Hard Adventure...Harder Choices

HARD ADVENTURE…HARDER CHOICES

Alberta, April 17, 1912

Dawson Robinson sat alone on a bench in the Canadian Pacific Railroad Station in Edmonton, Alberta. In his left hand, a rabbit’s foot. In his right, her telegram.

It was clear and warm. Spring had finally arrived. The last of the snow was quickly retreating. Lost in thought, he stared north, towards the Athabasca River crossing and his homestead located on Flat Creek. The long summer days would come soon. Eighteen-hours of preparing the land for crops. Laying in enough hay and wood to survive the winter. Sweat glistening on his bare torso as he chopped wood or walked behind the plow. Winter was ubiquitous. Even in July…it was lurking in the background, preparing to attack. Twenty-five degrees below zero. Fierce blizzards. Howling wolves circling the cabins of careless homesteaders. A time spent with only his dog Buck. He had almost lost hope of having a wife, family, children.

He reread the telegram. Stared in bewilderment to the south. Edmonton to Winnipeg on the Canadian Pacific. Winnipeg to Chicago on the CP and Soo Line. And then a direct shot on the Rock Island to Oklahoma City where she said she’d meet him on the platform. Three days in the best circumstances. More likely the better part of four. Katherine wearing her Sunday dress. They would kiss on the platform and tumble into bed in the elegant Skirvin Hotel. Yet which “Kate” would be there after their fling. The one who said they were “finished.” Or the Kate who sent the telegram.

Hard work and determination had built a new life on the lonely prairie in a place where the Northern Lights danced. He loved this wild land. The proceeds of the sale of his Oklahoma farm had built a cozy, two-room cabin with a wood stove. He had money left over to buy out someone who left defeated. Funds to travel by train when he wanted. Going back would mean losing his homestead. The waving wheat and barley. Stalking a moose in the snow. Fighting wolves and prairie fires. Trekking 20 miles round trip to town to pick up his mail in snow too deep for a horse, the sweat on his feet beginning to freeze. His toes sprouting blisters in the summer as he walked a lame mount.

Women would come to Athabasca someday bringing churches and schools and libraries. Wanting homes and stability. And seeking courageous, decisive men like Dawson. Such a woman, one who wanted to live in Alberta, was waiting for him in Vancouver or Toronto. One day, she’d catch the CP to Edmonton.

What woman wouldn’t want a handsome 24-year-old like Dawson? But a woman from Vancouver…well, it didn’t snow much there except in the mountains. Maybe he’d better find one from Toronto!

Oklahoma, Spring, 1910

He recognized Blaze’s whinny long before Kate reined in the chestnut gelding outside his new frame house which contained a spacious piano room. He held the reins as Kate dismounted; tied up Blaze and swept her off her feet. The picnic lunch packed in a wicker basket waited on the porch. It was only a short walk down to the pond where the red bud trees were already in bloom and crocuses were peeking through the prairie grass. They’d spread out the blanket. Enjoy lunch. And make love all afternoon. The engagement ring was in his pocket ready for sunset.

But Kate almost immediately broke the embrace. Shoved Dawson back onto his heels. Held up her right hand making a “stop” sign.

She was mounting Blaze before he regained his balance.

“Dawson, I can’t do this. I can’t do Oklahoma. I can’t do loneliness. I need plays and concerts and bigger libraries than the one in El Reno. I can’t have children on a god-forsaken prairie. I can no longer stand 100-degree summers or winters where the temperature could dip to 5 below. Or the wind. The dust in March that seeps through every crack and covers my piano. I have a ticket to San Francisco on the 2:30 train. Don’t try to talk me out of it!”

Dawson’s jaw dropped as she kicked Blaze into a gallop, headed for the depot in Oklahoma City. He screamed from the deep void forming in his heart: “Don’t go! Don’t do this to us!!!”

They met at a church social in the yard next to a small Presbyterian Church in Red Rock. Dawson, tall, strong, tan, with piercing blue eyes. He was just twenty years old and already owned his own farm. Was drawing up plans for a wood frame house to replace his soddy.

Kate was 18. She had recently arrived with her parents who were opening a grocery store in Okarche. She was radiant. Brilliant smile. Auburn hair. Tall, statuesque figure. Soft brown eyes. Full lips waiting for Dawson to kiss them. They sneaked off to Red Rock Creek and spent the afternoon getting to know each other. The conversation was easy. The attraction electric. Their love professed within weeks.

But they took physical things slowly over the course of the next two years. The frenetic lovemaking didn’t begin until just before she fled to Oklahoma City aboard his best horse. They feverishly ripped at each other’s clothes. Rolled together on the picnic blanket. Screamed with pleasure. Then lay quietly looking up at the blue skies and circling hawks.

She was Dawson’s first love. Other than the red dirt of Oklahoma.

He knew she was a “city girl.” Yet she said she loved Canadian County. And him. It seemed “predestined” to Dawson that they’d marry. Have children. Build a life together. He never saw the return to San Francisco coming.

Alberta, 1911-1912

The Canadian Pacific Flyer pulled to a stop at the station in Edmonton. After 4 days in a train, Dawson was anxious to start his journey north. Maybe he was fleeing memories of Kate. But he was running to adventure!

He bought a wagon, pony, supplies, even a mixed German Shepard puppy that he named "Buck" after Jack London’s dog in The Call of the Wild. Then he began the nearly 100 mile walk to the land he chose after reading the advertisements in the El Reno Democrat promising 160 acres for a $10 fee if one would only fulfill the homesteading requirements of the Dominion Lands Act. As he trekked to his new home, leading the pony while it pulled the wagon, he began to love the broad, rolling prairie broken by patches of muskeg. Prosperous-looking farms were already sprouting.

The walk on the rough and often muddy Athabasca Landing Trail, once used by gold miners, would take several days. Ten or fifteen miles was all Dawson could make in a day.

Buck was in heaven! Exploring everything along the way and yet barely leaving Dawson’s side. Curling up next to him every night. Growling a warning at the least sign of danger.

From time to time, a moose skittered out of the muskeg, saw Dawson or heard Buck’s yip, and then retreated into the tangles. He never quite got his 30:30 out of the wagon before they were gone. Dawson had an arsenal of iconic firearms. A 22 rifle. A Winchester Model 1894 30:30 for deer and moose hunting. Finally, a Winchester 1894 double-barrel shotgun for birds. He’d become an expert shot on the Oklahoma prairie. Now, he’d learn the game and predators in Alberta. And to keep his firearm loaded and close.

Buck learned to hunt silently.

The predators were struggling from human encroachment. Encounters were common. Dawson wouldn’t kill them…if he could help it.

Along the way he ran into George Hamilton. Dawson prayed that Canada wouldn’t have put the advertising in the Oklahoma Guide and other black newspapers in Canadian County if it didn’t want George and the others fleeing Jim Crow.

Dawson’s home county in Oklahoma was named after a river. But the Canadian River, with its source high in the New Mexico mountains, was named after the wild and free country. Oklahoma--once the last frontier--had prepared him well.

Each night he camped under a panoply of stars as he crept further out onto the North Slope. The part of Canada where the waters flow to the Arctic Ocean. Patches of boreal forest joined the muskeg in breaking up the prairie.

As he made camp on the last night, a snowshoe hare bounded through his campsite. Then stopped 50 yards away, warily sniffing. Dawson killed it with the 22, skinned it, and kept a foot which he carried in his pocket every day. He roasted it on a spit. Savored the delicious change from hardtack, jerky, and glops of unidentifiable canned meat. Occasionally, a wolf howled in the distance. He couldn’t eat all of it; he stored the leftovers in the wagon. Curled up naked in his sleeping bag; drifted off to sleep, fitfully dreaming of Kate.

The blood-curdling snarling awakened him. Two hungry wolves fought over the remains of the hare. Buck crouched behind a wagon wheel, neck hairs standing, growling and baring his little teeth. He pumped the shotgun. Fired a warning blast into the pitch-dark night. The wolves, whining and yelping, sped across the prairie towards the nearest patch of forest. Dawson, naked and primal, howled at the moon and fired one more shot into the Alberta emptiness.

By the time he reached his homestead, the difficult walk and the experience with the wolves had begun to teach him what was required to make a home in this remote and fertile land.

A few weeks later, the lumber, materials, and work crew arrived for the construction of his cabin, a barn and heavily insulated chicken coop. He bought a horse for occasional rides to Edmonton or Athabasca. Dawson planted his first crops and a vegetable garden. The pristine waters of Flat Creek were easily accessible. Trout were abundant. And ample game lived in the patches of muskeg and forest.

Winter was a shock. But he’d laid in plenty of firewood. He had canned vegetables from his garden. His chickens were laying. He shot a moose in November that provided meat for several weeks. When the moose ran out, he stalked another one through the January snow and killed it in the muskeg. Dragged it back to his homestead and processed it well away from the cabin. With great satisfaction, he crawled naked into bed, the fire in the stove banked for the night, hoping to dream of Kate. Buck snored softly at the foot of the bed.

Then the dog’s enraged snarls woke him. The large black bear should have been hibernating but was sniffing around out near the chicken coop. Dawson flung open the door. Fired the 30:30 into the darkness illuminated only by the dancing aurora. The bear skedaddled for the woods. He and Buck howled into the black night.

Buck was always a Northwoods dog. Now Dawson was becoming a Canadian.

But oh, how he wanted a woman!

On the other hand, he didn’t know if he could live with Kate. Constantly worrying she’d leave. Part of him loathed her.

On February 14, 1912, a knock on his door interrupted his lonely Valentine’s dinner. The messenger handed him a telegram, gave Buck a biscuit. One of those horseless carriages had careened into Kate’s parents as they crossed Park Avenue in Oklahoma City. Killed them both. She’d returned to Okarche to run the store. She loved him. Wanted him. Needed him. Please come back to Oklahoma! Just send her a telegram. She’d meet him at the station.

When the weather warmed in March, he rode over to Athabasca on his new gelding and “answered” her telegram. His reply said only: “Perplexed. Shocked. Thinking about it.” The March blizzards arrived and ended all activities except survival.

But when warm weather returned in April, he didn’t have to spend so much time surviving. Spent more time being lonely. When he wasn’t busy just “living” in Alberta, his heart ached. How he needed and craved physical companionship. Especially making love with a woman. How many years could he wait for his “dream” to arrive on the CP?

If he went to Oklahoma, he would just “visit” and check things out. Wouldn’t sell. Old Man Fitzhugh would gladly care for Buck and his livestock. His homestead and dog would await him when he returned.

And damn it all, he wouldn’t fall back in love. He’d only let himself “like” her. Part of his heart belonged to Alberta. To the dancing lights. To Buck. He wouldn’t give that up …unless he was sure. On the 17th the train schedule worked for a trip to Oklahoma.

On the way to Edmonton, he stopped off at the Fitzhugh place.

“What a magnificent dinner, mam. The best I’ve eaten in Canada.”

“Thank you, Dawson.” Mrs. Fitzhugh beamed. “Frances is coming up from Vancouver on the 17th. Her train arrives at 2:30. Same time as your train to Oklahoma.”

“Who’s picking her up?” He’d seen her photo. She was very pretty.

“Monty Bullard. But you could pick her up instead. If you really don’t go to Oklahoma. You don’t seem quite so sure. Especially today.”

Old Man Fitzhugh chimed in. “She’s a dead eye shot with a gun. Almost shoots as well as you, Dawson. And good thing you left room for a small piano in your cabin.”

Back at the Train Station

So, Dawson found himself on April 17, 1912 at the CP Train Station in Edmonton. A ticket to Oklahoma in one pocket. A note of introduction to Frances in another. If he didn’t rent a buggy and take her home, he’d just tell her to walk a couple doors down to the livery stable. Monty would take her home.

He squeezed the rabbit’s foot tightly in his left hand. Reread Kate’s telegram in his right.

The Fitzhugh’s were steadfast friends. He would miss them. They had butchered hogs at the wrong time. There was no right time to butcher them in Alberta in January! He and Buck heard the ruckus from miles away and rescued them from their roof where they’d fled the marauding, ravenous wolf pack. Buck was now a furious 90-pound ball of muscle when he became enraged. He loved the Fitzhugh’s! He drove off most of the wolves by himself. Dawson’s 30:30 blasts dispersed the rest of them into the frozen woods where he hoped they’d find a crippled moose.

Mrs. Fitzhugh had once brought him chicken soup and a bottle of aspirin when he came down with a fever.

He fingered the introductory note written by Old Man Fitzhugh. Frances was, indeed, beautiful. He imagined her playing Christmas carols as the snow softly fell and he sipped a Canadian Club whisky in a comfy chair by the stove, the Northern Lights dancing outside the window.

Kate was so much fun to chase in a plum thicket. Or to love on the prairie grass. He could see himself undressing her in the elevator of the Skirvin Hotel while the black operator gaped in astonishment. But would she stick it out? She’d never move to Canada. He had to protect his heart. He no longer felt predestined to marry her. But he tried to reassure himself that it wouldn’t be risky to “visit” Kate; see what happened.

He missed Buck. His cabin. Tracking a moose. Chasing off wolves and bears. God how he’d miss those dancing lights. What would he do with the ticket to OKC if he didn’t go? It wasn’t refundable.

But then he noticed the young black man in threadbare clothes bearing a look of defeat. He hadn’t quite enough money to buy a ticket to Guthrie, nearest city to the little black town of Langston, and had sat down disconsolate on a bench opposite Dawson. With a start, Dawson remembered that his train went through Guthrie. His grandmother would likely pick the sad young man up, dry his tears, give him a hug. How did he know about a “grandmother?” Boom! Dawson realized he’d seen the young man along the trail. Wasn’t his farm only a few miles from Flat Creek?

“Hey, George, the train is 4 hours late. Want to get a cup of coffee?”

Dawson couldn’t believe what happened in 4 hours. He bought George Hamilton’s land for a fair price. Gave George his ticket. Told him Guthrie was the last stop before the train arrived in OKC. He stopped at the post office; wrote Kate a letter.

Dearest Katherine. Your leaving deeply hurt me. But I still want you…Come up here for a visit. I’ll reimburse you for your ticket when I pick you up in Edmonton. You’ll love Buck! We can visit Banff. Lake Louise. Jasper. I’ll show you a good time in Alberta. Maybe we’ll make love while watching the Northern Lights dance. Who knows what might happen?…

Then he sent her a telegram. “Still thinking. Letter coming.”

He asked Monty Bullard to pick up Frances. It seemed presumptuous and forward to pick her up when he didn’t know her. They could get acquainted over dinner at Mrs. Fitzhugh’s groaning table.

He never left Buck again.

He still dreamed of making love to Kate. There was more loneliness and isolation. Would she ever come up to visit? But Oklahoma might call him back. Edmonton was booming. Trains were faster. Buck could ride in a crate in the baggage car. After the wolves up here, the coyotes in Oklahoma would be nothing to him.

Anything was possible with Frances. But she lived in Vancouver. Maybe she hated snow.

Perhaps someone new would come.

Around campfires, fireplaces and tables, Buck’s legend grew.

***

In the 1960’s, George’s children and grandchildren picketed the Skirvin Hotel, protesting Oklahoma’s Jim Crow laws. Were Dawson’s descendants watching or marching? Or in 2018 were they handing out bumper stickers in Edmonton and Calgary: “More Alberta! Less Ottawa!”?