I once met a Canadian while backpacking in the Rockies. He was headed towards Colorado and me to Alaska. We met somewhere in between, atop some narrow peak in central Idaho. By that time, I was out of provisions, and he just wouldn't yield the path, as nor would I. So, we just stood there, face to face, as a brisk northerly wind heralded an approaching blizzard.
This man had a long worn out face with sun beaten leathery orange skin, barely discernible beneath the thick groves of hairy bush from his beard covering it. I noticed the red maple leaf emblem on his parka. "Howdy, partner!", I yelled out to him amidst the fierce whistling wind. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. He just stood there as my howdy echoed and rattled below in the valley. Just silence. Dead silence. An uneasy silence, lasting minutes of piercing deafness and discomfort. I did not know what to think, or do, or how to proceed. So, I took a few cautious steps forward, still with axe in hand, tightly snug behind my right leg and completely out of view. I tried once more at communication, this time only a few inches from the emense shadow he cast amongst the thick snow. "How are you?", my voice faded. He responded, but only with a quirky smirk and a lowering of the left brow. "Where ya headed?", as I tried yet again to penetrate this invisible social barrier between us. Still nothing. Then I remembered some north east Canadians speak a different English dialect entirely. I tried in my best broken abomination of fluency, "Pole vu francais?" This exchange was only acknowledged by a lowering of the right brow now. I could tell his mood had quickly changed from ambivalance to full blown contempt for my presence.
It was now time. I had not eaten in hours. I had not tasted flesh amidst my teeth since feeding on some boney rabbit a day prior. My quivering stomach tempted my hands, pressing even tighter against the wooden handle now. But then, just as my arm began to raise and the tip of my blade gleamed amongst the sun, he extended his hand. Wait. What was this I thought. I lowered my axe and cautiously inspected his hand, shifting my eyes quickly to his eyes and once again to his hand. This was no man, or so I presumed. There were four grey bumps in his palm and razor sharp claws protruding from his fur in place of fingers. On closer inspection, he was layered head to toe in thick wire tough hair, which the orange parka and pants had hidden from my eyes only moments earlier. What was this beast, this thing, which towered over me by two or three feet.
I surmised his intent by now. His hand was a plea, a request, or precisely, an extension of an offering. He wanted something from me. Tribute? No, I gathered. He was asking for a toll. Something, anything, as payment to yield the road and let me pass. Slowly, I methodically wrapped my axe around my leg and placed it in his hand. He quickly gripped it with both of his, raising it above his head and shaking it up and down repeatedly. He bellowed forth an ungodly cackle, something between a bear growl and a hyenna, penetrating the thick winter air and shaking my feet where they stood. I trembled. I felt petrified, like a wooden totem pole, motionless and emotionless, quite helpless and waiting for what may follow. With one giant heave forward, leg after leg he pushed snow around me and slowly passed beyond the faint whispers of snow crunching behind me. I never even turned around to look. After collecting my senses, I sojourned onwards and made shelter for the night in a cave. Days later, I was picked up by a park ranger.
Back at the lodge, while taking sips from a hot mug as embers from the fireplace cackled and snapped, the ranger informed me he had been tracking this thing for days. I beckoned him, "What was this thing?". I had never been up north, so I gestured, "A canadian?". "We don't know!", he snapped back, "We just don't know." I thanked that ranger and left his cabin, returning home two days later.
On hindsight, I really don't know what I found atop that mountain pass that day. Man? Canadian? or Yeti? The maple leaf emblem on that orange parka still haunts me as I sleep. To this day, I can only wonder what becomes of those who venture along that path. I have never met a Canadian in person before, but my tale is a tale of caution. Remember it well, or perish in utter disregard of it. These Canadians are a fearsome lot. Half man, half beast, or maybe, just maybe, neither. God Bless America.
