By Katherine Laidlaw
Last summer, I stood outside a party begging Tony Foliot, otherwise known as Yellowknife's Snowking, to rent me a houseboat. I swore I wouldn't leave Yellowknife without experiencing houseboat living, and I'd heard he had one sitting empty. "Pfft," he scoffed. "Even if I was going to rent it, I wouldn't rent it to a greenhorn."
A greenhorn?! Well, last night I proved him right.
As some of you know from this story, I'm an occasional housesitter in town. Have a dog that needs looking after? Call me! Anyway, I'm halfway through a two-week stint caring for an energetic white husky named Sampson, whose ears are adorably too big for his head and whose sense of adventure and penchant for mishaps seem to match my own. Each day, I've tried to take him on an adventure. Tin Can Hill, the sandpits, anywhere in town where he can run around. For the past few evenings, I've taken him down to Great Slave Lake. Last night, it was picture-perfect. The Northern Lights were hanging low and vivid green as I drove the car I’m borrowing, a little red Mazda Protégé, out on to the lake. Just me, my husky, a light crisp wind and the Northern Lights. As we walked away from the city skyline, I thought I had finally shed my southern roots and reached Northern nirvana. This was the life.
When Sampson had his fill of running and I had my fill of romanticizing the beautiful walk, the pair of us made it back to the car. I started it up, thinking we'd be home in time to have moose roast for dinner. Within seconds, my front wheels were wedged tightly into a patch of soft snow between my spontaneous parking spot and the "road" across the lake. I got out to survey the situation. "Shit," I said to Sampson when I saw it. "We're screwed." I had no phone, no shovel and no mittens.
I did the only thing I could think of. I walked back to Old Town, and up over the hill to my friend Jay Weber's house near Pilot's Monument. When he opened the door, I asked to borrow a shovel. "Sure," he said, pointing to a pair of them leaning by the front door. Shovel in hand, husky by my side, I marched back down to the lake. A few minutes later, a huge white Ford truck pulled up. It was Jay, come to check on my progress. As soon as he saw the car resting jauntily on the snow, he laughed. "You would've been out here forever if I hadn't come down! We still might be." We tried everything: shovelling the snow from beneath the wheels, pushing the back bumper, pushing the front bumper, using the floor mat to give the wheel some traction. The front wheels whirred and squealed, spinning against the ice, spitting streaks of snow into the air.
Slowly, my predicament attracted followers. A snowmobile pulled up, and a lady and her son offered to help. Then, another white pick-up truck pulled up and out popped Les Rocher, one of Yellowknife's most prominent and notorious businessmen, and his friend Mel. Before long, it seemed like a community meeting down on Great Slave, as the six of us conferred about a game plan.
Mel hopped into the driver's seat and threw the stick into reverse. Me, Jay, Les, the woman and her son all took our positions at the front and heaved with all our might, until finally the car crunched back onto harder snow. I was so grateful for the help, I threw my arms around Les and the woman, drawing them in to a cozy parka group hug.
"Are you housesitting anywhere near here?" Jay asked. "No? Then get off the lake!"
Only until tomorrow, I thought with a grin.
