It was May 1957. I was 20 years old and had just finished first year at United College. I had taken the previous year off to save up enough money to put myself through a year of University. Now the funds were running low. Where to go to earn enough money in five months, to sustain me for the next seven months of college? Jobs were scarce that year. A couple of friends from school had worked on the Trans Canada Pipeline. They had gotten their old jobs back and were heading for Port Arthur (now Thunder Bay), Ontario. Why not join them? Work would be starting immediately. We would be in at the beginning of the pipeline construction. Another friend and I agreed.

My meagre resources were used to buy a Greyhound ticket. Before I left, my usually supportive parents tried to dissuade me from my quest. Seeing that it was useless, my father slipped a $100 cheque into my shoe to be used for emergencies. During the 500-mile bus trip to Port Arthur, I enjoyed watching the beautiful countryside of rock and bush roll by, but I could not help but notice how tinder dry it was.

Upon arriving in Port Arthur we contacted our two friends. They had good news and bad news. The good news was they were working at their old jobs with the pipeline company. The bad news was that, due to the extreme fire hazard, work on the line from Port Arthur to Nipigon was to be delayed upwards of a month. They had rented a basement of a house and they generously offered my friend and I accommodation until we could earn some money. We dutifully reported in at the pipeline office but with the fire hazard level being so high, our prospects were as slim as our bank roll.

After about a week without work, my growling stomach cashed the cheque my father had given me and picked up some beans and bread. We checked in at the pipeline office each day for news. Walking back from the construction yard, I passed the divisional office for the Ontario Lands and Forests. One day, I spotted an old school chum there and went over to talk to him. Ray was a Game Warden but with the high fire danger, he had been reassigned. He asked if I ever had fought a forest fire. They would be needing people and asked where I was staying.

As luck would have it, within a few days he knocked on my door. A CNR train hauling iron ore from Steep Rock Mines had started a huge fire in Hornepayne Township near Atikokan. A very remote location. They needed a speaking camp clerk on site and he had recommended me.

While I gathered my warm work clothes, Ray filled me in. The Ontario government had taken a page from the British Navy’s press gang program, and had literally emptied the working class New Ontario beer parlour of able bodied men. Anyone who did not have job was pressed into service. As the camp clerk, I would ensure that all the fire fighters - volunteers and voluntolds - had what they needed while fighting the fires. There were a lot of people in the camp, Ray said, including over 200 re-settled Hungarian refugees, who would be helping fight the fire.

Our adventure began at the CNR station. We were loaded into day cars where we were given a sandwich and a fruit juice. Due to scheduling commitments by CN, the trip took all night. We arrived in the early morning hours at our new home - a tent city on the burnt banks of the beautiful Kaministiquia River. There we reported to a Finnish-Canadian Forest Ranger named Peter Harkema. This incredibly organized individual had recruited fellow Finnish-Canadians and had erected a tent city. They sorted out sanitation - an Aspen log wired to 2 trees over a shallow ravine. They had built green log cribs two feet high on top of which they had strung steel bars (borrowed from the CN). Safely inside the cribs, roaring fires were stoked to boil water for endless pots of coffee.

Now you can’t fight fire on an empty stomach. The fare was incredible. Huge frying pans yielded steak every day. Lots of vegetables and fruit juices. Potatoes were cooked in the roaring fire. Breakfast was bacon and eggs. For someone who had been living on beans and toast, I thought I had won the lottery. The cooking operation was over seen by Pierre, a world class chef from Montreal. The story goes he had too many girlfriends and bookies in Montreal. So, he went to Inco’s mine in Thompson, Manitoba, to dry out and build a nest egg. While on his way back to Montreal, he and 6 lady friends and a carload of booze had a great time in Port Arthur. When he woke up he was broke. Hence the temporary assignment in our camp.

My years as a shore hand in a fish camp on Georges Island were to serve me well and I quickly got to work in our moon scape surroundings. My job as camp clerk was to man the radio, keep track of the personnel hours for payroll, order equipment, supplies and provide medical assistance if necessary. Most importantly we had to ensure that a hot meal awaited the crews at days end. It was a key role - there were no stores around, there weren’t even any roads, and CN had to bring in the equipment and supplies I ordered. Some of firefighters gave me the nickname “Boss Man” and it stuck.

Given that we tracked the hours of work so that everyone got paid correctly, Pierre (the cash-strapped chef) regarded us as an essential service. He insisted on personally cooking our steak and serving it in our tent. The Rangers had liberated two bunk beds from a nearby trappers’ cabin and put them in our tent, so while the other 300 fire fighters slept on ground sheets, Ray and I were in tent with beds. We immediately named our tent Kamp Hilton.

Eventually, the fire burned itself out. We dutifully packed up our equipment, thanked everyone for their efforts and proceeded to await the CN train. We saw that one tent had been purposely left standing. While gambling had been strictly prohibited in camp during the fire fight, now some of the ‘press gang recruits’ decided to have some fun. A huge poker game erupted. For some reason the cards came my way that day. Two of Pierre’s Finnish cooks stationed themselves on either side of me. They raked in the cash, counted it and guarded it. A cheering section sprang up for the Boss Man.  

Luckily, the train arrived before the cards turned on me. I don’t know if Pierre ever made it back to Montreal, but I was able to return to Port Arthur with a down payment on my next year’s tuition.

Ken Kristjanson
September 2014