. Wanting to talk and trade. They insist on a meeting and gifts first.”
“What the hell are they doing here this late in the fall?” Shaw stood up from his chair, walked around a bit, considering what to do.
“Well, they’re here. Can’t just turn them away. Break out the tobacco and brandy, LaFrance, and invite their principal men into Indian Hall. Keep the others out.” Shaw knew he had to accommodate them or lose the trade to his neighbors at Buckingham House.
“Buckingham House,” he snorted. “Where does the HBC come up with those damned names?” Then he considered his fort’s name, ‘Fort George’. ‘Not exactly fitting for the Canadian wilderness either,’ he thought. He waited for his men to finish preparations and LaFrance to return. He was still deep in thought when the door opened letting in the drafty cool fall air. And a little more.
“Close the door LaFrance. You’re letting in that awful stench. What is that anyway?”
LaFrance answered dutifully. “It’s from the butchering sir. We’re starting to fill the ice pits with meat for the winter, to make pemmican for the spring brigades.”
“Well, it smells God-awful. I’m glad winter will soon be here so that stench won’t be as bad. Are we ready for the meeting LaFrance? You look a little pale.”
LaFrance was standing there, trembling. “Sir the high wines are almost all gone, and what’s left tastes more like water than brandy.” LaFrance quickly looked at the door, as if getting ready for a rapid escape. He knew Shaw was going to blow his lid.
And LaFrance was right. Shaw lost it. Completely! He hurled his clay tobacco pipe at the mud wall, breaking it into little pieces. He kicked a chair, sending it flying LaFrance’s way. His Cree country wife, Marguerite, came running into the room to see what was wrong. She took one look at the scene, then quickly left.
“How in the hell can that be? The brigades just got back from Montreal two months ago and we’re already low on liquor? This is a disaster LaFrance. I’ll have to borrow more from our neighbors at an exorbitant price, of course. But not now, let’s give the Blackfoot what we have and hope it’s enough.”
After Shaw partially regained his composure, LaFrance tentatively ventured some more information. “Well Sir, about what happened. The lock on the storage cellar was tampered with again. It seems someone broke in and helped themselves to some drink.” LaFrance was stammering now, looking quite guilty, as if he might somehow have been involved.
“Some drink? The lock was tampered with? How so, LaFrance?”
“Well, smashed into little pieces, Sir.” Again the Engage looked quickly away, steadily backing toward the door. “I think Sir, we’re ready. The principal men are gathered in the Indian Hall and await you.” He turned and hurried out the door.
As Shaw walked toward the Indian room to meet the Blackfoot principal men, he thought about his not so little dilemma. He knew without alcohol, he would lose the trade to his competitors. ‘This is happening to often. Those god-damned French Canadians. They drink and party endlessly and could cost me a small fortune if this keeps up.’
Then in a more sober moment of thinking, he reluctantly admitted: ‘Well, even though they are some of the worst scoundrels around, they’re the best canoe men, carpenters, and labourers in the Canadian west. And, maybe it wasn’t them. Some of my officers aren’t exactly angles either. I’ll just have to build something to keep everyone out of the Company stores, and hide the liquor.’ He left and walked into the Indian Hall, cordially greeting the Blackfoot principal men.
…………………….
“Early this morning ten young Blackfoot came in for tobacco for a band who were to arrive later; sent, as usual, six inches to each principal man. They arrived at noon and pitched their tents, each party near the gates of their own trader. Gave them liquor as usual, one pint of Indian rum to each principal man, and they began to drink.” (from the journals of Alexander the Younger, Fort Vermilion (on the Saskatchewan near Fort George, November 12, 1809; Coues 1897:571)
They all sat and smoked, and prayed. Then one of the Blackfoot men took a sip of his brandy, blanched, and spit it all over the wood hall floor. He looked at Shaw in disgust, a deep scowl forming on his face. He spoke to Shaw’s translator, who turned a lighter shade of red.
“So, what did he say, Blanchet?” Shaw already knew but listened anyway.
Blanchet reluctantly told Shaw, while the principal men were fidgeting, as if preparing to leave. “He says this stuff tastes like horse piss, and not brandy. Next spring he’s taking all his furs to the Hudson’s Bay Company. They have good brandy there. And, he asks what that terrible smell is outside? Smells worse than a buffalo jump in the summer.”
“Tell him we had an accident with the brandy. It fell into the river on the journey up the Saskatchewan. Got a little watered down. Tell him I’ll compensate him with extra tobacco and more brandy next spring if he brings his furs to us. As to the stench. Tell him not to trade us bad meat anymore.” Blanchet translated, and the Blackfoot reluctantly sat down again, still grumbling among themselves and giving Shaw nasty stares.
Shaw stared back, thinking. ‘They will go next door anyway, to see if the HBC has a better offer, as soon as they are done here.’
The next day, the Blackfoot traded a few wolf skins and left. LaFrance came rushing up to Shaw. “Sir, the good news; they left. The bad news; with half our horses.” This time LaFrance was already out the door before the litany of curses came rushing out of Shaw’s mouth.
Shaw looked through the open door into the fort courtyard. ‘Jesus, can it get any worse than this? I’m stuck in this shithole with these drunkards for the rest of the winter. And now I have to deal with a bunch of very belligerent Natives next spring. Who keep stealing my horses, then trading them back. And this stinking meat. I’m going to get sick.’
As the events of the day went through his mind, Shaw noticed a large black plume of smoke across the river in the southwest. ‘Great! And to top it all off, they set the prairie on fire as a farewell.’ It was before noon. He was about to pour himself a stiff brandy anyway. He stopped short, realizing they didn’t have any left.
…………………..
“They [Hudson’s Bay Company] allowed us the free use of the well for some time, but at last, apprehensive of its drying up also….from the quantity taken from it by so many for all purposes, Mr. Tomison, a powerful man, refused to allow us further supplies….Mr. Tomison would not listen to any reason, indeed I had little to give him — but that if he would not give us our wants that either of us must pay a visit to the bottom of the well.” (from the memoirs of John McDonald of Garth, c.1795, Fort George, Alberta, in Morton 1929:lxii)
A few days later John McDonald of Garth was brought into Shaw’s quarters, barely standing. Kind of wobbling. “So, what the hell happened to you McDonald? Christ, you look like shit.”
McDonald, scarcely able to speak, finally got a few words out. “Well, Shhiir, I met with that scoundrel Tomison and his men at the well and I beat them up pretty badly.” Garth burped, then wobbled, having trouble keeping his feet.
Shaw looked on incredulously. They were already indebted to their neighbors for the liquor and now this man got into a fight with the HBC – about what? Water? There was a whole bloody river flowing before his eyes and John fought over the spring water supply closer by?
“Well, by the look of your face McDonald, you really put a scare into them.” Shaw remained stoic, reluctantly waiting for John to speak. He occasionally exaggerated when he told his stories. Especially when drunk.
“I did my best sir. Shhoowed them who is boss of the water, I did. They didn’t want to share the well, but I thought otherwise.”
“And, where exactly did you manage to get a hold of so much liquor, man?”
“Private stocks,” mumbled McDonald, before nearly tipping over.
Shaw just stared at his soon-to-fall-down officer in astonishment. ‘God, please help me. I’m surrounded by idiots.’ He eyed McDonald disparagingly, thinking: ‘Well maybe he’ll suit my purposes. He owes me after this little incident.’
…………………
Next spring, after all the engages and voyageurs left for Montreal, Shaw took McDonald aside and explained his plan for a new cellar for the liquor. John nodded, fully realizing that if he failed Shaw, he was done with the Company. So, he and a few trusted men worked for months to build it.
That fall, after examining the large, fresh mound of earth beside the big house, Shaw eyed McDonald. “I hope you got it right, John. If you so much as mutter a word how this here was built, you’ll be buried in it. And worse, no more brandy.” McDonald nodded solemnly. ‘What could be worse than no more brandy,’ he thought.
“One more thing John. If my stocks start disappearing, I’ll be coming after you.” McDonald visibly grew paler at those last words, but said nothing.
Soon after, the men arrived from Montreal, their canoes laden with supplies and trade goods. Including lots of brandy and rum. Joseph was grunting and cursing, shouting out to Francois behind him, two ninety-pound bales on his back. “So, we paddle for two-thousand miles to get this stuff here and then we have to haul it up to the highest bank on the river. Why not build down along the river?” Francois said nothing, only grunted in return, trying to balance his equally heavy load. He was too busy thinking about all the brandy they would drink this winter.
Once inside their fort, the men looked around. Something was different. They looked toward the Big House. Beside it, a new building, of sorts. Just a large low mound of earth.
Pierre leaned over to Louis. “Is that a new cellar? Look how close it is to the trader’s quarters. Hard to pilfer the brandy stores when it’s that close.” They put the brandy barrels near the newly built mound and looked at the mound again. Strange though, no door.
Shaw came out of his house. He looked at his somewhat confused men. “Leave the liquor here, take the rest of the provisions to the stores.” His men nodded, looking back somewhat forlornly at the brandy and rum kegs.
Once they finished, Shaw gathered them again. Now they had tired-looking puzzled faces. His men knew something was up. But what? “Gabriel, break out a barrel for the men. Let’s celebrate after the long journey.” Shaw turned, leaving them to their revelry. And soon they were falling down drunk, having already forgotten about the new mound beside the trader’s house.
Next morning the brandy barrels in front of Shaw’s House were gone. The men walked around the compound, still a little drunk and perplexed. Thinking, barely. Now focused on only one thing. ‘Where did the brandy barrels go?’ They looked at the strange mound by Shaw’s house again. No entrance. Anywhere.
Shaw sat in front of his house, smoking his pipe, watching his men. There was a look of satisfaction on his usually stoic face. He took a sip of his brandy and toasted those closest to him. “To your health Pierre, men.” Pierre only spat in return. The rest, including McDonald, only glared. Shaw only smiled in return, relishing his private stock of liquor. Not even the smell was that bad when your private stock was safe.
……………………….
Fort George, Alberta, 1978.
Harry Reed and his crew were excavating parts of the Big House at Fort George, probably the residence of Angus Shaw and his country wife. And a large subterranean structure beside the Big House. Even though it was a hot Alberta afternoon along the river, everyone was happy. This was a great fort site. As he would later learn, maybe one of the best, and most complex, he would ever excavate.
“Jay, what did you find in that big storage cellar?”
“Well, all pretty normal. It’s a wood cribbed subterranean structure with the roof coming down to the ground. Poles, with bark and sod roof. Kind of a root cellar with a roof, probably all covered with sod.” Harry looked at the sketch Jay gave him, then at Jay, and the somewhat concerned look on his assistant’s face.
“And, what else, Jay?”
“It doesn’t have an outside entrance. We’re missing something Harry.”
Harry stared at Jay. Maybe a little too long. He hated these situations. Because you kept digging until you found out why the building did not have a door. Even if it took all summer. Chasing one little fact for countless hours. Was it worth it? Who really cared if you added that fact to the historic record. He did.
Harry looked at Jay again, wondering if he was getting too much sun. “A building without an entrance. Ridiculous, Jay.” Jay looked at Harry and knew immediately what he was thinking. ‘Find the damned entrance. Even if if takes the rest of the summer.’ So, they went to work.
A few weeks later, the project now almost over, the two men sat talking, drinking their beers, overlooking the large excavated storage cellar and parts of the Big House. “So, why would he do that, Harry? Did he want all the brandy for himself?”
Harry thought for a moment, took another swig of his beer before answering. “He didn’t trust his men I guess. Not with the liquor. That was the only way he could control the supplies. And those brass spigots for casks we found down there certainly hint to liquor storage.” They sat in silence pondering their somewhat unusual find.
Fort George, 2015
The little boy, holding his father’s hand, read the interpretive sign overlooking an enormous hole in the ground at the Fort George site. “Why would the trader have a secret passageway from his house into this cellar dad?”
“Maybe he didn’t trust his men, son.”
“But what if the archaeologists hadn’t found this passageway?”
“Then, son, I guess we might not know as much about the relationship between the boss and his men.”
“But what if it doesn’t mean that at all dad? Maybe the trader was too lazy to go out in the minus forty degree winter night and get some brandy? So, he had the men build a passageway to the cellar from his quarters.”
The father looked thoughtfully at his boy. “I agree. Except for one thing. There was no other entrance, except through his quarters. I don’t think he wanted his men traipsing through his private quarters all the time. And he didn’t want them in that cellar. Looks a little suspicious to me, son.” They walked off, still a little puzzled, to read another interpretive panel at the site.
Author’s Note
For many years I thought about the peculiar storage cellar and its even stranger entrance at Fort George. Although we looked for an outside entrance, the evidence was sketchy. The concealed tunnel from Angus Shaw’s Big House to the storage cellar was real enough. Below is a sketch of the fort showing the location of the cellar and the entrance into the Big House. The cellar excavation was incredible. The roof had collapsed into it and was almost completely intact. Poles, bark and all. For me it was one of those rare archaeological moments.
This is a revised version of Robert Kidd’s (1970) layout of Fort George, based on our later excavations at the fort. The final story about this fort, and who occupied it, has not yet been told. The layout of this fort, in a short eight year period of occupation, changed several times. In fact, in one of those versions, the south palisade ran through former buildings. And, many of the building cellars were packed with rubbish. This has also puzzled me for many years. I have been toying with the idea that after the North West Company abandoned this fort, someone else (i.e., independent peddlers, Metis freemen, etc.) re-occupied it. Presently, the archaeological facts just don’t fit with a single occupation.
Interpreting what we found, however, was the most difficult part of all. Obviously Shaw wanted a private entrance into his stores. But why? Was the little boy right? Simply for convenience? Or, because of the social distance and distrust between North West Company Scottish traders and their mostly French Canadian/Metis labourers? Other differences, including clothing, housing and food, and type of labor, also separated the Company officers from their men.
As is often the case, there is no definitive proof or one answer here. All too common when dealing with either the historic documentary or archaeological records. This story represents one of those possibilities.
References
Coues, Elliot (editor). 1897. New Light on the Early History of the Greater Northwest: The Manuscript Journals of Alexander Henry, Fur Trader of the Northwest Company, and David Thompson, Official Geographer and Explorer of the Same Company, 1799-1814. Volume 2. Ross and Haines, Minneapolis.
Kidd, Robert S. 1970. Fort George and the Early Fur Trade in Alberta. Provincial Museum and Archives of Alberta, Publication No. 2.
Masson, L. R. (editor). 1890. John McDonald of Garth Autobiographical Notes, 1791-1816. In Les Bourgeois de la Compagnie du Nord-ouest: Recits de voyages, lettres et rapports inedits relatifs au nord-ouest Canadien. Volume 2. De l’imprimerie generala. cote et cie, Quebec.
Morton, Arthur S. (editor). 1929. The Journal of Duncan M’Gillivray of the North West Company at Fort George on the Saskatchewan, 1794-5. MacMillan, Toronto.
By current estimates, there were over three-hundred fur trade posts built in Alberta alone (there are many more in the other prairie provinces). The location of over fifty-percent of the Alberta posts is unknown. Many, like the legendary Fort La Jonquierre, built in 1751, remain a mystery. Even for the folks (that’s all of us) at Wikipedia. Here’s what I know about this mysterious French fort (parts of which are remarkably similar in the Wiki version). If it was real, and had continued as a western settlement, it might have changed the course of western Canadian history.
This enigmatic fur trade post was once on my archaeological ‘bucket list‘. Long rumored to exist, but never searched for, it has baffled historians and archaeologists for over a century. For more details, you can read my online article in the Alberta Archaeological Review. Here is a slightly shorter version of my research.
Early 18th Century Exploration of Western Canada
The struggle for control of the western fur trade, and search for a route to the Pacific Ocean, between the French and English periodically ended with the signing of the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713. Soon after, however, the French again pursued their dream – to be the first to find an inland route to the Pacific Ocean. They began to establish Postes de la Mer de l’ouest west (posts of the western Sea) to search for that route. They were ambitious, unlike their British counterparts who, as one trader later wrote, were “…content to remain asleep by the frozen sea (Hudson Bay).“
There was one major obstacle in this noble undertaking: No one really knew where exactly they were heading. Even by the 1740s, the Pacific Ocean was a mere blur, somewhere thousands of miles west, as the best available maps of the period show.
An 1740s map of the interior of western Canada and the Pacific Ocean drawn by the French Canadian Metis, Joseph La France for the Governor of the Hudson’s Bay Company, Arthur Dobbs. Not only was distance and major geographic features of the Canadian west inaccurate, no one knew which river or pass led to the Pacific Ocean from the east side of the Rocky Mountains.
Most of La France’s information, and that of other French explorers such as Pierre Gualtier de La Verendrye, was collected from First Nations’ accounts of routes to the Pacific Ocean:
“It was there [forks of the Saskatchewan Rivers] that he [La Verendrye’s son] was in the spring at the meeting of all the Cree, and where he inquired minutely, according to his father’s orders, where the source of this great river was. They all replied with one voice that it came from very far, from a height of land where there were very lofty mountains; that they knew of a great lake on the other side of the mountains, the water of which was undrinkable.” (a French memoir, in Dugas 1905:487: brackets mine)
[Note: One historian thinks that the ‘lofty mountains’ in this account was the Missouri Coteau, and the great lake was Chaplin Lake (very salty), Saskatchewan. Even that chain of hills between Moose Jaw and Swift Current, is hardly ‘lofty’. And Chaplin Lake was not really that big.]
The Mysterious Fort La Jonquierre
In order to reach the Pacific, the French wanted to build a line of forts along the Saskatchewan River, including one at the foot of the Rocky Mountains. This was no easy undertaking. However, by 1751 they had established a fort (La Corne) at the forks of the Saskatchewan Rivers. According to Legardeur de St. Pierre, one of La Verendrye’s successors:
“I promised to all the tribes that M. de Niverville would go and create an establishment nine hundred miles farther up than that on the Paskoyac. I agreed with all the tribes that they should unite with me at that new trading post.” (from Dugas 1905:96)
Paskoyac refers to the present day The Pas, Manitoba, located along the Saskatchewan River. St. Pierre’s statement provides a distance and possible geographical landmark for the fort. And later St. Pierre wrote again:
“…was executed on 29th May, 1751. He sent off ten men in two canoes, who ascended the river Paskoya [Saskatchewan] as far as the Rocky Mountains, where they made a good fort, which I named Fort la Jonquierre….“
This quote refers to a slightly better landmark. The Saskatchewan River, or one of its forks (either the North Saskatchewan, the Bow River, or even the Red Deer River). But, even if we believe these entries (and I personally do), would there be any archaeological remains left? What exactly did they build? St. Pierre later wrote about La Jonquierre:
“…met with a nation loaded with beaver, who were going by a river which issues from the Rocky Mountains, to trade with the French, who had their first establishment on an island at a small distance from the land, where there is a large storehouse…”
Then in 1757, Louis-Antoine De Bougainville wrote: “The posts of the Western Sea includes St. Pierre, St. Charles, Bourbon, De la Rheine, Dauphin, Posakoiac and Des Prairies [De la Jonquierre?], all of which are built with palisades that can give protection only against the Indians.” The Des Prairies forts could also refer to St. Louis and La Corne. So, this reference is somewhat dubious.
An old voyageur told Abbe Dugas in early 1900s that the fort was located above Calgary, on the Bow River. He claimed that when First Nations people passed the spot, they cast a stone on it, and, “….in truth there is a heap of stone there.” However, what exactly that heap of stone represented is anyone’s guess. Perhaps a fireplace from the fort but other options exist (burial, later fur trade post, farmer’s field rock collection, etc.).
The location and physical evidence of a fort would then consist of the following: 1) located near the foot of the Rocky mountains, on an island in a river (either Bow, Red Deer, or North Saskatchewan); 2) containing at least one building (perhaps with a cellar) and a possible palisade; and, 3) artifacts that represented the time period in question. Assuming the original location was undisturbed (and not swept away by the river), the archaeological record would consist of: 1) building wood foundation logs and maybe a cellar depression; 2) a palisade footer trench; and, 3) 18th century artifacts (hopefully a few with a short manufacturing period).
The map below shows roughly where nine-hundred miles west from Paskoyac places you on those rivers. The problem however, is that there are many islands on these rivers, as a piece of the Bow River above Calgary shows (below).
Approximate position of La Jonquierre on major rivers leading into the Rocky Mountains. This estimate would have had to be very general. Distance west (longitude) was very hard to accurately measure. And estimating distance along winding rivers, in varying currents, was even more difficult. A section of the Bow River, above Calgary, Alberta. There are many islands in the Bow River. The problem is compounded because former islands are now part of the mainland and others simply eroded over time. Even if we could narrow the spot down to a few islands, finding those sparse fort physical features would still be very difficult (more on searching methods in a future article).
Here’s what a fort palisade footer trench and cellar depression would look like:
Palisade footer trenches and corner bastion, NWC Fort George (c.1792-1800). The trench, or ditch, was sometimes up to a metre deep, depending on the height of the palisade. It leaves a very visible footprint on and in the ground, even when the ground is disturbed (i.e., cultivated). At inland fur trade sites the palisade pales (vertical posts) are still preserved after remaining in the ground for over two-hundred years. I have walked along still visible (on the ground surface) fort palisade footer trench depressions, over two-hundred years old, in the dense undergrowth along the Peace River.This large cellar depression at the NWC/HBC Fort Vermilion (c.1798-1830) is still nearly two metres deep, even after many flooding episodes of the lower terrace of the Peace River.
There are Skeptics
Not everyone agrees that the French built a fort this high on the Saskatchewan River, for various reasons: 1) questionable documents; neither St. Pierre or De Bougainville ever saw the fort; they just wrote about it; 2) traveling from The Pas, Manitoba, at ice-breakup on the Saskatchewan River to the Rocky Mountains, by the 29th of May was questionable; and, 3) no physical evidence of the fort was ever found. I won’t go into detail about these arguments, or counter-arguments. If interested, you can read more in my 2000 article.
Some Final Thoughts
I’m fairly convinced that Fort La Jonquierre existed and its remains, if not destroyed, lie somewhere in Alberta. No one has ever seriously looked for the fort, so the argument about the lack of physical evidence just doesn’t cut it.
If I were to ever look, I would start above Calgary and check all the major islands in the Bow River. Both on the ground and with Lidar (Light Detection and Ranging) Imagery.
It’s interesting to think that if the fort had been built near Calgary, Alberta, and the French had prevailed before withdrawing from the west again after the Seven Years War (1756 – 1763), Calgary may have been named La Jonquierre.
“And the La Jonquierre Flammes win the Stanley Cup….”
On a final, somewhat more serious note, when I worked for the Government of Alberta, one of our branch mandates was to protect and manage our archaeological resources. That’s not easy to do if you don’t know where they are. The sometimes frustrating thing about historical archaeology, is that often there is an accompanying documentary record that suggests forts or other settlements existed. We just can’t find them. And the reason why? The physical obstacles are formidable when we search for these places.
In future blogs, I’ll give you some examples of just how tough it is to find a fort site after two-hundred years, and describe some new noninvasive methods we use to help make the task a little easier.
References Cited:
Bougainville, Louis-Antoine de. 1908. Memoir of Bougainville: 1757. In The French Regime in Wisconsin, edited by Reuban G. Thwaites, pp. 167-195. Wisconsin Historical Collections.
Dugas, Abbe. 1905. The Canadian West. Librairie Beauchemin, Montreal.
Legardeur de Saint-Pierre, Jacques Repeniguy. 1887. Memoir of Summary Journal of the Expedition of Jacques Repeniguy Legardeur de Saint-Pierre Charged with the Discovery of the Western Sea. In Report on Canadian Archives, 1886. Note C., pp.xiviii-clxix.
