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Authors: Birgit Stutz
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kept telling me, even though he feels the same compassion for animals that I do. A tall, slim, olive-skinned man, he feels most at home in cowboy boots and a Stetson, with a guitar on his lap and a cowboy song on his lips.
Marc himself was angry about the horses having been abandoned in the mountains. “The owner just walked away. I wouldn’t have done it, and I’m a poor man,” he said later.
I met Marc through a co-worker in Hinton, Alberta, where I wrote for a newspaper. Marc was working in nearby Jasper for Parks Canada’s highways department. We married in 2002 under the birch tree I pass every day en route to our horse pasture. I was born a Capricorn, and people born under that sign are notoriously
stubborn and persistent, head-through-the-wall persistent. Marc is a Gemini, a lone wolf with two personalities. The one is very quiet, the other quite social. He and I had just clicked.
Marc had grown up in Parry Sound, in central Ontario, where he experienced an attraction to animals as strong as my own. He would clean box stalls just so he could ride a horse. Marc had come west as a young man and found work tar-roofing in Edmonton and later with the Canadian National Railway. Once he had seen Banff, he was hooked on living in the mountains. Marc is a self-taught rider, but he is also fearless, and most horses under him take comfort in that.
Like many in the Robson Valley, Marc has to go elsewhere for work, commuting back home on weekends and days off. In winter, he drives a snowplow in Jasper National Park. In summer, he drives a truck hauling gravel, fixes roads and signs and, during forest fires, transports chainsaws, hoses and fuel to fire bases. Marc is gone from the ranch four to five days every week, longer if there are fires. He sleeps in a tin-can camper during his workweek, then comes home to unending rounds of farm chores.
I was grateful that he was there on that stressful Thursday morning as I fretted over whether Matt had or had not left for Mount Renshaw without me. Marc suggested I call Tony Parisi, an outfitter and snowmobile guide who lives in Valemount. I reached Tony
right away and, after explaining the circumstances, asked him if he could take me up the mountain.
But Tony had blown his sled’s engine, and his truck had broken down, too. “I’m sorry, Birgit,” he said. “But if Matt said he was going to take you, he will.” (Just a note on my name: my Canadian friends pronounce it Ber-geet, while in Europe the stress is on the first syllable, as in Beer-git.)
Tony knows Matt very well, so his words offered me some assurance. Still, I could not make sense of Matt’s line being busy one minute and going unanswered the next. I ended my call with Tony by asking him to spread the word that we needed sledders to help us shovel.
Finally, just before 9 a.m., the phone rang. It was Matt.
“So, do you still want to go?”
“You bet,” I said.
“We’re meeting at the Renshaw parking lot at ten.”
I had had no breakfast yet, but I couldn’t eat anyway. My stomach was in knots.
I raced to get ready. Getting dressed for the mountain is no simple matter. The rule is to dress in layers, starting with several pairs of socks, long underwear, then fleece pants, a turtleneck and two fleece sweaters, a neck warmer, a fleece vest, jogging pants and insulated bib coveralls. Then I gathered up my toque, two balaclavas,
several pairs of gloves and mitts, Sorel winter boots, ski goggles and my thick oilskin coat. I also got my snowshoes ready, just in case.
Finally, I double-checked the contents of my backpack: my camera, cellphone, salt and electrolytes for the horses, a syringe to make an electrolyte drench (a mix of powdered electrolytes and water), a notebook, a pen and a bottle of water, as well as a lunch, including some of my favourite Christmas cookies. I had finally gotten around to making two kinds.
I’d learned that Tim and Monika were coming as well—a relief since I wasn’t certain
Marc himself was angry about the horses having been abandoned in the mountains. “The owner just walked away. I wouldn’t have done it, and I’m a poor man,” he said later.
I met Marc through a co-worker in Hinton, Alberta, where I wrote for a newspaper. Marc was working in nearby Jasper for Parks Canada’s highways department. We married in 2002 under the birch tree I pass every day en route to our horse pasture. I was born a Capricorn, and people born under that sign are notoriously
stubborn and persistent, head-through-the-wall persistent. Marc is a Gemini, a lone wolf with two personalities. The one is very quiet, the other quite social. He and I had just clicked.
Marc had grown up in Parry Sound, in central Ontario, where he experienced an attraction to animals as strong as my own. He would clean box stalls just so he could ride a horse. Marc had come west as a young man and found work tar-roofing in Edmonton and later with the Canadian National Railway. Once he had seen Banff, he was hooked on living in the mountains. Marc is a self-taught rider, but he is also fearless, and most horses under him take comfort in that.
Like many in the Robson Valley, Marc has to go elsewhere for work, commuting back home on weekends and days off. In winter, he drives a snowplow in Jasper National Park. In summer, he drives a truck hauling gravel, fixes roads and signs and, during forest fires, transports chainsaws, hoses and fuel to fire bases. Marc is gone from the ranch four to five days every week, longer if there are fires. He sleeps in a tin-can camper during his workweek, then comes home to unending rounds of farm chores.
I was grateful that he was there on that stressful Thursday morning as I fretted over whether Matt had or had not left for Mount Renshaw without me. Marc suggested I call Tony Parisi, an outfitter and snowmobile guide who lives in Valemount. I reached Tony
right away and, after explaining the circumstances, asked him if he could take me up the mountain.
But Tony had blown his sled’s engine, and his truck had broken down, too. “I’m sorry, Birgit,” he said. “But if Matt said he was going to take you, he will.” (Just a note on my name: my Canadian friends pronounce it Ber-geet, while in Europe the stress is on the first syllable, as in Beer-git.)
Tony knows Matt very well, so his words offered me some assurance. Still, I could not make sense of Matt’s line being busy one minute and going unanswered the next. I ended my call with Tony by asking him to spread the word that we needed sledders to help us shovel.
Finally, just before 9 a.m., the phone rang. It was Matt.
“So, do you still want to go?”
“You bet,” I said.
“We’re meeting at the Renshaw parking lot at ten.”
I had had no breakfast yet, but I couldn’t eat anyway. My stomach was in knots.
I raced to get ready. Getting dressed for the mountain is no simple matter. The rule is to dress in layers, starting with several pairs of socks, long underwear, then fleece pants, a turtleneck and two fleece sweaters, a neck warmer, a fleece vest, jogging pants and insulated bib coveralls. Then I gathered up my toque, two balaclavas,
several pairs of gloves and mitts, Sorel winter boots, ski goggles and my thick oilskin coat. I also got my snowshoes ready, just in case.
Finally, I double-checked the contents of my backpack: my camera, cellphone, salt and electrolytes for the horses, a syringe to make an electrolyte drench (a mix of powdered electrolytes and water), a notebook, a pen and a bottle of water, as well as a lunch, including some of my favourite Christmas cookies. I had finally gotten around to making two kinds.
I’d learned that Tim and Monika were coming as well—a relief since I wasn’t certain
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