Ch.18: Long way to Kitimat.

“We have a job in Kitimat for a mechanical and engineer, are you still interested?” Asked me the Alcan man I had an interview a couple of weeks ago. Of course I was interested! “We will book airline tickets for you and your wife to fly to Kitimat as soon as possible. Good luck with the interview.”  

            The Kitmat-Terrace airport was fogged in so our plane landed in Prince Rupert. From there we took a three hours bus ride to Kitimat and arrived at three o’clock in the morning. The bus stopped, the driver called “Here is the Alcan Lodge“ and we got off. We were standing on a road with snow banks piled up to the power line. Where was the lodge? Then I saw a tunnel in the snow bank. We walked through it and on the other side were lights and houses, all snowed in. One had a sign “Alcan Lodge”. The door was not locked so we entered. On a coffee table was a note. It said “Welcome to Kitimat Mr and Mrs Bazant. You are staying in room 105.
The next morning I was given a tour of the smelter and then sent from one department to another, to chat with each supervisor. My wife was shown the town, shopping center, schools, hospital and swimming pool.

           

   

We were given a brief history of the Kitimat project: High up in the coastal mountains of northern British Columbia is Ootsa lake, the source of the Nechako River. The Kenney Dam created the Nechako reservoir. Impounded water was diverted through a 16 km long tunnel under the Dubois Mountain, down 2,600 feet through penstocks into a 780 MW power station in Kemano, a small, isolated community located at sea level. A hundred kilometres further north is the Douglas Channel, a long fjord reaching to the ocean. At the end of the fjord was an isolated Indian village Kitamaat. Nearby, Alcan built an aluminum smelter and a long transmission line connecting it to the Kemano power station. In the valley, carved out of old growth forest, was sited Kitimat, a town of 6,000. The best city planners were hired to design a modern community that would attract people.
 All facilities in town were within walking distance with a minimum of traffic.                                                                                            

                        


Kitimat is located on a coastal range with high precipitation. In mild winter the weather is wet. Snow is followed by rain and the weeks of grey, overcast sky is a challenge for many people, especially housewives, with many suffering from cabin fever. In a cold winter, a meter of snowfall in a day is not unheard of. It is company policy to bring both husband and wife for the interview so they are not surprised by the severe weather. However when the sun is shinning, summer or winter, you could hardly find a better place to live….told us Alcan’s PR man.

A week after returning to Ontario, Alcan offered me a job as a mechanical engineer in the smelter. There were a few other job offers but I didn’t need any persuasion regarding where to go in spite of arriving in Kitimat just after the dreaded meter of snowfall. The company would pay for moving expense and give us the cash equivalent of airline tickets to Kitimat. 

 We had decided to drive through the States, I wanted to see the Yellowstone National Park, my long time dream. However it was not the best time to go, the Yom Kippur War between Israel and Egypt had taken place a few weeks earlier and OPEC had declared an oil embargo against the USA. In many states there were long lines at gas stations and in California there were occasional shootouts between gas queue jumpers. But we would take the chance. 

Yellowstone Park lies in the Black Hills in South Dakota. The Indian tribes were pushed into this area by white settlers and the US government signed a treaty with them, promising that the land would belong to the tribes “as long the sun will shine in the sky and waters will flow in rivers.”  Then white men found gold in the Black Hills and the treaty became a worthless piece of paper.


Some hundred years ago a German writer named Karl May wrote a couple of books romanticizing the Old West. The main heroes were the Indian chief Winnetou and his pale face companion Old Shatterhand. Their journeys included the Black Hills. These books became very popular in Europe and were read by every young boy from my father’s generation on. In North America very few people have ever heard of Karl May, and readers would laugh at his European view of the West. But I remember being Winnetou while playing cowboys and Indians in my town’s park. Maybe I would meet his ancestors. 

Our first stop in the Black Hills was the Devil’s Tower, the lava plug of an ancient volcano, towering 350 meters above the surrounding countryside. It was a favorite destination of rock climbers. Near our campground I saw two climbers getting ready to climb a smaller rock tower so I went over to talk with them and they asked me to rope up. I was surprised that I could keep up after many years of pushing pencil.

Close to our route was Wounded Knee, a small town on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. At this site 300 Lacota Indians were massacred in the 1890’s by the US cavalry. I remembered this story; “Bury my heart at Wounded Knee“ was my favorite book. Also Wounded Knee had made recent headlines because it was occupied for 71 days by armed Indian warriors and there were frequent shootouts with the police and FBI. However I was disappointed when we arrived. There was only a plaque commemorating the massacre and foundations of a church burned down during the shootout that marked the location.

Our next stop was a campground near Mount Rushmore where the faces of US presidents were carved into the mountain. We were driving along a scenic road when suddenly through a break in trees lining the road I glimpsed HUGE HEADS  carved into rocks. They were enormous; I had not imagined something like that was even possible .I was amazed by the effort but not impressed by the work. To me as a mountain climber, each mountain has its own splendor and majesty. Blasting it away to carve face into it is like tattooing a pretty girl’s face, making her interesting but ugly.

At the visitors centre overlooking the carved up mountain was a row of flags snapping in the wind, speakers were blasting patriotic songs, and a couple of men were standing at attention and looking at the stony heads, right hand over their hearts. 

Suddenly I realized that this scene looks familiar. Yes, I had seen it in Prague where the Communist government had erected a huge statue of the Russian dictator Joseph Stalin. At the viewing stand speakers blasted communist songs and few communists stood at attention, looking at their beloved leader.

It then occurred to me that Russia and United States were in many ways alike. They had the same supper-power mentality: We are the mightiest, strongest, the best; both claimed to have great past and glorious leaders.

I read some comments in the visitor book : “What a beautiful view, I am speeches.” The next one claimed “The history of the United States carved forever in stone”. The last one upset me: “Man’s genius conquered nature. I am proud to be American”. Now if was my turn to write a comment. I looked around; nobody was there so I took the pen:                

        

“What are you proud of? You stole the land from the Indians and defaced their sacred mountain with heads of four clowns” and to rub it in, I added: “Pay attention to the third head with the mustache, it looks like the Russian dictator Stalin, you had been duped by the KGB".

I was disappointed when we arrived at the Yellowstone Park; the road to geysers was closed!   The sign at the Information Centre said that President Nixon had ordered all National Parks to be closed, part of the national effort to save gasoline. However I was determined to see Old Faithful. My wife stayed in a motel and I drove back to the locked gate. The countryside was full of snow but the road was clear so I jumped over the gate and started to walk. A half hour later a truck stopped beside me, it was the park ranger. “Where are you going? The park is closed.”   

I started to give him a sob story about being a refugee from a communist country, that I have heard so much about Yellowstone Park, that I was on my way to a new job, and this was my only chance to see Old Faithful. “OK, I will give you ride to the geysers but you have to hike back. It is a long way back” he warned me

The area around Old Faithful was snowed in; buildings were still boarded up for the winter. I was alone in the park, except for a herd of buffaloes, just the way it was in the past. Old Faithful blew high, hot water bubbled in various pools, and I walked around, dreaming of seeing the ghost of Winnetou with his silver-studded rifle.
Three hours went by fast and I started to hike back. Suddenly there was a car going in my direction so I lifted a thumb. It was a newspaper reporter and photographer doing a story about the National Parks being closed. I explained why I was walking on the highway and soon was telling them the story of my escape. The reporter was taking notes. “A refugee from a communist country hiking for miles to see geysers, dodging buffaloes along the road ….It will add a spice to my story”. He was delighted. “Make sure you buy the Sunday edition ….” 

                                                                         But we didn’t have time to hang around for the weekend; we were in a hurry to get to Kitimat. My new job was waiting for me …..