The Great Hardisty Creek Deluge, Gumboot Caper & Whodunnit – Saga 3

Saga 3 – The Aftermath

For Slick and I, the stunning verdict by the Scout Tribunal was kinda like Al Capone getting liquored up at a Little League game then shooting up Chicago. And then, after he’s finally been busted after terrorizing the city for decades, the mayor suddenly sets him loose and, not only that, but gives him a lifetime pass to all the Chicago Cubs home games along with free beers and all the hotdogs he can eat, just because of all the inconveniences inflicted on him by the Chicago coppers. Anyway, you know, something like that. That’s how we felt. Mighty good.

Oh, yeah, my Friend, this day was ours. We owned it. We had triumphed. Al Capone, Huck Finn, Tom Sawyer, Sindbad, Gene Autry and Eric the Red never had it so good. Now the blood thirsty hordes could focus on shaking down other suspected boot drowners living amongst them, of which there were many, Boystown was, after all, blessed with a veritable bounty of rage-worthy suspects to choose from.

Meanwhile, back in the shell-shocked Scout pack, the bootless troops gradually set to work again on racking up the good old merit badges. Great therapy they were told. Team building. Troop morale. The pack scored a humungous atlas from the Alberta Forestry School showing the rivers of northern Canada, including the Mackenzie and its many tributaries, and even the mighty Athabasca. Other pages depicted the ocean currents of Hudson’s Bay, the Arctic Ocean and the North Atlantic. Numerous merit badges for cartography and oceanography were thus earned over the ensuing months and years in the unrelenting quest to predict where the long-lost gumboots would eventually be washed ashore.

“Probably already up here in Tuktoyaktuk by now”, some multi-patcher would say confidently, rapping on the map with his compass. Lesser geographers wobbled their green-domed heads in agreement. “Maybe all the way over here, to Baffin Island?” someone else one-upped him, which was answered with even more gushing enthusiasm from his own loyal squad of head bobbing beany toppers. Encouraged, someone else took a run, “Yeah, but look at this here current…. Maybe they’ll float all the way to Greenland?” “Yeah, Greenland” sounded the chorus. “All the way to Greenland.”

These frequent mapping sessions would inevitably erupt into a blizzard of wild speculations. “How long do you think it’ll take ‘em?” “A hundred years”, calculated some. “Maybe a thousand”, guessed others. “Probably by next weekend”, predicted some chirpy twit. “Oh, yeah!!” the entire crowd yelled in total agreement, much to the twit’s shock and dismay. “All the way to Greenland, by the weekend! Can you believe it?!?! Wow!”

Then everyone would suddenly remember how their gumboots ended up floating in the Arctic Ocean, and the shouting and bickering and shaking of fists would flare up all over again. I must admit that when I first heard of the map book and the ocean currents, I was darned envious. Pretty cool detective work, I’d say – if only it wasn’t for the bloodlust that spurred them on.

I heard later that the Great Gumboot Caper even inspired distinguished careers in oceanography and marine archaeology for a couple of Eagle Scouters in the pack. Pretty awesome, I admit. And I will also concede there were many times that I wanted to take credit for launching their careers. (Well, somebody bloody well should get the credit! So why not me?) But then I remembered the cloud of murderous threats still swirling in the air – to say nothing of my own parents steely determination to join with other parents, concerned citizens and armed vigellantes to help solve this heinous crime. This constant over-arching peril dissuaded even me from blabbing, though, I will admit, both my blabbler and stifler suffered irreperable injuries from all the strain of keeping my mouth shut.

Holding on to the secret over the years was darned tough even if it was crucial to save my sorry butt. Besides, the launching of a couple of cool careers was somewhat overshadowed by the many other Hinton troopers we inspired who ended up as Russian mercenaries, millionaire televangelists, full patch members of various biker gangs and even a mayor of Edson. And, I dare say, there was nary a Queen’s Scout among the bunch.

More than a half century later, I still see a few cantankerous old geezers in Hinton with furrowed brows and blood shot eyes checking out my gumboots every time I go boogeying and brawling at the Timberland Hotel or join in their Happy Hour Yoga Classes. They perch near the barroom doors like ravenous buzzards endlessly knotting and unknotting hang-man nooses with long bony fingers or meaty fists ready to pounce should they spot one of the unwary boot bandits swaggering in or tottering out of the pub.

My survival strategy over the years is to jump right into the face of these vengeful old geezers. I nail them hard with the old berserker stink eye and a blast of effervescent mead breath – then start spewing out the worst potty mouth I can conjure up. Instant respect! Personally, I find this time-honoured Viking tactic to be a very effective and versatile defense or attack strategy, but then I do have an natural talent for it. I also have many years of professional training and practice under my suspenders in many awkward social situations. In other words, I’m very, very good.

If, perchance, you also want to execute this maneuver on your own sworn enemies you just might want to practice a bit on friends and family first. Work up to cops, truckers, bikers and ultimately librarians. Remember, surprise is everything! When you’re finally good and ready, I suggest trying the technique on the schoolyard bully at your next school reunion. I can pretty much guarantee you’ll never get another wedgy from them ever again. So much fun for everybody if you can pull it off. Its also highly amusing for onlookers even if you don’t.

You can also spot other ageing Hinton mob-troopers down on of Hardisty Creek after every spring flood. You’ll recognize them immediately as they’re poking around in the debris fields attired in their tattered green socks and baggy-assed short pants. They’ll be seeking their long-lost gumboots just in case they’ve been finally regurgitated from the rubble and ooze.

During the year’s most fearsome thunderstorms you can hear their mournful wolf howls late at night echoing up and down the creek signalling their loss and torment to the skies. And sometimes, even, if you listen keenly enough over the raging wind, rushing torrent and rumbling sky, you can hear the eerie howls of other troopers answering their call all the way down to the Athabasca River – and then even fainter wails from ghostly lands and icy waters far, far, far away.

Now, my Friend, keeping the picture of these decidedly maniacal old troopers firmly in our minds, as deeply disturbing as that spectre might be, you must, nevertheless ask yourself some tough questions about what you now know something of the Great Gumboot Caper of Boystown, in the Spring of ‘62. Number one, do you now take it upon yourself to tell them poor old geezers that the mystery of their long-lost gumboots is finally solved – thus devastating their life’s work and leaving them bereft of all existential meaning and purpose? Or, number two, do you let them keep their beloved mystery alive so they can revel forever in their intoxicating lust for revenge? Your call!

As for myself, Oh, Man, I have lived with this burdensome mystery for far too long and finally had to speak of it here, with you. But, as you will have surely noted, I am the proud possessor of a much-thumbed copy of the Berserker’s Manual and, as instructed there, I have wisely invoked Thorslov numerous times. I am therefore eternally protected in the telling of this un-confession. But, how about you, my garrulous Friend?

Viking custom has it, that if you now, or ever, repeat the tale, or give up the mystery in any way, shape or form, then you must top my tale with an un-confession of your own. And please, give me a break, Dear One, don’t say you don’t have a sordid tale or two of your own socked away for just such an occasion. For, as we all know by now, every town – and every citizen in that town, both fair and foul – has their own stash of secrets, mysteries and tales to tell! You too!!!

Just beware, beware, beware! When you’re holding court at the boasting house, reeling stoopidly after your third or seventh tankard of foaming mead, that you must remember to raise your flagon in a toast to Thor and loudly invoke Thorslov. Do this before you start your strutting, crowing and boasting and the telling of your tale – or mine. For, if you forget this crucial invocation, retribution will surely come swift and furious, like a thundering hammer blow from Thor himself. For revenge lives long, dies hard and tastes very, very sweet, indeed.

And verily, I say unto you, immediately upon the telling of any unsanctified boast or tattletale, ye will surely be swiftly dashed, diced, dissected and despatched. Doomed forever!!! And there will be much cheering, laughing, guffawing, and drinking of mead afterwards, and all at your expense.

And now, some final words, as we share a parting tankard: I steadfastly cling to my belief that some of those funky 60-year-old gumboots from Boystown, cast adrift in the epic deluge and flood of ’62, are still bobbing around somewhere off the icy shores of Greenland, or on the storm-tossed swells of the North Atlantic. As they ride the waves, Thor’s mighty thunder fills the night sky overhead and shrieking Valkyries soar amidst the lighting flashes. The ghosts of Vikings, drumming swords upon their shields, ride the tempest in their dragon boats with sails stretched taut in the savage wind and torrential rain and sleet and snow.

One last triumphant voyage over the seven seas to visit the sites of all their most illustrious exploits, battles and great loves. For a thousand years they sail till they finally reach the great boasting house in Valhalla where they drink mead together and outdo each other with their tales. And, while on this final victory lap, each time they see one of those ancient, ragged gumboots cresting atop a towering wave, they thrust their tankards high – a toast to Thor, the storm, the caper and the tale – then they roar a lustful, joyful cry: “SKOL!   SKOL!   SKOL!”

Det Ende

*Never, Ever Skip the Closing Credits –

Cause Ya Just Never Ever Know Who or What’s Going to Show Up There! >>>>>>>>

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DEDICATION

This tale is dedicated to Slick, my old sidekick and fellow Berserker (aka Graham Glass), and to his faithful, fearless dogpal, Scruffy (aka RatDog), partners in many an adventure and caper back in Boystown.

APPRECIATION, CREDITS & SPECIAL NOTES

With thanks to Graham’s sisters, Margaret & Carolyn, for being such good sports and also for sharing some of those great adventures of old (but none of the capers, honest.) And to Ruth Anne, David and Joan, my editors, archivists, computer nerds and enablers – all credit is there’s – all blame is mine.

And a big thank you to my long-suffering wife, Karin and mother-in-law, Carol who have trembled in dread about what I’ve been writing, cackling and howling about long into the night.

And, finally, to my dear siblings and other kin – hey, you were bound to find out someday anyways. And you shouldn’t of been so shocked and surprised to find out it was me whodunnit after all. Hope you come to appreciate and enjoy the witness protection program and all its nifty perks. Owen Sound, Ontario ain’t really all that bad a place to hide out. Honest, it isn’t. And it could have worse. Much worse! It could’ve been Ed…! Whoa! Close call my Friends. Too darned close! I just about to give those guys the very last word.

So, how about something else to end our tale with instead. I don’t know, what else is there, but, to raise a tankard of mead.

SKOL!

IMPORTANT LEGAL UPDATE & COMMUNITY SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT  

SEE OVER >>>>

SPECIAL COMMUNITY NOTIFICATIONS & SUMMONS TO APPEAR 

From the Desk of Sgt. Dodger Clark, Hinton Town Police

01/04/2023

NOTIFICATIONS: To the citizens of Hinton and Edson as well as to Scouts Canada: please note that the author of the incediary tract attached herein, namely one Wayne A. Melvin, aka Scrawny, has once again, been incarcerated in the Bersærker Custodial & Rehabilitation Facility in Saarloq, Greenland and is not available for comment or celebrity interviews until further notice. The Chief Warden has banned all visitors and mail for him after seizing large quantities of dehydrated mead that that he smuggled into the Maximum Security Unit. (He denies all such charges and continues to insist “a magic fox” snuck it in!”)

Also, and we repeat, there is no extradition treaty between Canada & Greenland, so stop asking. Take it up with the writer personally whenever, if ever, he is released from custody again. And best of luck to you. If you know what I mean!!!

He remains unrepentant, claiming immunity under some arcane Nordic folk law. The closest he’s come to admitting guilt or to apologing for his many crimes against humanity is to state under oath and in open court. “Well, I dunno, Man. I ‘spose, I’m kinda sorry sometimes. Maybe once. Sorta. But, no, not really. I really ain’t.”

Please also note: Greenland has forbidden demonstrations outside the facility by both supporters and targets of all the Bersærker internees. Please Cooperate with the authorities: Do not chant “Bones. Bones. Bones” or, “Skol. Skol. Skol.”, outside the gates as it both antagonizes and encourages the detainees thus delaying their rehabilitation and continuing their profound threat to polite society.

SUMMONS TO APPEAR: Newt (aka Ian Hamilton), formerly of Hinton, Alberta, if you are reading this, report to my offices immediately. We have in our possesion the gumboot you first reported “missing” in 1962, and again in the years, 1967, 1970, 1981, 1993 and lastly in January 2021.

Description of Evidence: One Gumboot; Name of owner inscribed, “Newt”; size 14; left foot; big “R”, marked in red on interior of said item. This object was recently recovered by a scientific survey team in Ilulissat, Greenland.

Ian Hamilton, you are specifically hereby charged with “trans-oceanic littering”, a felony offence, pursuant to Greenland’s Maritime Shipping, Fishing and Pollution Act, of 1962; Sections 1-3, also known later in corresponding international law as the Arlo Guthrie Littering Act, of 1967. Accordingly, you must immediately surrender all gumboots, hip waders, Wellingtons and speedos, in addition to all fishing licences, gear and lures, including all 32 species of live bait you reportedly breed in your living room. Other charges may apply.

SURRENDER FOR QUESTIONING: Jerry Melvin, Mick McGowan, John Dobrich, Litke Brothers (all), Wayne Long, Cook Brothers (all), Rusk brothers (all), Armstrong brothers (all), Richard and Doug Bezovie, Bob & Gordie Newman, Andrew Weir, Dwayne Hlady, David & Stuart Veats, Kilbreath brothers (all), Maurik brothers (all), Joe Laughy, Phil L’Hirondelle, Gary Tomusiak, Gary Hougestal, Delisle brothers & cousins, Calihoo brothers & cousins, Chris Craig, Gariepy Brothers, Ron & Jerry Kristoff, Barry Witwicki, Garth & Ed Stoughton, Doug Radloff, Klaus Mainzer, Poelzer Brothers, Ken Thompson, Russell Sprackman, Craig Mitchell, Andrew Weir, Bill and Jim Tallman, Herm, Jim Durham, Tom Henry, Leonard MacMillan, “Bob the Berserker”, Richard Marin, Gregg Wilson, Roger Kent, Bill Dunn, Kitaguchis (all), Kapatches (all), Meeks (all), John and Henry Moad, L’il Bobby Nystrom, Jimmy Veitch & Jimmy McMillan, David Liebe, or any other, hitherto unnamed, former members of Hinton Scout Troops 1 & 2 in the 1950s or 60s. If you’re named here, or think you should have been included in this rogues list, or outraged, hurt or insulted that you weren’t, then surrender yourself immediately for questioning, re: the, so called,  “Gumboot Caper”, as potential perpetrators/co-conspirators, victims, witnesses, enablers, role models, or just because you’re probably guilty of something anyway.

Signed, Sgt. D. Clark

Sgt. Dodger Clark, Hinton Town Police

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