Ditch Doc

From KOMO4’s evening news: 

“Scottish police say they had no intelligence prior to the attack…”

On Thursday, I found out that one of the reported revelations at Medjugorje was a request by Our Lady for those who are able to fast on bread and water every Wednesday and Friday.

On Friday, this was the menu:

Breakfast: French Toast

Lunch: Cheese Bagels

Dinner: Pizza Bread (But no sauce!)

Pasta’s kind of bready, isn’t it?

If you start working at a froofy coffee joint that offers such far-fetched, not really coffeelike abominations as the half-caf-skim-milk-almond-roca-mocha,-oh-and-could-you-put-it-over-ice-with-one-of-those-non-sugar-sweeteners-please, you might start wondering how you can modify your own morning joe at home. As they say in the north, fly at ‘er, but here’s a tip: lemon juice has been tried and found wanting. 

OK, I can’t not post this stuff. The intersection of the Liard River and the Alaska Highway is four hours north of town, in the geographical centre of no-where. The water from the springs is hot enough to support an eerily jungle-like spread of greenery in an area that reaches -40 in the winter, and the characters who drift through or set up camp are even weirder. Here’s a brief dramatis personae: 

Trapper Ray: Pretty well the definitive hotsprings legend. Built cabins over a wide area of the Liard watershed, ran a trapline, and used to own the Hotsprings Lodge. Founder of the Fur Spider Hoax (See March ‘06). Once shot a moose from across a river, and carried it back in pieces across the shifting ice floes just after breakup. Was allowed by the government to shoot possibly the only Kermode bear ever observed in the Northern Rockies, because they didn’t believe that he’d seen one.

Stanley the Buffalo: Used to hang out at the Lower Lodge and watch the customers through the windows. Sometimes he would stand aimlessly in the gas station for several hours at a time.

Crazy Old Bill: Maybe not exactly crazy, but definitely a little odd since he cut down a tree onto his own head. Used to run a jade mine, which produced many green rocks, some of which, it stands to reason, may well have been jade.

Lucy: Grossly overweight stray horse that begged food off whoever would cough it up at the Hotsprings Lodge.

Kenworth the Buffalo: Still goes by the moniker he earned when he was hit by a Kenworth truck on the highway and survived. The truck was a write-off.

Ranger Al: The duty to remove fur-spider crossing signs from the highway and explain to tourists that the creatures were imaginary fell to Ranger Al. Consequently, he didn’t get along too well with Trapper Ray.

Jan: Fugitive from the FBI who just showed up at the Lodge one day and started working. Picked an assortment of wild mushrooms one day, and then disappeared for a week. Eventually hauled off by the mounties.

Cowboy Ron: Former inmate of the Kingston pen, and artisan of a still so sophisticated that it now belongs to the collections of the Penitentiary Museum.

And all this without even mentioning Toad River! Maybe one day.

Midnight dispatches are of two sorts: there’s the drunk-taxi/minor assault sort and the nightmare critical sort. The other night belonged to the second category.

Dispatch: “Hi 858, you’re going five minutes north on the highway, by the buffalo farm, for an MVA, semi vs. pickup head-on, both vehicles on fire and one of the drivers missing.”

We came around the long curve a mile or two before the farm, and saw a solid orange glow glittering with red and blue. The vehicles were on their sides on opposite sides of the road, completely engulfed in flames. A ring of burning grass was spreading from the semi to the trees. Flashlight beams shot back and forth in the ditches. It was one of those scenes where every cop, paramedic and fire-fighter has a look of awestruck urgency. We loaded our patient and were about to head to hospital when a member of our backup crew opened my door to ask if I needed help. “No, thanks. I think they’re just trying to find the other driver, maybe you could…” “The other driver’s been found.” Her voice was quiet, and I glanced up to see the first unhurried face of the night.

In some communities there is an absurd phenomenon similar to a theological sandwich: The youngest and the oldest, who are in agreement, are like slices of bread. The age group in the middle reminds us of mayonnaise.

There are not many specialists in Fort Nelson. Most people dabble in at least one side job, often completely unrelated to their professions, and a number of businesses house operations that would be considered mutually exclusive in a bigger town. Even the doctors are family/emergency physicians with a dash of minor surgery and a hint of veterinary practise. Adam Smith would throw a fit. What, for example, would he think of a paramedic and substitute teacher who moonlights as a barista? Or a laundromat/’love boutique’ that also provides hot showers, commercial coffee brewers and buffalo meat? Need a fiddle lesson? Just head down to the camera shop and they’ll set you up. One of the town’s couriers is also the carpet guy. At least the van from which he operates gives something like unity to his business. At the DHL, on the other hand, the packages share the space behind the counter with a thriving pet groomery. “No, you should have that assignment by now… unless… nah…”

Here’s a sign from the nearby office supplies store:

“Unattended children will be given an espresso and a free puppy.”