Don't Name the Ducks Read online

  For my mother and father, who broke trail

  Foreward

  The countryside flowed beneath our tires. A snow-covered road is quieter than pavement, and we had the feeling we were gliding over the swells of a wide, frozen sea. This was the rangeland of southwest Alberta: land caught between the mountains and the plains in a comfortable blend of rolling hills and wooded valleys. A skiff of snow described natural topographic patterns and highlighted weathered barns, sheds, and fences that fitted the landscape like a well-worn saddle. It was an Andrew Wyeth world with a cowboy twist. Because of this I was wearing a grin. My eyes were shooting possible painting compositions I would never have time to do. They were also scanning every fence post and every aspen for my "jinx" bird, the great grey owl —I have never seen one in the wild. However, I knew that this was great grey country because Wendy had told me that she had seen them many times near her home in Burro Alley.

  This was my first time visiting Wendy and her mother, Penny, at Burro Alley. Wendy has always been an "aw-shucks," self-deprecating kind of girl, and though I was expecting a pleasant homestead, I did not expect it to be so perfectly to my taste. The snow, aspen, and spruce, along with the smaller buildings and the house, were arranged in pleasing compositions as we drove down the lane and walked from the car to the front door. Inside we were greeted with warmth and comfort for the eye, from the honey-coloured log walls, to the rugs and cozy furniture.

  And there were Wendy and Penny. Wendy, of course, has changed since I first knew her as a young child, but Penny seemed to be the same slender, vivacious, no-nonsense woman I first met in the late 1940s. Penny and

  This book is the story of Burro Alley and its living things. Wendy weaves stories about nature with stories of the cattlemen and cowboys and their culture. One of my favourite chapters concerns Ian Tyson and the community of Longview, Alberta. Tyson's ballads tell of a vanishing way of life. There was a heart and soul in that life that is missing in the new, mechanized world of agribusiness. Wendy adds her stories to Ian's. Without sentimentality or lamentation, she does honour to a rich part of our human heritage, which is still clinging to existence in the buffeting arena of 21st century economics and industrialization. Her phrase "the rural, handmade life" is just right. Don't Name the Ducks is the saga of a very individual, rural, handmade life.

  From the young girl visiting our home on the Niagara Escarpment, to the young woman showing us the osprey's nest, to the professional journalist asking me penetrating questions, I know that Wendy is a unique human being. Although I can't exactly explain what is meant by a "big heart," Wendy's qualifies. Her deep feelings for our natural and human heritage go far beyond the philosophical; they are intense and personal. And Wendy knows that, just as each human fingerprint in history is unique and each zebra pattern has never been repeated, each living thing is an individual. That is why she must name her ducks. Individuality, respect, and love these things matter and are what this book is about.

  This is also a book of adventures, accidents, and mishaps, ranging from skunks to leafy spurge. Wendy makes clear what I have always known to be one of her characteristics: in the face of adversity, a laugh helps to lighten the load. Wendy's sense of humour has her chuckling about herself quite regularly. She doesn't chuckle about sour gas wells, however. She has the toughness of a good journalist and the conscience of an ardent environmentalist. I know that she could write another book about what modern man is doing to this planet. We see eye to eye on that score.

  Wendy's own drawings fit very well with the mood of the book. They are accurate but they go well beyond to portray the warmth and particularity that is so much a part of her being.

  As you enter this book you will have the same feeling I had when I entered Wendy's log home. It will envelop you in its warmth. To repeat her phrase used in another sense, through her writing she "has left a welcome footprint in cow country."

  I did not see my great grey owl, but Wendy showed me the post where one had perched not long before. I'll just have to go back, but in the meantime, this book will take me there. It is a worthwhile visit for everyone.

  Robert Bateman

  Salt Spring Island, BC

  2003

  Introduction

  This is a story about coming home to what matters.

  As a child, I built forts in the tangled sumac bush above the sand and clay bluffs overlooking Lake Ontario. My family lived on the edge of a ravine, our backyard reaching into the wilds, where there were fox, raccoons, deer, and pheasants. Most days after school, I hiked the gully trails, always with our dog at my side, flushing rabbits from the underbrush while listening to the cries of seagulls and terns flying over the lake. At the back of our home was a rustic log cabin where I spent hours painting portraits of moose, whisky jacks, and Tom Thomson-inspired images of storms brewing over white-capped lakes. I was fascinated by the outdoors and its many creatures, amusing our neighbours with a pet skunk and young hawk. I even tried keeping a toad until one evening I lifted him from his glass terrarium, plopping him down on our front lawn in the shade of a sprawling elm. Just for a few minutes, I thought, so he can enjoy a bit of freedom. Two hours later, I remembered he was still loose. Everyone joined in the search, illuminating our lawn with probing flashlights. But my warty friend had hopped away to a new home, a better one I am sure, beneath some damp moss and brown leaves. And then there was Travis, a baby black squirrel, so deformed he had to tilt his head sideways to eat while teetering on a shrivelled, undeveloped, foot. Perched on my shoulder, he would share a turkey drumstick with me, sometimes grabbing it and scampering off to finish his feast under my bed.

  I also made friends with his cousins, the white-bellied red squirrels that chattered away in the northern bush, where we had a cabin just outside Algonquin Park. There, my brother and I built tree houses, tapped the maple trees, skated on the lake, and canoed among beaver lodges. In the evenings, we sat around the wood stove, reading such books as Ernest Thompson Seton's Wild Animals I Have Known, Jack London's Call of the Wild, the poems of Robert Service, and Mary O'Hara's My Friend Flicka.

  Sometimes my dad would strum his old guitar, entertaining us with cowboy songs he learned while breaking horses on the Circle M Ranch, a dude ranch and Western movie lot north of Toronto. I probably got my first inklings about moving west from reading my dad's hardcover collection of Will James books: Smoky, Sand, Cow Country, Lone Cowboy, and All in a Day's Riding. What a wonderful way to lope the West without ever putting a toe in the stirrup, but what strange looks I received when I stood before my Grade 8 classmates, giving a report on James's book Cowboy in the Making. There were more frowns when I clip-clopped down my high-school hallways wearing scruffy cowboy boots. It was obvious my friends and I did not wander the same trails.

  When I left home, travelling across Canada and the United States on a Greyhound bus, I took my memories with me. I was searching for a new home, one where I could fly on my own. Awed by the giant firs on the West Coast and by the killer whales swimming the inside passages, I spent several years in Vancouver, beachcombing, cycling oceanside paths, and hiking lush green trails. One autumn after several years, I migrated inland to Banff, where I climbed mountain passes and rafted whitewater rivers. I eventually moved to Calgary, where I decided to put down roots. With the mountains shadowing the western horizon and the prairies and sloughs stretching to the east, this fringe on the plains appealed to me. Here was an abundance of goat trails and a labyrinth of wild rivers and blue lakes, miles of open grasslands, and endless fields bucking with Will James's horses. And holding it all together was a big, magnificent sky.

  For several years, I lived in a tiny home along the Bow River in Calgary, where I whiled away evenings perched on a rock
with my orange cat Tod. Pretending to fish, we would watch minute water creatures swirl in the back eddies while waving to the common mergansers that sailed by. I knew where the fox hunted, where the beaver lived, and where the bald eagles perched. Always, the land was calling; I needed to find a home outside the city.

  Home can be a tired farm, an extravagant castle, a lakeside shack, or a downtown apartment; it is where you feel comfortable. For me, home is where the sky reflects a horizon, where there is room to think. I hunger for wild sounds and smells. The soil I dug in as a child is still stuck between my toes. I am rooted to land, possessed by it.

  When I moved to the foothills, it was like a homecoming. Once again, I could see the stars at night, smell the earth in spring, and hear the creek sing in the morning. Here I can croak with the ravens, yodel with the coyotes, and whistle with the elk. Once again, dogs hike at my side.

  When my mother moved in, the circle was complete. When the horse, mule, and donkeys moved in, it was like having my dad back in the saddle. Our log house became our homeplace, that special place full of memories, a place that travels with you forever as a companion.

  This is the story of that place. We call it Burro Alley Ranch, in honour of the longears that make us smile most every day.

  Chapter One

  Lame Excuse

  Riding bareback is a wonderful way to develop balance, the rhythm of your hips matching the cadence of hoof beats.

  With my right leg dangling like a limp fishing line and my face smeared with dirt and sweat, I stood there like a naughty child caught playing hooky from school. My mother's voice was stern, her words stinging as much as the pain now gripping my groin.

  "Why do you ride that animal without a saddle? And why don't you put a bit in her?"

  "She didn't do anything wrong!" I screamed back, defending my long-eared friend as I clutched my leg. But my argument was lost on the wind. Seconds later, I crumpled to the ground, my groin cramping in spasms from the knifelike pain creeping down my inside right thigh.

  Only moments before, I had been riding my mule Lucy bareback, using her rope halter and lead as a hitless bridle while rounding up the donkeys to bring them back to the barn for the night. the roundup was a lazy summer afternoon ritual. Leaving the house with the halter and lead draped over my shoulder, I would stroll the fields, never knowing exactly where I would find my animals grazing. Maybe in an open pocket or maybe in the bush playing hide-and-seek, their dark coats and the black aspen trunks becoming one. Once I found Lucy, I would slip on her halter, then lead her to a log or higher ground where I could easily swing my leg over her broad back. She always stood still, knowing I would give a gentle squeeze with my legs when we were ready to move on. With the two donkeys trotting in front like obedient pups, Lucy and I worked as a team, my leg cues guiding her around the trees and through the bush. She wore no bit, and there were no reins to hang onto, just a small hank of mane, its spiky hair as short as a cropped pasture.

  I was proud of Lucy. Sure, she could be a knothead at times, but that's when her nostrils detected the musky smell of bear or cougar. Rather than being stubborn, she possessed a keen sense of self-preservation, always on alert when dark shadows fluttered among the aspen bluffs or spruce groves. But today there was a mischievous wind tugging at the long grasses, and the warmth of the spring sun spirited my small herd into frivolous play. the two donkeys darted out front, their swinging heads and merry kicks inviting Lucy to join their cheeky trot.

  I didn't try to hold her back. "Sure, let's go down the hill," I said. "Then we'll circle around and head back home." I'm not sure what happened next, but I imagine I began sliding towards her neck. Lucy doesn't have withers, so it's easy to creep over her shoulders when riding downhill. I do remember gripping with my legs, determined to stay on her back as my arms embraced her thick neck.

  I hit the ground hard, hip first and then a somersault. Colliding with a rock poking out of the clay-hard ground, I felt a burst of pain crack like a stitch of lightning. For several minutes, I lay there, trying to catch my breath, wondering what went wrong. Lucy hadn't bolted, spooked, bucked, or reared. In fact, she was now standing next to me, while the two donkeys raced around the field braying their high-pitched alarm. Then they too trotted over, drooping their shaggy heads over my shoulder. When I whimpered in pain, they resumed their anxious race, braying until the narrow valley vibrated with their screams.

  With every muscle, ligament, and tendon in my groin on fire, I began dragging myself up the hill, eyeing a stand of aspen trees at the top. I used my elbows to pull my body along, the injured leg dragging behind as if it was no longer attached to the rest of me. Grimacing, I thought of all those cowboys who have broken bones on the job. What would they do? What would Will James do? Find a tree and fashion a branch into a crutch so he could hobble his way home. Pulling myself up the rough trunk of a tree, I broke off a low limb. It was no use my leg was now in a spasm, a mere toe-touch to the ground sending me to the stars. The half-mile back to the house seemed like ten miles. I could feel the warm wind turning cold as it shifted from the west to the north. I began to shiver.

  Having heard the piercing donkey brays, Mom suspected something was wrong. When she crested the hill, she saw me standing there with my hand on my leg and a gnarled branch in my hand.

  "Now what have you done?" she yelled.

  I explained my sorry state.

  "Why do you do such stupid things? Next time, try using a saddle," she shouted, her words as biting as the icy wind. "Just sit there, while I take the animals back. And then I guess I'll try driving the car along the road to get you." I stared at my mother in disbelief. At age seventy-seven, she hasn't driven a day in her life. "Don't be crazy," I yelled back. "You don't have a licence. You'll never make it this far. You'll end up in an accident, and then we'll be in a real mess."

  "Fine," she grumbled. "I'll take the animals back and call an ambulance."

  I leaned back in the grass, watching her take Lucy by the lead, pulling her hard when she firmly planted all four hooves and refused to budge. I wanted to yell out to Mom that she shouldn't pull with constant pressure, that she should give separate tugs or else Lucy would brace her body, making it impossible to win the battle. But I kept quiet. Lying there on my backside and considering my unceremonious crash to the ground, I didn't think it wise to offer peanut-gallery advice.

  "Are you OK?" came a whispered voice from the side of the road. Stretched out, with my hands over my face, I guess I didn't look like I was taking an afternoon nap. I propped myself up and answered, "Well, actually, no, I'm not." The girl came to my side with her father, a nearby neighbour.

  "My dad was driving by, and he thought you were a dead animal," she said. I smiled at her honesty. "Well, he wasn't far from the truth," I replied. "I do sort of feel like a carcass. I'm just glad your dad didn't come back with his gun."

  My neighbours stayed with me until the ambulance arrived, the little girl's conversation keeping my spirits high. When the paramedics attempted to move me onto the stretcher, I rolled my shoulders, thinking I could at least give them a hand moving my more than featherweight body, but a sharp verbal bark pushed me back.

  "Look," one paramedic said. "I think you've broken your hip. And you've got a femoral artery sitting right there that you don't want to sever." My world went dark, my face pale. I tried to hold the tears back as I felt the weight of his words. I was in serious trouble. It took two

  paramedics and two firefighters to haul me uphill and over a barbed wire fence to where the ambulance was waiting. Twenty-four hours later I was in surgery. Three pins were screwed into the neck of my upper femur. I heard more times than necessary how serious an injury it was, how I was at risk for blood clots, and how, even with the operation, the hip could still die. The morphine numbed the physical pain, carrying me into a desert full of spotted horses with pounding hoofs; but the drug could not kill the reality of what lay ahead.

  At least three months on crutches
before I could put any weight on my leg. No working, no driving, no bending. No nothing.

  I thought of this year's hay that I wouldn't be cutting, drying, or stacking. I thought of mom slaving with the daily chores. I thought of the tree stretched across the back fence, the broken strands of wire loose on the ground. I thought of my mule and donkeys growing fat with no exercise. I thought of myself growing fatter with no exercise. I thought of my dogs, Maggie and Georgie, and how I would miss walking them to the creek for their daily swim. I thought of my blind cat Hud and how he would be the only living creature that wouldn't notice anything different about me.

  My wallow in self-pity was abruptly interrupted when my surgeon arrived at the end of my bed with several interns. "Now here's a young lady who fractured her femur when she fell off her ... "He paused, then added with confidence, "fell off her mule."

  "You receive full marks for that," I smiled. "I can't believe you remembered to call her a mule and not a horse."

  Over the next two days, I contemplated how I would spend my three months of convalescence. "You're going to go insane," a neighbour warned. "In two weeks, when you're feeling better, the only thing holding you back will be that leg. And you're going to get real cranky."

  A project, I thought. I need to find a project. And then it hit me. It was time to write a book, something I'd put off for two years because there never seemed enough time. I no longer had that excuse.

  I would write about life in the country and my adventures on Burro Alley Ranch. I would write about my herding dog that's terrified of sheep, about the hardheaded grouse that crash through our windows, a duck that took an ice bath, and a bear that tried to steal a bag of bananas. And, of course, I would write about my posse of mule and donkeys.

  And so, for several minutes, I forgot about my leg and began to think about tomorrow.