The best ride ever

So with only a few weeks left in 2021, I was watching a railroad video on YouTube when I realized that 50 years have gone by since the summer of 1971. That’s no big deal except it was a special time for me in that it was the first and only time I hopped a freight train.

But it was way more than that. It all began one summer evening in June of ’71 in North Bay. I was with Doug Abbott, one of my high school pals and we were walking along the side of Highway 17 heading toward the waterfalls on Duchesnay Creek. A lot of people would go there for the scenery. Abbott and I went there just for a bit of an after-supper hike and to smoke cigarettes. Sometimes, we would bring a few beers we stole from home. On this particular evening, we came across a backpacker hitchhiking along the highway. At the time, Highways 17 and 11 were called the North Bay Bypass. So we asked the guy where he was heading. He said he was going back to Toronto. He had already been out west to Vancouver, He explained that hundreds of young people like himself were criss-crossing Canada, riding their thumb to see different parts of the country. Suddenly what this guy said made sense. We had both noticed in recent days that a lot of hitchhikers were travelling through North Bay. It was a crossroads for east-west and north-south travel. 

 SEE CANADA FIRST 

 Also, the idea of hitchhiking had been in the news. Canada’s prime minister Pierre Trudeau had commented on a trend that many young Canadians were heading to the United States and Europe to go backpacking. Trudeau coined the phrase “See Canada First” and it had prompted thousands of young people to start travelling. Abbott and I began talking about what kind of fun that would be. School was over and neither of us had lined up summer jobs yet. Abbott said this was something we should do. Yeah, sure. So when? Right now, said Abbott. The idea became more and more attractive as the minutes ticked by. Let’s go talk to our parents, pack our gear and meet back here in one hour. So we did. I remember talking to my mom that night. She was not well at the time. Mom had multiple sclerosis and it was taking a serious toll on her. I told her Abbott and I wanted to do some hitchhiking across Northern Ontario and maybe head a bit further west. That particular year, my friends and I had made several weekend fishing and camping trips around the North. We would pack our gear, sleeping bags, camping equipment and fishing stuff and take off for two or three days. We did this winter and summer. It was normal for me to have my gear packed and ready. This latest venture didn’t seem out of the ordinary, so Mom was okay with it. I asked her for some money. Mom had $21. She gave it to me. I looked in the kitchen and grabbed a few cans of beans, tuna and whatever else looked good. I promised Mom I would keep in touch. Within an hour, I was back out of the bypass where I met Abbott. We were both grinning and excited. We put our thumbs out and in about 15 minutes we had a ride. I really can’t remember, but I believe the first ride took us to Sudbury. By then it was getting dark. It didn’t take long for us to hitch another ride and in that time we were heading for Sault Ste. Marie. The guy said he was heading into Michigan if we wanted to keep going and we said yes. Both of us had heard that you didn’t want to be heading north of Lake Superior and chance getting stuck in Wawa. I don’t remember where we slept that night but I have a recollection of being in Marquette, Michigan. It was not unusual for Abbott and I to throw down our poncho, unroll a sleeping bag and crash on any flat piece of dry ground we could find. We were experienced outdoors campers in that sense. The next day we continued our trip west, through Michigan, Wisconsin and into Minnesota. That’s where we made a right turn at Duluth and headed North. 

 It took us another day before we got to the Canadian border and to our surprise we were still in Ontario, where we crossed over at International Falls / Fort Frances. Thank goodness we both had Royal Canadian Air Force ID, as both our dads were in the RCAF at North Bay. The US border agents suspected we might have been American-born draft dodgers. They gave us a hard time for about 20 minutes and were not ready to let us go into Canada. So we continued thumbing. It was late afternoon; early evening and we had arrived in Kenora. Walking through the downtown, along Highway 17 we saw a Dairy Queen and there was a crowd of young people sitting on the steps there. Most of them of had backpacks. They were like us, they were hitchhikers. We stopped, bought cones and sat down to talk. Some were excited to share their experiences in coming from the west with plans to travel to Toronto, Montreal and Halifax. They were also surprised that Abbott and I had travelled through the U.S. south of Lake Superior. Puffed up with two days of experience we mentioned, hey you don’t want to take a chance on getting stuck in Wawa! 

That’s when I heard the most amazing story. One of the fellows had ridden a freight train through the Rockies. Wow! What a trip. I almost didn’t believe the guy. Then he said the most amazing thing. He said the train driver let him on the train without a hassle. A free ride. No problem. He just asked the guy and the guy said yeah, go ahead, jump on. So that was just the best story and it amazed me. I didn’t think I would ever give it another thought, but I would remember it about five days later. Abbott and I got ready to head out. It was dark by now. We would need to find a place to crash. That’s when one of the guys who was in the Dairy Queen crowd … just another young guy … asked where we planned to stay the night. We said we would likely head out to the edge of town and find a farmer’s field or something like that. The guy offered us to stay at his parent’s cabin. He said he was staying there, kind of house-sitting for his parents who were in Winnipeg. He said it was a big cabin right on the lake, maybe half a mile away. Wow, it was like Disneyland. This guy’s family had money. The cabin was nothing short of a luxury log cabin. We were prepared to unroll our sleeping bags and sleep on the floor, but we each had our own bedroom! Next morning, we enjoyed hot showers, a fresh shave and a real breakfast; coffee, orange juice, bacon, eggs, toast and jam. Abbott and I were amazed with our luck so far. This hitchhiking thing was the best. I made a point of picking up a postcard and sending it home to let my parents know where I was and that I was okay. This was in the time before the Internet and cellphones. Postcards were a good option. Over the next few days, I was able to send off a few more postcards. We had stops in Winnipeg, Portage La Prairie, Regina, Medicine Hat, Fort MacLeod and Calgary. We arrived in Calgary in the middle of a summer rain storm. We walked through the downtown area around suppertime hoping to find a youth hostel. It didn’t happen. Abbott and I did find a laneway next to the Eaton’ s store downtown that had several empty boxes for refrigerators. And that’s where we slept for the night. 

The morning after in Calgary was a beautiful sunny, summer morning after the rainfall. We found a gas station and diner on the western edge of town, right on Highway 1. I remember sitting at the counter where we drank coffee, ate toast, smoked cigarettes and listened to Janis Joplin singing Me and Bobby McGee on the jukebox. Looking off to the west, we could just make out some of the peaks of the peaks of the Rocky Mountains on the horizon. I was excited. This was going to be a great day. That’s when Abbott spoke up and said we had to take a slight detour. I looked at him like he was from another planet. “What are you talking about, man? We’ve got to get to Banff to see those mountains.” Abbott said he had promised his mom that we would stop for a short visit with his aunt who lived in a little town north of Calgary. I couldn’t believe it. “Come on man, we’ve got to keep moving. Do our thing. We don’t need to visit some old lady.” Looking back, I know I was stubborn. Abbott likely had made a sincere promise to his mom. I didn’t respect that and I should have. I was a jerk. A guy who makes a promise to his mom is honour bound to keep that promise. Abbott and I split up. He went north. I went west. I didn’t think I was being selfish at the time, but all these years later, it still bothers me. I got over it that morning when I thumbed a ride into Banff. I remember seeing the mountains for the first time. They were amazing. As we approached the entrance to Banff National Park, the car slowed down and I told the guy I wanted to get out. It was beautiful. Just outside the park entrance, there was a large sign, bigger than a billboard that was actually a chalkboard. Hundreds of people had left messages: Joey, I am going to Jasper. Susan, meet me in Regina. Johnny O is moving on to Vancouver. I wrote my name, with the date and then an arrow pointing to the word Vancouver. Maybe Abbott would see it. 

Long story short, I was walking through Banff, when I met up with one of the fellows I had met in Kenora. We began chatting and just ended up spending the day together. I still cannot remember his name. We didn’t have much money but we ate hot dogs and drank chocolate milk for a late afternoon supper. We began moving out of Banff and heading west to find a place for camp for the night. Rides were hard to come by because there were so many people trying to hitch rides. It might have been around 8:00 p.m. when were on a stretch of Highway 1 just west of Lake Louise. There wasn’t much road traffic. I looked out across the highway and in the distance, maybe 200 metres away, there was a CP Rail freight locomotive moving ahead and back. It was slowly building up a train, gradually adding cars. Suddenly I was inspired. I crossed the highway, climbed a little fence and began running across a field toward the train. I told Buddy to stay put and I would be right back. As I got close to the locomotive, I hollered at the train driver. “Are you going west?” Where are you headed, he asked. “Going to Vancouver” I am just going to Revelstoke, he said. “Is that west of here? I hollered back. Couple of hundred miles, he said. “Can we hitch a ride? I asked. He paused. Then he said. Jump in the third locomotive back there. We won’t be leaving for another hour. I ran back to Buddy laughing and smiling the whole time. I told him to grab all the stuff and head back across the field to the train. We did what the driver said and climbed up on to the third locomotive from the front. We opened the door and sat down inside. It was noisy as hell with a strong smell of diesel. Soon enough the train guy came back to talk to us. He bummed a smoke and then said we had to sit on the floor because he didn’t want us to be seen as the train slowed down at each station on the line. He said if a train cop saw us, they could force him to stop the train and we would be arrested. He added that he would claim he didn’t know anything about us. And so it was. We rode the train west through some of the most spectacular scenery in Canada. Yes it was at night, but the moon was out and we loved it. The Rockies, the Rogers Pass, the spiral tunnels, Glacier National Park, the Columbian Mountains, the Selkirk Mountains. We slept off and on, but it was too much fun to sleep the whole night. Sometime between 5:00 and 6:00 a.m. it became daylight. The train began slowing down. Just as he said he would, the train driver slowed the train to about five miles per hour as he entered the Revelstoke yard limit. That was our cue to jump off. Several minutes later we walked into the coffee shop at the Revelstoke train station. The staff there saw us with our backpacks and seemed to know we had come in on the overnight freight train. We were tired and hungry. So we had a breakfast and talked about all the excitement of the night before. Ordinary hitchhiking would never seem as fun or interesting as riding the train through the Rockies.

Updating --- Got my third shot

December has been an unusual month in Sudbury in that we have had an unusual number of COVID-19 cases in the district. In fact, Sudbury has leading most of Northern Ontario in that respect. I was pleased when the province announced that third-dose booster vaccines were being made available to residents aged 50 and older. So last week like hundreds of other city residents, I was off to the local hockey arena to get the shot. It was a reassuring thing. My QR code vaccine passport has already been updated, showing that I have my third shot.

Had a nice visit with Jenn and her family Sunday. It was the first time I had been over to the house in almost a month. The last time was Nathan's birthday supper, which was nice. It is always great to spend time with the boys, but I enjoyed it a little bit more by getting to see Nate's son Ace (My great grandson). It was nice to see the rest of the family, but Ace has a way of making himself the star attraction these days.

Work has been good in the past month because we have been so busy. I really like the newsroom gang and we manage to get a lot of good work done together. We had a secret Santa gift exchange at work and I was more than pleased when one of my coworkers bought me a toque and a nice bottle of Scotch whiskey. I will save it for a special occasion. Also, in recent weeks I have been researching a lot on the popularity of Bourbon whiskies. I have tried a few of the better Bourbon's and am really surprised at how smooth and tasty many of them are. I still enjoy a Scotch, but there are some lovely new choices out there to experiment with.

Remembering the terrible Austin Airways crash

So here is another blog post from work. This is about a news story I covered 45 years ago ... Anyone who visits the Ontario Power Generation dam and generating station at Abitibi Canyon will likely be awestruck by the amazing geography there as well as by the massive dam structure itself. It is an amazing piece of industrial architecture located smack in the middle of Northern Ontario's beautiful wilderness. I have visited there twice. One time was to launch an epic canoe trip north on the Abitibi River, and eventually to Moosonee. It took 12 fabulous days. My first visit to the canyon was for a terribly sad news story. It was to cover a plane crash where all 10 souls aboard an Austin Airways airplane would lose their lives when the plane hit high-tension power lines very close to the dam. I was a young reporter living in Timmins when I got a phone call on a Sunday morning, advising that a plane inbound for Timmins had crashed at the Abitibi Canyon, north of Smooth Rock Falls the day before. I almost didn't believe the call. The story had not yet made the news. That would be my job. It took me some time to find the crash. I was the only reporter there. No one else was around. It was almost a full day after the crash. The wreckage was still smouldering on a remote hillside north of the dam. An Ontario Provincial Police officer showed up within an hour, and was surprised that anyone else had found the site. He let me stay to shoot photographs. Construction of the dam began in 1930 and gave work to more than 2,000 labourers. It was opened in 1933 and provided much needed energy to a host of Northern Ontario paper mills and mining operations. The project was started by Ontario Power Service Corporation, a subsidiary of the Abitibi Power and Paper Company. Eventually it was sold to Ontario Hydro. Back then people were needed on site to run the operation. That was the reason that a "colony" of homes, a school, a church, a community centre, a dining hall and staff house was created there. It was where Ontario Hydro was producing nearly 400 megawatts of clean, reliable energy. Ironically, several years later, Ontario created the Royal Commission on Electric Power Planning, also known as the Porter Commission. The commission was mandated to look into Ontario's long-range planning for Ontario Hydro. It was late summer in 1976 when several members of the commission were on a flying tour of Northern Ontario communities to learn more about the needs and demands for Ontario Hydro in the far North. It was Saturday, Sept. 4, 1976 — the Labour Day weekend — and several members of the commission were planning to head back to Southern Ontario. They were departing from Moosonee and headed for Timmins, where they could catch a connecting flight to Toronto. It was all revealed at an inquest that was held a couple of months later in Kapuskasing. It was during the lunch hour that Saturday when the pilot Doug Clifford was preparing the plane, a deHavilland Canada DHC3 Otter, registered as CF MIT. He called the company radio operator at the Austin Airways office in Moosonee, requesting weather information. The first information provided to the pilot indicated acceptable weather conditions for a VFR flight (visual flight rules) meaning the pilot could fly the plane using visual ground references. Otter CF MIT departed Moosonee at about 12:30 p.m. that day, the inquest was told. Several minutes later, pilot Clifford advised the radio operator he estimated he would be landing at the South Porcupine (Timmins) float plane base at about 2:30 that afternoon. He had nine passengers on board. Some minutes after that, the radio operator tried to contact Clifford to advise that the weather in Timmins and the weather enroute was getting worse. For some reason, that radio message did not get through. There was fog. The cloud ceiling was dropping to roughly 1,000 feet. The elevation at Moosonee Airport is about 30 feet above sea level. And for float planes, the elevation of the nearby Moose River is virtually at sea level. The inquest was told that some of the terrain around the Abitibi Canyon region is about 950 feet above sea level. It is possible the plane had followed the Abitibi River for ground reference as it flew south toward Timmins, the inquest was told. In effect, as the plane continued flying south, the ground rose up to meet it. The inquest was told that at 13:37 that day, the plane collided with at least two of the heavy high-voltage lines leading away from the hydro dam. At the inquest it was suggested that Clifford had flown high enough to clear the height of the dam, but may have seen the power lines only at the last moment and tried to swerve away before the floats on the plane came into contact with them. The plane fell to the ground on the hillside north of the dam. The plane also burst into flames. The pilot and the nine passengers all died. The wreckage was not found for roughly five hours. Some people canoeing on the river saw the fire on the hillside. There is a bronze plaque situated at the dam in honour of those who perished. The names of the victims are etched on the plaque along with a tribute to those who "lost their lives in a tragic accident in service to the Province of Ontario."

The story and a photo of the crash was also on the front page of the Globe and Mail, September 6, 1976 by yours truly.

The best mashed potatoes are steamed ...

So here's the secret to perfect mashed potatoes, thanks to one of the cooking editors at the New York Times. I read this and it seems to make sense. Can't wait to try this out

By Genevieve Ko

Nov. 12, 2021, 11:45 a.m. ET

Cooking  Feast on recipes, food writing and culinary inspiration from Sam Sifton and NYT Cooking. Get it sent to your inbox.

In his poem “Digging,” the Irish poet Seamus Heaney describes the sensation of holding potatoes as “loving their cool hardness in our hands.” That “cool hardness” is the start to a proper mash, which should end with potatoes that taste deeply of themselves but avoid becoming pasty.

To preserve those tastes, I decided to try steaming potatoes first instead of boiling them and was so happy with the results. Letting potatoes tenderize in a pot of rapidly bubbling water works, of course, but tends to leave them waterlogged, diluting their natural flavor and causing the edges to slough off like a landslide. Keeping the peels on helps, but cooking spuds whole often results in a too-soft shell around a too-firm center.

Steamed potatoes end up just right. As I learned through my family’s Chinese cooking, steaming intensifies a vegetable’s truest flavor. Applied to potatoes, the process also allows them to soften while absorbing the right amount of moisture and, because they’re not salted, heightens their inherent sweetness.

A steamer basket can hold as many potatoes as you want to prepare, as long as your pot is large enough to fit them.

A steamer basket can hold as many potatoes as you want to prepare, as long as your pot is large enough to fit them.Credit...Armando Rafael for The New York Times. Food Stylist: Roscoe Betsill. Prop Stylist: Vanessa Vazquez.

I got the best results with Russet Burbank potatoes, also known as Idaho or baking potatoes. This is because they have large starch granules that swell then separate during cooking, which means they can be easily smashed to bits and readily absorb butter and milk. The cells of white, gold and red potatoes — waxy and lower in starch — swell less and stick together, making them hard to crush (not ideal for mashing, but nice for potato salads and gratins).

Once the russets are steamed, they should not be overworked so they stay fluffy. A ricer is perfect for breaking down potatoes, but steamed russets fall apart just as easily under a dinner fork, which is finer than a potato masher and more common in any kitchen. Just be sure to avoid using a food processor or blender: Shearing potato starches with a blade causes them to go straight to gluey.

So does excessively beating crumbled spuds to incorporate other ingredients. Smoothing just-mashed potatoes with a splash of milk before folding in cold salted butter — ideal for creaminess — helps the golden pats fade quickly into the blend. The rest of the milk then gets whipped into the mix to help aerate it. The fork shouldn’t violently and erratically slice through the mash, but instead circle like a Ferris wheel, steady and gentle, up and down and back around.

Seasoning at the very end gives you a chance to taste how savory the mash is already from the salted butter, and then you can sprinkle on just what you need. This end-stage seasoning runs counter to the heavy-and-constant-salting camp of potato cooks, but actually intensifies the potatoes’ distinct deep earthiness. So does white pepper, which also keeps the creamy mound speck-free.

Perhaps the greatest secret to fluffy, not pasty, mashed potatoes is that they’re even better when made a day or two ahead. In “CookWise,” Shirley O. Corriher explains how cooked potato starches “retrograde” when chilled, ensuring that they don’t become gooey when reheated. It takes a little attention to detail and a lot of science to arrive at great mashed potatoes, but nothing’s easier than pulling the cool hardness of a container of mashed potatoes out of the refrigerator to heat up on a busy holiday.

The best dinner

 Five days into November and we were all treated to am amazing turkey dinner this week that looked like a traditional Norman Rockwell Christmas.

I was thinking, how cool is this to be with family members, enjoying their company, and having the most amazing meal I have had in months! Don and Denise are amazing hosts and it was Denise's idea to have a family holiday dinner ... just a little bit early ... since she and Don are spending their winter down South. So yes we had the best supper and the dessert was just as fabulous. I had the choice of fresh apple pie or fresh rhubarb pie. I chose the rhubarb. Wonderful. 

Not a very smart thing ... in my opinion.

So pleased to see that Sudbury will soon be opening its brand news Place des arts building on Elgin Street. It will be a beautiful place for people to gather and celebrate the arts. I love it.

As for the exterior of the building, I hate it.  One whole side of the building is clad in rusty metal.This is supposed to be some sort of artistic interpretation.

Bullcookies I say!  This is not artistic. This is ... crap. 

Here we are in Sudbury, the nickel capital of the world, where we mine one of the best metals for resisting rust anywhere.  Sudbury nickel has been known for more than a century as the best possible metal for helping to stop corrosion. It is has been on everything from battleships to bathroom sinks. 

But here in our downtown we have this moronic new landmark that celebrates rust!

If anything, the building should have been clad in a classic brushed nickel finish. 

That would be something to be proud of.

The price of e-books is getting up there

Well I love my books, but I am finding them too difficult to read. My eyesight, which is pretty good in most situations, is just not always up to reading the smaller fonts in a lot of novels and paperbacks. I decided earlier this year I would have to rely more often on my Kobo e-Reader. That way, I can choose a bigger font. :)

This is a good thing except that I find the price of Kobo books is getting a little bit higher than I like. I really don't mind paying extra dollars for a really good book, but now I have to open the book and make sure that I can read the size of the print. Also, I don't have much of chance of finding a book I like at the used book store. They're all paperbacks with smaller fonts.

So I was searching through the Kobo website this week and I was unhappy to find new books priced at $15 to $20. That would be costing me $80 to $100 a month!

I think I will see if I can find a website for e-Readers with discount prices. 

I have thought about audio books, but the last time I tried to listen to a book, I fell asleep! LOL

A miracle that no one died

So here is another blog entry from work. This is recounting the story of the Cobalt Fire of 1977

It was one of those things that some Northern Ontario reporters start a conversation with "Where were you the day that ...." and then they go on to describe some odd occurrence from days past. I'm thinking back to the infamous Cobalt fire. 

That Victoria Day long-weekend Monday in 1977 began nicely enough. It was a sunny day, with enough gusting winds that I was inspired to go with my daughter to the big field on Theriault Boulevard in Timmins, overlooking Airport Road. It's where Timmins High and Vocational School is now located. 

I was teaching my daughter the fun of flying a kite on a windy day.

As a news reporter, I was obliged to carry a little Motorola pager those days. It was an irritating little device that squawked with a telephone message whenever somebody called our news line. 

This time the voice was familiar. It was news director Paul Scott from radio station CJTT in New Liskeard. In those days, before the internet, it was beneficial to stay in touch with a network of small town reporters across the North. 

Paul Scott was one of those guys you could count on to fill you in if a major story was happening in his area. His message was clear enough; there was a bad fire happening in Cobalt. 

I racked my brain wondering what building it could be, since most buildings in Cobalt were residential. It could be a grocery store. It could be one of the historic taverns in the old silver town. Either way, I knew I had to take Scott's message seriously. 

Daughter and I jumped into the car and drove home. I called the CJTT radio news line, knowing that Scott would be there. 

He advised that I would want to drive down to Cobalt right away. 

"How bad is the fire?" I asked, thinking that fires can be easily extinguished in the two and a half hours it would take to drive to Cobalt.

"Well we've lost about 30 buildings and it is getting worse..." Scott responded. What!!??

I forget what I said next, but I knew I could barely believe my ears as he outlined how a minor fire in one building close to downtown had been whipped by high winds into a major conflagration. 

(Photo Credit: Toronto Public Library / Toronto Star Arcdhive)

Driving east on Highway 101 and then south of Highway 11 was uneventful, except for urgent reports from the Broadcast News service on the car radio. Approaching Earlton, there is a short highway bridge that spans the Ontario Northland railway tracks. The bridge is elevated and from that vantage point over the flat landscape, there was a large greyish black plume of smoke on the horizon, almost 40 kilometres away. Cobalt was indeed burning.  

Veteran North Bay Nugget reporter John R. Hunt, who lived in Cobalt, wrote some years later how he was on the scene minutes after the fire siren sounded. Hunt witnessed the initial fire involving an old warehouse near Lang Street and watched as the wind carried a flaming piece of debris across the road, setting another building on fire. 

All that afternoon, nearly 500 firefighters from Cobalt and every nearby town fought the fires, with a failing water supply. They watched as home after home went up in flames. Private citizens with pickup trucks raced from house to house to salvage pieces of furniture, couches, dining tables, fridges and stoves which were then hauled off to the Cobalt hockey arena, to be claimed days later.

Overhead, at one point mid-afternoon, forest fire water bombers were called in to help stop the flames from spreading. It worked. 

I remember arriving in the late afternoon with a couple of other Timmins reporters. We were stopped on Highway 11B at a roadblock at the bridge at North Cobalt. The OPP officer at first would not let us pass, but when we had five reporters who all agreed to ride in one vehicle, he let us enter Cobalt.

It was a bizarre sight. Walking along the road we noticed long straight lines of charred material on the pavement and sidewalks. These were burnt power lines that had fallen from utility poles. In another area, there was a long line of ash on the road. As we followed it we came upon a brass fire nozzle and realized the line of ash was an abandoned fire hose. 

Most of the fire was out by late afternoon, but there was a smokey haze everywhere. Some buildings continued to burn. Despite the horrific scene, there seemed a sense of gladness among many people. Yes, fire had gutted about a quarter of the town. A hotel, a school, two service stations, several stores and dozens of homes had been destroyed. More than 60 buildings were lost. It was a terrible thing.

But the really good news was that no one had died. No one was even seriously hurt. People would talk about that for days afterward. 

Later that week, Ontario Northland Railway began the inaugural run of the Northlander TEE train service, from Timmins to Toronto. I rode the train with several other reporters and dignitaries including Northern Affairs Minister Leo Bernier, known those days as Leo, King of the North. 

As the train approached Cobalt, it slowed down. Suddenly all conversation stopped as people looked out the train windows to see the extent of the damage. The celebratory train journey had become quite sombre. 

Bernier had the train stop at the Cobalt station, just down the street from where the fire began. He got off the train for several minutes to look around the burned out area and then made a statement about how the province would be stepping up with relief funding for fire victims. 

 

Way to go, Captain Kirk.

 I was more than pleased to read that William Shatner is going into space. The original actor from the Star Trek series is being given a ride into space with the Blue Origin space team, a private sector space exploration company. 

It's just a nice thing to happen. Shatner is 90 years old, but is still a pretty active guy. I am happy for him. I know there are critics who say that billionaires who spend money flying to space are wrong and that they would be better off spending their money to solve problems on Earth.

Horsefeathers! It's their money. It's their business. I get tired of people saying what others should do.

Just hush! Mind your own business. If you're so all fired up worried about the world, get off the internet, sell your iPhone and invite a homeless drug addict to sleep in your guest room for a year. Then sell your car and hold your breath for a few minutes each day to reduce your carbon footprint. And stop eating bacon. If you're that type of person, you don't deserve bacon.  Bacon is for happy people.

In the meantime, I hope Shatner has an enjoyable time in his 10 minutes away from this planet. 

Another nice Thanksgiving

 It's Monday morning but we had our nice dinner Sunday afternoon at Jennifer and Scott's home.  Jenn was the excellent hostess as usual and made a really nice turkey dinner. The food was mouthwatering and satisfying and I guess that's why everyone looks forward to having turkey.

Oh my goodness, the mashed potatoes and stuffing were excellent. Jenn let make the gravy which turned out okay.

It was interesting to note that this was Ace's first ever Thanksgiving and he seemed to be as happy and squirmy as usual. The fun part was watching him eat a piece of cake. He loved it of course and that was fun to see. Dara and Nate were more than pleased to watch Ace enjoying himself and being the complete centre of attention. It is amazing how a baby makes everyone feel good. 

We also took some time to call Neil in Vancouver. It was a good call. Neil has had a work promotion and was keeping busy. We talked about making a visit to Vancouver sometime later this year. I know I owe Neil a visit. 

As the call went on I was interested in the sound of Neil's voice. It is deep and rich and I couldn't help thinking he should have been a broadcaster with a voice like that. Oh well, he could always be a restaurant podcaster some day.

The best part of the day was the family being together to celebrate, to be thankful that we are all well and healthy. 

Ahh. Tea.

It is just after 4 p.m. and I have enjoyed an amazingly good cup of tea. I say that because I know I just feel much better now than I did 30 minutes ago. There are times in the day when I do need a good cup of coffee, to bring me around and give a shot of alertness. But tea is different.

I like tea at this time of day because it just gives me that all round feeling on well being. I have my own way of making it and after looking at some tea recipes online, I think I am in good company. I was told long ago -- I can't remember who said it -- but one adds boiling water to the tea, not the other way around. 

I noticed it also this week on Netflix since I am re-watching (for the fourth time) Downton Abbey. In one episode Lady Mary added boiling water to a teapot, swished it around, poured it out and then added the tea leaves. Moments later she added the boiling water. Then you add the milk. 

So I do the same, whether at home or work. I am fussy about it -- I can imagine the eye rolling now. What? Me? Fussy?

I was brought up drinking tea. I remember my Mom giving me a cup of tea on cold winter nights when I was only seven or eight years old. I remember sitting with Grandma in her kitchen in Mira when I was a boy having a cup of tea with hot biscuits. Talk about happy memories.

My choice of tea is Red Rose, which is from Kenya. And it is real tea, made with tea leaves. Orange pekoe "black" tea.

Now I know there are other beverages called tea. But unless they're made with tea leaves, they are an "infusion".

Anger and sadness from years gone by

This is another story from the reporters blog I contribute to at the office.

I figured I should share the story here as well. 

Overwhelming sadness and a bit of anger. 

It all comes back to me when I remember the terrible canoeing tragedy that occurred on Lake Timiskaming back in 1978. 

Living in Northern Ontario, one is exposed to the fun and frustration of canoeing on the thousands of lakes and rivers in the North. I was pleased to have canoed the Abitibi River and the Moose River in the summer of 1977 on my way to Moosonee. It gave me a strong sense of the hard work and hardships that can happen on a canoe trip.

It all came rushing back on June 12 of 1978. It was early evening on a Monday night and I was preparing to cover a regular meeting of Timmins city council.

The Sudbury newsroom (CKSO TV) paged me to inform that the Canadian Press wire service reported a group of Toronto schoolboys, aged 13 and 14, were stranded on an island in Lake Timiskaming and that the police, the Sûreté du Québec at Ville Marie, were involved in a rescue. Very few details were provided. I was thinking this could be a nice rescue story. 

I scooted out of the council meeting, made sure I had lots of film for my camera, and hit the road. I had never been to Ville Marie, but I knew I could get there quickly enough by going south to New Liskeard and then crossing over into Quebec on Highway 65 at Notre-Dame-du-Nord.

It was dark when I rolled up in front of the police station in Ville Marie.

I met a friendly police officer who understood right away why I was there. I was the first reporter to arrive. He explained that police were recovering several bodies and rescuing several others. In all, there were 25 male students and several teachers. He said no names were being revealed at that time and that parents in the Toronto area were being notified. 

Right away I knew this story was far more serious than I expected. It was around 10 p.m. and I called the newsroom in Sudbury. I wrote a quick voice report in my notebook (no laptops or cellphones in those days) and then called back from a payphone to voice my story.  

The police officer I chatted with mentioned there was coffee in a kitchen in the back of the police station. He also said I was welcome to stay the night if I didn't mind sleeping on a bare mattress in one of the jail cells. I thought this would be an interesting night.

As 11 p.m. approached, other reporters began arriving at the police station. There was a Toronto Star reporter and photographer, a reporter from Canadian Press from Ottawa, and a couple of newspaper reporters from Montreal. I remember one fellow dragging a large machine about the size of an old-fashioned TV set. It was a wirephoto machine.

As an hour passed, the front reception area became packed with reporters. There had to be about 20 people in the room. At that point, the friendly Sûreté officer I had been speaking with told me I would not be able to stay at the police station overnight. He said there were just too many people.

I asked about hotel rooms nearby. All Ville-Marie rooms were being booked for parents and family members. The officer said there was a motel in Notre-Dame-du-Nord and he suggested I go there. He said there would be a formal news conference at 8 a.m. the next morning. 

I looked around the room and figured it was time to move. I left the police station and began heading north on Quebec Highway 101. Sure enough in about 15 minutes I saw the motel. I pulled in. There was a person ahead of me and a person behind me. I asked about a room. 

The lady said there was one left. I pulled out my cheque book, for my bank in Timmins. The motel lady frowned and said they don't usually take cheques. I wasn't sure how to answer. The only credit card I had back then was a card for gasoline. Suddenly a deep voice behind me said, "I will pay for the room if you let me share it."

I turned around and the fellow explained that since there was only one room left, it only made sense to share the room, and he would pay. I had to agree. The fellow introduced himself as Taylor Parnaby, a man I didn't know, but who was incredibly well-known as one of the voices of CFRB Radio-1010 in Toronto. We shared the room and then went our separate ways. I met "Hap" Parnaby again more than 20 years later at a broadcasting conference in Toronto. We remembered our meeting with a drink and a laugh.

It was that next morning back in Ville Marie that I still have trouble with. 

The Sûreté du Québec took the gathered reporters to the Lake Temiskaming shoreline for a photo opportunity. I was shocked. We were about 25 metres from a boat docking area with one long pier where the bodies of 12 boys and one teacher were lying, side by side. The bodies were covered with blankets and tarps, but it was easy to see a hand, a foot or an arm sticking out. 

(PHOTO: Toronto Star / Toronto Public Library archives)

It suddenly brought home the fact that so many young lives had been lost. I was angry. As a canoeist I wondered, how could this possibly happen. 

That morning was a blur as the police held two news conferences. One with police officials and another with members from Saint John's Anglican boy's school, which was the school that sponsored the canoe trip. There were 18 survivors, numbering 13 other boys and a handful of teachers.

Sadly, many of the parents of the boys who had died had arrived in Ville Marie that morning, and sat in to watch the news conference. It was difficult to hear mothers and fathers sobbing. I knew the story was big, but was surprised to see a helicopter arrive with a crew from ABC News in New York. 

As the afternoon approached, I was relieved of the story by a far more experienced crew from CFTO news in Toronto.

I decided to head back home to Timmins that afternoon and as I was driving north on Highway 11, something came over me, and I was shaking. Maybe it was an anxiety attack. It never happened before or since then.

I had to pull off to the side of the road. I lit a cigarette. I needed to calm down. I needed someone to talk to. I remember talking out loud, to myself, inside the car. That's when the sadness hit. And again the anger.

An inquest was eventually held where it was described how the group set out in four custom-built canoes to cross the lake when suddenly the weather turned bad. The wind and the waves whipped up and within a few hours, all four canoes had capsized and most of the boys ended up in the freezing lake. The inquest ruled that the entire incident was accidental. One canoe had flipped over at first and as the other canoes came to the rescue they too would be turned over. Things just got worse and worse from there. Plenty has been written about the disaster. 

It should never have happened.

How we live. It's not so bad.

It was a good newsroom discussion when we talked about how people will react to the Ontario government decision to slow down the idea of "reopening" the province. Dr. Kieran Moore, the chief medical officer, wants more people to be vaccinated.  

So I suggested that people should read The Diary of Anne Frank. She is the teenaged girl who lived in Holland during the Second World War. It was the time of the Nazi occupation and Anne and her family had to hide from the Germans. Compared to her, we are doing just fine. 

Anne Frank and her family lived in a three-room attic for more than two years, before they were discovered. The family members were sent off to death camps. Anne did not survive. She was murdered by the Nazis. But her diary did and it became published and famous around the world. 

Her story was one of hope and wonder that existed in the mind of a teenage girl. People will do well to read Anne's story just to appreciate their place in the world.

Summer life in the city

 

It has been a noisy summer so far at the intersection of Wellington Heights and Hyland in Sudbury. They're putting in new water lines. And they're going to be repaving the road too! So far it has been only one day with no water service and that was only for a few hours. So I am pleased to see the work going on. Country living is sure nice, but at times I still appreciate city living. I like the fact that I am only six minutes away from the office. After the company shut down the old Elgin Street building we moved over to the Elm Centre at the corner of Elm and Notre Dame. It's pretty central and there's free parking, so I can't complain. And we are right across the street from Tim Horton's :)

I am okay with higher restaurant menu prices

 I have read recently how restaurant owners are having a hard time getting staff to come back to work, now that pandemic precautions are easing up. A lot of people in the media are saying that restaurants do not pay their staff enough and if they did improve the pay, it would mean higher menu prices.

I am okay with that. For me, going to a restaurant is one of the things I enjoy and I honestly don't mind paying a few extra bucks for the service and the atmosphere. Maybe restaurants could experiment with a few ideas to maintain revenue. If you are going to dine in, expect to pay a higher price. If you are getting the same food for take out, maybe have  a slightly lower price. 

Summer is good so far :)

 Wow, I haven't been here for a while, but that doesn't mean things are not happening.Was more than pleased recently to join Don and Denise at the Camp Alexander in Westree at they celebrated their 50th anniversary. Amazing. It was nice that most everyone was able to be there to help them celebrate. Interestingly Baby Ace almost stole the show. Having a baby at camp really inspired a lot of parental intincts in everyone who felt the need to hold the baby and talk that funny baby talk. That was fun. It was the best time.

I also enjoyed dropping by Victoria and Alex's new home in Hanmer for a quick peek as they worked on the renovations. It was a special time as Alex and Vic got engaged. So that was special.

Last weekend, Jennifer and I had the chance to enjoy a coffee and dessert at P & M Kouzzina's (the former Pat and Mario's restuarant).  Jennifer seemed happy to chat with some of her former co-workers. Marlene came out from the kitchen to say hello and even Junior dropped by for a quick chat. So that was quality time well spent. I couldn't finish my cheesecake, but Jenn persevered and was able to eat a very big slab of chocolate cake. 

Step-3

 Yes. Ontario moved into Step-3 of its reopening plan that came into effect two days ago, on Friday. So I was able to get out to enjoy a supper at Fionn MacCools Saturday night. Was so good. I mean the food was nice.. I had the spicy shrimp penne. But the best part was meeting a group of folks and we chatted, had drinks and a good time.

Oh by the way had a nice time last week at Scott and Jenn's camp. It was the 50th anniversary event for Don and Denise. I will post some pics later this week. 

Mining injury from 40 years ago ...

At work, we all contribute to a reporters' blog. I figured I might as well add my latest contribution here. Enjoy this old time memory. 

-----

It’s one of those things that happens when it is damp outside. I am pretty sure I have the type of arthritis that gets irritating when the weather is damp. The saying ‘I know it in my bones’ comes to mind.

I haven’t taken it to a doctor because it’s not so bad. But there are days when I feel the ache, especially in my left foot. I was thinking about it recently when I suddenly realized that nearly 40 years had passed since I had the unusual accident that caused this ongoing irritation.

It happened in October of 1981. It was sometime just after two in the morning and I was 3,000 feet underground at the Kidd Mine in Timmins.

I had taken a leave from journalism several months earlier when my salary as a TV reporter had been seriously slashed. A new broadcasting company was being formed with a merger involving Cambrian Broadcasting and Mid-Canada Television. I couldn’t complain. Lots of people had been laid off. In my case, I still had a job, but with a $2,000 pay cut.

With a new house, a wife and a couple of youngsters at home, I didn’t have much choice. I had bills to pay. Mining looked attractive in the sense it paid well. 

In those days, if you wanted to work in the mine, you showed up at the mine office and applied for a job. I was given a slip of paper and told to get a chest Xray  and a physical.

The day after that I was in the mine captain’s office for a quick interview at 7 a.m. I was given boots, a safety belt, coveralls, safety vest, hard hat, safety glasses, Rastall wrench and work gloves. 

I spent the rest of the day in a classroom in the basement of the administration building at the Kidd Mine, getting orientation and safety briefings.

I was with two other guys, Boris and Danny, also starting their first day at Kidd. They had both worked at other mines. The orientation seemed boring for them. I was a stone-cold rookie. I hung on every word the instructor talked about. 

The next day I was in the dry where I put on my mining clothes. Everything was new. Everyone could see I was the rookie. Crisp, clean, dark green coveralls. 

I looked around and took cues from the other guys. I rolled up the sleeves of my coveralls a couple of turns at the cuffs, just enough to look cool. I tucked my gloves into my belt, wore my hard hat at a bit of an angle and wore my cap lamp loosely dangling with the cord hanging around my neck. 

I had been told it was a serious sin to wear your cap lamp on your hat when you got on the cage, because it would shine into the faces of other miners. You just didn’t do that.

The cage was the name given to the massive two-deck elevator that travelled up and down the 5100-foot mine shaft. At Kidd No.1 Mine, the cage carried 140 miners; 70 on the upper deck and 70 on the lower deck. 

The cage tender called out the mine levels that determined whether you were upper or lower deck. I noticed many of the miners would walk onto the cage and then turn and face the cage door. That’s because once the deck was loaded with miners, you were squeezed tightly shoulder to shoulder, often so tightly that you could not turn around. 

I stuck close to Boris and Danny, taking my cues from them. Don’t make eye contact with anyone you don’t know. Listen for your number.

“Hey Gillis, seven-oh-five-nine. Follow me. We get off at 800, first stop.” It was Ron, our common core training guy. I couldn’t move. I was wedged in too tightly with guys on either side of me.

I hadn’t noticed how fast the cage was moving, but I did sense it slowing down in the darkness of the shaft. Noise and light suddenly washed into the cage. It was the 800 level. There was the overly loud hissing of compressed air and the roar of ventilation fans. The light was the brightness of the shaft station with a dozen bare light fixtures. The walls were painted white, punctuated with rusty-coloured rock bolts holding back the black and grey slabs of stone overhead. 

As people began moving off the cage, I was able to walk forward into this bizarre new world. And so it was for the next six weeks that Ron would school us in the skills of hard rock mining; jackleg drilling, stopers, rock-bolting, slushing, mucking, blasting and scaling. Most days we would start off in the 800-level classroom with a coffee break and then head out into the drifts and crosscuts (tunnels).

Fast forward several months later to Oct. 5, 1981. I arrived at work just before midnight. Like everyone else, I changed from my street clothes into my mining clothes. I went to the “wicket,”  a long counter area that had little booths where each shift supervisor met each of his miners and gave them their work orders.

On this day, I would be assigned to the 3,000 level instead of my regular work area, which was 2,800. That meant I would ride the cage to 2,800 and then ride a tractor or walk down the ramp to the 3,000-level lunchroom.

In those days, every miner began his shift with a coffee break and there would be no further breaks until lunch. That way you didn’t have miners stopping work a couple of hours into their shift to return to the lunchroom for coffee.

The 3,000 lunchroom was basically a cave cut out of the rock off the main haulage tunnel with electrical lighting and a steel fire door. I was pleased to be there to have a coffee and a cigarette.

That’s when I met my two work partners, a couple of veteran miners, known as ‘drifters’. On this shift, we would be installing heavy electrical cable in the main drift. John was the lead man. Albert was on the five-yard scooptram. I was the helper or “gofer” guy.

As we had our coffee, John outlined the job. We had to install several hundred feet of armoured cable, about three inches thick, along the roof, or the “back” of the tunnel. We would do this by using heavy tie-wraps to connect the electrical cable to recently installed steel guy wire, which was attached to the back by a series of j-hooks. The guy wire was about a half-inch thick.

John explained that Albert would get the big wooden spool of cable, about six feet in diameter, and put it in the bucket of the scoop. John turned to me and said we would need some new scaling bars. We all agreed to meet in the main drift several minutes later.

I headed off to what is called ‘storage’, which is the area on every mine level where you can pick up supplies, such as rockbolts, ventilation pipe, drill steel and scaling bars. That’s where I found three brand new six-foot long scaling bars, which are 7/8-inch steel bars that are sharpened to a point at each end. The points are honed to an almost razor-sharp edge.

Scaling bars are used by jamming the pointed end into little cracks in the overhead rock to pry down any chunks that are loose. In fact, that’s what the broken rocks are called – ‘loose’.

It is everywhere in the mine. You learn to look for it, such as when you walk into a drift and see freshly fallen rock on the ground. You learn to listen for it by striking the back with your scaling bar. A ringing sound tells you the overhead rock is solid. A dull thud tells you the rock is loose.

Scaling is mandatory at the start of every shift. Sometimes it will take 30 seconds to confirm you’re working in “good ground”. Other times it will take 30 minutes just to scale the area you’re working in. Your work area could be 10 feet by 10 feet, but it will take time to scale the back and walls to make it safe.

Even then, there’s no guarantee. Not until you put up screening and rock bolts. Every miner has heard the stories of big pieces of rock that just fall, without warning.

I can recall one day when we were bolting the back. We came across a loose area and began probing it with a scaling bar. Suddenly a massive slab of rock came down right in front of us. It might have been six feet wide and six feet long. The slab was about eight inches thick. 

Whump! It landed at our feet. 

“Holy sh*t. How thick is that slab?” I asked out loud. “About as thick as a tombstone,” said my partner. We laughed nervously and went back to work.

Back in the drift, John and I began work with the heavy electrical cable. We stood in the scoop bucket on either side of the spool and manhandled lengths of cable, lifting it up to the guy wire. As I held the cable up, John would strap it to the guy wire. Unspool another length of cable and Albert would roll the scoop slowly forward.

That’s when John noticed there was loose ahead. We both grabbed scaling bars and began probing the back of the tunnel. Sure enough, chunks of rock were breaking free and falling. It’s a satisfying thing when you can probe the rock and knock down chunks of loose rock.

At one point, John was leaning far forward, trying to pry what looked like a big slab of loose. I thought, if it suddenly falls, John is leaning so far forward he could fall out of the bucket if the loose falls down. I grabbed John’s belt as he leaned forward. We were about eight or nine feet up above the floor of the drift.

I hollered at Albert to roll forward about a foot. Slow, real slow. Albert was a pro. He could move that scoop by inches. You had to holler. The drift was a noisy place with the sound of ventilation fans and the scoop engine roaring. And hollering meant that everyone else knew what to expect.

Then it happened, all very slowly. I was holding onto John’s belt. The scoop began to inch forward. Slowly. With my other hand, I was holding my scaling bar. I held the bar straight up and down. For some reason I placed the bottom of the bar on top of my left boot. I never gave it a thought. I was watching John pry at the loose and I was watching the scoop inch forward.

I was surprised to feel some odd pressure on my left foot. Then I noticed the bar in my hand was bending. As we rolled forward, the bar had become jammed in the back at one end, and jammed on top of my foot at the bottom end. The bucket was not rising. The roof of the tunnel had either come down a few inches, or the floor of the tunnel had come up a few inches. This all happened in milliseconds.

The pressure on my foot turned into pain. A sharp pain. As the bar continued to bend, I realized the bar had pushed through the top of my boot and into my foot.

I was able to twist my body enough to holler over the back of the bucket to Albert.

“Down! Now! Down, down, down!

The roaring engine of the scoop suddenly died off and the bucket slowly began descending.  At this point John turned to me to ask what the hell was going on.  

The scaling bar was stuck in my boot. I distinctly remember having to pull the bar upwards to remove it.

A couple of minutes later I was sitting on the ground with John and Albert asking me if I was okay and how did I feel. One of them, I can’t remember who, headed off to the lunch room to call in the accident and pick up the First Aid kit.

The sharp pain was gone. There was only a dull ache. I lit a cigarette. I assured the fellows I was okay and somewhat embarrassed by my actions.

Soon enough, I could see men approaching. I could see the cap lamps in the distance. The shift supervisor that night was well-known by the miners — Kostic Tschop was looking after the 3,000 level. With a name like his, he had earned a nickname: Porkchop.

Porkchop asked if I was okay. He crouched down beside my foot with the First Aid kit. He told me he was going to remove my boot.

“No way!” I said with some force. I am not sure what I was thinking, but I didn’t want to see my foot.

Porkchop said if he didn’t remove the boot right away, my foot would begin swelling to the point that the boot would have to be cut off. It would be messy.

Okay, okay. Take off the boot. 

I was wearing a double pair of woolen work socks. On top of the first sock, I could see a hole. There was blood. Maybe a spot about the size of a quarter. Porkchop peeled off the first sock.  Oh, oh. I could see a lot more blood on the second sock. When he peeled back the second sock, there didn’t seem to be as much blood on my bare foot, but there was a distinct hole, a dark red hole on the top of my foot. 

I lit another smoke. Porkchop applied a bandage. Before long, I was sitting in the tractor as it drove up the ramp and headed for 2,800-station. The cage was waiting. Other miners were there. Guys were acting so politely. 

When we got to surface, I was met by a mine security guy with the company ambulance waiting in the headframe. I was strapped into one of those wheeled stretchers and driven off to St. Mary’s General Hospital in Timmins.

The emergency room staff jabbed a syringe full of painkiller into my foot, stitched up the wound, and put on a new bandage. They told me I had some broken bones inside my foot. A tiny piece of bone had pushed through the bottom of my foot. I would have to return at 8 a.m. for an x-ray.

I was back at the mine a couple of hours later. I was brought into the mine captain’s office for the first of several interviews. Other shift supervisors were there, listening in.

I made it clear that I believed this was my fault, that no one else did anything wrong and I was embarrassed by what happened. I wasn’t blaming the mine or anyone else. It was a stupid thing to do and I apologized. I am sure some of the bosses were surprised to hear this. 

Some suggested Albert had inadvertently raised the bucket. I said no. When you’re standing in a scoop bucket and it raises, you can feel a little jolt or jerk from the hydraulics. That didn’t happen. As we rolled forward the floor of the drift maybe rose up two or three inches. That way, the whole scoop raised up.

The mine bosses were sympathetic. They said they would send a car to the house every day to pick me up and bring me to work, for light duty in the office. That meant my situation could not be defined as a “lost time” accident. I was fine with it. I still had a job and the pay was great.

I checked in at the mine nurse’s station. Blood was soaking through the bandage and so it was changed. They wrapped a plastic bag around my foot, so I could go through the showers, clean up and get my street clothes on. 

Later that morning, I was back in the emergency room at the hospital. I met Dr. Peter Richardson, who inspected the x-ray. He grinned at me and explained I would need surgery and then time off for my foot to heal properly. I told him the mine bosses would be arranging a ride for me to work each day. 

Richardson said if I agreed to go back to work like that, I could go find another doctor. So that settled that matter.

The doctor put a plaster cast on my foot and left leg, and left a hole on the top “for drainage”. It would be the first of three casts, because I developed an infection and then needed surgery.

All in all, my time away from underground was seven months. I healed well and was able to get back to work in the spring of 1982.

I don’t think about it much anymore. Until the damp sets in, that is. Then the ache in my foot transports me back in time 40 years to the days when I traded my pen for a scaling bar.

Len Gillis is a Local Journalism Initiative reporter at Sudbury.com and a veteran journalist in Northern Ontario.. He covers health care in Northern Ontario.

Always make a recording ...

Just noticed after reading through a Toronto Star report when dealing with police investigations, that police usually have pretty solid intentions when they investigate a crime. The problem is when they are somehow misdirected and think they are on to something that did not happen. There are times when police will come to a conclusion and then try to find evidence to match the conclusion. It's not always sinister, but it happens.

So as a news reporter I record things when I talk to people. If I talk to a police officer, I always record the conversation. No matter what people tell you, you DO NOT have to inform them. This is Canada. You can record anything for your own protection so people cannot claim you said something if you did not say it.  If a police officer talks to you, he is likely recording what you said and for sure will have a record of the conversation in his written notes. 

I have had occasions where people have a different recollection of what was actually said. When I tell them I have the actual voice recording of what was said, they suddenly back off, and say they're not sure. 

Also based on the news story in The Star, you do not have to explain everything. If you're not sure, say it. If they ask how far something is, ask for a tape measure. If they ask how long it takes to do something, ask for a stopwatch. No one is ever completely sure how long things take. No one. If you don't know something, just say so.  If the police say you're withholding information, just say, I disagree. Always tell the truth but never speculate or try to guess. 

It is one of the reasons I have a dash cam too. On one occasion when I was making a left turn, and the other guy hit me, I didn't get charged. The dash cam showed the other guy rolling through the stop sign.