PART I
That sound, that jabbing, reverberating buzz of a chainsaw; not very often, you hear it around Mississauga. It was distant but distinct to me, one that I can identify from miles away. A flood of memories when I hear that sound. Why? Am I a lumberjack in the off-season? Close!
There isn’t a hint of it in my resume—forty years in Education. Now, I watch more ” Big Timber” and “Cold Water Cowboys” than anything related to teaching. So what’s going on? Isn’t it strange that after 25 years in Education in Newfoundland (NL, is the official alpha code for Newfoundland and Labrador.
For this article, I use NL as a reference only to the Island of Newfoundland. ), I would be talking about chain saws. And why not? I carry the scars of 20 years of using it- hearing loss from its constant drone, topping it off with snowmobiles of old; noisy like hell! You cannot separate the two. A snowmobile and a chain saw in rural NL are like cod jigging and a dory. Snowmobiles of those years were not the recreational variety that they are today.
I get teary-eyed when I think about those years. It is difficult to fathom to an uninitiated how a place can grow on you. Despite all the intimidating weather stories ( the default RDF, Rain Drizzle, and Fog, “Sheila’s Brush” in March, or ice fishing in June ) is dwarfed by the fact that NL is the foggiest place in the world. But reading Rex Murphy’s ( columnist: Globe & Mail, host: X-Country Checkup ) “My Favourite Place: A Cove of Inner Peace on Newfoundland’s Cape Shore,” a reference to Gooseberry Cove, NL ( the last census showed a population of 9 but unable to find current census ), may give a reader some sense of the differences in people’s perception. Here’s part of his essay:
” I’ve visited in all seasons and all times of day. I’ve seen it buried in fog, the waves whipped up following a fall hurricane, in mauzzy June and bleak December. No matter. The external climate is irrelevant. Gooseberry Cove is the very isolate of tranquility”.
Then you Google it and say, whoa, I wouldn’t last a day! I’d be at Square One ( the big mall in Mississauga ) anytime.
After a self-imposed probationary year in 1970-71, I decided to stay. I let go of a leave of absence at Christ The King International High School in Okinawa, Japan. It was a foolish decision initially, but a new adventure was beckoning.
So here I was in a rural NL High School serving two communities of less than 2000 people, and many never been in the midst of a person of colour. Meanwhile, there was the thrill of being in a new culture, new people, new climate, and a language yet to be explored.
That summer of 1970, I was completing a second science Fellowship with the University of Hawaii at Chofu (Tokyo ), Japan. My Canadian Visa came unexpectedly early. With little more than a suitcase and my souvenir climbing stick of Mt. Fuji, I flew to TO because I did not know anywhere else to go. There I met a vacationing NL teacher who gave me a lead to the Island. After the initial year, I moved to a bigger community and had gotten married the following year.
In this day and age of reality TV, shows (” Alaska, the Last Frontier,” “Life Below Zero “) depicting life in the countryfied rustic settings of the Northeast US or in a Northern Canadian treeline, I saw myself as the man with the chain saw and an ax. People in this area of NL cut their wood, build their houses, catch their fish, hunt their meat, plant their gardens, pave their driveways, pretty much did everything themselves.
CFA’s ( Come From Away, that’s how the locals describe anyone not born in NL ) like me became part of that culture, a community member unlike the urban worker known only by the people they worked with.
I took this life hook, line, and sinker. Like the locals, we built our house as the money came; banks be damned! We cut our logs in the fall and pulled them over frozen ponds in the winter by snowmobile. We got them sawn into 2 x 4’s, and by the following summer, we had a 2000 sq. ft. house and basement taking shape.
With some help, we moved by the fall of that year with only the kitchen, den, and a bathroom completed.
Not content with the house building, we, too, decided to heat it primarily with wood ( electric heat as backup ). Cutting, splitting, and stacking ten cords of wood ( about 30,000 lbs. )every year was no mean task.
I was a lumberjack most weekends over 20 years. In addition to several chainsaws, I had gone through 3 snowmobiles, an AT Trike, and an AT Four Tracks, hauling sawlogs and firewood out of the boreal forest ( in the early years when supply was plentiful nearby ) directly to my spread or the road and then trucked in. The primary vehicle on the Island was a pickup. I have gone through a number.
Besides the constant trip to the woods, a utility pickup is an essential vehicle for navigating rough logging roads, trout and salmon fishing, pulling a camper, loading an aluminum boat, and big game hunting. My first utility vehicle was an old 60’s IH ( International Harvester ) vehicle, a decommissioned government ambulance.
MOOSE HUNTING
Big game hunting ( defined as moose, caribou, and black bear) for this article is about moose. ( Regulations for caribou and black bears are different.) Individual moose license is one animal every four years in select areas. A party license ( four hunters with one license ) allows one animal every year.
Hunting on the Island has never been about saving the antlers to decorate a shed or a mounted trophy head on a den wall. It was a primal exercise of getting your year’s meat supply in your chest freezer. In the early seventies, getting a hunting license was nothing more than walking to any store, getting your tags, and out you go-a-hunting ( ” got to get me moose by’e” was a favourite local refrain ). As I recall, there was so much moose meat in the community, people were complaining of having nothing to eat but moose and potatoes.
Not anymore! By the mid-’70s, obtaining a big game hunting license was done by lottery. Starting with proving oneself that you can shoot ( on a prescribed target ) a hunting rifle (.308 /30-06), new regulations are put in place each year, consistent with high demand and limited moose populations.
And that’s just the beginning. The license stipulates the sex of the animal you’re allowed to shoot ( M, F, either sex or Calf ) and the area where you can bag it ( predetermined in your application, from 8 area choices you have indicated )
It’s also predetermined if the license is just yours or a “party.” Hunting regulations are so stringent that you can have your rifle, vehicle, or ATV confiscated or jail time if laws are not adhered to in pursuit of big game.
All these have kept the NL game population in sustainable numbers. At 120,000, NL has the highest concentration of moose population in N.A. Rifle hunters enjoy an 85% success rate. Despite all the regulations, there are many stories of poaching ( mainly hunting out of season ).
I have hunted with a Bow and Arrow ( albeit unsuccessfully ) 2 weeks ahead of the rifle season. On a tree stand, up gently swaying birch tree with a bow or a rifle is a common recipe for falling asleep, falling, and hurting yourself in the process.
The most lasting impression besides the hunt itself is a weekender with 2 or 3 others in an old hunting cabin deep in the woods ( these cabins wouldn’t even qualify as a shed in the Ontario cottage country).
A 45 gal steel drum sits in the middle, doubling as a heater and stovetop. Three double bunk beds and a table are the only other extravagance in this cabin. On a cold morning, with the soothing scent of murr ( resin) of black spruce, the first one who gets up starts the fire going. The crackle and the aroma of the birch bark are something that stays with you all your life.
As you slither out of your sleeping bag, grabbing your rifle and a roll of toilet paper, you make your way out of the cabin. On a crisp fall morning with only the soft rustle of Trembling Aspen and the moist steam of your breath and your fresh dump, you duck walk and listen if an animal is munching nearby. ( never had to shoot an animal in that god-awful position; butt naked and pants down to the ankles, I would still be chasing a moose if the opportunity presented itself )
It is not often that I miss a meal of beans. In a cast-iron skillet, a can of deep browned beans in molasses and slices of bacon cooked in an open birch wood fire could be a threat to anything that James Oliver has ever put together. Buttered ( “Eversweet,” a NL-made margarine ) homemade bread, tangy partridgeberry jam, and a strong “Hunter’s Blend” coffee complete this most unforgettable breakfast.
Re-creating it on a stovetop is a disappointment; the open fire of spruce and birch gives it a woodsy taste.
Glum and exhaustion can overwhelm the fittest after hours of endless trudging on a boggy terrain. When you begin to mistake an old tree stump for a moose, it’s time to head back to the cabin.
But nothing can lift the group’s spirit than a successful hunt, and not enough beer can quell an all-night chatter about the event. A well planned weekend may include a meal of “Jigg’s Dinner” ( What is this? Read in Part II ) and bottled moose.
PROCESSING: WHAT DO YOU DO WITH AN 800 LB MOOSE MEAT?
No moose has ever been taken out of the woods whole. Some Northwestern Canadian ( and Alaskan ) variety can weigh nearly 2000 lbs. and have been known to derail a train. The Eastern moose is smaller, but it’s not the weight that matters.
Butchering is a necessary part of harvesting game; decomposition sets in immediately after the kill. Saving nothing but the heart and liver ( a tagged jawbone is deposited to a wildlife depot for statistical purposes ), the animal is quartered and tagged.
(INSERT A PICTURE OF ME WITH TWO MOOSE HINDQUARTERS )
Before the advent of the all-terrain, off-road vehicles, each quarter had to be manually taken out of the woods. Sometimes, when the animal is too deep in the bush, it’s cut further before it can be taken out. In some extreme cases, you can take only the best cuts or return with a snowmobile when there’s enough snow on the ground.
Like hoisting a pennant on a ship, hanging the four quarters on a spruce scaffold signals a successful hunt. Then out comes the beer and a skinning knife. The real test of a good edge is how long you can skin before it needs sharpening. The fur is separated from the skin this way.
Moose processing has succumbed to modernity. Typically, the quarters are hung in a cold shed ( most NL houses have an unheated storage shed ). This practice follows what they do with beef; it softens the meat and increases the flavour.
Then you find a store with a walk-in freezer and a butcher who will “store cut” the quarters, package and label the meat after hours. A beef t-bone is indistinguishable from a moose t-bone. ( only that moose has no”marbling ” in it.)
BOTTLED MOOSE AND MOOSEBURGERS
Islanders have a traditional way of preparing ready-to-eat game ( also rabbit, salmon) besides freezing. Only a Newfoundlander understands what a “bottled moose” is.
Although it is indeed moose meat in a jar, there’s far more about it than meets the eye. Before chest freezers, salting and drying were the most common way of preserving food. It became standard for fish. But Mason jars became the preferred choice for game. They are as effective and safe as canning, with the bonus of reusing the bottles and replacing only the lids every time you bottle.
In the old days, bottling meat in jars involved a 4-hour process in boiling water. With a pressure canner, it is shortened to a little over an hour. Just as I have done for years, cubed raw meat is loosely packed in jars, a little slice of salted pork fat on top ( to add a little fat to an otherwise lean rabbit or moose ), and process. The lid makes a popping sound as it cools. I have eaten bottled moose meat over five years old.
Having lived ( and taught ) on a First Nations ( Indian ) Reserve for years, there are many differences in the hunting and processing game. Indigenous people’s hunting and fishing rights are treaty rights and could vary from one Reserve to another.
The ones that I have experienced had a very liberal system. There is a good supply of meat all year. The whole carcass could be sprawled in the middle of a living room floor ( or basement ) and cut up as needed.
I have bought moose meat this way, pointing at the part I want to the woman of the house. I have not seen it frozen, cut up, and packaged by a professional butcher. On a Northern Reserve, you can go for years ( as I did ) eating no other meat but moose, caribou, and an occasional black bear.
Road kills ( also confiscated, poached meat ) are collected by Wildlife and donated to Service Clubs ( Lions, Rotary ). The clubs then advertise “Moose Suppers” for fundraising. Sometimes they are offered as soup, moose burgers, or moose roast. The only moose with a different (gamey, strong ) taste is either roadkill or an animal that’s hit in the gut and not immediately processed.
There is an unmistakable “pheromonic” smell to it. ( big games produce lots of “pheromones” in the rutting season to attract mates ) That is not to say that many don’t mind the “off” taste. These fundraisers sell out quickly.
In part II, I will explore many other peculiar practices ( and food )not seen in other parts of Canada. “Jigg’s Dinner” and “Flipper Pie” and other favourites could make a difference in an otherwise bland weekend meal. We’ll see!
