Harry Wilson

Harry Wilson is a dear friend. We have had many adventures on the road. Here's one:

 

I have come to this cabin to sort my thoughts. Through the window I see huge white clouds tumbling over the buttes - the same weather as four nights ago, before the storm, before we lost Jimmy at the top of the hill. But that's getting ahead of myself.

 

Every year, spring or fall, sometimes both, Harry and I outfit Jimmy and head for the hills. Jimmy is a 1963 GMC one ton complete with a shack bolted to the frame. It's a home on wheels, with most of the comforts of a Winnebago, but that's where the similarity ends. Jimmy is powered by a straight block six banger that's never missed a beat; a big flywheel gives it the strength of an ox. The shack is as high, wide and long as the legal limit, constructed of two by fours and plywood, insulated, with tin sheeting over the roof. Hitched behind is the trike, part Triumph motorcycle and part VW beetle. We park the truck, call it home, and tour on the trike. The rig is an as-you-build-it, and Harry can repair most anything by the side of the road. He's changed brake lines, a muffler, and re-routed the wiring. A journey in Jimmy is like a poem to self-sufficiency.

 

This is the second time we've stayed in Dorothy. The first time was two years ago, and I've canoed past twice. This cabin once belonged to a homesteader named Arthur Peake, it's part of a small collection of historical artefacts gathered at the mouth of Circus Coulee. Dorothy lays below: four residences scattered about the town site; the blacksmith's shop and a grocery, windows boarded, porches rotted long ago; two churches, one United, the other Catholic, both derelict; an abandoned grain elevator; a large modern house and several ranch buildings about a half mile south, toward the river, home of Norm Pugh and his daughter, one-time queen of the Drumheller Rodeo.

 

Beside this cabin sits a community hall and a schoolhouse, joined by a common door and a hallway. Decorations still hang from the last time the buildings were used, for the Pugh family reunion. A sign over the entrance to the schoolhouse annex reads: Pughville Saloon. A quarter bottle of Lemon Hart rum sits on the bar - a murky, golden concoction full of dead flies. The piano still carries a tune.

 

Jimmy is parked in the community campsite, up against a hedge that runs the length of a two-acre parcel of land on the edge of town. Once owned by George T. Proudfoot, honorary mayor, the land was bequeathed to the town of Dorothy on condition it remain a campsite. Harry and I came to Dorothy to relax and play cribbage. Two friends, a deck of cards, and some stories. Even the coffee cup I drink from has a story. Harry picked it up in Georgia back when he was trucking. The nameplate from his old rig hangs by the door: Purple Hayes. (And, yes, the truck was made by the Hayes Company, and it was purple.) Harry is proud of those miles: "to the moon and back twice," he says; and then points out, "almost everything in this world once rode on a truck."

 

But his trucking days are over. Five years ago, he fell asleep at the wheel outside Carberry, Manitoba, hit the ditch and broke his back. It was an ignoble way to finish all those proud miles, and I tease him about it if he gets too far ahead in our card tournament. We laugh, but it's not funny.

 

The town site of Dorothy lays on bottom land in a bend of the Red Deer River, mostly badlands, sparse grasses and sage, as green now as they ever get. There's a bridge connecting the north-south road. There used to be a ferry. Norm Pugh tells how people would wait together on the bank and swap stories. Now there's only the sound of occasional traffic across the bridge. A stretch of the east-west road used to be the rail bed along which steam engines hauled loads of coal from the East Coulee mines; but all that remains of Dorothy are the relic buildings, small and weather-beaten; and the grain elevator, which can be seen from almost anywhere in the valley.

 

I first came through Dorothy many years ago, on a southern swing through the prairies with a friend. I barely remember the day, but I do remember noting the grain elevator. Years later, with the same friend and several members of my family, I canoed past Dorothy. We pulled to shore a few canyons downstream, at the mouth of Crawling Valley. My brother, David, erected his tent on top of a sandy knoll, and then sat by a small campfire watching the full moon lift over a near rise. It was only month since he'd tried to kill himself with whiskey and pills; but he seemed happy by his campfire under the moon, as if he'd finally shucked his demons. But he died soon after the canoe trip, hit by a car while crossing a street. So, two years ago, I came to Dorothy with Harry and canoed to that spot above the river to honour the memory of my brother.

 

Now there's an even deeper bond with this place, between Harry and I. Like brothers, we've returned. Strange how a place not home gets into the blood. Sitting in Jimmy, playing our 40th game of cribbage, catching up on our lives - the cards and the game board become like talismans that we touch to waken our memories. The game board is placed in the centre of the table, the cards are dealt over it, and the tales begin. Were runes ever cast more purposefully? So, here's another one for the memory-bank, a story to tell our grandchildren - concerning a dark tower, a dream, and an ordeal.

 

Our first evening in Dorothy was one of scattered clouds, warm but windy. After dinner and a few games of cards we walked the road to the elevator. There was no moon and the stars shone in a wide, clearing sky. The elevator rose, a form dominating the landscape, taller and taller as we approached. Dorothy's only two streetlights, about 60 yards away, partly illuminated the back and one side, but the wall facing the road was hollow black. We imagined a giant head and shoulders taking shape in that blackness, and we joked a bit about how sinister the elevator appeared. Harry dubbed it the grain reaper, and we agreed that neither of us would want to spend a night inside. The elevator struck some ancient chord in each of us: like two peasants standing beneath a medieval lord's castle. We walked away, uneasy, back to Jimmy, and dealt another hand.

 

The next day I found myself staring at the grain elevator a lot. It appeared anything but sinister, a relic, barely standing. The wind rose all day and by evening a ridge of cloud shadowed the valley. The rain came at dark. Thunder cracked and rolled through the valley. It gave Jimmy a good jolt, violent enough to make us sit up and exclaim. Then we went back to our game and listened to the rain falling hard on the tin roof. Every so often thunder broke in the near distance. That night Harry had a dream: there was a violent storm and Jimmy shook so badly that the tool shed fell off the back of the truck. He mentioned the dream over cards in the morning, but we thought nothing of it. Who pays any attention to dreams these days? Rain continued through the morning, and we continued our tournament, Harry gaining ground, at least seven games ahead. We played until early afternoon, and then decided it was time to go into Drumheller for supplies.

 

The roads were muddy, so we left the trike and took Jimmy to town - about 14 miles over slick clay and though water-filled potholes. Two steep grades, one up and one down. We were on the last leg of highway 573, where it meets highway 10, cruising in fourth over the crest of the hill. Harry looked at me and asked if I remembered that time when the brakes failed. "How'd you like it if they went right here?" And they did. Just like that. He rammed the pedal to the floor three times. "Holy shit," he blurted. "I'm not kidding. We haven't got any brakes." I looked up from rolling a cigarette and realized that he wasn't joking.

 

Harry found third gear and the truck howled. He hugged the first steep corner along the railing, in hopes that the thick mud might slow the truck. But his eyes were searching far down the hill for a place to ditch. Jimmy swerved towards the bank and bogged a bit in the soft shoulder. Harry slammed the gearshift into second, and then quickly into first. Jimmy screamed. But finally came to a halt at the last bend before the highway. All the way down, I'd been rolling a cigarette - bad for the health but in this case certainly an optimistic act. I lit the damn thing and we stared at each other for a long time, taking deep breaths and shaking our heads.

 

Harry drove carefully into Drumheller, at least as carefully as one can drive with no brakes. Our problem turned out to be the same brake line that we'd fixed previously: the newest one on the truck, cracked at the flange where it met the nipple on the wheel. A mechanic re-flanged it and Harry replaced the line. Sounds easy, but the road was running with water, it was cold, and Harry had to change clothes three times. We mailed our letters, went to a bank machine, bought some grub - including $27 worth of sweets, nachos and potato chips - and then we headed back to Dorothy. On the way, Harry told me about how, whenever he screwed up or did something daring, his grandfather would start a reprimand with, "Mein Got im Himmel". That night Harry wore his grandfather's sweater.

 

I've been replaying the events for a couple days, and the only thing I'm sure of is that I'll never be the same. I don't know anyone but Harry who could have stopped Jimmy from crashing over the steep bank, or careening across the highway. And that makes our friendship deeper. He's back at the truck ready to play another round of cards. We'll face each other across the crib board and play until we can't play anymore. For years to come, we'll make jokes about escaping from the grain reaper. And every time we climb into the shack, we'll pat the long scrape on the side panel, where Jimmy touched the railing. We'll laugh, but it's not funny.

Done