| "I'm not sure how you two managed to slip past security and get down here. There is a sign that says 'active logging road' back there."
A burly man wearing a green vest, ball cap and workboots walks up the embankment from the one-man tugboat that he's been using to manoeuvre logs into a series of massive floating booms on the far side of Port Alberni's harbour. My brother Lorne and I have parked up the road and walked to a small, plywood office overlooking a chute where truckloads of massive old-growth are being dumped every 20 minutes. Between loads, the tugboat operator has hopped on land to check us out.
"Everybody knows you're here. They watched you walk in. Lost tourists. That's what they called you. What're you driving?"
"That burgundy Cutlass."
He rolls his eyes. "One of those trucks could flatten your Cutlass like a pancake." We agree and promise to call ahead next time. "It's usually grandma and grandpa in their Tilley hats. 'I think we took a wrong turn,’" he says in a mock-decrepit accent. "You're so bored you've gotta come and take pictures of us?"
I explain that we're working on a writing assignment. He loves this and says, laughing, "If they knew you were a writer it'd be 'Tree hugger! Environmentalist!' Frankly, I don't know where it comes from – old growth, second growth – I just move it around."
He offers us cans of pop from the office fridge. Between thoughtful bites of a cookie he explains that this industrial town a third of the way up Vancouver Island sits well into the interior on a long finger of salt water. This log yard used to employ 88 men 20 years ago. He's the only man on the waterfront today. As for beachcomber types, there's just one guy that works this area and he makes only a modest living.
"Do you make a good living here?"
"(The logging company) pay us good money to keep the cost of lumber and new homes high," he explains with a chuckle. Wood is not the only industry here. Across the water, a large pulp mill streaks the sky. The historic harbour is filled with off-season fishing vessels.
"People on Vancouver Island complain about the place being ruined by – yuppies!," he bellows with delight. "They raise six sheep and hand-knit a $4,000 sweater. Then they get on the laptop and make $20,000 on the stock market in a blink. No yuppies here. Port Alberni's too redneck. Actually," he admits, "too redneck. I had a friend here. He's a homosexual. I didn't care. I thought he was a good shit. But he couldn't even go out to a pub. Soon as he'd sit down someone'd say 'Psst! That guy's a queer.' Finally had to move to the other side of the island where they're more accepting. He used to wind the old lady up, though." He laughs. "'You think you got a good man there? I'm gonna steal him.' She'd be 'What's he talking about?’"
I ask about the city's fish processing plant. It's having troubles, he explains. The processed fish blocks that it churned out were held together with beef by-products. "BSE shut ’em down," says the logger in a "can you believe it?" tone.
The pros and cons of salmon farming are hotly debated in B.C. Here rednecks and gentlefolk find common ground. "I won't touch the stuff," says our logger emphatically. "We ship that out to you Flatlanders (Prairie folk). My son used to work at the fish plant so I won't touch farmed fish. They have pus-filled boils. The kids that work there, for a joke it's, 'Hey, Bob!' 'What?' He mimes bending a fish with both hands. "'Aaah!'" He mimes a guy getting blasted with fish pus.
My brother and I in unison: "Aaah!"
Another truckload of logs heads down the road along the water. Our vantage point is ideal, looking across and down onto the operation. "Tell you what," our logger says. "Soon as he drops his load and you get your shots, follow him right out of here." We thank him for his help and his socio-industrial insights into Port Alberni.
"What's your name," I ask.
As he strides down the embankment, back to his small "dozer boat," he looks back over one shoulder. "They call me Captain Putt Putt."
The logs hit the harbour with a tremendous white plume of salt spray. The captain zips and dodges like an ocean-going Weeble as he attacks the floating logs. We get our shots and jog for the car.
"Remind me not to buy a Tilley hat," says my brother.
Good Listener is on the road. To follow his travels online, check out www.goodlistenertravels.blogspot.com |
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