Old friends on four wheels
My truck is like an old friend. Beat-up old half-ton trucks have been part of my life for as far back as I can remember. On the James Bay coast, a durable vehicle is a necessity if you wanted some form of transportation in the community. Back in the ’70s and ’80s, my home community of Attawapiskat had a new series of gravel roads that circled the town. There was barely enough coarse sand and pebbles to cover the thick mushkeg and, over time, muddy potholes big enough to swallow a tire could be found throughout the community. A tough truck was the only vehicle that could sustain the bumpy gravel roads and the deep muddy potholes.
Dad made sure our family had a truck. He was constantly on the quest for new work in town and a truck provided an advantage to small-time contracts for construction or building projects. A truck could transport people and materials while it could also be used for pulling or even pushing objects and other vehicles. Dad was always on the lookout for a truck as we ran these vehicles into the ground on a regular basis. He had a network of friends in Moosonee that had easier access to truck dealers and they replaced their vehicles often by delivery on the train. The nearest truck dealer was in Cochrane and points south, such as Timmins, North Bay and Sudbury.
We were privileged in that we actually had a driveway on our property. Most people did not require one because they had no vehicle. Twenty years ago not many people owned trucks in Attawapiskat. When I was growing up it seemed we always had a truck and an array of tractors and machinery. When the vehicle was not being used for work, it was transporting our family all over town. Mom used it for grocery shopping and we traveled to the far reaches of the road network, which added up to about five kilometres, to enjoy family picnics at the popular rapids.
Every Sunday morning, we all got dressed up for mass and piled onto the half-ton to drive to the Catholic church. We felt special as we pulled up to park alongside the three or four other vehicles in the church parking lot. My brothers competed with each other for dad’s favour to fetch the keys and have the honour of parking the dirty old half-ton after everyone filed into church. At the end of the service, mom and dad hopped up into the front seat and I and my brothers and sisters jumped into the open box for a quick ride through town, up to the rapids then along the dusty riverside road back home for Sunday lunch. We enjoyed our leisurely Sunday drive even though it was a short one. I recall that often when there was a quiet moment we enjoyed a sense of freedom and exhilaration riding as a family around our dusty isolated little town. Only the most prominent families had a vehicle to strut about in.
In the winters, trucks were even more important in our community. Years ago, the winter road was a rough path that was hastily constructed and poorly maintained by bulldozers. Traffic on the winter road consisted of snow trains which were in fact trailers on skis pulled by dozers. There was some local traffic of four-wheel drive half-ton trucks. The 4×4 was the only vehicle capable of driving through deep layers of snow, heavy drifts and blowing storms on the winter road.
The combination of freezing temperatures and deep snow, then spring thaws that produced muddy muskeg, challenged the toughest vehicles. An experienced driver with nerves of steel could pilot a 4×4 or even a two-wheeled drive truck, with a heavy load of fuel, food or building material, through some of the worst driving conditions imaginable. Even if a truck got stuck, the truck frame was tough enough to allow a jack to be used to lift the vehicle up and onto a solid patch and send it on the way again.
My memories of trucks include plenty of pain and anguish. When I was eight years of age, I watched from the sidelines as dad got the family truck stuck on a patch of ice in front of our house. My brothers went out to help push and I decided to participate as well. In the excitement no one realized that a small piece of plywood that was used for traction under one of the rear tires was ready to launch. As we pushed and the tires spun, the plywood spun out at high speed and hit my shin, breaking both bones in my lower leg. All I can remember from that experience is the blinding pain and being rushed to the hospital, where crying and wailing the nurses set my leg for a cast. I spent six months with a full leg cast and every time I looked at that truck it made me angry.
My own trucks have brought me pain and misery in their own ways. I have spent many hours crammed under one of my trucks doing some makeshift repair with the hope of getting a few more miles out of her. Still, these tough old Fords and Chevies have provided me with lots of great memories of rides around Attawapiskat, with the windows down and the radio blaring while my friends and I hollered and sang. Tomorrow I am saying goodbye to our 1994 Ford F150, a strong truck with a five-speed transmission and straight-six motor. I feel a little like an old friend is leaving me.