Northern patrol
The native reservists in the Canadian Rangers use their army training to help others in the impoverished native communities of Northern Ontario, Joseph Hall reports
Briefly splitting the Albany River on its northeast rush to James Bay, 160 kilometres downstream, this eye-shaped island was once witness to a massacre. Its name means ghost in Cree. And the bones of the southern Mohawk invaders who were ambushed here by northland Cree warriors some three centuries ago lay for months along the island's sandy shore and along the banks of the Cheepay River, which empties into the Albany nearby. Their spirits are said to haunt the place still.
"This is the story that was brought down to us," says Joseph Sutherland, an elder from the Cree community of Fort Albany, near the river's brackish mouth.
For the Cree, Ojibwa and Oji-Cree peoples of Ontario's far north, the ghosts of the past are the least of their worries. Today, Indians who inhabit more than 50 isolated communities in Ontario's north are being haunted by modern demons. There's alcoholism, poverty, gasoline-sniffing and child abandonment. There's ignorance, violence, rape, murder and epidemic diabetes. And yet there's a set of modern warriors, almost unknown in the big cities to the south, who are helping bring hope to the people north of the 50th parallel. Armed with World War II vintage, bolt-action rifles and uniformed in dirty, red sweatshirts, caps and toques, it's a ragtag band of soldiers to be sure. But the 3rd Canadian Ranger Patrol Group â †a band of some 400 First Nations reservists who represent Canada's armed forces in Ontario's far north â †has become a scarlet glimmer of hope in an often-blighted human landscape. And over a recent four-day period, some 57 of them gathered on Cheepay Island in the largest exercise ever of this military outfit â †surely the most unusual in the Canadian Armed Forces. Under a lowering sky that promises snow but delivers nagging drizzles of rain for much of their frigid stay, the Rangers, both men and women, will take part in a series of competitive drills that, for all their meticulous planning, have a madcap air.
From the 13 community-based Ranger patrols represented on Cheepay, the soldiers will be split into five teams that will adopt names like Shania (for the songstress Twain), River Rats and Wolverines. They'll compete in target-shooting, using their standard-issue No. 4 Lee Enfield .303s. There'll be skeet-shooting, first-aid, map-reading, compass navigation and the art of knots and pulleys. But the bulk of the drills focus on the hunting, fishing and survival skills that the Indians themselves bring to the Rangers table.
They will build goose blinds â †and fashion instant flocks of wooden geese decoys to go with them. They'll compete in geese-calling contests, with some gratuitous moose calls thrown in. They'll fish â †how they'll fish! â †build lean-tos and conjure roaring fires in seconds. They'll prepare bannock - a bread-like concoction introduced by Scottish trappers during the Hudson's Bay Company days - over open flames.
And they'll try - in what is likely one of the most important forums left for preserving the culture of Northern Ontario's Indians - to stem the steady erosion of these traditional skills.
Major Keith Lawrence is the Toronto-raised commanding officer of the 3rd Canadian Ranger Patrol Group.
The Cheepay exercise cost $150,000 to stage and took a full year to plan, says Lawrence, 40, who is white and whose past postings have included stays in Cyprus, Syria, Jordan, Congo, Uganda and Israel.
Outside of its small and largely white regular army leadership, which is stationed at Canadian Forces Base Borden near Barrie, the 3rd Ranger Patrol Group is almost 98 per cent Indian.
Located in 15 different northern communities - two of which could not make the Cheepay gathering - each patrol consists of between 17 and 36 Rangers who receive 10 days of basic army training each.
This instruction, most of it provided in their own communities, includes rifle training, general military knowledge, map, compass and GPS navigation, first aid, search and rescue and communications. The reservists may also have training in flood and fire-evacuation planning, major air disaster assistance and rifle firing exercises.
Rangers are paid between $78 and $136 a day for performing official duties, which do not include policing. They receive compensation for the use of personal snowmobiles and other equipment.
Each community patrol has a cargo bin containing first-aid supplies, a short-wave radio and GPS locator. The patrol must meet at least six times a year. Beyond that, training or operations are more or less ad hoc and largely voluntary.
Despite any training and gear they might receive, however, the Rangers bring a cultural perspective to the organization that stubbornly defies traditional military discipline.
From the window of the 1964 de Havilland Beaver float plane, Cheepay Island seems to appear out of nowhere.
An hour's flight north of Hearst - some 1,135 kilometres north of Toronto - the island sits just above a vast stretch of muskeg; swampland that will unleash billions of mosquitoes into the air in the coming weeks.
Huge chunks of ice from the Albany's spring breakup still line the island's shores during the Ranger's mid-May stay, and temperatures, which mostly hovered around zero, would sometimes drop to minus-10C.
The river runs up against a wide, weedy, rock-strewn beach, where the Rangers parked the 25 motorized freighter canoes that brought them here from staging areas at Constance Lake to the south and Fort Albany to the northeast.
Up a set of dirt stairs, carved into a steep hill at the beach's edge, amid tall cedars and bare poplars, the Rangers have pitched their camp.
About a dozen large, white canvas tents have been slung over long, softwood poles, which were carved out of the forest that covers most of the kilometre-long island.
The tents housing the 11 regular army headquarters staff who lead the Rangers are supplied with canvas cots and military-issue, cold-weather sleeping bags.
But lodgings for the 57 native Rangers (and two Junior Canadian Rangers attending Cheepay) are furnished with the blankets, tarps, foam mats and improvised wood stoves that they'd use during their regular trips into the bush.
Large tarpaulins, strung from trees and poles, protect the half-dozen fire pits that will burn throughout the Rangers' stay. And the sound of wood-chopping will provide a persistent background tempo to the proceedings.
Food on the island consists mostly of the Army's vacuum-sealed individual meal packs of gourmet delights such as chicken teriyaki, cheese tortellini and ham omelette.
But moose, caribou, goose, bannock and, of course, fresh fish are on many menus around the Ranger campsite. Cigarettes dangle from the vast majority of mouths.
In an outfit where fishing can fulfill military commitment and where sergeants are elected by their men and women, you'd hardly expect to see precision drilling.
And on Cheepay there's none. There's also little saluting - except in jest. There's no marching, no shiny brass fastenings or, very often, any buttons at all.
The bugle-boy sense of urgency is definitely absent, as are rules regarding hair length, grooming, cleanliness and "snap-to-it," command-chain respect. Even a straight muster line seems beyond the care or capacity of some Cheepay participants.
Present in abundance among the Rangers, however, are the traditional skills bred by centuries in a grudging, harsh and killing land.
And these skills, except for the Ranger intervention, might well be on the way to extinction in the troubled Indian communities of the north.
They're troubles that Robert Gillies knows well.
Gillies, 37, tells bad jokes - constantly. They're groaners and they'll typically cast hapless Mohawks as the dupes.
But his humour is partly a defence mechanism, jokes and one-liners to hold back recollections from 10 years of policing.
As a former sergeant in the Nishnawbe-Aski Police Service, which patrols most native communities up here, the Cree Ranger from Fort Albany has seen the worst of native desperation up close.
"It's a (way of) coping. I put that (bad) stuff away in my mind where I can't retrieve it," says Gillies, 37, who quit the force in 2003.
"If I kept those things in a (conscious) part of my brain, I don't think I'd be able to function."
Over his policing career, during which he rose to criminal investigator in the service's Cochrane divisional headquarters, he saw the worst of the northern aboriginal calamity: suicide, rape, child abuse, even murder.
In one unwanted memory of his policing days, he recalls a tiny pair of siblings cast off by their parents for the bottle.
"It involved two boys, one of them was basically an infant and the older brother was 3 or 4 years old," Gillies says.
"We, as police, brought the two kids to the hospital ... and you could tell the small child was already looking after the infant. The 3-year-old was looking after the infant."
After 10 years as a cop, he says, "I basically had enough."
Gillies joined the Rangers a decade ago and sees the outfit as a major force for good. Indeed, he says, Rangers can often take over community responsibilities in the absence of official band alternatives.
"For example, every year there's usually a flood co-ordinator in the community for (ice) breakup. Every year it's exciting," Gillies says.
"And one time, the flood control committee broke down ... I think the co-ordinator had been drinking. And the Canadian Rangers took over."
The Rangers are lightly trained and are not required to serve overseas in times of war. But they represent a legitimate branch of the armed forces.
Founded in 1947, they were established as a Cold War means to patrol remote northern locales, largely for signs of Soviet intrusions. The force has grown to about 4,500 reservists and is expected to increase to 4,800 by 2008.
They are divided into five different patrol groups across the country, in every province and territory except New Brunswick, Prince Edward Island and Nova Scotia.
Their primary mission remains the patrol and security of the country's northern and coastal regions.
In this time of global warming, with ice-free Arctic waters opening up the possibility of year-round shipping and mineral and oil extraction in the far north, sovereignty over lands now claimed by Canada may come into dispute.
What the Rangers can represent in the Arctic is federally funded feet on potentially contentious ground, Lawrence says.
"You have to show your neighbours and show the world that, yes, you want it and you're actually doing something," says Lawrence, whose Ontario group is the newest and smallest of Canada's five Ranger contingents.
Of course, questions of sovereignty are unlikely to arise in Ontario.
But Rangers here can still have a role in the issue, says Lawrence, who took command of the province's group last year.
"While we don't have a pure sovereignty task here, what we do have is the ability to train soldiers to go north," he says.
"It's very expensive to send soldiers into the Arctic. And you can get very similar weather conditions here. All the same (training) principles apply, whether it's navigation or how to survive on the land."
Perhaps more than any other branch of the Canadian armed services, however, Rangers bring their military status and training directly to bear on their own communities.
By dint of their army instruction and, in many instances, an elevated sense of social responsibility, Rangers often become leaders in their communities, Lawrence says.
They commonly provide organized help when flooding or forest fires threaten northern communities, he says. Many volunteer to serve on local fire departments and join in band councils. And most have steady jobs in communities where full-time employment is by no means the norm.
"They're the doers in their communities," Lawrence says.
As such, the Rangers have become something of a social program, Lawrence says - a federal means to send expertise, leadership and extra cash into impoverished and often chaotic communities.
There's also a Junior Rangers element to the outfit, a type of cadet service that, among other things, helps steer native kids away from the delinquent activities that are commonplace in northern communities.
Another role the Rangers perform in Northern Ontario - one that they're enormously adept at - is search and rescue operations.
Rangers-led rescue missions into the bush or out onto the rivers, often conducted in the most brutal weather conditions imaginable, may number in the hundreds each year.
But with most Rangers loath to fill out paperwork describing their actions, or reluctant to embarrass those who got lost, most of their rescue stories remain untold, Lawrence says.
Last year, Rangers also played the key role in an evacuation of Attawapiskat near James Bay, where the threat of flooding forced 1,154 people from their homes.
An eight-year Ranger veteran, Vicky Edwards is a native from the community of Fort Albany. But her eyes belong to the Scottish highlands.
Edwards' great-grandfather was a Scottish fur trader whose genes have come back with a vengeance in the 27-year-old Cree. Her light hair, freckles and hazel eyes all speak more of thistles than muskeg.
But when Edwards fishes, she's all Indian.
Like most of her Ranger colleagues, Edwards will fish at the drop of a hat. And like many of the Cheepay cohort, she does it like a machine.
Having travelled about 10 kilometres up the Albany for an evening of angling, Edwards and two Ranger colleagues turn their 22-foot freighter canoe into a tributary stream and ease it in by a beaver lodge close to shore.
Then, the frenzied casting begins.
With lines whizzing across each other, the Rangers plunk their lures again and again, with amazing precision, into the reedy waters surrounding the beaver house.
"Fish on!" Edwards yells at least 10 times during a half-hour of fishing.
In that time, she lands five good-sized pickerels and one large pike, which will flop around on the floor of the boat all the way back to camp.
As darkness descends, the Rangers turn for home, a 30-horsepower outboard powering their trip.
Told in no uncertain terms to be back by 9 p.m., they're already running late.
But when they spot an American eagle circling a stretch of shoreline, they pull the boat up and break out the poles again.
"That means there's probably fish here," Edwards says.
And if it's a contest between fishing and following orders, the fishing will easily prevail.