The legend of ‘Pass da h’axe’

Many and varied are the tales that have sprung up from the fabulous Canadian North. This savage untamed, beautiful but cruel hinterland has attracted men with personalities as diverse as their backgrounds. It has killed many, charmed most and even made heroes of a few.

Not all the men who pack their luggage with heavy woolen underwear, doubly re-enforced socks, genuine Hudson’s Bay moccasins and who are willing to undergo frost-bite, rheumatism and loneliness are heroic pioneering figures. Most are sensible, realistic individuals who dote on the comforts of civilization.

I had the memorable experience of living and working in the Canadian North while employed with Inco in the 1950s. I was doing geophysical surveys in search of base metals in mineral-rich northern Quebec.

It never failed to surprise me how certain city-bred men, both young and old, were able to conquer all the mysteries and discomforts of the hostile territory and actually learn to love and enjoy this wild land.

Despite the advances of technology, life on a winter job in the woods can still be pretty rough. The mercury often dips to a steady 30-below as the wind blasts mercilessly from the north across frigid lakes. The moon rises cold and impersonal over the millions of acres of pine trees, and a tent is a lonely, cold place to call home for months at a time.

Snow piles deeply in the Arctic, and snowshoes, somewhat heavy and clumsy, never leave your feet from dawn until nightfall. Walking five to six miles across wind-tortured lakes and through sullen forest is a tiring, exasperating experience. All the while, there is work to be done: equipment to be hauled to the sight of potential ore veins, lines to be cut and surveyed, and readings to be taken.

Results are plotted in the evening by the light of a Coleman lamp while a wood stove cooks the evening meal and provides some heat in the 14-ft. tent.

Four men usually share the shelter: one male cook; a party leader; an electro-magnetic equipment operator; and a magnetometer operator. It’s always cramped, the cook inevitably snores, the party leader swears, and someone usually gets injured.

What is the magic formula inside a man who conquers the nagging urge to quit, run to the city and forget all about what Mother Nature never showed him on a postcard? It all boils down to a very simple characteristic: a healthy, untiring sense of humour.

One of the finest bushmen I knew was a patient and understanding man, but even he lost his temper. He did so methodically and with revenge in mind. His exploit became one of the lasting chuckles of the North.

In the winter of 1955, we were working in the Chibougamau area of northern Quebec. The area had become one of the hottest mining exploration prospects in a decade. The secret was out, and with it came an army of geologists and prospectors.

Inco poured its personnel into the area and I found myself in the camp of Henry Levac, a veteran French-Canadian geophysical technician from Sturgeon Falls, Ont.

We were intent on following up a series of conductive zones scattered within a 5-mile radius of our camp on Lake Mistassini. One of the primary gadgets used in this work was electro-magnetic gear, which at the time weighed a cumbersome 100 lbs.

Inco’s engineers had just finished designing a new engine. It was our privilege to test this equipment under actual field conditions. And let me say that it was, in fact, a lemon.

Two of us hauled this monstrosity three miles cross-country to the sight of our setup. Over frozen creeks and lakes, snowy crags and through thick brush, we lugged the little beast — and it was hard work.

Within five minutes the motor began to act up. Somewhere in the design, our blue-eyed slide rules had installed a weak drive shaft. It simply would not perform away from the cozy warmth of the drafting table.

Setting a blazing fire, and armed with screwdrivers and pliers, Levac and I began to explore the innards of this electronic marvel. No dice.

We cussed our way back to camp, dragging the gear behind us. In the tent, we attacked the motor again. No such luck.

Aircraft day was the following day, so Levac composed a polite letter to the young geophysicist (a University of Toronto grad) in the main camp at the base, explaining the faults in the gear and asking for either one of the old units or a redesigned version.

The apparatus was sent back to us with a cryptic little note that said: “Adjusted the engine and found it to work fine. Try to rush the job. . . . lot’s of luck.”

Non-plussed and marvelling at the perversity of inanimate objects, we grunted our way back to the setup and began our work. Within five minutes, it was down again and refused to work.

Levac used his colloquial French-Canadian terminology and began to adjust the monster. But it still wouldn’t work.

Back to camp and back to the base it went with a lengthy list explaining to our boy wonder that this particular device would not work.

Fate, however, was not kind.

We had already frittered away a good share of the week without doing anything useful. Soon an aircraft brought us a wee gift. The same damn motor with a severe little note attached. It effectively said that the motor worked just fine and told us to stop fooling around and “get to work!”

Much subdued, Levac and I plodded our weary way to the same place and started again. For a half an hour it worked. We were all smiles. Then bingo! It died.

Levac had an inspiration. He stood up and calmly stared at the spinning motor. Solemnly he looked at me and said the immortal words: “Pass me da h’axe!”

I dared not argue.

The blade flashed down, again and again. Gas, wires, bits of aluminum and steel, wood, canvas, and motor guts sprayed in all directions.

Then all was silent.

Lovingly Levac knelt at the side of the bleeding and gasping engine, tenderly he shovelled the rendered members into a canvas sack. We walked home in silence.

Three days later, the aircraft taxied a small canvas bag to base camp with a little note that read: “This motor don’t work. Love Levac.”

The next day, we had new gear — and it worked. We finished the job and the legend of “Pass da h’axe” grew.

— The preceding was published in the Jan. 6, 1961, issue of The Varsity, a campus newspaper of the University of Toronto. The author is a former professor of geology there.