HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Bayfield Bulletin, 1964-10-01, Page 60-
BUSHY e';
TALES s,%
by
ART ELLIOTT
Page 6—Boyfield Bulletin—Thursday, October 1, 1964
GIANTS FOR CN FLEET: Two new locomotives, of 2500 h.p. each, the most
powerful on Canadian National System, are accepted by railway Vice-President,
(left) Douglas V. Gonder, from Virgil L. Snow, President, General Motors
Diesel Ltd. First run will be with freight from Montreal to Winnipeg and
then to motive power tool for assignments anywhere in Canada.
Your Headquarters for
BEDDING MATTRESSES
WIDE SELECTION OF COTTAGE FURNITURE
BLACKSTONE FURNITURE
West St. — GODERICH — 524-7741
YOUR MENU DREARY?
Why not try some tasty, fresh-caught
whitefish or perch for a refreshing change.
Caught fresh daily. Sold pan-ready!
SIDDALL'S FISHERIES
"THEY DON'T COME ANY FRESHER"
BAYFIELD HARBOR PHONE 29
F
PAINT SPECIAL !
SUPER KEM TONE
1 Gal.—reg. $8.90 Special $7.95
BAYFIELD HARWARE and LUMBER
BAYFIELD PHONE 3-R-3
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THE BAYFIELD BULLETIN.
This column has been preoc-
cupied with the glories of good
grub in the bush. Second
thoughts have brought more of
the same, and now third
thoughts are more inclined to
dwell on the gastronomic cat-
astrophes that have come
sharply to our ken.
The most horrible bush stew
I ever saw was while camped
on Pustilcarnika Lake in North-
western Quebec between Sen-
neterre and Chibougamau.
Late one afternoon, Tom Al-
dous and I were having our
regular after-work mug of hot
strong java when a party of
prospectors, along with an in-
specting mining engineer, pull-
ed into our camp by canoe and
small kicker. Invited to stay
a while and rest, they agreed,
and parked themselves on the
ground around our outdoor tin
stove. At supper time we ask-
ed them to partake of our fare,
but got the reply that they
had no wish to cut into our
rations, and in fact were well
prepared to feed themselves.
One of the Indians with the
visiting party was ordered to
"go and get supper". He was
back in 30 seconds with a large
black, uncovered pot. In it was
a dark, congealed greasy mess.
This was their mobile stew.
It was parked on top of the
stove and heated up, and in-
quiry revealed that the pot
eontained canned ham, rice, on-
ions, spuds, carrots, bully, salt
and pepper, kechup, a can of
peas, a few packages of powd-
ered soup to give it body, and
Lord knows what else. The
senior visiting prospector guag-
ed the depth of the stew, count-
ed noses and called for another
can of ham. This he sliced into
thick chunks and dropped into
the now warm and turgid con-
tents of the pot, bringing it
back up to the high water
mark.
As it heated, one or other of
the party would stir periodic-
ally with a stick. We learned
that the stew was at least
three days old, was supplem-
ented every day with whatever
came to hand, and had been re-
heated at least six times. The
inside of the pot was burned
almost as badly as the outside,
and to my horror, great black
flakes of burnt grease kept
peeling off the interior of the
pot and falling into the stew.
The pot had been transport-
ed uncovered for several days
in the canoe. It had attracted
its share of flies of several
varieties, mosquitoes, and in-
cluded a few leaves fallen from
trees, spruce needles, bits of
mud and clay from boots of
men climbing in and out of the
canoe. Of course gravity took
care of the mud. It sank to
the bottom. Careful scooping
from the top would aviod any
non-essential minerals.
Tom, a most fastidious cook,
rolled his eyes at me and ap-
peared to be a bit green
around the gills. It didn't sur-
prise me. I felt as green as
he looked. With super polite-
ness, we both refrained front
eating the visitors' grub, mean-
while thanking them effusively
for the opportunity. I think.
Tom and I had cheese sand-
wiches. They tasted awfully
good while we tried to keep our
eyes off the now steaming
black pot.
Eventually, bellys full, our
visitors dropped the stew pail
in the canoe and took off, se-
cure in the knowledge there
was still plenty of whatever it
was for tomorrow.
We suxxl on the shore, wav-
ing a polite farewell. As the
canoe turned a rocky bluff.
Tom turned to me with pained
eyes and said merely: "Mi-
gawd!" and strode off up to
the tent. Whatever Torn meant.
I seconded the motion. It seem,
to me we broke out a can of
peaches and tried to wash out
the memory of that horrible
stew.
I for one, did not succeed.
That gruesome gruel haunts me
still.