Mother Nature finally did what hundreds of firefighters could not. She brought torrential rains to the forest and in only a few days, put out the Ontario fires that 300 men had been fighting for weeks. All that was left for the crew to do was to pack up our gear, head back to Port Arthur and pick up our pay packets. A friend offered me a job with the Forestry Department. I didn’t want to burn any bridges, but I had had enough of the forest for while. I didn’t decline exactly, but said I just want a shower. Actually, it was at least 10 showers. My clothes smelt like I had spent a week in a closet and smoked 500 cigarettes.

After getting cleaned up, I reported in at the Pipeline Office to see what was available. My luck held. A new crew was being formed to unload box cars of rock shield protective sheets. Rock shield is used to cover the exposed rock and mitigate any sharp edges that could puncture the pipeline’s protective coating.

The rock shield was loaded on trucks by hand and then transported to our yard where it was off loaded. Also by hand. It came in 8 by 10-foot sheets, and was constructed of two pieces of heavy tar paper sandwiching one inch of tar. Each sheet weighed 200 pounds and under the summer sun, this was very hot work. I was deeply motivated to consider a career change, and I checked to see what else might be available. I had indicated on my application that I had worked for Manitoba Hydro one summer blasting rock so we could set hydro poles and Personnel indicated there was a new opening. I casually asked what happened to the Powder Monkey I was to replace. Just as casually came the reply. “Oh, he got blown up on the job”. Lucky for me, my spot on the rock shield crew was still open.

Pipeline construction is an exact science. It has been perfected by trial and error. After the right of way was determined and cleared, a true trench 6 feet deep and 5 feet wide was prepared. On the Prairies, a backhoe does this work but working on the Canadian Shield meant that Forcite explosives were used by the truckload on our site. Once the trench was in, it was time to get to work on the 30-inch pipe which had been arriving for months from the steel mills in Hamilton. Special trucks called Stringers were loaded with three 60-foot lengths of pipe, driven to the beginning of our section and off loaded by a Cat D7 side boom tractor. As the topography was never level, a survey had to be taken because the pipe had to conform to the landscape. A large machine resembling one of my Meccano creations was brought in. Each 60-foot piece of 30 inch pipe weighing several tons was bent like a pretzel to fit its surroundings. It was an amazing sight to see.

All was now ready to put the giant jig saw puzzle together. Personnel had done their job by assembling a small army of welders, Cat Skinners, truck drivers and labourers to build a mile of pipe a day for 60 days.

Work began on July 1. Our job was to apply sheets of rock shield over the pipeline, which was resting on wood skids 4 feet above ground. The rock shield was draped, then strapped like a blanket over the pipe. The pipe was X-rayed for defects then lowered into its final resting place. Huge blocks of concrete were loaded on the pipe when it crossed a marshy area or stream.

Before the pipe could be lowered, a wire brush was run through the pipe at one mile intervals. All kinds of rock, debris, even small animals were inside. A large hill of dirt was bull dozed to catch the giant brush when it popped out of the pipe, like a giant catcher’s mitt. One day, the Superintendent’s ne’er do well brother was visiting with the Company’s new Ford car. Where did he park it? Yep! Right between the pipe opening and the pile of dirt set up to catch it. Bullseye. Total write off. Another time he was visiting and heard the engineers complaining the beaver were rebuilding their dams causing flooding. I’ll fix that, he said. He placed Forcite on all the dams and set off a big explosion. The resulting flood washed out a good portion of the Trans Canada Highway and made the front page of the local Port Arthur paper.

The truck driver of our crew was a Brit by the name of Bernie Bloomer from Oswestry, Shropshire. We hit it off. He suggested I move into the Moose Hall which had been converted to a dorm with the added bonus of a hot breakfast and showers. This was a Godsend as Northern Ontario in July is fly season. Millions of black flies, noseeums and other biting/blood-sucking critters figured they had gone to fly heaven and we were the buffet.

Overall, the job was going well. One day, our group (which consisted of a number of my Hungarian firefighters and others) were visiting when we were joined by a smooth-talking individual. He claimed to be a grave digger. But I noticed no rough hands. He turned out to be a Union Organizer. In no time he had the labourers signed up.
A strike was called. The Hungarians and others elected me union Steward. We were off for 3 days and settled. Quite frankly it was a mistake to strike - the Company treated us well. Our only ‘gain’ was we now were paying union dues.

Early one warm August evening we were travelling home for a late supper after working overtime building our section of the pipeline. As it was warm, the preferred seating was in the back of the truck which had a plywood hoarding to protect us from the elements. The back was open for us to view the passing parade and catch a breeze. Our comfy little abode was commonly called a doghouse. As we came down Cumberland Street in downtown Port Arthur, I noticed a man in a black cowboy hat with a guitar slung over his shoulder walking. I commented, “that cowboy must have lost his horse and now has to walk back to Alberta.” Oh no, said someone, that’s Stomping Tom Connors. “Who?”, I said.

At the end of August the job was done. My friend Bernie had bought an old car and we decided to go to Toronto for the CNE via Chicago to cap off the summer. Bernie had a job in Hearst, Ontario with the Company but he had a little time to kill before his start date. All went well until two bumpkins from the bush read the map wrong and ended up in Cicero, Illinois - a city apparently controlled by the Mob. As luck would have it, a group of U.S. Sailors came along. They set us straight then asked us to join them. Their advice was to buy only bottled beer and leave it opened at the table. Then sit back and watch the show. Even Bernie who had been to the dives in Soho, London was taken aback. We exited shortly. We pulled into a fruit orchard and slept soundly under the stars before proceeding to the CNE.

The CNE was incredible, the largest fair I had ever seen. Everywhere you looked was lit up like Christmas and the enticing smells of every type of food you could imagine. We walked and ate and then ate some more, looking at all of the exhibits and people watching.

After the CNE, we then drove without further incident to Hearst. I decided to save money and hitchhike the 800 miles home to Gimli. At 6:00 a.m. the next morning, I headed out to the highway with my thumb and my rucksack. It took 15 hours to make the 300 miles to Port Arthur. After a brief rest and a bite to eat, I was back on the side of the road at 6:00 a.m. I had only made it the 200 miles to Dryden by 1:00 p.m. and the rides had dried up. Luckily, a school chum spotted me on the side of the road in Dryden and he said that I was in luck because a friend was going to Winnipeg shortly. He liked to travel fast and as the world turned into a blur outside my window, I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

When I woke up, we were in Winnipeg. I decided to push my luck and in the early evening there I was on North Main with my thumb out. The very first car stopped. It was two Air Force members from the Gimli base. What were the odds? Before the sun set that night, I was home in Gimli petting my dog Waggs.

My mother said how lucky it was that I had gotten home so quickly, as my father had just phoned to say that a shore-hand had gotten ill. Would I drive to Riverton in the morning and catch the freight boat to Humbuck Bay to help out? I had planned on resting for 2 weeks before going back to college. But, as the son of a fisherman, I accepted the luck of the draw and prepared to make my way north.

Ken Kristjanson
Mar 2022