THE
QUIET
Written By
Rolly A. Chabot
AUTHORS NOTES
Rolly A. Chabot
Foreword
The Yukon is a captivating place for those who care to reach deep to probe the secrets she holds tightly to herself.
It is not a land for the fainthearted. If you choose to you can close the door on your past and live according to the elements you are surrounded by.
Fear has claimed many lives in the backcountry I have written about. I have shared some of my fears when I often found myself completely isolated with my closest friend Tannis, a rescue dog, who understood the true meaning of pain, suffering and rejection.
I will take you, the reader, through a process of 12 years of personal healing. God brought many people into my life, who, unbeknownst to me, had an impact upon His intervention and the love He has for me.
As I have written this series God has reminded me of the power of sharing our faith with the lost and the impact it can and will have on their lives.
As you read, I encourage you to hear what the Father wants you to hear as He has spoken it to me.
Be blessed on your adventure with Tannis and me.
Rolly A. Chabot
DEDICATION
First and foremost this book is dedicated to my Heavenly Father and Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
To my wife Peggy who has encouraged me through this book, as well as the entire seven book series called "Quite Reflections."
To all of my family and those who witnessed to me during the years I have written about.
May all I have written be used for the Glory of The Father?
Chapter One
The Quiet
The quiet hush of the crisp cool Yukon morning is the first sign of another day of fishing. I have arrived again in this perfect serene place that has become my sanctuary.
This place of peace comes with the satisfaction of many hours of hard work. It is good to be sitting here looking at one of the finest settings God could give a man. Here in His creation I have found great peace.
Tannis, my American Cocker, her name derived from the Cree Indian word for Little Girl, is already at her post on the motor housing of Dalton’s Royce, a converted 69 Ford Van named by a dear friend. It was correctly named for me; it is all Royce and then some.
The aluminum coffee perk I filled with lake water the night before, is steaming hot on the catalytic heater, ready for morning coffee. Maybe an unethical method, but it is quick and perfect for my taste.
A squawking raven, Bert, and his archenemy, Ernie the squirrel, are shrieking a volley of verbal abuse at Tannis for invading their wilderness. They are reminding me that they need their usual treats.
We arrived late in the night at our secluded location, which I have named Lil’ Yukon.
With the slightest movement Tannis is off her perch, which is the motor housing of the van. She jumps from the seat to the floor and then onto my bed to greet me with her usual foul-mouthed kisses. This is her fishing morning ritual. It is Fishin’ Time.
Each day, we have established a routine and to Tannis everything is a game.
It is pee time first, so I lean over and open the door to a loud series of barks, which announce that the Grand Dam of Royalty is up, and ready to take on whatever gets in her way.
Of course by now I have topped off the perk with a generous handful of coffee, and the aroma awakens my senses.
Next I officially open the can of morning dog food, with the usual teasing and fussing—all part of the daily routine.
Today I have simple trail mix right from the bag. There are two upright logs about a foot apart where I place the handfuls. The morning entertainment is to see who will claim which pile and who can steal the most of the other’s good fortune.
I need a morning fire to prepare breakfast. I’m not worried about finding dry firewood, since the area is a tinderbox after the recent dry spell.
A few years ago I spent the better part of a day building a safe fire pit from a remnant I found at an old mining camp a few miles southwest of here. The cauldron was very heavy and it was all I could handle getting it into the canoe and back here to its new resting place.
It was a steel rock crusher, part of a rocker arm sluice that had most likely been brought in during winter freeze up. Once it had served its purpose, it was discarded, much the way many artifacts in old placer mining claims in the Yukon were. It was simply left behind for nature to deal with and became part of yet another rusty pile of a miner’s dreams from years past.
This particular site, like most when panned, would reveal some color in a gold pan. The likelihood of making a decent living meant many days of toil. Gold fever has caught many an unsuspecting man, but once the lure of it has entered your blood, it remains with you forever.
This site was once a thriving operation for someone. It was complete with a small cabin, outhouse, a food cache, and the odd tool of several rusty tin cans.
Here also, I discovered a real treasure. It was a small notebook written in German: a journal of some sort. An old friend translated it for me. It included entries for supplies needed from days past. The mice had chewed much of it away, but I later donated it to the museum in Whitehorse where it is preserved to this day.
The gold fever I mentioned came upon me one day when I found an old round bathtub filled with small gravel. It had been set aside for winter dry panning, as it is called. It is done when there is a very limited supply of water and the miner had to pan for gold in his cabin during extremely cold days.
The fever that overtook me netted a very small amount of flake gold that could be placed on the head of a matchstick. In today’s market the value is likely to be about $30.00. So much for my fortune.
All the miners had was hard work, sore backs and the loss of a dream. It's no wonder the claims were abandoned. But that’s what gold fever is all about. Many miners suffered with it, yet a very few did make it out with vast amounts of money.
Today’s breakfast will be bacon and eggs, along with a favorite called stick bannock.
Bacon and eggs can be tricky over an open fire. I have seasoned my cast iron frying pan just so in a bed of hot coals that has to be just right. This is something you learn after eating a few burnt offerings.
Stick bannock is something with which I had many failures until I learned to mix just the right amount of flour, baking powder and salt. All I need after that is water and a Ziploc bag, which becomes the mixing bowl. The consistency of the batter resembles drywall mud.
If it stays on a stick without falling into the fire, then you have the key. Prop it up just over the coals, every once in a while, give it a turn, and you have bread that will sustain you for the day. Wild berries are plentiful; add some for a special flavor.
Low bush cranberries are one of my favorites. Even the Grand Dam approves, and of course she always wants to test everything I eat.
Between cooking breakfast and fussing with fishing gear, I load the canoe, aptly named Little Yukon. One last check and we are ready to go. Tannis has long been whimpering in her favorite place, a custom made seat high in the bow.
The day is perfect. The sound of a babbling brook a few hundred yards away signifies the purity of the water. This little brook has passed through many miles of muskeg and is cleansed of anything and everything harmful.
Muskeg is impenetrable. It is a sponge-like matter that runs deep in these parts. It can consume the unsuspecting if given the chance. “Semi firm quick sand” is what I call this living matter. It is in a constant state of decomposition, the bottom feeding the new growth on top. It is a miracle in itself when you study the stuff, but step into it and it steals your boots; wiggle too much and you start to sink. Hopefully you find the bottom soon.
It is also one of the best roofing materials around. You simply build a roof frame and lay it in place in squares of about 2 square feet, each 10 to 12 inches thick. Rain simply sheds off of it. Every few years you can replace it with new.
I hear the sound of a branch snapping just due west and sure enough there she comes, Old Bess, another member of the crew.
She is probably one of the oldest sway-backed cow moose I have ever seen, and she walks with a limp from an old injury. She just stands there staring. Tannis gives the usual tough dog growl and Old Bess looks this way and that before slowly walking towards us. There are a few hundred yards of lake between us and she has no fear, or reason to fear, as she has watched this scene play out many times.
There are some years when she has a calf with her, but now she is alone. I estimate her to be close to 15 years old, but then again, I could be wrong. Anyway, nature has a way of looking after its own. She has had some fine looking calves over the years; maybe she needed a rest this year.
There is a mist hanging over the water this morning. The smell of smoke is in the air from a devastating fire thirty miles away in the Taggish Mountain Range. Some 3000 acres have burned away and the fire is only a few weeks old, threatening a small native settlement at the mouth of the Taggish and the Yukon River.
About thirty years ago a fire almost wiped out the settlement, but the natives in the area lived off the land like their ancestors and refused to give up.
Logging and mining skirted their home in all directions, but they stood firm on keeping their ancestral legacy. I have made a few friends there, and they are a very serene group. Compared to city folks, they are very much at peace with who they are. Their lifestyle is simple and yet complex. The area they manage is pristine and provides for all their needs. The elders are wonderful people. Once you have gained their trust, all they have becomes yours.
My concern runs deep as I think of Johnny Jessup and his family, as well as his extended family. They trust in their Creator for all they have and all that He provides. And now the fire is threatening their homes and their livelihood.
To the east, the morning sun is just cresting. The sky is a deep red, partially because of the smoke, but also an indication that we are going to get some much needed rain tonight. The air is heavy and very humid. Tannis has been snuffing at it all morning. Animals have a much greater sense of change than we humans. I have come to trust in her instincts.
There is one sure fire indicator that rain is coming soon. The low bush cranberries turn their leaves up so their soft silvery undersides can receive as much moisture as possible. I guess by noon we will have some winds, so ‘Better get fishing’, I say. One last check to see if the fire is out—I see all is secure, so we push off. The canoe glides out into the water.
The quiet of the day is broken by the crashing of my paddle as I drop it and it lands squarely in the bottom of the canoe. Everything seems to stop at the noise.
Burt and Ernie stop scolding each other. Old Bess lifts her head from the lake, a cascade of water running down her elongated nose, her mouth stuffed with her favorite watercress that she finds just below the surface.
Everything stops as the sound reverberates throughout the lake valley and up into the mountains. A person needs to stop on days like this and simply be in awe of the beauty all around. Those who cannot are missing the whole point. The peace, quiet and the complex balance cannot be overlooked. Where else can you find water so clear that you can look down as I do and scan the bottom of the lake?
I have reached the edge of a drop-off; the lay of the bottom of the lake is so amazing.
On this small shelf there is an abundant supply of watercress with very small miniature white flowers. There are thousands upon thousands of fresh water shrimp, as well as many small schools of minnows.
When looking in the water, I see this year’s hatchlings swimming in an unending dance as though in an underwater symphony. The morning light is catching their small scales makings it possible to see their specific markings. They are arctic grayling. I can tell just by looking that the lake’s balance is intact for another year.
A few more feet and the water turns almost blue and black as I cross over the shelf. Here, the water drops to a staggering 95 feet. It’s a mirror of the opposite shore with a rock wall that rises at least 80 feet.
The lake is 300 yards wide. If you were to stop and visualize what has caused this, you would be as blessed as I am to be here.
A splash near the creek tells me the morning feed is on. Right on time, at 6:20 a.m. the grayling have started their dance.
The feed is the morning hatch of mosquitoes and stoneflies, the staples of the fish world. Like manna from heaven it happens every morning throughout the month of June. Thereafter, each month another group of aquatic species hatches; it is evolution and created order.
The sun catches a fish as it rises. It is an explosion of red, silver, grey and blue. The top dorsal fin rides high and wide open. I call them the Sailfish of the North. They are everywhere as a swarm of black flies graze over the water’s surface. The aquatic insects breed over and over again, beginning the cycle of another hatch.
Another tradition is just around the corner so I’d better catch my peace offering.
There has been a pair of American Bald Eagles nesting here for as long as I have been coming around. The first experience with them was catching and releasing a huge grayling. There is no way to eat all that you catch here.
This particular fish I placed back in the water, and I thought it had revived enough to be released. As I was getting ready to move along, there was a great screech. An enormous eagle had zeroed in on what I thought was me. It was coming at low-level straight for me; close enough that I heard a loud swoosh as he passed. He missed me by what I thought was inches, and then scooped the fish I had just released out of the water. The eagle disappeared around the corner.
The commotion that followed was enough to deafen the sound of the quiet I had become accustomed to.
As I rounded the bend, I saw an island some 40 feet by 20 feet composed of weathered rock, a few low shrubs and a massive old dead spruce tree. Very near its highest point was a nest with a mother eagle and what appeared to be three young ones. As I sat in awe at this sight, the male—whom I have named Baldy—sat guarding like a centurion, watching over his family while the mother busied herself with dividing up the fish he had brought.
Later that year I was able to watch by the hour as the young grew. They attempted their first flights and then their fishing lessons started. It was a summer of almost being a part of the family, and then one day the young were gone and just Mom and Dad were left to tend and repair the home.
Here is where I catch the peace offering; it’s a family tradition, you know; the bounty needs to be shared. So once again I throw the first cast of the fly rod and a grayling takes the fly. They are incredible fighters and flyers and excellent to eat. Their meat is translucent and white when cooked. Its texture is flaky and so tender. That will be shore lunch later, fresh from the water, best when cleaned and in the fry pan within three minutes. There is nothing like the taste. Of course, Tannis gets her share, after all it’s a hard job she has sitting at her post. Almost as soon as they are in the net, there are two barks. Tannis has done her job.
Sure enough, the usual scream from Baldy announces he is about to make his death run at me. Yes, here he comes. He never misses a free meal.
His mate, Half-Step,is waiting on the sacrificial rock at the northwest corner of the island. It’s where they eat all their meals. It’s a high place, strewn with meals gone by. I have never set foot on the island, but I can see the many piles of fish skeletons strewn al over the ground.
I say my good mornings on the way by and Baldy shakes his feathers and turns his back on me. I wonder what he is thinking. “Cheap city folks. They could do better than one fish.”
Tannis never bothers with either of them. It’s sort of standoffish if you ask me. It’s a peeing match going on right here in the animal kingdom. It is interesting to watch though.
Straight ahead, 20 miles past the lake is the majestic St. Elias mountain range. It’s a sub-group of the Pacific Range running from Alaska to the west coast. There are actually two ranges that run adjacent to each other, the other being the Wrangell Range.
Positioned right in the center of my view is the granddaddy of all Canadian Mountains Mt. Logan, rising 5550 feet in the air. It is breathtaking, to say the least. This range has the five highest peaks in Canada and the U.S.
Just think, here I sit looking at a view many in the world could only dream of seeing and it is picture perfect. I always stop in this place where, in the midst of such beauty, no one can claim Creation happened by chance Here I know—as must all who see this splendour—that something far greater than the Big Bang Theory brought this about.
It’s time to rig up the downrigger and bait up to go after some lake trout. I have caught them as big as 28 lbs in here.
The lake at this point is running at about 125 feet. It is the deepest place and is shaped like a very narrow, deep basin.
A downrigger is designed to take your line, bait and hook very deep, very quickly. It is an ingenious design, a hinged flat piece of plastic. Great thought went into this little unit, which just happens to be hot pink in color. It attaches to the main line on the fishing rod. Running from the back of it is another four to six feet with a hook and bait on it. If and when a fish strikes, you feel the pull, and you simply count to three, set the hook, which collapses the unit, and you are in for a fight.
Trout at this depth are scrappers and known to snap a line with the least bit of effort, unless you allow them to run when they want. Today we will be fishing at 50 feet, because they have ready feed most of the night in the shallow water.
The electric motor is quiet and moves the canoe at the right speed. Trout are a wary fish that are hard to fool, so it's time to sit back and enjoy the surroundings.
Tannis is almost asleep lapping up the warm sun that has now cleared the mist from the lake. I have watched her do this several times, just soak up the rays. She’s quite a fishing buddy. I settle in and recall the day I found this sanctuary and oasis in the middle of nowhere.
It all started with an opening in the trees, the remains of an old bush camp I spotted along the Alaska Highway. The need to explore came upon me. It had likely been used as a campsite during the construction of the Alaska Highway.
I had just finished reconditioning a 69 Ford ¾ ton van, customized to the hilt with fun fur and fully equipped with a bed, fridge and all the essentials. It was time to test it out. For about an hour I managed to move through the trees, staying on the high ground by following game trails. It was about the time I decided to turn around that I got stuck—all four tires buried deep in the muskeg.
Tannis and I worked late into the night to get out. It was the first night in the new Royce, and it was now filled with mud, chains and jacks that ended up on the floor. Then the sky opened up with rain pelting down on us, and there we sat, knowing this overnight spot had been chosen for us.
The following morning the sun came out and I decided I should walk on ahead to see what was in the area. A check of the topographical maps showed a small lake, actually a small chain of lakes, connected just due west about six miles.
Loaded with a rifle, backpack and collapsible fishing rod, we left on foot. As we went along, I marked the trees so I could find better places drive at a later date.