From: bs904@FreeNet.Carleton.CA (Andrew Nellis)
Subject: Only in Canader, eh?  Pity.
Date: 8 Apr 1997 05:02:04 GMT
Message-ID: <5icjgc$chk@freenet-news.carleton.ca>


AUSTINJ (Austinj@cris.com) writes:
> I can't belive that you accept this USA-centric image!!!!  I always
> pictured you in a bright red outfit with a big floppy hat, paddling a
> canoe and singing to Jeanette MacDonald when not out stopping bad
> guys with your wits and a trusty Husky (and never a gun).

It was spring at last, and the lush green foliage of the virgin forest hung
over the banks of the swollen river, making a leafy canopy.  The air was
filled with the sounds of the wild: the dopplering whine of mosquitos, the
gentle chuckling of the river as it tumbled over the smooth round rocks of
its bed, the falling of trees where there was no one to hear them, and the
crashings and curses of philosophers lurching through the woods listening
for those trees.

Into this relative calm intruded a voice, a strong, tenor voice, singing
the brave provincial melodies of the dauntless voyageur.  "Oh, I am a
lumberjack and I'm okay..."

Around a bend in the river, a canoe paddled into view, a man clad in buck-
skins and furs kneeling within it, surrounded on all sides by huge bales of
furs.  A raccoon-skin cap sat jauntily atop his head, its fur as tangled
and bedraggled as the beard that grew in wild profusion on the lower half
of his wind-chapped face.  Behind and in front of him sat large, fierce
dogs, huskies from the look of them.

The voyageur raised his head as if scenting the air.  His song stopped in
mid-syllable.  "Ey, I t'ink mebbe we stop 'ere for de night.  What you
t'ink, boys?"

One of the huskies whuffed quietly.  The voyageur smiled benignly, his face
crinkling like old leather, and stroked the husky's head fondly.  "Oui, you
t'ink it be a good place too, eh?  Good, we stop 'ere an' get some grub."

Under the expert hand of the voyageur, the canoe beached itself gently along
the edge of the Nana River.  The two huskies leaped out of the boat and ran
into the forest to mark out their territory.  As the voyageur stood, grunting
at the pain in his cramped legs, it became obvious that he was of prodigious
proportions.  With arms like the boles of trees, he easily hefted the bales
of fur from the canoe, each of which would have strained any two normal men.

Such feats of strength were not unexpected, however, for this was no ordinary
voyageur.  No, this was the mighty Uukon Louis, greatest explorer, guide, and
trapper in all of Lower or Upper Canada.

It had been a good year, and he was returning to the Hudson's Bay Company
outpost with a record haul of furs and skins, torn from the unwilling backs
of such odious beasts as the ten-fingered spam weasel, and the cunning mass-
mail fox which is known for hunting in packs.  There was but once creature
that Uukon Louis had failed to bag, and it made him all the more determined
to get its hide before he returned.

As he made camp, Uukon Louis noticed a faint black smear on the forest floor,
sourrounded by a loose ring of stones.  Someone had been here before him, and
recently, since the spring rains would have washed away all signs within
days.  No matter.  He wasn't worried.  There was not a man alive who could
out-run, out-hunt, out-swim, or out-wrestle the awesome Uukon Louis!

The sun was beginning to set when the one of the dogs began barking.  Uukon
Louis cocked his head and listened for a moment.  "J.D.!" he called.  "Ed!
Qu'est-ce que c'est?"

Something gave a shrill howl of rage that made Uukon Louis' neck hair stand
on end.  That was it!  He'd know that call anywhere!  It was the one beast
he desired most, the one which had eluded him so far.  He grabbed up his
huge hunting knife and lumbered into the woods at a pace that would have
made any Americans watching demand a urine test for performance-enhancing
drugs.

A few hundred feet into the forest, he came upon a clearing.  Ed and J.D. had
something cornered against a tree, snapping at it viciously every time it
tried to creep away.  It had a rotund little body and an oily pelt, much 
prized and sought after.  Its mouth was filled with razor-sharp teeth, and 
its jaw was grossly oversized from much exercise.  It had beady little eyes 
that seemed to measure everything it saw, as if seeking some way to turn 
everything to its advantage.  In short, it was a prime specimen of the 
scam-furred wallace.

"Ah, mon Dieu! Uukon Louis, 'e 'ave you at las'!" shouted the exultant
voyageur, as he reached for the terrified but vicious beast.

"Sacre bleu!" came the shout from the other side of the clearing.  "Don' you
touch de t'ing, Uukon Louis!"

Careful not to expose his back to the scam-furred wallace, well-known for its
evil and back-biting ways, Uukon Louis peered over his shoulder to see a huge
blubbery man in ratty furs staring at him over the barrel of a shotgun.

"Black Jean Groubert," growled Uukon Louis.  "I told you de las' time not to
cross my path again, no?  Dis time, I not gonna let you go so easy!"

Black Jean Groubert snickered evilly, making his repulsive chins jiggle. 
"Oo's got de gun," he sneered.  "An' don' bother tryin' to use your wits,
bien sur, 'cause I pull de trigger on you if you do, ha ha!  Mebbe I shoot
de dogs right now, eh?"

"Ahem.  I say, old bean, that wouldn't exactly be sporting, what," said the
red-coated British colonel in the clipped, cultured tones of an aristocrat.
He emerged from the cover of the bushes and wandered vaguely into the
clearing, a Webley pistol in his hand.

Both men goggled at him.  He was indeed a strange sight, in somewhat rumpled
dress uniform, complete with sabre and peaked cap.  He wore his beard in a
pork-chop, and his eyes looked decidedly unfocused.  "I seem to have lost
track of my men," he said, blithely unaware of the shotgun in Black Jean
Groubert's hands.  "Must have been a few days back.  Oh, I do apologize, we
haven't been introduced.  Colonel Boursy, of the King's Grenadiers at your
service.  I say, you haven't seen a group of men in smashing red jackets,
have you?"

Anything might have happened that day.  As it happened, something gave a
great cry that shook the very trees for miles around, and exploded from the
forest like a barreling locomotive.  Black Jean Groubert and the confused
Colonel Boursy disappeared in a whirlwind of antlers and hooves the
approximate size and weight of bank safes.

When the dust had settled and the ground had stopped shuddering, Uukon Louis
turned back to the cowering spam-furred wallace and snatched it up in one
massive hand.  "T'ank goodness fer de ruttin' season o' de Great CancelMoose,
eh boys?" said Uukon Louis, as he went to his bloody work with the knife.

High up in a tree, the loud-billed palmer gave its bitter cry of "why-me,
why-me," and the sun set upon the banks of the Nana River.



--
 +-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+ .....Who so would be a man must be a........
 |  Andrew Nellis              | .    nonconformist. Nothing is at last     . 
 |  bs904@freenet.carleton.ca  | .    sacred but the integrity of your      .
 +-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-+ .....own mind.  [Ralph Waldo Emerson].......