Chapter 1

Henry Buchanan used a dirty red rag, to wipe the dust from his brow. He shook his head, to dislodge stone chips from his short black hair, that was slowly going to grey. His bronzed back and strong muscles were exposed to the morning sun. The day was already warm for this time of year. He released his hold on his four legged friend, Dog, to let him run, now that it was safe. The Shepard/wolf mix, walked around the large upthrust of granite, sniffing the air, and continued to the rented Bob Cat, with his master. Behind them the Hebica River flowed east, then south. It's path obstructed, by the mass of Beaver Mountain.

He drove quickly and adeptly, picking up the rock that had recently been securely anchored to mother Earth. Five sticks of dynamite had enlarged the hole that would eventually form the basement of his new home. Only the heavy portion of solid rock in the back needed to be done, as his plans called for an almost level entrance into the lower section of his home. In a few minutes, the rubble was dumped into a crevice, this would increase the usable area of his front yard, and allow his float plane to be pulled up into a hangar, that was yet to be built.

Three men in dusty coveralls and hard hats manoeuvred a drilling truck, and positioned the outriggers. They then proceeded to drill holes, for the final charges of this set. Their gloved hands used the hydraulic levers to set the truck bed into a level position.

Henry parked the Bob Cat, stretched his back, and walked over to the cooler. He drank from his bottle of spring water. He had been working since dawn, getting ready for the concrete work that would support his future home.

"I would have used another stick, Uncle Henry. But I see the hole would be too big if I did."

I felt that my dream was finally coming true. Ever since I was a boy, I had been drawn to this beautiful piece of land. The smell of balsam and pine was heavy in the still air. The dark water relentlessly flowing past this spot, and made me think of the early explorers that had pushed the boundaries of human knowledge. The trees and the land itself seemed to call to me, as it did to the earliest inhabitants.

Charlie Shingle was trying to say that he was wrong about the amount of charge to use in making this particular blast. He only did the blasting when his father was absent, as now. The tall thin lad of 25, stood about 180 centimetres. His light brown hair blew carelessly across his brow, just as it did on Carl, his father.

"It's just that I'm a little tightfisted," I said. "I would have to pay for the stick, and for the concrete to fill the larger hole. Like I said at the start of the job, if we come in under budget, we split the savings." It was better for men to work towards a goal, rather than the next paycheck. A good beer bash, was as good as any other reason. North Bay may even have recovered since the last time.

The river, only sixty metres away, formed a silver corridor between Beaver Mountain and the rising sun. The mountain was actually a very large hill covered with white and red pine that the local timber companies would love to get their hands on. The river itself wound its way towards Temagami in the west, and to the hydro dam in the east.

Uncle Jake had died in a cave-in at the small mine on this piece of land, in 1964. The man had been working alone, and had not been found until the next day. I had loved the man dearly. His humour, thoughtfulness, and caring; had helped form my character. The things he taught me still help me, to this day.

My father John, and my mother Margaret, had died in an automobile accident in 1971. That was a few years after I had joined the American Army, in Vietnam. I had come home with an early discharge on my second tour of duty, to bury my parents. The Distinguished Service Cross I had gained on my discharge was a very poor substitute.

Aunt Harriet, was a vivacious woman. We had spent many enjoyable summers together, hiking and canoeing the many lakes and streams, in my youth. My parents would go on vacations, or take courses at the university, allowing me time with the only other members of my family. Uncle Jake had taught me how to hunt and clean his game, and eventually my own. Aunt Harriet had taught me to cook it to perfection. I remembered fondly Uncle Jake saying how I cooked even better than his wife.

After my parents death, Aunt Harriet was my only living relative. I had been in university, financed by the GI Bill, when Harriet had to go into a nursing home in North Bay. She died a year later; leaving a little over three hundred hectares of land, a sizeable amount of cash, and a gaping hole in her only living relative's heart. The house I had grown to love in my youth, had fallen into disrepair during her absence. Sadly, it had to be torn down.

My Vietnamese experience allowed me to vent my dual needs; for destruction, and rebuilding. I liked to fight, but only when the activity had a challenge to it. Vietnam had also taught me the love of it's people, and their culture. Duc and Lam Tran and their daughter Susan, in particular, kept this interest alive.

Susan had just started a dojo, and taught karate. This was one of the reasons I was in as good shape as I was. Her love of karate, had given her local recognition, and a fair income from her school.

I came out of my reverie, when my name was called. I raised my hand in acknowledgment and went back to the cooler, hoping my inattention was not noticed. Eventually, I made my way over to the men. I inspected the last few holes, and used a straight stick to measure their depths.

"Good, Charlie. Just put the new holes in here, and here," I said, as I made chalk marks on the solid rock that I wanted broken up.

The final holes were drilled. The caps and charges were cautiously planted, as I had been taught in Nam. Then, carefully pulling the wires to a safe position, I looked around. I confirmed Dog was far away, and all the others were safe, behind me. The handle was twisted. Moments later, the cloud of dust and small stones descended on us, even though we were protected by a rock overhang. Far out in the river, stone splashed in a wide arc. The reverberations returned to our strained ears, from the surrounding hills.

I stepped around the debris and dusted my hair again, before inspecting the work. There was the regular shape of the basement, now. All the rest of the finishing would be done with the jackhammers. Dog came back, and barked his displeasure at the loud noise, dust and the smell of the explosive.

Chapter 2 »