ARCASHA

H E G



Ernie's Ghost

March 05, 2002 - 20:52

Algonquin Park in 1971 was a wonderful place for a young man in his late teens to be. At the time, I was partnered with I guy I�ll call Moses. We were Canoe Rangers. We were flown into the park in a Turbo-Otter floatplane with our aluminium (Canadian for aluminum *snicker*) canoe strapped to the struts of the plane. We�d be dropped off in the middle of no-where to make our way back to civilization over the course of ten days where we were met by our boss in his pickup truck.

We were equipped with monstrous green army surplus packs (Canvas bags with straps on them), a small nylon pup tent, scythes, oodles of garbage bags, a couple of uniforms and hard hats. We did, however, have to supply our own food. The hard hats were useful for scooping water from creeks but not for much else. I guess they were supposed to protect us from falling branches or something. The uniforms came with a tie. A TIE in the bush for ten days, for God's sake. Aside from the fact that we looked like a pair of hobos when we finished our tour, and we stunk like hell, the ties were downright goofy!

We were there, primarily, to clean up portages and campsites and cut the grass along the way. We�d travel from lake to lake (there are thousands of them in that park) joined by a network of portages, some as long as three miles. Those canoes get pretty heavy after three miles on your back. The rest of the time, we camped out, fished and explored. Eventually we were able to live off of what we could find in the way of roots, berries, and fish. That summer was when I was in my very best physical condition ever.

One time we were just settling down for the night at a campsite next to a waterfall. We were cooking dinner over the fire when a figure appeared from the dusky path along the river. It was that typical sight that one sees along the trails in those parts � the bow of an upside down canoe with a pair of legs sprouting out from beneath it. The canoe sauntered toward us and flipped off its legs in the most graceful manner. What emerged was a guy who looked remarkably like Ernest Hemmingway in that famous portrait by Yousef Karsh.

�Mind if I join ya?� he growled.

He was a loner, the kind of guy we hated to meet in the bush. These were the guys who simply disappeared for all eternity because they�d take chances � go where there weren�t any trails. No one was with them to help them out of a bog or when they hit their head on something or when a bear attacked them. But you couldn�t convince them otherwise because they were �woodsmen�, Like they were some rare breed or something, invincible, untouchable by injury.

We invited him to sit down so he squatted onto a log near the fire. He didn�t say anything for a long time. It was astonishing, really. He had the same cleanly trimmed beard, the same turkey claws at the corners of his eyes, the same white hair. So I said, �Hey Ernest.� He hadn�t introduced himself so I thought I�d take the liberty. He didn�t bat an eye. I pressed on, �So, where are you from?� Boring question but a decent icebreaker.

He said, �I once met a woman in Morocco, a poule, who was so drunk she couldn�t see her own hand and when I asked her if she�d like to come to a party at Samuel�s house she simply rocked her head in the most sensuous way and we took a cab to Samuel�s house where everyone was getting tight and the room was hot and sweaty and Margaret, Sam�s wife, looked at me in an evil way and bye midnight I�d lost the poule and found myself in Margaret�s arms with a bottle of Courvoisier and found myself getting very tight and that was the night that Sam hit Margaret across the face with his belt and I just left in a drunken stupor.� Or something to that effect.

Jeez, maybe he was Earnest Hemmingway. Only, even if he�d faked his death to get out of the limelight, or to cash in his insurance, he�d have been much older than this - about 72 years old, I figured. This guy was in his fifties at the latest. And I�m pretty sure Mr. H�s suicide was for real because it was well documented and I don�t think there were many Elvis-like sightings of him other than the one my partner and I were having.

Anyway, that was just about the extent of our exchange with him. He hauled out his sleeping bag and lay down on the ground next to the fire while us woossies crawled into our little house of nylon. We got up at dawn and he was already gone.

So as far as I know, Ernest Hemingway�s ghost may still be prowling around Algonquin Park in his home-made canoe. Well, he wouldn�t be the only spirit in that place.

Arc

previous - next

Site 
Meter


powered by SignMyGuestbook.com

about me - read my profile! read other DiaryLand diaries! recommend my diary to a friend! Get your own fun + free diary at 

DiaryLand.com!