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| My 1972 Toyota Land Cruiser |
A life changing event.
I've had asthma all my life and it limited me somewhat until 1972, when after an
event on a remote Canadian lake I was rushed to Dryden Area Hospital for emergency treatment of
a pneumothorax/lung collapse.
Leaving Roseau as the last vehicle in the three car caravan, we headed off toward the Canadian wilderness. My dad, Guy Reynolds, and I were already tired, having driven the first 500+ miles from Des Moines, Iowa that day. Jack's son, Jeffrey, a lithe energetic boy, was small enough to fit in the rear passenger compartment of the Land Cruiser, (which was an off-road 4-wheel drive vehicle that lacked anything remotely resembling luxury) upon which he laid, sleeping.
Pulling into the well-lighted Canadian Customs house at the U.S./Canadian border, north of Roseau, the Canadian Customs officer walked around our vehicles inspecting them for obvious contraband, and seeing none, waved us on our way north toward our first destination, the Trans-Canada Highway about 60 miles northeast.
Unknown to us, Road 308 out of Sprague, Manitoba where we would turn north off Hwy 12 was all gravel, so
being the last vehicle in the entourage we began to encounter dust so heavy that before long,
the tail lights of the other vehicles we were following disappeared. Even while hoping we wouldn't miss a vital turn that the others might have taken, we slowed down to avoid as much blinding dust as possible,
Suddenly our vehicle was awash in flashing blue and white light, and so it took me a few seconds longer to acknowledge all of it as real and not my imagination before I braked, slowed, signaled, and stopped on the side of the road, amazed at the situation. One minute we were thinking we were the last people left on earth, when a 'space ship' appeared out of nowhere to bathe us in flashing light, and give us a good look. It was like, "Close Encounters of a Third Kind," https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HYtuw0c3dJ4
His vehicle was silhouetted behind mine, all its lights blinding me through my side mirrors and flashing against everything within view, the road, trees -- the stars. The Mountie, an official representative of The Royal Canadian Mounted Police, straightened the crisp brim of his tall crowned hat, and walked to my door and demanded to see my driver's license, registration, and proof of insurance card. Looking beyond me at my dad, the officer asked for his identification, and receiving it, asked the nature of our visit to Canada and what was our destination.
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| The RCMP may have looked like this in 1972. It was pretty dusty. |
Asking me to step out and away from the vehicle, he used a flashlight to illuminate its contents, front seat, and back as he asked me further questions in a terse-sounding voice, "Where are you going?", "Are you carrying any liquor, tobacco or firearms?" Who is this child? Is he yours?"
I answered him without elaboration, "Stormy Lake, Snake Bay, Ontario for a lake trout fishing trip with family. No, I am not carrying liquor, tobacco, or firearms. The boy's name is Jeffrey Davidson. His father, Jack Davidson of Thief River Falls, Minnesota is in a car ahead of us, one of two of our party that we are--were--following."
"Other vehicles?" the Mountie said disbelievingly. "I didn't see other vehicles," continuing to look through the windows of the Toyota with his flashlight. He inquired about the contents of the trailer that were covered in canvas and tied down tight.
"Neither could we in all this gravel dust," I said. "I was shocked to see you. I couldn't believe my eyes."
He relaxed his persona a bit and explained he was patrolling the area on the lookout for drunk drivers after the hotels closed. I asked him how far it was to the Trans-Canada Highway, because that was where we were headed. I don't recall what he said in answer, but he gave me back all our licenses and documents, and said he'd better let us get on our way, 'eh', and wished us good luck fishing.
We figured the gang would stop at the Trans-Canada when they got there and wait for us, but how much farther did we have to eat this dust? It was telling on me now as I started wheezing and coughing a little; I wasn't feeling the best, but knew it was just the dust and lack of sleep.
We caught up with the others. Taking a break outside our cars, I told them of our adventure somewhere south of there. We regrouped and began driving the remaining 144 miles to Dryden, Ontario, the last major city before our descent to the lake. I can't determine how many miles exactly it was between Dryden and the landing at Stormy Lake where a bigger boat we had rented awaited us, but I've always remembered it being 40 miles, and another 40 across the lake to our camp on a beach in Snake Bay.
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| Taken through the windshield of the Land Cruiser, its hood in the foreground, Uncle Martin's 1962 Chevy station wagon with a boat on top creeps along the crude trail to the boat landing on Stormy Lake. There were low spots in the trail where they had to go very slow to avoid bottoming out. On the way back to Dryden in the Land Cruiser, which was designed for terrain like that, Dad didn't even slow down. He had driven trucks and rough roads all his life and couldn't waste any time. He was busy trying to save my life. |
Unloading our stuff into the two boats, Jack was carrying Jeff's pack out of the Toyota when he lifted a long slender case over his head and shouted, "Lucky that Mountie didn't search your truck and find this!" Here it was, a .22 rifle Jack had smuggled in. I WAS SO DAMN MAD! I'd probably still be in Stony Mountain Penitentiary had they found it, thinking I had lied to them. Its discovery would've ruined the trip for everyone.
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| Heading out across the lake toward Snake Bay. I remember it being one of a small number of beaches where we could camp. Although traveling by boat was refreshing and the landscape so beautiful after hundreds of miles riding in a vehicle, I wasn't enjoying it as I wanted. Little did I know the return trip would be much sooner than any one of us expected. |
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| The lake looked clean enough to drink. Portions of it were so clear you could see deep down, which aided Jack and those in the bow of the boats to see the gigantic rocks just below the surface, whose locations were marked on maps of the lake; perhaps some by buoys too, I don't know. |
By the time we made it to camp, I was exhausted and coughing pretty good. It was difficult for me to breathe of course.
It was the first fishing trip my Dad and I had ever been on. He had never been an
outdoors man; my mother was more like that, as she had grown up in the woods of northwest Minnesota where her family
hunted, trapped, and fished to survive. Dad had been a farm kid, but I never knew of a story
that he ever told of him fishing or hunting. Why he went along on this trip, I don't
know, but I was sure glad he agreed to go.
The first evening at camp, I was miserable. Here we were on a beautiful Canadian lake. Our tents set up just a few yards from the water, the waves lapping gently, smoothing the sandy beach its length. It was so quiet, just the slight wind in the trees. But I was out of it by then. There was no relief from the coughing. Dad was concerned. Aunt Irene was an LPN. I think she gave me something to relieve my coughing, I don't know. Dad pulled a cot for me out along the lake, and as I remember, the water was right underneath me, the waves coming in, going out. Dad poured me about a half cup of whiskey--another new experience--to help me ( and probably the others) to sleep.
The next morning everybody had gone out on the lake to fish, leaving just me and Dad ashore--but ashore with a walkie-talkie. I was still coughing, still feeling poorly, weak--when I got into a helluva coughing jag, and suddenly it felt like somebody had stabbed me with a short-bladed knife between my neck and my collarbone. It hurt, briefly, but, hey, I could take a breath and I didn't have to cough at all anymore. I felt good, the best I felt since I left Des Moines.
I didn't know what had happened to me, but I told Dad about it and started looking for something to eat in our stuff. I walked the beach for the first time and walked into the underbrush and found an old camp, maybe a trapper's cabin, all fallen down.
I came back happy that I felt so good at last. Dad asked me again, how I felt, looking at me as though he was unsure. Then he said he was going to call Irene out in the boat and ask her to come in and have a look at me, but he never said what it was about me that concerned him.
She arrived a few minutes later, one or two of the other guys with her. She asked me to tell her what happened to me, why I wasn't coughing, was I tired? About that time, I was getting tired, but I just thought it was because I hadn't slept well, and the dust and all the driving.
I was used to not breathing the best; I had been ill that way all my life. I had spent many an afternoon, after a lot of exercise, especially when I was around hay dust and all, and end up gasping for breath I had learned to calm down and take slow breaths; I thought I was just too tired, too exhausted.
There was some talk I didn't hear between Irene, Dad, and others in the boats. It was decided that I needed a doctor right away and so they got everybody in from the lake and started loading the biggest outboard up with our gear and Irene's too as she volunteered to come with us. I realized later how much Dad appreciated that gesture. Jack was going to drive the boat because he knew the lake. He knew where the big boulders laid just beneath the surface of the water, unseen. The others would remain at camp and fish until we came back. Dean and his son were on two weeks vacation from Iowa, so there was no sense in cutting that short.
When we arrived at the landing, I was still in good spirits, but not myself anymore. I knew something was going on, I was weaker than before and the long boat ride almost lulled me to sleep. Dad backed the truck to the boat and I walked to the Toyota and got in front, on the passenger seat. Breaths came in shallow. I had no ambition. no strength.
A couple with a small baby walked to the landing where their boat was tied. The man was carrying groceries and loaded them into the big boat. The woman kept looking at me and then said something to the man in French, after which he turned and said to us that she thought I looked thirsty and would like a drink of cold milk ...
I declined at first, saying I didn't want to take away from the baby, from them something they needed ... and she insisted, pushing a glass jar with wire closures to the man to give to me, "S'il vous plaît, S'il vous plaît," she said, plaintively watching me, looking at me sadly. I couldn't understand what it was about me that struck her so, did I look that bad after losing so much sleep?
I drank all of that milk, that cold wonderful milk, my God ... it was the best thing I ever tasted! I smiled at her and then I slumped against the door window savoring it and it was then I saw myself in the side mirror--I didn't have a neck! My face, neck and chest were all swollen--I looked like a human balloon. No wonder the woman stared at me ... I touched my chest and it popped like so much bubble-wrap, pop pop pop pop.
But I wasn't frightened. I wasn't scared. I didn't panic. I didn't think of all the miles to go,. I didn't doubt that we'd get where we were going. Everything was beyond my control. What will be, will be ...
I think at some early point, maybe at the landing somehow, or a gas station for this was before cellphones, Irene called the Dryden Hospital to alert them to our arrival. All I remember is us driving up to the building and a nurse and wheelchair awaiting me. I don't recall any procedure at the hospital. I remember nothing except
waking up to see a young First Nations nurse curled up on a chair in my room reading
the new book I had purchased just before the trip, "Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee." I remember immediately feeling white man's guilt, and at the same time amazed she said she knew nothing of the history; instead, she found it
interesting reading. I was in the hospital there a week; and spent another week or so in Roseau, as an outpatient, I guess, in conjunction with the hospital there before going back to Iowa.
The Dryden doctors there were surprised that as an American I didn't know anything about inhalers, and prescribed me, "Isuprel", as I recall it was. That first inhaler literally changed my life, it was just amazing. Now I seldom leave home without one, it's still that important.
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