Hospitality To Indigents, Like Throwing Pearls To Swine [Reader Post]

People enmeshed in Socialist ideology believe the state to be a defining feature of their character, therefore they are a part of the power structure and they have intrinsic importance to the state. Consequently, in the Socialist subconscious, a mental laziness develops, resulting from the knowledge that you will presumably be cared for in any situation or as they said in Poland during the Communist occupation, “I get paid, whether I am standing up or laying in bed. Thus personal initiative is diminished and the collective self is nurtured.

This curious attitude was demonstrated for me forty five years ago: I had finished my guiding commitments early and planned my own elk and Grizzly hunt in the area between Dawson Creek and Tumbler Ridge. Back then the dirt roads could only get you within 50 miles of my destination and there was no way to get a boat in there; so I figured to have a few hundred thousand acres to hunt, all by my lonesome.

Well, I did have two of my best friends, Dallas my saddle horse and Tiger my Catahoula and two pack horses. Dallas and Tiger were as close to human as you want and in many respects were much better than most human companions; they had endearing personalities and a sense of humor, traits that are often lacking in humans, especially when the wind is blowing, the temperature drops, and the snow starts piling up.

After a two day ride, I would hit the Huegonaught River and follow it downstream to Belcourt Lake and cross the river where it empties in to the lake; the Huegonaught is far too wild to even consider crossing upstream, it will throw up a rock the size of a small refrigerator now and then; consequently, trying to cross that river would be suicide.

The river widens out considerably when it empties into the lake: the crossing was wide, deep, and cold. I draped Tiger over my lap, he would need to swim from the get go and there was no need for him to fight the current and get swept way out into the lake, he was seventy five extra pounds and Dallas was already carrying me, a stock saddle, an ax, a rifle, a heavy rain slicker, emergency gear and four 34 foot throw cinches, but Dallas was half Clyde, a quarter Percheron, and a quarter Cayuse (Peace River Range Pony), she packed the extra weight as if she didn’t notice. If the water deepened and we had to start swimming, I’d slide off Dallas on the downstream side and hold on to the mane with my right hand and the reins with my left and hope the pack horses and Tiger didn’t get in trouble. The water was deep enough I had to pull my rifle out of its scabbard to keep the scope dry, but other than being cold and apprehensive the crossing was uneventful.

We pushed on once we reached the opposite shore to keep the horses from getting cold and stiff after the crossing. It had been two days since we had left the truck on the dirt road and I was anxious to set up a base camp, relax in comfort, and get in some serious hunting. I had to cross several small creeks before coming to the Belcourt River, from there we would go upstream to a perfect campsite with lush grass for the horses and fish for me and Tiger.

Near the mouth of the Belcourt River there is a small penninsula extending out into the lake about 50 meters, and there was a forlorn looking camp with two hunters that looked half starved. It was a terrible spot for a camp, the lake was so large and deep that everything near its banks was condemned to a cold that was at least 15 degrees colder than the hillsides and creeks that surround the lake. I rode over to say, “hi” and see if they were in trouble.

They had flown in on a float plane and the day they were to have been picked up the fog set in; since bush flying is strictly VFR (visual flight regulations) there wasn’t a chance in Hell a plane could get in to land on that foggy lake or fly in the mountains with such a low ceiling. I didn’t say anything, but I had trapped here for a couple of winters and It was possible the fog and low grey ceiling could be here till spring. I gave them a few precious potatoes and wished them luck.

As I was leaving, I realized that they didn’t thank me for the potatoes and seemed upset that I wasn’t going to make camp in their little picture post card campsite that made survival and living in comfort more difficult. My camp needed room and feed for the horses and it was silly to live in excess cold and humidity. Oh well, I suppose these mountains have hidden the bones of the careless and stupid for thousands of years. As I rode off they were trying to build a fire, since their tiny backpacking stoves had long since run out of gas, they looked like cub bears playing with a football. I told them there was good fishing in the creeks and there was ptarmigan and grouse on the hill side that you could kill if you can throw a rock with some precision. They looked at me as if I was speaking a foreign language and I rode off figuring there was a cultural divide that I didn’t understand.

Once we found my old campsite, I stripped the horses of their tack and turned them loose to wander and feed while I began setting up camp. Tiger never took his eyes off me from his prone position while I put up the wall tent with a fly canvas over the cook area, and built a nice fire. I had a small iron camp stove and since the wall tent had a fire ring and there was five inch stove pipe the tent could be nice and toasty for two hours at a time, since the stove wasn’t big enough to hold over two hours worth of wood.

Tiger and I walked halfway up the hill from camp for a quick hunt and reconnoiter, There was definitely a big old Grizzly in the area, the sign was everywhere, he had been feeding in a huckleberry and blueberry patch trying to load on all the fat possible for the long winter’s sleep coming on. You can tell an old Grizzly’s track from the claws, the old ones will have broken and splintered claws that aren’t being regrown sufficiently to stay in good shape, don’t underestimate an old Grizzly, like a human he has slowed down with age, but is still way faster than a human and a human looks way better than the prospect of going hungry. I picked a quart while Tiger and I kept alert for the appearance of the geriatric Grizzly that might take exception to us raiding his garden.

We sat down for a minute while the sun showed through the clouds for a brief interval and I looked through my binoculars at the two derelicts camped down by the lake. I frown on looking at people through rifle scopes to check on people, safety first I always say and don’t point a rifle at me unless you intend to use it. They looked to be in even worse shape from up here, their little pup tent was no longer water proof or even wind proof, they had eaten the potatoes and didn’t seem the least interested in acquiring more food. It became painfully obvious that this pair was a bit odd.

We headed back down the mountain so that we could catch a nice fish before dark. I built a fire ring out of three and four inch flat rocks, these make cooking easier and there is plenty of storage.

I caught a nice Dolly Varden or Arctic Char just as it started to pour rain and the wind began to blow, some of the guys call them slew sharks and don’t respect them: I think those guys are the snobbish hunters of Grayling, Rainbows, Steelhead, and Salmon. I’ve hunted them all, give me a Dolly and I am happy, they fight like a Grizzly and make excellent eating, my kind of fish. The Arctic Char migrates to the Arctic Ocean every year and a big one might be twenty years old, this one was probably older than me at the time.

I cleaned my fish in the creek to give the other fish a little protein and sat under my kitchen tarp to get dinner started. The fish is fairly easy and cooks fast, I almost always use a cast iron skillet with a top over a low heat fire, most people who have problems cooking over a fire tend have a fire that is too hot and without a cover on the skillet. The top reflects the heat that would ordinarily escape to the atmosphere, adding to Global Warming (a major concern for me), by using a top you cook the fish from the top down as well as from the bottom up, thus the top of the fish is cooking almost as fast as the bottom. I also use a Dutch Oven more than most cooks, you can use can use it to simulate an oven for cooking many things, this night I will use it to bake my Brown Butter Huckleberry Tart.

Brown Butter is tricky to make at home over a wood fired cook stove; however, in the mountains at night over a campfire with a tarp overhead to block torrential rain and a hard wind blowing, it will really test your steel. You must melt the butter and continue stirring until the butter thickens and turns brown, at that instant, remove it from the heat and mix the the other filling ingredients in a cooler glass container (less sticking), because there is only a few seconds before Brown Butter becomes burnt butter.

The crust is the first step, I suggest using a two piece pie pan with corrugated sides, to aid in breaking the crust free, using a butter coating with a dusting of flour also helps remove the tart from the pie pan. You need about a quarter coffee cup of butter, a third cup of sugar, a good dose of vanilla extract and one cup of flour. Roll out the dough kepping it even and press into the prepared pie pan. I bake the crust in preheated dutch oven for 15 to 20 minutes, and then place the huckleberries top down (they have a flat top like a persimmon) in concentric circles or a spiral (artistic license is encouraged). After making the brown butter, mix it with two eggs a half cup of sugar, a quarter cup of flour a dose of vanilla extract with a little salt and pour in the brown butter filling until just the tips of the berries are showing, (it will be about 3/8 of an inch deep) and bake for thirty to forty minutes, keep coals on the side and top of your Dutch oven to keep it at approximately 375 + -20 degrees. (Too Funny)

It will be done when the filling attains a golden brown color and is slightly swollen looking, another test is to stick your knife in the center, if it comes out clean, it is done. Let it cool for a hour to bring out the flavor and to make cutting a precision affair.

While it is cooking, I devote my time to the Dolly, I cut up several pieces of my home smoked bacon in two inch pieces and put them in the skillet with a top over a low heat. I then toss in a large onion cut into coarse pieces and a couple of jalapenos cut into very small pieces. The idea is for the jalapeno to break down and let its flavor permeate the fish and everything else. Using my knife, I make small incisions in the fish and insert peppercorns. (During the cooking phase, they will dissolve and release their flavor to the surrounding flesh.) Add crushed garlic by rubbing the inside of the fish with it and then toss in large mushroom and celery pieces, put the top on and wait about 15 to 20 minutes for the fish to cook.

Tiger and I each had a healthy portion of fish and dessert while the storm raged outside. I figured the two orphans down by the lake were probably pretty hungry and cold by now. I had a task to do that I didn’t really want to do, but it was the right thing to do. I told Tiger to stay and I walked along the creek bank to the camp where the two miserable hunters were shivering and wishing they had never come to the mountains I call home.

I saw their miserable little pup tent about to blow away into oblivion, they would have been better off it would have, it was almost completely useless, they would have been forced to seek more protection. I stood behind a good size spruce tree and hailed them from a safe distance, desperate men aren’t predictable. They poked their heads out of that pathetic hovel and looked into the storm, I yelled out, “Bring your blankets and gear, dinner is ready and my tent is warm and fairly dry.”

They stumbled through the night until we reached my tent, Tiger was on the muscle and despite me telling him to back off he continued to growl the rest of the night. They ate the fish and vegetables and fish without so much as a compliment or a by your leave. They stayed so close to the stove that it was hard to put in fresh wood or to get a cup of coffee. I heated up some water and waited for someone to volunteer to do the dishes. They sat there completely clueless, finally I sad, “It is customary to clean the dishes when someone cooks for you.”

The bigger one said, “We’ll wash them in the morning.”

I reached deep down inside for patience and resolve, for these were not children, they were men at least twice as old as me. With care and control, I said, “Yes and maybe that old Grizzly on the hill will come in here to lick the plates clean during the night.” I started washing the dishes and you could feel the tension in the tent.

I decided I better try to make these guys sociable, I asked them what they do for a living; most insecure people relax if they can boast about their job and their relative importance. It turned out that they were both employees at a pulp mill in Prince George, you have probably read a book whose pages originated at that mill; they stressed the point that they were both integral to the successful operation of the mill and that both the mill management and the union would be concerned now that they were late getting back to work. They were confident that the company would extract them regardless of the cost. I realized they had an inflated view of their own importance relative to mine, despite the fact that they may not have survived the night without me.

I tied the three horses to trees in a perimeter around the tent to act as sentries in case the old Grizzly came to investigate.

Tiger and I slept near the front flap in the farthest position from my stove and the stinking saddle pads and blankets the orphans slept in between putting wood in the fire, at least until they ran out. The big one looked over to me and said, “We’re out of wood.” I rolled over and went to sleep.

I woke up before daylight and headed out as soon as possible and took Tiger with me. If I left him and they started to rummage through the panniers for food, he would probably savage them like he would a bear. Normally I eat breakfast, but I had enough of playing nursemaid to these arrogant freeloaders. They would be dead without me; yet they still need to impress me with their importance, rather than showing the slightest bit of grace, humility, and appreciation.

My spirits lifted while I was walking over the hills despite the rain, around noon the sun came out and I heard a chopper to the East; maybe they could take out my unsavory tent guests, I covered ground quick to get to the Landing Zone the chopper used before he took off again.

I found the clearing that the chopper used as an LZ and there were two men there, one was the fixed wing pilot who had brought the two in, he talked on and on about how he didn’t think he could get the hunters out: the other one was the chopper pilot, he had a slight grin and did no talking, he knew he could fly to Hell and back and didn’t need to waste time telling me his life story. It boiled down to the fact that unless they were going to walk out, the pitiful hunters better get to the chopper in the next 20 minutes and be ready to pay $1500. I told them I would have their passengers boarded in half that time and took off.

The hunters were disappointed to hear about the cost and asked if I would take them out for three hundred. I told them the pack horses weren’t broke for humans to ride, it was a lie, but they weren’t broke for these guys, that’s for sure.

They left everything but their rifles and I burned it all at their original campsite. They boarded without a thank you or a cordial good bye. The chopper probably probably scared all the game, so I spent the rest of the day straightening the mess they made making breakfast and getting myself back into the hunting mode.

Obviously they were not as important as they thought and if they would have been forced to walk out they would have died from hypothermia in 48 hours. Although Prince George is a fairly large city, I don’t think that was a factor in their behavior and their lack of initiative, their problems were more deeply rooted. Being used to the quasi-Socialist government of BC providing so many services and a union that caters to their whims, these men had no idea of what they were to going to face in the mountains, where no one really comes to your rescue or cares that your thoughtlessness got you into trouble and you need to be bailed out. Unfortunately, I think the unions are largely responsible for this attitude, they leave people feeling they are entitled to preferential treatment because of union membership. A situation that is promoted to perpetuate the union cause and that is fine until you step out of the little plastic world of Big Brother and unionism.