Chapter 1: A Way Out

We’re still shaking like a can of paint in a mixer. The thrum from the engines runs straight through me … it’s like they’re about to tear themselves free from their mounts.

My back’s already stiff, and I can feel the cold aluminum floor coming up through the soles of my work boots. My coat’s still on. It’s my only source of comfort just now.

I’m in the third row back, studying the scratches and scuff marks on the seatback in front of me, looking for patterns as if it were some sort of Rorschach test.

But the distraction doesn’t last. I’m soon back to the engines. Or the space in behind crammed tight with all the bulky equipment I watched being loaded. All of it weighing us down.

I draw in deep breaths of recycled air that smells like it’s travelled through a hundred miles of pipe. It leaves an odd taste.  

Metal; tinged with regret.

And now there’s a disquieting hiss coming from my window. Like someone blowing through a thin straw. Unnoticeable until a few moments ago, now it’s all I can hear.

The tip of my finger is black from feeling round the lip for any cracks. Clockwise first. Then the other way. The grit doesn’t come off when I wipe it on the rough seat fabric and I make a small pool of spit in my other palm to soak it before trying again.

I’ve never hated flying. Up to now, I guess. It’s the same for the wanderlust I first held for gold exploration in the north. The shine’s come off of that, too, apparently.

“Don’t worry about it,” a woman’s voice says. “You get used to the noises on these planes.”

The inflections in the French-Canadian accent from across the aisle catch me off guard, and I ask her to repeat what she said.

“The whistling,” she adds.

She’s tall, given the height of her head above the chair back. Her bright orange safety pants stand out in the darkness, though her face is fully in shadow.

I give an appreciative wave, though her words provide little comfort given we’re now thousands of feet over an endless boreal forest.

I close my eyes, hoping to shut out the sound of the engines and the cold.

You haven’t left your desk in years. Your quiet little desk.

But it’s no use. My ears are attuned to everything, now. The muttering voices all around me. The window, still hissing. The intermittent rattle coming from the base of the seat in front of me whose vibrations grow and wane with each hollow throb of the engines.

That sound actually isn’t so bad. It might have even helped me get to sleep. If my seat weren’t so narrow, and the cushion hadn’t been crushed flat by the countless bodies that came before me.

Something jams into my lower back as the guy behind readjusts himself. I lean forward, turning towards the window as the green-black forest passes below, just visible in the predawn light.

We’ve since levelled off, and the loud, persistent growl from the engines has softened into a steady drone. Easier to ignore, it is only apparent in the elevated voices of those around me talking over it to be heard.

I glance round at my fellow passengers, turning my head just enough to take in whatever I can from the corner of my eye.

I’m reminded that small planes packed with big people are all part of travel in the north. Given the size of those around me, all tightly crammed into their seats, this flight is no different. 

Nor do carry-on limits seem to matter. Everyone here has at least one massive pack along with heavy work boots they either wear or carry.

Unlike mine, these boots are knee-high black rubber, steel-toed with thick soles for working in thick mud or snow. It all seems heavy. Cumbersome boots and packs and, further back, the even heavier equipment I can no longer see. 

They’re all in thick work clothes, even though it’s August. Some have kept their coats on, too, adding to the cabin’s claustrophobic feel.

But I need this. I think I do. Anyway, just give it a chance.

The cockpit door opens. 

We’re free to move around, the pilot says. There’s juice in back, and a case of beer we can help ourselves to. No coffee, I’m afraid, he adds.

A juice might help with the metal taste, but I’m not fighting my way back there. I’m fine where I am, gazing through the open door at whatever the pilot sees.

I try guessing at the controls. The levers closest to the pilot must control the engines. Those small coloured dials are for the radio, I think. I have no clue, of course, but it’s something different to look at. Until the door closes, taking with it my slight, albeit novel, distraction.

I reach under my seat for the backpack containing my joining instructions. Taking them out, I flip through in search of the camp’s rules and any other useful details I might have otherwise missed.

I try reading through the Procedure for Hazardous Chemicals and Waste. But it’s no good with all the jostling, and I soon tire of re-reading the same line several times over. 

“Surprised you made it,” the man behind me says.

”You weren’t worried, were ya?” Another answers. I ignore my papers to listen as a massive force once again pushes my seat forward.

“Got a couple of travellers for ya,” the one standing says.

There is a sound of cans dropping into a pack. Each action resulting in a fresh jarring against my back. Bag unzipped (push), cans dropped in (push), bag closed (push). 

”Thanks,” the man sitting behind me says. “Where they got you working these days?”

He gives some name I’ve never heard of.

The conversation is mercifully short, the pressure on my lower back soon relaxed. I continue shifting from one slightly less uncomfortable position to the next, though any relief is temporary. A half dozen knocks and shifts follow, along with a series of angry exhales, before the massive man finally settles in. 

“Here,” the woman across the aisle says, handing me a juice box.

I waste no time jamming in the straw and drain it in seconds. I don’t care much for the taste of grape. It’s way too sweet. But I’m thirsty, and it beats the hell out of tin.

I go to thank her again but she’s already back talking with whoever’s one seat up. More sporadic muttering carries on ahead and behind. The guy behind me converses with a rough-sounding man standing in the aisle.

Their banter is profane, sharp, and friendly. Like they’ve worked together for some time.

They must take this flight a lot, I think. The way they carry on, oblivious to all the unsettling shakes and odd noises that have me rethinking my recent life choices. And the one ill-timed caprice that landed me here.

Some prefer the aisle, it seems. They lean over seatbacks, blocking the flow of others pushing through to help themselves to the beverages. Despite the early hour, there is a regular ‘pshht’ sound of opening beer cans.

How many of them will be at my camp, I wonder. Probably at least one or two given there are only a handful of operations and roughly a dozen drills running at any given time. As I understand it.

Even so, I’ve no urge to ask anyone about that or anything else. Except maybe about the label on the beer cans they’re holding.

There’s a weird drawing on the side I can’t quite make out. Until finally one is held in such a way that I can see the entire black, hand-drawn image. The pointy, rounded down-turned beak of a large-eyed bird … wearing a wide-brimmed hat. No, wait, not a bird at all; a plague doctor’s mask.

Below the image is a single word which takes longer to decipher. It ends with an e … que. It starts with a C … no Ch. Finally, the entire word.

Chronique. Chronic. A lasting problem or condition. Chronic worrier. I got called that more than once. Or was it ‘complainer’? Chronic anyways. That much I remember.

I check my watch again. Ten minutes since I last looked. Still an hour to go.

Our aircraft, a Beechcraft 1900D I think, is narrow. There’s only one seat on either side making each one an aisle and a window. The one upside.

Near as I can tell, it has been stripped of all but what is essential. Poorly padded seats sit atop bare metal frames bolted onto a cold aluminum floor. No carpets, no monitor screen, not even a tray table.

The two seats opposite have been removed to accommodate a basic cot and footlocker — presumably for medical supplies. Like an air ambulance.

Seeing it brings a corny, long forgotten song about a bush plane to mind. One that a TA used to mess with on his guitar when he was too drunk to play anything else. Something about it being an ambulance, or a zoo. And everything to you. That's all I can remember. It seems like a hundred years ago, now.

The cot has become the personal space for the guy behind me who’s now using it for his boots and pack. It makes me wonder when the cot was last used for its intended purpose, and what state the patient might have been in.

How dangerous is this place?

The plane banks sharply to the right, forcing me into the window. We’re turning east, towards Hudson Bay, according to the pilot. There is a heavy snort from behind followed by an angry grunt. The sound of sleep interrupted.

A sliver of orange is peeking out above the horizon. It’s just a colour, with no suggestion of warmth. Still, it offers the best distraction yet. And, as I watch, the entire sky begins to change.

Dreary grey clouds brighten into a mix of soft lavender and orange. Above, the clear, unblemished heavens have turned from jet black to a pleasant robin’s egg blue. What’s more, the ever-brightening sun, now a full circle, has illuminated an infinite number of small, oddly shaped lakes of blue and pink that glow like tiny pools of captured sky.

There’s another jarring in my back, and I turn to see the woman sitting across now facing in my direction. We exchange nods.

“So where are you going?” she asks.

I can make out her face now. Late twenties, maybe. Soft features, but there’s an intensity in her eyes.

“Working at one of the explotation camps,” I tell her.

“Oh yeah? Which one?”

I give her the name of my company but she’s more curious about the camp I’m going to. A name I don’t remember.

“Just a sec,” I say, flipping through the pages on my lap.

She starts listing off names I’ve never heard of. Each time I shake my head, not looking up, searching. She’s laughing now, asking what brought me here.

“I’ve always had desk jobs,” I tell her. “So, after twenty years, I decided to change things up.”

“You’re a little old, no?” she says.

It’s an innocent question. At least that’s how I choose to take it. In truth there are several reasons why, though some of them don’t make all that much sense anymore.

“I guess I just needed to get my hands dirty,” I say.

I leave it at that. There’s more to the story, but that stays in the vault. I ask about her work as I continue my search for the camp’s name. 

Why the hell can’t I find it?

“I’m a driller,” she tells me. “Since about five years.”

“Hard way to make a living,” I say, “from what I know of it. What got you into that?”

“Family business,” she answers. “And the money’s good, when you get the bonus.”

“Bonus?”

“More pay the more you drill,” she says. “Anything more than a hundred meters of carotte in a day, you get a bonus. Hard as fuck in the spring, though, with the bugs. You’re lucky you missed that.”

“Sorry? Did you say carrot?”

“Yes, carotte. It’s, eh, what we bring up. Long and thin rock.”

She must mean drill core, I think. And decide to ask her.

“Yes,” she says. “We always call them les carottes. Like pulling up carrots, I guess.”

Our conversation ends before I can learn more about her experiences. Someone standing just behind has her attention now. I go back to flipping through my pages.

There it is. The camp’s name. Too late.

Only a half an hour to go, according to my watch. Maybe enough time for a short nap. I pull the hard plastic screen down over the window, leaning my cheek against it.

The engine’s vibration feels like it’s directed right where my head is resting. Still, I keep my eyes shut, ignoring it as best I can. With any luck I might manage a short nap that carries me through to landing.

I’ve been awake since three. What little rest I managed to get was spent on a soft, thin mattress at the company’s Thunder Bay flophouse. I glance up at the small ceiling light, barely perceptible now. Much like the tiny nightlight where I spent my restless night.

Someone is standing by the cot, inches from my ear. More voices follow, interspersed with laughter, and all equally loud. It’s like they’ve been waiting for me to try and rest. There is no way now. Should I just get up and stretch my legs? No point, I decide. Even if there was room it’s not worth the handful of steps.

An announcement is made, bringing me back to the present. We’ll be landing soon.

The ground is getting closer and I can make out details now through the thinning cloud. The branches of trees. Small outcrops. We’ll soon be at the Golden Runway, the pilot says, repeating the phrase ‘golden gravel’ several times.

The people at the flophouse said something about that as well, along with a backstory that was equally curious. The runway supposedly contains a layer of crushed gravel with a small amount of gold ore. Done on purpose, so the story goes.

There’s always a chance of being part of a big score. And if it sucks, just leave.

The cockpit door opens for another announcement. This time instructing us to return to our seats. There will be turbulence, apparently.

There is a sharp jolt as if our little craft has just been dropped into churning rapids. Those few still standing curse as they’re sent into seats on either side. There are half-apologies, curse words, and calls to ‘save the beer’.

Worst of all, the intense movement has caused my seat to fall backwards.

”Jesus Fuck!” The voice says.

I yank it forward, turning to explain how it wasn’t my fault. That the turbulence had shaken it loose. He’s not interested in my explanation. I take his sharp guidance to lean forward as a hard shove forces it upright.

A third announcement, more stern this time, tells everyone to get back in their seats and buckle up. That they won’t be told again.

“Wow, kinda bossy,” someone says.

Outside, the features on the ground are getting bigger. But the turbulence is getting worse. One upward and sideways pitch follows the next as the plane nears the runway. Then there is an intense engine growl, and I’m pushed back in my seat as we pitch steeply upwards and start to accelerate.

“Looks like we’re going around again,” the woman across from me says.

“Does it happen a lot?”

“Meh,” she says. Her voice is as calm and reassuring as before.

The vibrations are worse now, almost as bad as at takeoff. The cockpit door has been left open. The windshield is white with cloud. Or is it thick fog? I close my eyes and hold tight to my armrest.

The door is closed when I open them again. We’ve levelled off, it seems, after completing our steep climb.

“You say this happens, sometimes?”

“Sometimes,” she says, raising her shoulders in what appears to be a shrug of indifference. “Only one time we had to turn around and go back because we couldn’t land.”

Turning around and heading back. It doesn’t sound all bad.

The same actions play out on the second attempt, only this time I swear at least one filling has been shaken loose from the vibration as we climbed out. 

“One more try,” she says, “before they give up.”

The plane finishes its climb, and once again I’m pushed sideways into the aisle as we turn to line up for what will be our last attempt to land. Then comes the unsettling whine of the hydraulic motors, for whatever the hell reason. I just know we’re close now.

God, just get me on the ground.

This time our descent is more steady and uninterrupted. The winds seem less intense as we make our way down. I open my eyes just enough to see we’re only a few feet above the runway. Then we’re down, the wheels touching with only a slight jarring. 

The only jostling comes from the abrupt pitch change as the propellers reverse thrust immediately after landing. Though I am left feeling equal parts relief and disappointment.

Thank-you, God.

We turn onto the tarmac, taxiing quickly. It appears we have the airport to ourselves.Beyond that, as far as I can see, are only trees. Their colours muted by the diminished morning light of a leaden sky.

I realize I’ve been breathing with my mouth and the taste of aluminum shavings is more acute than ever. 

Recalling the reference to the golden runway, I scan the tarmac for any glints of gold. But black asphalt covers whatever’s there. I take out my phone and wait patiently as it searches for a signal. Finally, I check for any messages that might have come through. Nothing. Not a text; not an email. I glance outside again, at an infinite space that feels all the more desolate, now. 

We come to a stop at a small building with a slanted roof, more duplex than terminal, and there is the spontaneous click of seatbelts. The back door soon opens with a clunk and a fast-following blast of air hits the back of my neck. Colder than the air we left behind in Thunder Bay.

Once in the aisle, I am caught up in the flow of passengers, shunted along the narrow space toward the exit. The line is slow-moving and quiet, as if all are suddenly too tired or unenthused to make more than a minimal effort.

At the door I grab tight to the narrow aluminium rail and make my way down the shaky steps. It is cold to the touch and I can barely hold it long enough to get down.

Ahead, the loose line of workers makes its way towards the terminal. I look down again at the tarmac, my thoughts turning once again to whatever riches might lie underfoot.

The air cools my cheeks and the inside of my nose like a splash of cold water, and I’m wide awake by the time I get inside the terminal which is little more than a counter and a small lounge.

The lounge is a rectangular space lined with metal chairs. The kind that stack, like a waiting room for a clinic

Those waiting inside are dressed similar to those on the plane. High black work boots and safety parkas. If exploration in the far north has a uniform, it would seem this is it.

This impression of a waiting room reminds me of the cot on the plane, and I scan for anyone who might need it. Still curious, I check with the desk agent who shrugs. No idea, she tells me, without saying a word.

Beside the counter, a small luggage belt, no more than ten feet in length, disappears into the plastic-draped wall at either end. Most of the people from my flight are milling around there. I decide to go back to the lounge to wait.

Suspended from the ceiling is an old picture-tube style TV that is more box than screen. Finding the nearest available seat, I drop down to watch whatever’s on. Hockey maybe, though there’s no sound and it’s too grainy to be sure.

I’m still trying to make out what’s on when I hear the humming of a moving belt, and turn to see one weathered duffle bag after the next emerging from behind the plastic-covered wall. It doesn’t take long for mine to appear.

Bags in hand, I head out to find my ride. Once again, the bracing air hits my face, this time flush with the raw smell of aviation fuel and cigarettes. The space is alive with truck horns and people calling out to one another. Friendly waves and curses as half-smoked cigarettes are discarded and duffle bags are tossed in.

Trucks are constantly stopping all around me, most of them white, with massive hoods and stretch cabs to accommodate front and back seats. I watch and wait, bracing for what I expect will be a cold reception to a cold place. I worry my ride won’t show. I worry it will.

My driver’s name is Wade. Wade Clarke. He is also driving a white pickup. He has my name too, I think. It’s a long trip to camp, I’ve been told. A hundred or so kilometres. No matter. I’ll just sleep.

“Nice coat,” a voice says in my ear, and I turn to see the woman who sat opposite me running towards what’s likely her ride.

Damnit. Give her the name!

I yell out the name of the camp.

“Not mine!” she calls back, not turning round or even breaking stride. Then she’s gone.  Vanished into one of the many pickups lining the drive.

I look down at my coat. Suddenly and acutely aware of how much I stand out in my navy and gold ski jacket. A multi-coloured buoy bobbing in a monochrome sea.

A friendly double tap from a horn causes me to look up. A white truck stops a few feet away, the driver’s smiling face vaguely visible through the windshield. His arm is waving from the window.

I return the wave, and, grabbing my bag, make my way over.

”Good to meet you,” the man says, offering his hand. He needs to yell over the music coming from the radio. It’s something I don’t recognize. A little too modern, maybe.

The name confuses me. I’m waiting for someone named Wade … Wade Clarke.

Clarke … Clarkie. Of course.

Clarkie has a genuine, disarming smile. His sharp eyes seem gently lit with humour and his narrow eyebrows, raised slightly upward, suggest an air of curiosity. I put him in his mid twenties.

“Need any help with those?” he asks me.

No, I tell him. I got it.

I set my large duffle bag and backpack onto the side of the truck by the large cargo area. There is a red box labelled ‘First Aid’, a fire extinguisher and package of bear spray attached to the back of the cab. Above the window is an empty gun rack. I truly am a long way from home.

The floor of the flatbed is covered with cases of bottled water, along with picks and shovels and jerry cans; all leaving little doubt that this vehicle is used mainly in the field.

“Just toss it anywhere,” he says, and as I stand figuring out the best spot, he gets out and shifts a few things around to clear a space.

“Here you go,” he says. “Sorry, I shoulda done a little house cleaning before I got here.”

The backseat, too, is crammed full of gear. Road signs, safety vests and hardhats, loose tools and a half empty case of bottled water.

I climb in front. The cab is basic as trucks go, stripped of any amenities, with manual seats and windows. The dashboard has only dials.

“We’re just waiting on one more,” Clarkie says. “Knowing Jamie, he’s probably just finishing up his smoke.”

As if on cue, the door behind me opens. The truck shudders and lurches under the sudden strain of a heavy weight as a large body lands hard into the back seat. At the same time, I am met with an intense smell of cigarette smoke.

“Finish your smoke?” Clarkie says. “No rush if you haven’t.”

“Just did,” an oddly-familiar voice answers. And then, “Jesus Christ,” it growls in my ear. “Clean up your shit, Clarkie. How the fuck is anybody supposed to fit back here?”

I hear the sound of things being stacked and shoved around in the backseat, mostly behind Clarkie.

“Good to see you too, Jamie!” Clarkie answers.

“Brought you a souvenir,” he says. A hand reaches forward between Clarkie and me holding an unopened can of beer.

That voice. It can’t be.

“I’m good,” Clarkie says, lifting a travel mug from the armrest that separates us. “Got my tea.”

“Don’t say I never bring you nothing,” Jamie says. “And turn down that Goddamn glitch or gulch or whatever the fuck you call that shit!”

“What’s that, Jamie?” Clarkie says, “you really like this one? Sure, I can turn it up a little for ya.”

Clarkie reaches forward, turning the volume louder as he mimics the vocalist who is shouting more than singing. He smiles and gives me a wink.

“For Fucksake,” Jamie yells.

“The Architects. Great band,” Clarkie calls back, turning the volume down so we can talk. “How was the flight?”

“Same as ever,” the man answers. “Except for some asshole in front of me who kept trying to push his seat back.”

Oh Christ.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see the same broad, grizzled face that stared at me from behind all the way from Thunder Bay. His eyes widen, then tighten into a narrow squint. The corners of his mouth turn upward in a slight grimace. 

“Oh for fucksakes,” he says.