Open Writing

In 1952 I began work with Canadian Pacific Airlines.

After a few months working as a cargo handler at Vancouver’s domestic airport, I accepted a transfer to Port Hardy on Vancouver Island as a traffic assistant. Port Hardy was a scenically beautiful quiet backwater. Its airport served the whaling station at Coal Harbour on the other side of the island. Of the few memories I have of Port Hardy, one highlight in particular bears relating.

My friend Stan Nisbet, another traffic assistant, came to me one day and said, “There’s a fishing trip planned for this weekend at a lake up in the mountains if you're interested. It hasn't been fished in for years and it should be teeming with Cutthroat trout.’’

I agreed immediately. Stan, a couple of other men, the pilot and I flew up in a floatplane to the magnificent picturesque lake. After we landed, the plane taxied to the edge of the lake and we jumped off the pontoons onto dry land with our fishing gear. The pilot had brought us near the stream that led to the lake.

As we reached the first log jamb Stan slipped and fell in narrowly missing being seriously hurt with the tangle of branches, the result of earlier logging. He had to strip to his underpants and hang out his sodden clothes on nearby bushes to dry. The others decided to fish at another log-jamb a couple of hundred yards downstream. I elected to stay with Stan.
I enjoyed a wonderful morning and afternoon's fishing. I caught fourteen trout each weighing about a kilo. Stan, no fisherman, caught two from memory. I threw back many undersized fish. From where I stood, I could see the fish and was able to cast my Flatfish lure close to the larger ones hiding under the tangle of submerged branches.

About mid-afternoon Stan and I watched the other men tramping along the banks of the stream with their fish hooked through the gills on green bows. Most of them had their catches thrown over their shoulders. They were all exhausted when they finally arrived.

I had initially cursed Stan for falling in. Later I appreciated this, as it must have been a very arduous experience trudging through very rough slushy country carrying about fifteen to twenty kilos of fish each plus their fishing gear. Our combined catch amounted to one hundred and eight good-sized trout
While the men tried to clean the blood, fish scales and slime off their parkas, the pilot, Stan and I cleaned filleted and fried a dozen or so trout in butter on a Primus stove. We served it up with bread, butter and lemon wedges. It would have to be one of the simplest and yet most memorable meals I have ever eaten. Not only were the freshly caught trout delicious in themselves, we had the additional sauce of being absolutely starving as we had not eaten since early morning and it was now late in the afternoon.

Shortly after this episode, I was transferred to Prince George, British Columbia, as a traffic controller where Stan had been previously transferred.

Prince George was hot in summer and freezing cold in winter and with the additional problem of a dire shortage of suitable accommodation. I began my stay sleeping in one house and eating my meals at the house next-door where Stan was a tenant.

I came home from work for lunch one day to find that the mattress of the bed I had been using had been taken out and set alight in the back yard next door. A health inspector had found it to be full of bed bugs. I had thought that they were mosquitoes biting me at night. I shuddered when my catering landlady told me about it.

I now had no place to sleep and the landlords where I had been sleeping confiscated the balance of my rent telling the health authorities that I brought in the vermin. I was furious at this accusation and mooted taking them to court. I was advised to forget the matter as it could end up costing me much more in the long run.

I moved into a makeshift room in the corner of the hanger at the airport with another young traffic controller who was learning to play the trumpet. It was many years before I found out just how a trumpet was supposed sound.

© Clement 2006