The One-Eyed Fox of Waskesiu

Before the first snowfall, I spent a day solo hiking in Prince Albert National Park. I wasn’t alone though. I made friends with the one-eyed fox of Waskesui.

One-eyed fox at Narrows Marina, Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Fox at Narrows Marina, Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Fox at Narrows Marina, Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Fox at Narrows Marina, Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Autumn scenes at Prince Albert National Park, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Dew on the Grass

It was early morning, roughly 6:00am. I’m not normally up at that time but had been awake for awhile as the room I slept in had a window facing East with the sun filtering through its gauze curtains for at least an hour prior. It seemed to signal what would become an absolutely beautiful July day. First sight I saw in the brightness as I looked over was my wee best friend, Monty, staring up at me from his own dog bed placed beside mine. “Time for a walk”, I thought to myself. As always, he seemed to know exactly what I was thinking.

The park we walked through was well-familiar from my childhood but offered pleasant surprise at that early morning hour. There was a stillness as the city prepared for the day. The wildlife, however, were visible. Monty and I counted rabbits, as a lone pelican swam in solitude at an adjacent pond. What caught my eye was the dew on the grass, glistening as the slant of light from the rising sun hit at just the right angle. It’s not something a sleepyhead like myself normally gets to observe. The quiet of that July morning left me with a simple, cherished memory that I can now only reflect wistfully on. It was such a beautiful day.

This is hard to write.

I am writing this through tears and with the knowledge that I will be editing it in the future, as a few paragraphs could never truly encapsulate what he meant to me.

Monty, my best friend and the goodest good boy I have ever known, passed away on October 5. He was two-months shy of 14 years of age (or roughly ninety-four in dog years). I am completely heartbroken.

I adopted Monty two weeks after moving to a new city. After our initial introduction, I knew that we would be the best of companions … and we were. Our bond was immediate. He helped divert depression and fill the void of loneliness in traversing an unfamiliar place. And I, in turn, loved—and spoiled!—him endlessly with affection and adventure. From leading him on hikes through the scenic Rockies to Monty helping me emotionally navigate the early, unexpected loss of a parent, he was a trusted sentry in my life with the aim of keeping me protected from ills both seen and invisible.

In later years Monty lived with my mother, acting as an unofficial therapy animal for someone beginning their own new life after being widowed. While I missed him terribly, I knew that this was needed. I always felt his gentle, sweet nature was made for assisting people in times of need.

There are parks and hidden trails in my hometown that I will forever associate with his memory because of how well we travelled them.

And I know his spirit will continue walking them with me in the future.

Longevity of life is a privilege not everyone gets to experience—and it is this understanding that helps lessen the sadness I currently feel. I am so thankful for the wonderful memories I got to experience with both my grandfather and Monty. They both lived full lives well into (their respective) old age. If I brought them as much happiness as they shared with me, then we will have both lived a wonderful life.

As I reflect on their legacies, I keep returning to the idea of “presence”; the active presence they both made to be included in the lives of others. Active engagement with the world and beings around them. Active listening to others as they speak. Active, genuine affection towards their family and loved ones. Actively being there for someone when needed. We can gain personal strength from observed lessons of their character.

May they have parted this world knowing the depth of my love for them both.

Me and my Monty this past summer (©Deborah Clague, 2023).

The first time I saw Monty in 2010 (©Deborah Clague, 2010).

My beautiful boy in 2018 (©Deborah Clague, 2018).

One of my favourite pictures of Monty. He was always smiling (©Deborah Clague, 2019).

Monty and I at Assiniboine Park, Winnipeg (©Deborah Clague, 2023).

One of the last photos of my best friend in the universe, Monty (©Deborah Clague, 2023).

Red River Girl

I grew up in a blue collar, working class neighborhood, the type of which is not lucrative to build today. Located in south Winnipeg, it is surrounded by agriculture, once-secluded monastic ruins, and a landfill. The Red River snakes through its easternmost boundary. As an only-child, I explored this space by bike and foot on my own creating stories in my head of adventure that were bigger than anything present in the reality of suburbia. While I didn’t grow up wealthy, my imagination was allowed to flourish and became rich.

Approaching the road leading to the neighbourhood I grew up in during a recent visit to my hometown, an encampment consisting of several tee-pees, canvas tents and a longhouse caught my eye. As did several news trucks. It was the start of a blockade protesting government inaction in the search of a Winnipeg landfill for the remains of two Indigenous women who were murdered and disposed of in a most inhumane way. Discourse surrounding the decision centred on cost and safety, but was remiss in excluding race. The protestors vowed to stay until a search was conducted. During my childhood of backyard and beyond exploration, this isn’t something I ever encountered or learned about. Although, it probably was by design.

It is only in recent years that I’ve learned about Canada’s true history with its Indigenous population (thanks in big part to an employer that prioritizes this education for all staff). Now whenever I hear news stories like this, I see how First Nations communities are transparently treated as “other”. As a different, other sub-class of people denied the opportunities and, at times, dignities, that are offered to the general population. Being forced to accept that your loved ones are viewed as literal trash is part of that. I can’t imagine anyone else subjected to that without at least an attempt for proper closure.

Books of wonder and fantasy offered escape as a kid. But the books I gravitate towards as an adult are rarely light. The words on the page can be dark and cause discomfort as is the case with Red River Girl: The Life and Death of Tina Fontaine by Joanna Jolly. This was my summer reading before I knew about the protests at Brady Road landfill but each is intertwined with the other and needs to be studied in tandem. Tina was murdered and disposed of in the Red River in 2014. This discovery led to federal government action on an inquiry into the many missing and murdered Indigenous women in Canada. Some argued this was long overdue as the phenomena of MMIWG2S stretched back decades (and continues today).

While reading Red River Girl, I couldn’t ignore the contrast of our adolescence. From a young age, I was encouraged to discover, supported to grow, and empowered to become. I felt safe and had a sense of belonging in my community. Tina never had these opportunities. At just fifteen, she had a very, very different life than my own. One punctuated by loss, addiction, exploitation and abuse that no child should ever have to endure. Her story’s ending also lacked closure; the main suspect in Tina’s murder was acquitted.

The book was a hard read that shared a Canadian story that is ongoing. Indigenous women and girls are the most vulnerable members of our society. Canada, and, as such, Canadian society, needs to do better in ensuring their wellbeing is protected and their value to our cultural mosaic is respected.

As I prepare to depart Winnipeg, the protest at Brady Road landfill continues.

Long Drive Down a Long Road

In sharp contrast to the bustling streets of Tokyo, I can drive for miles and miles without seeing another being in my home province of Saskatchewan. But when I do, it’s guaranteed that I will be on the receiving end of a friendly wave of acknowledgement as we pass. Weekends like this—of getting lost under the living sky—are my favourite moments of living on the prairies.

The desolate Highway 36, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague)

Abandoned homes house ghosts of the past in rural Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague)

Town of Coronach, Saskatchewan signage (©2023, Deborah Clague)

Mural on Main Street, Coronach, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague)

Canola fields, rural Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

Our Lady of Lourdes Cemetery 1912-1953, Saskatchewan (©2023, Deborah Clague).

The Hours

There aren’t enough hours in the day.

There are certainly not enough hours in the day while on holiday, even when all you have planned is to meander about and people-watch. In this regard, Tokyo is one of the most visually engaging locations on the planet, a kaleidoscope of light and colour and active participation from its populace to seize the moment in both style and trend. But there also isn’t enough time as, post-pandemic, I’ve realized how much I’ve missed and longed for the escape of going beyond borders to experience something new. I’m three years older now. Busier with work and growing a business. Tired and sore at the end of the day. Missing the opportunity to add to the rich tapestry of memory in my life is something that may not happen as frequently in time. So seizing the moment, however banal, is pivotal.

Walking streets where no one knows my name and I don’t understand the local language is the freest feeling in the world for me. Senses heightened, intellect sharpened, it is a way for me to inject adventure into my life while fully experiencing everything in my peripheral. As a solo traveller, you are forced to be alert and present. Perhaps moreso as a woman. In Japan though, this alertness is enveloped in the solace of knowing I am in one of the safest countries in the world.

For the duration of my trip, I walked no less than 15 kilometres per day. From a base in the neon jungle of Shinjuku, where buildings mimic rainbow road and house castles at their peak, I traversed the city and most of its districts. Odaiba is relatively new and sanitized. An artificial island in which there is an artificial Statue of Liberty. Odaiba is listed as a touristy area with a variety of shopping and entertainment centres, although walking just beyond the immediate and obvious sights you realize how empty and quiet it truly is. It is one of the only spots I’ve encountered in Tokyo truly devoid of energy.

And then there’s the long hike from Akihibara (Electric Town) past Kappabashi Dougu Street to Senso-ji Temple. During the AM in Akihibara, the streets are lined with men—literally hundreds of men—eager to retain their high score in this gamer paradise. At night, those same streets are lined with young women—literally hundreds of young women—handing out flyers while coquettishly batting their eyelashes in an effort to entice those same men into the maid cafés so densely (and wisely) located next door. Senso-ji Temple is an always crowded spot. Perhaps the best temple in Tokyo for observing prayer by locals in traditional dress. As for Kappabashi Dougu Street … I still recall the first time I came across the giant chef’s head at its origin and was completely perplexed at what I was looking at. I later learned, of course, that it wasn’t haphazard placement at all. Rather, it signalled the entrance of the restaurant suppliers marketplace, an enjoyable area to window shop for an hour.

Ginza, home of some of the world’s most expensive real estate, is the area where I can’t afford to even enter a store but walking through on a hot day gives much-needed brisk, icy blasts of air conditioning as doormen open entrances to those who can. Ginza is but a passage to my favourite temple in Tokyo though, Zojo-ji. The wafts of incense continually burning carry in the air and make it a truly spiritual experience. Right behind Zoji-ji is Tokyo Tower, a stark contrast in both architecture and culture.

On the final day of my trip—and with a pilot strike deadline looming at the airline I travelled with—I decided to do one of my favourite things in Japan: spend the day in tranquility at an onsen “theme park”. It’s not the place to people-watch but to reflect inwardly. To soak in sulphuric milky mineral baths and reminisce on the hours and kilometres walked. I may not have had the most definitive of plans when I started but the sum of my journey gave me exactly what I sought. A reassurance that the hours, however banal, do add up to something great.