The Hottest Place on Earth - ebook

REVIEWS:

Mr. Cool has faced cold giants in this novel and took this reader as close as she'd like to get...both to the Arctic, and an unholy, violent rape of the land by monsters. His descriptions of a desolate, poisonous mine, surrounded by an achingly beautiful land, whispers of a lost way stinging in the wind, are juxtaposed as background for his story (set in the mid-seventies) of a young man's mad education on the ugly business behind the mechanics of war. Characters have to be insane, as any pockmarked outcropping of a good tale holds, truth always stranger than fiction...miners, loggers, and fishermen will tell you that. One doesn't put this book down without a trace of deadly dust on the air, and a need to breathe cleaner history. Hysterical climax...sex, drugs, rock 'n' roll, and a pissed-off wolverine, all offset the dark truth of this author's ecological and ethical message.— Lorraine H

I really enjoyed it. I did know a bit about Port Radium, but it's always good to learn a bit more about such horrible things. And I have a fascination with the North, so I love to read about it. — Allister T.

“The Hottest Place on Earth” is a Canadian story that needs wide sharing, a missing tile in our history told with the interlocking, international players. It ends at Wall Street where many of our government policies originate. This book will have foreign sales as our radon gases reach world wide. It has a film potential. — Bernice L.

I love your writing; laughed so hard at some of the stories, especially the enterprising young man from Richmond doing scams and tricks, but really all of it! I am already to where u are cooking at the camp. Love the humor and historical parts. It’s hard to stop reading… — Li S.

I have read 85% and I love it! From my lay persons perspective this is a wonderful, funny, gritty, gutsy book. Your ending was far better than anything I could imagine...Big congrats, powerful stuff to enjoy and think on. — Michael C.

My honest liking of your story, style and TRUTH. You write with an open heart, mad head, and compass still heading True North in your intent. I was entertained, shocked, chilled to the bone...

I was reminded of one of my all-time faves, then, now, forever...Mr. Kurt Vonnegut...the truth served in insane "amuse-bouches" of misadventures. — Lorraine H.In a time in which global climate change has raised awareness about the negative effects that large amounts of man-made pollution have on land, air, and water, the policies of the Bush administration focused instead on more immediate, economic concerns, rather than establish long-term solutions with the intent to significantly mitigate contemporary and future environmental problems.

—President Jimmy Carter to G.W. Bush 1977–2009

Presidential Policies and Involvement in the Debate over the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge

By 2022, it will simply be cheaper to build and provide a gigawatt of wind power than the cheapest fossil-fuel alternative and solar will be just behind. Bottom line: renewable energy can power Canada, create jobs, generate wealth and fight climate change.

—David Suzuki, January 2017Chapters:

1. Geiger Counter Downs

2. Cookie

3. “Royt, cookin’s an art then, innit Liz?”

4. Cold. Goddamn Cold.

5. “Don’t Mention the War.”

6. The Flight

7. “Dusty” Rhodes

8. Port Radium

9. Me-shell

10. Dinner, a Spree, and a Beer

11. Gore

12. Jack and M-M-Mike

13. Cement

14. The Convoy, the Stash, and Chicken Arms

15. Socks

16. The Warning, the Ointment, the History

17. Burgers and Howling Timber Wolves

18. Battlefield Promotions

19. Jimmy, Schläger, and Old Scores

20. The Here and Now

21. The Kitchen Turnstile

22. Dogs

23. Zen Dynamite

24. Abandonment, Pot, and Cops

25. Staff Meeting

26. The Hour Before Dawn

27. Bonspiel Day

28. Mary-Ellen

29. Stew

30. Ernie

31. Petunia

32. Edmonton, Again

Afterword

The People

Declassified Documents: the Cover-Up

Sources

Uranium Half-Life1. GEIGER COUNTER DOWNS

I was in Port Radium, on Great Bear Lake, for six weeks before rumours evolved into proof the isolated mining camp had a sinister past linked with Hiroshima. The first time I met Corey, our reclusive geologist, he turned my suspicion to outrage …

• • •

Corey’s reputation was hard to nail down. I heard he was a frat rat who was usually intoxicated on Quaaludes. But didn’t that breed tend to puff up in cardigan sweaters, abuse alcohol, and seek social status at country clubs? Our Corey hung about the camp as a skeletal loner rattling his bones beneath a dusty lab coat, self-medicating himself to temper his reality. In my estimation, he had potential.

He met my expectations the first time I really met him. He was in his early twenties, as was I; his voice was weak and his shoulders slumped — mine were not. He presented as innocuous and clean-cut, whereas I was brash, opinionated, and tended to rebellion. After weeks in isolation, all chameleon disguises become transparent. There is no place to hide, everyone knows everyone else’s propensities, and all are on raw display. Corey’s solution to simplify life’s challenges was pharmaceutical and personal, so I did not judge him. Equally in his favour, Corey was friends with the twins, Genna and Morag. Any familiar contact with them was off-limits for the rest of us; therefore, their bunkhouse, a place we called the sugar shack, was never out of our minds. For his connections, Corey garnered universal envy and spiteful gossip, but I doubt he ever got laid.

On this particular day, my room partner, Michael, and I had met the plane and were unloading the light supplies. Any nonperishable cargo that arrived with the company plane that a man could lift, I delivered. Michael was thin and strong, had long, greasy brown hair, perennial stubble, and was a French Canadian. About my age and my height, he was on the run from the law — I was not, although I placed in the “brush with the law” category. Michael always carried a folding knife and was unafraid of the thugs running the back alleys of Winnipeg.

“Careful with that, Michael,” I said. “It’s probably vital to mining operations I deliver it intact and pronto.” The package was marked “RUSH” and was destined for the geology office.

After so many weeks in camp, I had been responding to the boredom by talking, at times, like a telephone switchboard operator. Somewhat more disturbing was the fact I was aware of this but never bothered trying to curb the inclination. Camp life had become long days of self-survival. My only focus was to make it to the end of the four-month contract term. I was only halfway through my contract, so it was still a toss-up whether I’d get out before going bonkers. That is the exact kind of personal information you keep private in an isolated camp, but like I say, there was no place to hide.

Michael stopped with the box held firmly in both his hands. It was also clearly marked “FRAGILE” on six sides. He spun around, dropped it, then fired off a sardonic mock-Nazi salute at me.

Later that afternoon, I made the delivery to Corey’s lab. It was after 3:00 p.m. before I finished a lengthy bout of frustrated flirting with Morag, who occasionally worked in the __ cook shack. However, the time I invested was as wasted as ripe fruit rotting on the vine, because lately, when in my company, we were chaperoned by the camp cook’s obese wife.

I slid the bus to a stop at the geologist’s office. Corey had rooms in one of the larger, almost abandoned warehouses, repurposed from the original miner’s two-storey bunkhouse. Built on the lakeshore, it stuck out like a sore thumb on a hand full of arthritic digits. The building was another example of the many dreary, abandoned structures at the site. Constructed of timber and yellowed plywood, torn black tar paper sheets hung off the exposed outer walls. Pockmarked patches of grey asphalt shingles nailed up to the eaves replaced missing siding. Two feet of snow covered most of the roof. Blown-snow berms, built up against the outside of the structure, reached to the bottom of the crosshatched windows on either side of the cracked, weather-beaten door.

I looked in one window. Besides the cardboard boxes piled high, I saw the windowsills and glass sections were grimy with the omnipresent black dust that pervaded camp life. I knocked once on the door, turned the knob, and then kicked the base of the door to snap it free of the ice buildup. The routine was standard operating procedure at the mine throughout winter. Having announced my arrival, I stepped inside.

A single bare bulb illuminated the room. It hung on a white household extension cord tied to one of the exposed rafters below the tatters of the unfinished, vaulted ceiling. This end of the bunkhouse was a cavernous room where rough boards were shelves nailed to exposed wall studs. Three tiers on each wall encircled the room, and each shelf had been stocked with core samples. Edison’s invention threw little light to the corners, so it took some time for my eyes to adjust to the dull twilight. I heard a faint cough from down the hallway, caught before it grew into a crescendo of hacking. An epidemic of dry cough, flu, and bronchitis was circulating through camp.

The geo-geek hesitated, framed by the inside doorway. I had the distinct feeling he was studying me. He snapped a light switch on the wall before he walked into the cavern. Fluorescent fixtures attached to the bare rafters high above us flickered, flashed, and eventually flushed the room with harsh, white-blue light.

“Oh, it’s you. What do you want?”

“Delivery. This is the geology lab, right?”

“Right. Sure. Yes, geology, in all its professional glory.”

We approached each other and met at the desk in the centre of the room. One on one, Corey appeared frail and sickly. His bloodshot eyes watered, and his complexion reminded me of Madam Tussauds’ “Rue Morgue” display. His fingers were thin and jittery. He wore a parka over a grimy, once-white lab coat. When we spoke, it was cold enough to see our breath.

I looked around the dismal room again. Black dust covered rolls of maps, stacked cardboard boxes, and the shelves full of long, black core samples. The place looked more abandoned than occupied.

“Guess you don’t get much of a budget for interior decorating. It’s freezing in here.”

He looked past and around me. “Eddie is coming over to fix the acetylene heater. I was hoping you might be him. You can put that package down there. Thanks.”

I was careful to place the crushed corner of the box away from his line of sight. I needed to find someone who travelled to Edmonton regularly to bring back contraband for me and the guys, so I took this opportunity to sound Corey out. “Y’know, some curtains, a little dusting, a stereo might brighten up this place. How’s things on the outside, anyway?”

“The same. Boring. Depressing. Better off here. Smashed the box, did you?”

I decided to take a shot in the dark, “Is Nixon still an asshole? Must have happened on the plane.”

“Bumpy landing, I suppose? Yes, as a matter of fact, he is. They’re going to impeach him and then fry his ass, I hope. Johnson, Nixon, Ford, they’re all implicated in JFK’s assassination.” He looked at me long enough to make me feel uncomfortable about the parcel.

I said, “Makes a crushed box corner seem trivial. And Agnew needs to go, too.”

Corey agreed. “Murdering students on campuses, throttling the free press, escalating Vietnam. Five years for weed possession. Disco. What else do they need down there to dump the creeps? I’ve been trying to get that instrument in here for a year.”

“Another one of their fixed elections, I guess. You know what The Who said, ‘Meet the new boss ...’”

“We’ll have to return it now. ‘... same as the old boss, we won’t get fooled again.’ But we always do. My name is Corey.”

Finally, we had synchronicity. I shook his shaky, outstretched hand, thankful we could end the double-helixed threads of this conversation. I looked around again. Two desks pushed together were stacked with dusty boxes and crowded the centre of the room. A wooden desk chair with a broken leg leaned against the shelving in one corner. Long cobweb strands, illuminated in the light, hung from the rafters, attached like silk threads to dozens of the core samples. The dusty geology of forty years of mining at Port Radium lay stacked on these wooden racks. I noticed what appeared to be an odd-looking tuner on the desk.

“I’m Al. Nice place you have here … When do I meet Quasimodo?”

“Pleased to meet you. Genna and Morag told me about you.”

“They did? What’d they say?” I was hopeful for a favourable evaluation. After all, they were the only available young women within hundreds of square miles of frozen tundra.

“They said you were a company man and would repeat everything you heard to Jimmy.”

“What do you know, they nailed me.” We stopped shaking hands. I pointed at the tuner that looked like a 1940s mantle radio. “What the hell is that thing?”

Corey’s response surprised me. “I don’t have many friends in this camp. Morag and Genna are my friends, but they’re apolitical. Why don’t we cut to the chase … They say you can be trusted. If I show you something, you have to keep it between us. But if something happens to me, would you tell someone about it? Would you do that?” His voice had a definite edge.

“I guess … But why me?”

“Genna told me you had journalistic aspirations. Is that true?”

“That’s what I’m saving for.”

“This might be your blockbuster story. I mean that.”

Corey looked at the tuner. He tried to blow the thick layer of black dust off the meter, but the sticky grunge was unaffected. The entire camp had the same layer of grime on it. The stuff was pervasive and required effort to wipe off any surface, which few of us bothered with because the dust, like our personality traits, always returned by the next day. There was no mystery involved; mining and dust go together. Corey spit on the meter glass and then used his lab coat sleeve to clean off the grime. A single black knob stuck out below the meter.

“It’s a Geiger counter.”

I bent down to look more closely. Beside the knob was a black lever with a range of three settings other than OFF.

“Wow,” I said, “that’s pretty cool, but why is it here?”

Corey looked at me. “Are you kidding?” I shook my head. “Okay then ... The twins trust you, maybe I can too. I’ll give you a private tour of Port Radium.” He opened a desk drawer and took out one of the gritty, small plastic sample bags strewn inside. “Watch and learn.”

He pulled a small tray out of the bottom slot of the Geiger counter. Each label of the other positions might as well have been hieroglyphics. The first position read “1X mR/h.”

“The sensor is here.” I watched him pull a pencil-thin tube out of the front of the counter, above the small sample tray. Cory plugged in the machine. The meter glowed pale yellow. The thin, black needle jumped full across the meter then bounced back to remain stable on the left, at exactly “0 mR/h.”

“Okay, it’s self-calibrated to zero and initialized.” The machine clattered steadily, like a coffee percolator on full. “That’s only background gammas and betas. I’ve already calibrated the machine to ignore the background rads.”

“Sorry? I’m a bit out of my element …”

“_Isotope_ would have been funnier. I’m talking about the core samples, the radiation in the walls, and this goddamned dust. The everyday stuff around camp.”

That simple statement and the unnerving ticking launched my anxiety attack. He placed the small sample bag on the tray. He watched me as he snapped the dial to the position “1X mR/h.” A wild, rapid-fire, burping-ticking sound filled the room, exactly the same soundtrack I’d heard in every B-quality sci-fi movie.

“Holy shit! Weird science ... Is that radioactivity?”

He turned off the machine. In the sudden silence, he grabbed my arm. “Quiet. Not one word. Ever. We could both lose more than our jobs if you say anything to anyone about this.”

I reassured my paranoid coconspirator that I could keep a secret. I began to feel this desperate addict had unlocked the door to a modern version of Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory.

Corey said, “I hate this place, but now I need the job for my medical coverage. If I quit, they cancel my plan and I’m on the street. Each notch on this switch invokes a heavier filter for accurate readings of higher concentrations of uranium in the sample.”

I felt like I had poked the sleeping bear, but I was fascinated. I leaned in to peer at the sample. There was only a small amount of dust in the tiny bag.

“That’s right,” said Cory. “It doesn’t take much to produce that kind of reading. There’s more; that was only level one. My contract says I’m supposed to make sure no one ever sees this level, let alone what I’m going to show you. This counter can measure extreme radiation levels. This is a government unit, the best they had in the forties, and is still accurate today. This unit came from the US military. At least, they used them all the time. After the war, the CIA called the shots here until the mid-sixties. Anyway, watch the needle.”

Corey removed the packet, turned on the counter, and it repeated its zero calibration. Again, the silence in the room was replaced by the intimidating clatter.

“The black numbers are the lowest on the register, reading the lowest when the needle stays left, the green counts on the second level, that’s the ‘5X mR/h’ setting, the red is the third, the ‘10X mR/h’ setting, which is the highest level of radiation detection and measurement this machine can manage. What you would measure the day the bomb dropped in Hiroshima. Are you ready for the Twilight Zone?”

_Talley-ho, Madame Curie, bring me into the twentieth century._ I nodded.

Corey suppressed another slight cough before he placed the packet onto the tray. As before, at the first position, the counter rattled and the needle zipped across the meter, where it remained tight to the right extremity. Corey snapped the switch to the second level; the noise increased but the needle only quivered. Corey stared at me. He snapped the switch to the final position and pointed to the red scale on the meter. The loud burps remained constant, but the needle quivered then vibrated over the 84 percent tick.

“Do you see that?” I nodded, unknowledgeable about what I was looking at. “A few months of exposure to anything past halfway on the first scale means cancer. We are way beyond that. This sample is one of the most recent from Eldorado. The closer you get to the Eldorado shaft, the hotter everything is, and they vent that radon in between our bunkhouses! Soon, tons of this stuff is going to come out of Eldorado every day. Again. Breathe down there, or near any of the mine vents in camp, and you die up here.” He snapped the lever back down through the levels and then turned off and unplugged the machine.

When the noise stopped, Corey said, “That ore was used to fuel the bomb dropped on Hiroshima.”

“What?”

“U-235. This ore,” he held the packet up and wiggled it in front of my face, “is the shit. The Nazis stole 3500 tons of yellowcake from Belgium to start their atomic bomb program. The Americans got sixty tons from us to start theirs.”

He let that sink in. I was shocked. “Did you say tons?”

“Yes. And our side admitted to dumping mountains of this stuff into the lake, right in front of the bunkhouses. I cannot imagine what they actually dumped, if they admit to that much, and how much more over the last twenty years. They must have loved the isolation of this site. ‘Manhattan,’ do you know what that is?”

“A drink ordered at swanky cocktail lounges?”

“Funny. Making the first atomic bombs was just getting started, and Port Radium’s U-235 was 6 percent to the ton. The Congo yellowcake was only 1 percent per ton. This whole area is still so hot with radiation, but especially dangerous with radon, that if anyone bothered to measure the air above ground, they’d shut us down today. And they should! They originally sent forty miners into the mine. I heard thirty-eight of them already died from lung cancer. Breathing the dust kills you, radon gets into your lungs on the dust, then burns holes in there. Shit, man, thousands of the miners that work underground in uranium mines, all over the world, die from lung cancer.”

“When I took this job, I was told this was a silver mine.”

“Sure, there is some silver here, but in 1910, the going rate was $75,000 per gram for radium, and in the thirties they were getting $25,000 per gram. At those rates, processing silver was a lower priority. They used small amounts of it in hospitals, but mostly, women hand-painted radium on jewellery and clock faces because it glowed in the dark. Radium is found in uranium; they were handling uranium with bare hands. How many of them died of cancer? After Hiroshima and Manhattan, they used enriched plutonium to fuel nuclear bombs. Nagasaki was a plutonium bomb. We should have been off the supply grid in 1945. But our government kept Eldorado producing U-235 for the Cold War until 1960, at least. Then Echo Bay took over. They wanted the silver and the copper. Now we’re going to bring up lots of silver ore from Eldorado again. The stuff I showed you in the packet has silver in it, too. Problem is, are they extracting the uranium from the silver? No. That is a completely different chemical process, which is way more expensive. We are shipping the uranium and the radon with the silver ore. Have you been to the tailing pond yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Well, don’t you have a surprise coming? By the way, the sample you saw is dated.” Corey lifted the packet from the sample tray and read aloud, “This is recent, 1975. Thirty years after the war ended; in fact, this year. But these samples measure the same as the samples from ’42. U-235 takes a while to decay, like forty-seven million human generations, literally. So far, no one cares about this part of the planet or the amount of this shit already dumped in the lake. Most of the rest of the bad news stays frozen under the permafrost. I read a report in our university library that Great Bear Lake is considered ‘the most pristine lake inside Canada’s borders.’ Not anymore, and if it is, man, do we have problems.” He returned the sample bag to the drawer and closed it.

“Wait a minute. I thought Canada was a leader in clean nuclear power. What is it, the Candu reactor? “

“Such a joke. India is already reconfiguring their Candu reactors as part of their plan to blow the crap out of Pakistan. Canada is proliferating potential nuclear arms throughout the world. I wish it was the Can-Don’t.” Corey became thoughtful for a minute. “Why do you think we have a night shift?” He did not wait for my answer. “Eight miners go into Eldorado on three different shifts, the same fucking hole where so many have already died. They mine the silver. Then we process and condense the ore in our crushing mill where more men work. The dust gets spread around.” He swiped his finger across the bench, leaving a glistening trail in the grit. “Then it gets shipped out by convoy to Fort McMurray, Uranium City, and finally Port Hope, Ontario. If Mom and Pop only knew what was in their coins … Who knows? Maybe they are extracting the U-235 back in Ontario where they’re set up. Even if they are, they never get it all.” He held his blackened finger up between us. “This dust is everywhere. This is what kills us, man. Where do you think it comes from? I mean, for Christ’s sake, it’s in our air, our food, our drinking and shower water, the walls, and where we work.”

“And these management assholes know it’s this bad?”

“Of course. I provide them with readings on a daily basis, which is why I’m under a gag order. But that’s the least of my worries. You’ve met the new security around here, right? Schläger is a very dangerous man.”

“Yeah, the Nazi guy you flew in with?”

The sound of a creaking door came from down the hall. Corey and I froze. Corey motioned I was to wait while he went to investigate. When he came back, he looked worried. “That was probably just the wind, but I’m sure that door was locked.”

His voice was just above a whisper. “Anyway, your choice of the word ‘Nazi’? There’s truth in that. So, after three days of working in those conditions, they send the miners back over to work at the Echo Bay mine. It’s a little less dangerous for radon in that dust, but it’s still deadly. They flood Eldorado with lake water every three days to cool it down then pump the water back into the lake, then they send the miners back into that shit pit. JT and Jimmy came up with that plan.”

Jimmy, JT’s only child, lived in Port Radium, but we saw him only on rare occasions. JT owned the company working the mine for the Canadian government and was our employer, the only employer in Port Radium, although he had never appeared in camp since I arrived.

“I heard we were doing that. I didn’t really know what to believe.”

“Believe it. It’s the same thing they’ve been pulling off for the last thirty years, sending the miners into the killer hole for ore.”

“So, what you’re telling me is that Jimmy is sending miners into the radon-poisoned dust. And he knows he is doing this? Do the miners know how bad it is?”

Corey shook his head. “You know the camp rule, no one talks about radiation, radon, or uranium. It’s a firing offence.”

“They go underground without knowing about the hazards. And we concentrate the ore at the mill. Do those guys know? And what about Uranium City and Port Hope? What about the people moving this crap across the country? What about them? This kind of hazard would never get past WCB. We have to tell the government.”

“This _is_ the government! Echo Bay leases this site from Canada. No one looks very hard at us because we’re officially mining for copper and silver. No one tests for radiation or radon gas anymore.” He stopped to let that sink in. “There’s a kicker. This counter is the one we use to test samples before Jimmy goes underground. He won’t set foot in either mine if the sample reads above level one, which it will drop to for half a shift after they drain the mine and before the miers finish drilling. We sample accurately for management.”

Corey looked over his shoulder toward the hallway. His nervous reaction was telling.

“The company owns two other counters, CD V-700s. They have a famous known flaw. When the sensor is over-exposed to high radiation, like if one of these sample bags is left nearby for an hour or so, then it reads low, like almost zero, due to saturation. The sensor chokes out, I guess, is one way to think of it. Both our counters stay in Eldorado and Echo Bay for the miners to see every shift. If it reads zero, they go to work. The sensors are always saturated and always read zero, so the miners always go to work. Jimmy plays the same game with WCB and the mine inspectors when they come through here. If they bother to check the readings at all, they see it reads almost zero and leave satisfied. Anyway, I’m the technician who provides the readings, so the inspectors can pass this site as safe for work. I’m not supposed to know what I do about the V-700, but I’ve done my homework. This same sample would read zero in the mine.” His hand went up to his mouth to suppress a strangling burp-hiccup. “Anyway, I don’t want people to work in Eldorado. It’s way too dangerous.”

I could hardly believe my own ears. I said, “So the ore still leaves Port Radium and enters the manufacturing world or the Canadian mint this goddamn hot? And Jimmy and JT and the Canadian government know all this?”

“That’s right. There have only been damaging reports, but government management suppressed them. Settle down,” Corey commanded and I listened. “Yeah, it’s that bad. Once it leaves here, no outsiders check the ore, far as I know. We are potentially sending cancer out to maybe hundreds of thousands of innocent people and have been doing this for decades. Awesome thought, eh? The real joke is Canada promotes itself as so ‘nuclear’ clean. Remember, you promised not to say anything.”

“I’m getting it, but there are promises and there are promises. This ain’t no little white lie either, is it? I can’t believe these owners are willing to do this to all of us to make a few bucks.”

“Look, this is one promise you’d better keep. If the office finds out you know about this, and might leak something and shut this place down, then Schläger will come after you, and maybe Genna and Morag, too. This isn’t about _a few bucks_. JT and Jimmy have New York Stock Exchange plans. I’ve heard them boasting about it. Don’t be stupid. It would be easy for them to take you for a one-way plane ride and drop you a hundred miles north of here. The wolves and bears would take care of you after that. No one would ever find your bones. Take my advice, don’t sign up for another contract, and stay as far away from the mine and the plant as you can.”

Now I was worried, too. “This will be our secret. Ho-ly fuck ...”

“Remember, the closer you get to Eldorado, the more radiation in the buildings, the air, the ground. That old mill is still dangerous hot. That’s why it’s off-limits. I’m surprised there hasn’t already been an insurance fire. Maybe JT is saving that for his final act; that’s his style. When you leave here, scrub your hands thoroughly, get under the nails. And don’t shower very often, either.”

I was outraged. “Shouldn’t they have all this stuff stored in a lead-lined room or something?”

“In a way they’ve done that … the entire camp is painted in lead-based paint.”

My coconspirator launched into a violent and protracted coughing jag. When he was able to talk, he said he had work to finish, by which I understood him to mean it was time for his self-medication.

“Take care of that cough, man, it sounds bad.”

I left Corey to his dark nightmare. My emotions reeled as I ground through the gears driving back to the sugar shack to plug in the bus block heater for the night. I was angry. The bench Geiger counter told the truth. The thought occurred to me that the sample, one of dozens I saw in the drawer, and the core samples too, should never have been left out in the open like that.

Before dinner, I considered a long shower, but Corey had warned me off. I remained distracted and distant until I was roaring drunk later on at beer night. I managed to stifle my yapping because, for the first time since Michael and I had flown into camp, Schläger came to the beer trailer. He took a table next to us, drank a slow beer, but never once looked at us. I remembered the creaking door at the geo-office.

Back in our bunkhouse, Michael watched me punch black dust out of my pillow. I told him about Corey’s _tour_. After he finished punching the black dust out of his pillow, Michael said better than I ever could, “I knew that JT was an asshole.”

That night, I dreamed a terrifying nightmare: I was an innocent miniature of myself, just one terrorized peep away from being discovered, devoured and forgotten, having wandered into the midst of giant, angry demons colluding with wicked sorcerers.3. “Royt, cookin’s an art then, innit Liz?”

I’m still holding on presenting the backstory … I think you need to know how I came to be exactly where I was in the universe at the exact moment of my enlightenment, a state worthy of attaining and which might exclude my returning here as a frog or a snake … Besides, you have to meet Les.

• • •

I watched a black dot as it meandered across the ice, half a mile from shore — a wolverine.

What the hell is it doing out there?

After it disappeared behind an ice ridge, I put the bus in gear, though I was unsure of which option I chose, and ground through most of the rest of them all the way back to the cook shack. I had time to think while I destroyed the last remnants of the clutch. Something was odd about this management group. Schläger was a bona fide creep. And if they didn’t like gay men, wasn’t that Bill and Carl connection pretty much Fire Island on Pride Day_?_ I decided the farther I kept away from the office lunacy, the better for me.

I walked into the cook shack to inform my favourite chef that Jimmy had reincarnated me as a cook. The first person I met was Jan. “I’m the new camp cook, which means I’m your boss,” I said, thinking Jan would get a laugh out of that.

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve heard today. You’re lying.” Her provocative green eyes flashed in the glint coming from the stainless steel fume hoods.

“I am not. I just got the promotion. Where’s the limey? I have to inform him I start in here tomorrow.”

“The _loymey_ is royt be’ind you. You botherin’ the girls? Do Oy ’ave to call Liz?”

“Hi, Les. I’m your new cook, and I start tomorrow. Jimmy said to come and tell you.”

“Oy don’t believe it. Wot’s this ’ere, then? Okay, Jan darlink, you can run along now. Find Liz — she ’s lookin’ for you. This lad an’ Oy ’ave some’in’ to talk over in private.”

Jan looked at me with a flirty sort of questioning look before she left us. Les and I sat across from each other at the table nearest the kitchen. “You start, you barmy, cheeky git.”

“They were going to fire me today, but they found out I’ve worked in a restaurant in Vancouver. I told Jimmy I was a cook, so he sent me here.”

“Sent you ’ere? For wot?”

“Like I said, I’m your new cook. I start tomorrow.”

“Jimmy said that, did ’e? You? You start in ’ere? Tomarrow, is it then? As my second?” He paused, having run out of all possible questions and amazement, slapped both his smallish hands flat down on the table, rolled his eyes full across the ceiling in a dramatic, Shakespearean gesture, and said, “And in this ’ere restaurant … Did you ever so much as flip an egg?”

“No, not actually. I worked myself up from cleaning trays to a carhop. It was my job to clean the food trays near the kitchen, but I saw a lot of what goes on. I was fast at cleaning trays.”

“Royt, so, can you cook as well as you droyve?”

“’Bout the same, I guess. That clutch failed because of ‘bad parts.’ Ask Eddie.” Everything about everybody gets around camp.

“Oy ’ll do no such fing. Well, then, at least yer honest. Oy only ’ave one piece of advoyce for you.” He kept eye contact with me, tilted his head to the side, and yelled, “Liz? Cookin’s an art then, innit?”

From the pantry, I heard a distant, female voice, “Royt you are, Les ’oney.” Her affirmation came back muffled, as if her mouth was full. Les seemed pleased. “If Jimmy says it’s on, then welcome to moy crew. We’ll see you tomarrow at foyve eye am. You start your troynin’ then. If you last the week, you can fill in as my noyght shift cook. Oy’ve been workin’ both shifts for two months now, and Oy need some ’elp.”

“Five a.m.?”

“Royt. One fing about the kitchen, mate, we are always first up and last to bed. Get Ernie to find you yer whoytes and be ready for breakfast tomarrow.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon explaining to Michael I had to keep some sort of job, even this job, and that was why I made the choice.

“Maybe so, but only ‘you hoo’ boys work in the kitchen.”

“Well, how do you explain the women working there? And the cook and Liz are married, too …”

Michael again pondered my change of status, and then said, “I know that, but still …”

He stuck to his guns at beer night and in Dave’s room after that, when we brought out the guitars and had more beers. Dave toasted me with an impish smile. “About time we had a real cook in this camp.”

I cursed myself again for my big mouth. To be fair, I only signed on to work my contract and go home. The rest of what I found in camp was a dark surprise. Despite what I heard eavesdropped through the office door earlier that day, I was in denial about being a company target, my job change having anything to do with Corey or my destroying the clutch in the bus. I drank too much beer, which felt like almost enough, and stayed up with the guys far too late to be trainable when the morning alarm kicked me in the head.

But _troyn_, I did. Les introduced me to the walk-in fridge, the stock room, the freezers, and the pantry, which I dubbed “Liz’s office.” The door to the garbage shed off the rear of the building was broken, so we kept it shut and locked by wedging a 2x4 against the inside doorknob. The shed door was the only other kitchen entrance, besides the main door into the dining hall.

We were about to review the order sheets and menus when I interrupted Les’s cheery, staccato blathering and stopped in front of a photograph tacked to the inside of the backdoor frame. Someone had taken a snapshot leaning over another idiot’s shoulder. At the end of an outstretched arm, where the whites turned to flesh and bone, the dumber of the duo dangled a slab of red meat from his fingers. The man was teasing a wolverine standing in the pile of garbage bags inside the shed. The black, hairy blob bared more teeth than a pack of hyenas challenging a lioness for her kill. Two beady, red reflections from its piercing eyes confirmed the true origin of the spirit and character of the menacing predator in the photo. Wolverines are fierce enough to chase a polar bear off a dead seal.

“Did either of these two simpletons live through the encounter?” I asked Les as I tapped the photo.

“That’s Petunia, our pet wolverine. She’s a beaut. Oy used to feed ’er every doy. She’s the one ’as got away from the trappers. She’s still around ’ere somewheres. We’re supposed to ’ave garbage pick-up every doy, but Errol lets the garbage poyl up, so the wolverines come in. She was always a bit grouchy, Oy must say.”

We finished my orientation when we visited the two huge, metal sinks where the camp bull cook, Ernie, hand-washed every pot, pan, dish, cup, all the cutlery, and the food trays three times every day.

On my second shift, I assisted Les at breakfast. Our plate count confirmed 143 men had drifted through for breakfast. Just as I had done, each approached us incredibly hopeful and left terribly disappointed. We suffered menacing stares and threatening grunts and growls that began with the early birds before 6:00 a.m. and lasted through the bedraggled appearance of the surface crew at 7:25 a.m. Michael was one of the last to arrive.

“I want French toast.”

“Good fuckin’ luck,” I said, serving him instead my final reserve of professional equanimity after a horrible morning feeling the brunt of the men’s judgement.

When he came through as one of the earlybirds, Deputy Frank had threatened me. “You burned my eggs,” and then he delivered a string of curses with the most intimidating scowl of which I was ever the focus. He refused my apology. Despite my efforts, I seemed to break almost every fried egg I flipped, and yes, in some cases, my timing was off and I burned some egg orders. I was already developing a growing resentment for the men, who demanded only a decent breakfast. As expected, the rest of the week was less a tasteful presentation of divine morsels and culinary delights and more a blur of pots, pans, colloquial insults, and thickly accented truisms from Les. Gems such as, “British tut’lage, innit, Liz?” were abundant.

My stress escalated as Les piled duty after duty onto my shoulders. I don’t recall a single conversation with anyone other than Les and Liz during that week. Jan had the annoying habit of avoiding me altogether to sneak off for lengthy cups of coffee with Sean. The twins were a fast-fading mirage as they worked elsewhere throughout most of the day. They prepared management’s daily fine dining experience in the sugar shack, where the “upper class” could enjoy a glass of wine along with their meals and sexual fantasies. I discovered both girls only performed cameo appearances in the cook shack to borrow or return cooking pans and utensils. I also discovered I was more interested in Morag than Genna.

As for my professional culinary experience, had I deigned to clean or stack trays, I am sure I would have been comfortable in my element. Now, as a second-class egg-flipper, I subletted that menial task to Ernie. From the lay side of the grill, my former trench-mates, the palate-sensitive surface crew, judged me by my product. Scores of angry faces filed past me that week and confirmed my suspicion. Even as I doled out Les’s sad version of breakfast, I knew I was going to have to produce _Can-eye-djun_ dishes as soon as I started working alone.

Finally, I completed my training shifts, and Les set me free. Anointed in sweat and bacon fat, I graduated as Les’s version of Second Cook, Port Radium, NWT. I vowed to forget everything he taught me. My first solo breakfast was the next morning, a Sunday.

However, Saturday night came along first, and it culminated only after we were roaring drunk. At midnight, we sang as loud as we could every song on _Rubber Soul_, twice. I joined Murray, Dave, Michael, Don, Eddie, mouthy Frank, myself, and four hangers-on tearing up the bunkhouse, howling until past 3:00 a.m. I had to be at work at five to start the bacon, so I packed it in early. When my head hit the pillow, I passed out immediately. I sank into a blissful, deep sleep and lingered in the sack an hour past my personal reveille.

I jumped up in a panic, still in my greasy whites from the day before. I ran through the bunkhouses, along boardwalks, up tiers of slippery steps two at a time, only to arrive breathless and miserably hung-over outside the kitchen door. A lineup of a dozen cold, angry men waited, gauging me during my approach. Deputy Frank was at the front of the line. He glared at me while I completed the pantomime of patting each of my empty pockets. _No key!_ I thought about returning to my room to search for the keys, but Frank’s glare put the kibosh to the idea; instead, I broke a window and clambered through. Frank was my first customer. There was no coffee, the grills were cold, I was late, and at first, I had only crackers and milk to offer the men. The deputy stood at the counter and stared at me, giving me insight into how the captain of the _Titanic_ felt. From the bridge of my personal disaster, I felt as if I could almost reach out and produce a serving of ice cubes from the deputy’s cold stare.

I had to turn this thing around. I hypnotized myself with a silent mantra: get in gear, get going, and get the job done. Under the relentless pressure of the deputy’s loud, sardonic comments, I sped through my morning routine: I cranked up the griddles and slathered them with oil, made the fastest urns of coffee I could, and then heated the precooked and sliced potatoes. The grill would be difficult to clean later, but this was an emergency.

The aroma of seventy sizzling slices of precut bacon and five pounds of sausages on the griddle eased the tension in the room. I ran to put out milk for the coffee and six loaves of sliced bread beside the toasters, three white and three whole-wheat loaves. I brought butter, peanut butter, and jam. Next, I pulled six flats of eggs from the fridge. I rolled the raft of sausages and flipped the bacon strips, poured my own cup of coffee, cursed myself for being hung-over, and dreaded the lengthening lineup of hungry, petulant men. I cracked four eggs for Frank, broke three yokes, and burned them all while taking other orders and flipping bacon and rolling sausages.

I served Frank his eggs. That transfer of burned mush was a pivotal, personal moment, which passed when the lineup of derisive men forced him away from my serving station. Having dismissed my apology, he would have to be content serving his verbal, blunt epithet to me.

I moved on. Somehow, I fed everyone, and I mean everyone. I estimated only ten workers, the guys I’d partied with the night before, the administration, and our crack kitchen staff failed to show for breakfast. I made it through the hours and guiltily left Ernie a mountain of burned pots, dirty trays full of dirty dishes, and greasy utensils. I left the kitchen at 8:00 a.m., moments after Les and Liz came in to begin their shift.

As usual, when she arrived, Liz organized the girls from the open pantry door. She snapped them into action like a bloated Welsh corgi running sheep across the rolling, green hills behind Cardiff. Casually sipping from a cup of coffee, Les asked, “Royt, ’ow ’d it go then?” When I saw Morag, I stopped short and ignored Les. She stared back at me with eyes that could melt lake ice or send you into a millennial deep freeze.

“Perfect.” I tore off my apron. “Everyone got what they deserved. The early birds had to wait for the coffee, though.”

“They’ll live. Enjoy your afternoon off. You’re on for nine tonoyght through to breakfast tomarrow. Expect eleven for dinner at 2:00 a.m. I’ll leave burgers out for you to ’eat up for the noyt shift.”

“Royght.”

I dragged myself into my bunk, too tired to shower, and fell asleep as Michael woke. He left the room after I threatened to bludgeon him with my boots for talking to me and stinking up the air with cigarette smoke.

Sometime in the late afternoon, I woke up again and felt much better. I socialized over a gallon of coffee with John, Michael, and Dave, then grabbed a brief nap when they went to dinner and beer night. Then I went to work again.

I reviewed my list of duties: put out lunch fixin’s for the night shift, cook for eleven miners at 2:00 a.m., peel one hundred pounds of potatoes and fifty pounds of carrots by hand, peel and slice thirty pounds of bacon, and rummage around to find whatever still-edible vegetable I could feed the men that night. Of course, I would finish the last three hours of my shift short-order cooking breakfast for the rest of the men in camp.

First, though, I had to find something the night shift could take to work for lunch. I searched high and low for anything to put out for them. I knew there was no exotic cuisine; I only looked for food I thought any isolated work camp should have readily available for working men. The only leftovers I found was the vat of stew. I had to do better.

I discovered a tube of baloney, French’s mustard, and stale, but not yet moldy, loaves of white bread. The last of the whole wheat was gone. I put the last quart can of raspberry jam out. Someone, Liz probably, had squirrelled it away at the back of the top shelf in one of the cupboards in the pantry. I went through the entire fridge and freezer. I was meticulous; there was no treasure trove of food stashed there that I could find. I went into every nook, cranny, and shelf in every storage room. I did my best but failed to find the stash Morag and Jenna kept for management.

I greeted each man standing in the breach, ready for the barrage, but none of the night shift miners complained. I thought that a little sad. I watched them fold up stale baloney sandwiches in wax paper. Most of them made toast and jam. It felt wrong to send men into the dangerous underground night without first providing a feast appropriate for a warrior.

After that single hour of service, I locked the doors. The cook shack was my domain alone until 2:00 a.m. I had two hours to loll around and drink the rest of the coffee. I had come a long way since I’d met Michael and Dave on the flight just two months earlier. My life had taken a weird turn, and there still many were more miles to travel before I became a journalist. With time to reminisce, I looked back in time to seek the path to my future.