Monday, August 25, 2014

Grand adventure part 3: the Royal Canadian Mounted Police

Noble Regina, capital of Saskatchewan and named for our own Queen Victoria, is home to one of Canada’s most recognizable and venerable institutions: the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. Their red jackets, broad-brimmed hats and old-fashioned britches are the stuff of legend – as well they should be. Their history is full of heroic tales, from the epic March West of 1874 to the meeting with Sitting Bull and searching for the Lost Patrol, and, today, they lead the world in police and military training from the depot in Regina. The Sunset Retreat, when the flag is lowered at the end of the day and God Save The Queen is sung, echoes the British Army's splendid Beating Retreat and such is The Queen's admiration for them that the Musical Ride performed at her Jubilee Pageant at her personal request. Thus it was with trepidation and a sense of privilege that our motley pack of journalists entered the Regina training depot for our Day as a Mountie.

The Mounties Band marches past the Canadian Flag during the Sunset Retreat

The North-West Mounted Police was established in 1873 when Governor-General Dufferin signed the order that confirmed their existence, but the story really began with the March West from July 8th 1874 that aimed to drive out the illegal whisky trade from the newly settled prairies. Still the longest military march ever, the force of 275 officers and men, 310 horses and the usual assortment of camp staff marched 1,500km west from Fort Dufferin in a journey that took three months. Led by Sandhurst-educated Commissioner George Arthur French, they carried two mortars and two nine-pounder field guns, but word of their coming spread by moccasin telegraph and the whisky traders scarpered before anything was fired. From the beginning, in stark contrast to the activities of the US Army below the border, relations with the First Nation people were characterized by diplomacy, understanding and compassion. The difficulties engendered by the disappearance of the buffalo and the growing numbers of white settlers were recognized and promises of help were kept. From a chain of forts across the southern plains, the NWMP treated the First Nation peoples the same as the white settlers, enforcing the same laws and showing the same justice, a rare example of 19th-century ethnic equality. In turn, the First Nations welcomed the role of the mounted police in stopping the whisky trade that was so detrimental to their lives.

James Farquarson Macleod, second Commissioner of the North-West Mounted Police

A story from 1875 shows the remarkable friendships that sometimes developed between old and new settlers. Superintendent James Morrow Walsh was charged with pacifying and controlling the thousands of potentially dangerous Sioux who had fled across the border in the aftermath of General Custer’s raids. Breaking several police guidelines, Walsh rode unarmed into Sioux chief Sitting Bull’s camp with only a couple of aides, leapt down and shook the chief's hand, an action that was either very brave or very foolish. Sitting Bull must have considered it the former, as the two became as friendly as two such people can be, and the Sioux remained peaceful and law-abiding for the duration of their sojourn in Canada. Subsequent treaties signed with the First Nations meant the Canadian provinces were seldom ravaged by the kind of bitter fighting between white soldiers and native warriors that characterized the American West.

An exhibit in the excellent RCMP Heritage Centre

The winter months were a dangerous time for all those whose lives kept them outside in the bitter cold. From 1894, the NWMP controlled land from the Alaska-Yukon border to Baffin Island, keeping the peace and establishing Canadian sovereignty. The true challenge came in 1896 when gold was discovered in Bonanza Creek and the Klondike Gold Rush began. North America was in the midst of a depression and thousands flocked to the siren song of the gold, but, inevitably, lawlessness followed. The Alaska-Yukon border was particularly dangerous, with Americans effectively stealing Canadian gold, but they reckoned without Sam Steele, Lion of the Yukon. A giant of a man, trusted and admired by all, he imposed order and taxes on gold-diggers, helped by the fact that the pass to Alaska was so narrow that it admitted only one man at a time. Snow forbade the use of any other route, but if it was helpful in that case, it was fatal on many occasions. One such was in 1910, when four officers set out to make the 620-mile trip from Fort McPherson, Northwest-Territories, to Dawson City, Yukon. They had food for 30 days, 15 dogs and three sleds, and no inkling of what was to come. Special Constable Carter had done the journey before and was to act as guide, but it soon became clear that he was hopelessly lost. Inspector Fitzgerald wrote his last entry in his diary on February 5, 1911, day 47 of the march, before all members of the Lost Patrol succumbed to starvation and cold. On every subsequent such journey, a native guide was hired to ensure the safety of the patrols.

The Canadian flag flying proudly over the RCMP training depot in Regina

In 1904, Edward VII granted the force the prefix Royal and, in 1974, women were admitted for the first time. Now, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police is one of the finest forces in the world and armies and policemen from all over the world come to avail themselves of the state-of-the-art training depot in Regina. The core values of Honesty, Integrity, Professionalism, Accountability, Compassion and Respect are manifest in everything they do; indeed, such is their importance that an otherwise excellent cadet was asked to leave because it was found she had once lied, and covered up that lie, in her training. Thus, when we entered the depot and donned our T-shirts and caps as members of M-troop, we were treading hallowed ground and all we wanted to do was live up to their exacting standards.


Members of M-Troop with our Mountie leaders

Cadets at the Regina depot have already undergone a lengthy selection process with everything from physical tests to reliability interviews, so few drop out of the exacting six-month training. And it is exacting – as we can testify. Dinner in the Mess was followed by a tour of the site with a newly arrived troop, a group of fresh-faced recruits who gave us a terrific welcome and an insight into both the fun parts (the camaraderie, the uniforms) and the harder bits (sharing a dorm, doubling). We were lucky enough not to experience either of the latter - we had our own en-suite rooms in D Block and could walk instead of doubling. This is the way new recruits get around the base, running in pairs with short steps and fists held to chests. After a period of learning to drill, they are allowed to march, but misdemeanours by one or more can set the whole troop doubling again. Troops are considered one unit and one below-par cadet can dock privileges, even parts of their uniform, for everyone.

Echoes of Sandhurst: the main parade square in the early morning

Intending to go to bed early before the big day, we had a quick pre-midnight feast in my room, which yielded a chance to show who was the real man among us on this Man-Up tour. Getting up to leave, Stuart remarked casually 'there's a bat under the chest of drawers'. Given that he is prone to pranks, we didn't believe him at first, but sure enough, an ancient ex-bat was there, one that had ceased to be, deceased, kicked the bucket and flown off to join the choir invisible. I confess that Jodi and I may have uttered a little squeak, but Finn remained impressively calm, swept the expired creature up in a towel and deposited him outside. Finnbarr Webster: Real Man.

Pre-eminent members of the British press at a very 
grown-up dorm-room pre-midnight feast

At 5.30am the next morning, things got serious. Under the eagle (but extremely friendly) eye of Sgt Pharanae Jaques-Croisetiere, we watched Morning Parade from the sidelines, all too aware that we would have to join the troops on the parade square that lunchtime. The Canadian flag was raised, the bugles called and we trooped into breakfast, before returning to the square to learn how to march as a troop. Marching is just walking, yes? No. It's extraordinary how hard it is when you have to stay in step and watch your dressing. I have several friends in the British army and I now have a renewed respect for them.

Sgt Jaques at Morning Parade

Proper marching at Sunset Retreat

Perfectly straight lines, or dressing

Afterwards, we experienced the horror of the PARE test (Physical Abilities Requirement Evaluation), which blends fitness with practical things such as leaping a wall and dragging a 'dead' body around. Naturally, competitiveness kicked in and I, at least, was exhausted by the end. The PARE test itself consists of six laps of a course, which includes leaping a 'ditch' and running up and down stairs, plus a push-pull exercise. Cadets must complete it in under 4:45 minutes to get onto the training course and under 4 minutes to graduate. One lap (24 seconds!) was easy, but I wouldn't want to do six. A session of Applied Police Sciences then offered an enlightening insight into the way a policeman's mind should work. We were split up, and my group was led into another room, whereupon the projector refused to work and a technician arrived. He was followed by an angry woman who demanded why he hadn't responded to her summons that morning. Being English, I tried not to watch to spare their blushes, thinking how embarrassing it was that technology should have let the consummate professionals down. Giving up on the projector, we rejoined the others, who had, oddly enough, witnessed the very same incident with the man and woman in opposite roles. And that was exactly what we had been - witnesses. We were asked to dissect how much we remembered, and thus the differences in perception were revealed. Observation is key to good policing, and even such things as attention to one's uniform are vital. If you miss a loose thread on a shirt, how much might you miss of a crime scene? Such a practical application of something seemingly so trivial makes absolute sense.

The magnificent drill hall, currently out of bounds due to work on the floor

Lining up in height order, with the exception of our 'right marker', Jodi, on the left

Trying not to embarrass ourselves in front of Sergeant Major Patterson...

Getting there! Extraordinary how hard it is when you try to swing your arms

Sgt Jaques giving the history of the Memorial. When passing, Mounties must 
still their arms and look towards it between the flanking flagpoles

After lunch, the dreaded moment arrived: we had to march in formation behind real Mounties. Surprisingly, it was much less onerous than I had expected and even exhilarating. I fixed my eyes on the legs of the Mountie leading our troop and the beat of the drum made it easy to keep in time. I felt a definite sense of pride in being there and being a part, even such a small part, of this daily ritual. We all managed to keep up and execute our turns neatly, and finished feeling that M-Troop hadn't looked quite as out of place as we had expected.

Going round a corner and keeping in step, just

More or less in time as we leave the square

Putting our best foot forward past a very official audience

Almost giddy with relief, we headed to the Firearms Training Unit to try our hand at firing a Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic pistol. I've fired a shotgun before, but never a handgun, and it's not easy! The upwards recoil was such that my first few shots hit the ceiling, but I did get a good few hits in. The bad guy would definitely have bitten the dust, at least, if he had stood still and let me take aim... After a diversion caused by an adorable four-month-old puppy just beginning his training as a police dog, we headed to our final destination, the Simulators. 'State-of-the-art' only scratches the surface of the kit in here, and it is these driving and shooting simulators that draw police forces and armies from around the world, even Britain. The shooting simulator allows you to fire blanks at moving targets, duck behind post boxes and chairs and generally imitate a real-life situation. It works alongside full-size mock-ups of shopping malls, for example, to train the force in every way possible. I was looking forward to the driving simulators, being rather nifty behind a wheel (after a few laps of Donington Park in an Aston Martin Vantage last year, my instructor said I was the best he'd had all day), but any cockiness left shortly after I had inadvertently parked in the flatbed of a truck when I failed to stop for an accident on a freeway in time. The emphasis is on observation, as there is no motion for braking or accelerating, so it is extremely difficult to tell how fast you are going. Apparently, when the sirens are on and the lights are going, drivers forget to look at their speedos, so this simulates the atmosphere, not only the images, of a real-life experience. It was great fun, but definitely eye-opening. Our last stop was a visit to the chapel, the oldest building on the base, to be presented with our certificates by Assistant Commissioner Louise Lafrance. An extremely proud moment. 

















These two stained-glass windows at the far end of the chapel were modelled on a real Mountie. The pew at the front of the chapel is reserved for The Queen

Receiving my certificate from A/Comm Lafrance in the RCMP chapel

After a delicious dinner at the Radisson Plaza Hotel in Regina, we returned to the depot to enjoy the Sunset Retreat from the sidelines, an infinitely more relaxing experience. Attended by dozens of visitors and Regina locals, it is a display of military precision, musical talent and canine intelligence, with a well-executed display of police dog work to strart things off. Much to my delight, the music included several familiar Irish and English folk tunes, adding a homely dimension to the warm Canadian evening. It was the culmination of a memorable day.

All eagerness: a well-trained dog and his handler

Firing the salute

The band marches away from the chapel, the oldest building in Regina

Some of you may have noticed a glaring omission in this account of the so-called Mounties - horses. Much to my dismay, the Mounties no longer ride, having given up their horses for regular work in 1966. Only two are kept on the training base, and they are retired Musical Ride horses ridden by volunteers. The Musical Ride is still very much alive, however, touring Canada and the rest of the world every summer from its Ottawa base. All riders are serving members of the RCMP who choose to do three years with the Ride and, as with the Household Cavalry in Britain, not all of them can ride before they take up the posting. Remarkably, all the horses, mainly Thoroughbred and Hanoverian, are bred by the RCMP in Ontario. The Ride is the last reminder of the early decades of the RCMP and, with the hats, red tunics and breeches still worn by officers, is a proud symbol of a proud nation.

A poster in the Heritage Centre advertising the sale
of RCMP horses in 1966

Two retired horses, ridden by volunteers, join the Sunset Retreat

I couldn't help but think of the King's Troop Royal Horse Artillery,
with their six horses per gun. I'm sure the Mounties pulling this gun 
would appreciate the help! 

A horse, a horse! At last!





Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Grand adventure part 2: the Land of Living Skies. Fishing, racing & ranching in Saskatchewan, Canada

There’s always a worry on press trips that there will be one journalist who is demanding, grumpy, self-aggrandising or just plain grumpy. Nightmarish stories abound of the one oh-so-brilliant writer who won’t stop complaining about the food or the schedule, who won’t stop name-dropping or who keeps asking tomfool questions of whichever poor sod has to show them a good time. But on my recent tour of Saskatchewan, Canada, I struck gold.  

The Man-Up Trip, otherwise known as Jack and his groupies!
Me, Finn, Shane, Stuart, Jodi and Alan, with Jack in the middle
Thanks to Stuart and Finn for photographs throughout

The tour was entitled ‘Man-up in Canada’, so I had been gently asked on accepting the invitation if such outdoorsy stuff as fishing and ranching were within my ‘comfort zone’. It was a good question, for anyone not knowing me, but those who do know me can imagine that my answer was a polite version of ‘hell, yeah’! So it was that I and four British male journalists, led by the indomitable Shane Owen and Jodi Holliday of Tourism Saskatchewan, embarked on a trip around the Land of Living Skies. Stretching from the Montana border to the wilds of the Northern Territories, Saskatchewan is half agricultural land, half watery wonderland, with the southern part yielding thousands of bushels of crops such as wheat, flax, peas and oil-seed rape, or canola, as it’s called here. The rolling slopes of the Grasslands and the Cypress Hills in the south, the lakes and rivers in the north, topped by the Lake Athabasca Sand Dunes, with the vast, ever-changing skies above, make this unassuming province a land worth seeing.

The Land of Living Skies

The Michigan engagement party meant I missed the first day of the trip, when the others flew to the northern lakes, but it mattered not. Shane and I drove north from Saskatoon to Prince Albert National Park, a swathe of lakes, forests and lush meadows that can be explored on foot, by boat and on horseback. Elk and moose weave their antlers through clutching branches, fish throng the waters and bears pad through the dense undergrowth. We weren't going near any bears; the sharp teeth of northern pike were our objective. By the shores of Sandy Lake, we met Jenn Mahlberg and her husband Kevin, who loaded up their motorboat with fishing rods and sandwiches and whizzed us far from shore. As beavers splashed and loons filled the gathering dusk with their haunting calls, we cast our lures again and again into the dark waters. The depth gauge on the boat went from 12ft to unreadable in moments and the presence of the Sandy Lake Monster became ever easier to imagine.

A suitably girly rod for a girl on the Man-Up trip!

Me and Jenn working on our fish-attracting abilities

A loon that came up only about 15ft from the boat

As always, despite assurances that fish had practically leapt into the boat a few days previously, it was some time before we successfully hooked something, but Shane finally reeled in a gigantic (from some angles) northern pike. Despite female pheromones supposedly being useful for attracting fish, I was less successful, but did land one fine beast. The others kindly said it was the biggest of the night – I’m not sure they were entirely accurate, but I’m happy to agree! As the sun set, the western sky turned a hazy orange, a symptom of the devastating fires raging in British Columbia hundreds of miles away that was weirdly beautiful when you were safely in the middle of several million gallons of blue water. Back on shore, Kevin gave a masterclass in filleting in the lakeside fish hut, as mosquitoes buzzed against the flyscreen and a bush gave a scarily good impersonation of a bear. Back at their home, Jenn whipped up some beer batter and cooked proper fish and chips, the best I have had outside of England. I don’t think Shane was expecting a midnight finish, but he bore it with remarkable patience, and I for one didn’t notice the passage of time. Not a bad start to a Canadian adventure!

Shane and his giant fish!

Er, Shane and his little fish...

Here, fishy fishy fishy...

Me and my 'enormous' fish!

Sunset on Sandy Lake

After a comfortable night in the Hawood Inn, Waskesiu (I still can't pronounce it, either), we explored the mysterious black spruce Boundary Bog, where I expected to hear Gollum exhorting in his hoarse whisper ‘don’t follow the lights!’, and climbed the tower at Height-of-Land to look over a vast forest that looks as it did when trappers waged war on the bears and beavers. The shenanigans picked up when we met the manly elements of the trip: Stuart Forster, Jack Palfrey, Finnbarr Webster and Alan Wooding, together with Jodi. It was quickly established that this was a corker of a group! Jodi and I blotted our copybooks at the off by ordering salad for lunch instead of the manly burgers everyone else had, but there was plenty of time...

The way through the woods...boardwalks around Boundary Bog

Danger lurks beneath: don't follow the lights!

Sandy Lake from the Height-of-Land tower, on the divide between the 
Churchill and Saskatchewan River systems in Prince Albert National Park

Escaping from the relentless mosquitoes, the only drawback to northern Saskatchewan (Jack declared a one-man mission to rid the world of the critters, a noble, but, sadly, futile goal), we drove south to Saskatoon. First on the schedule was the Auto Clearing Motor Speedway, a banked ring of tarmac peopled with irrepressibly cheerful drivers who thought nothing of racing with a bonnetless car after a tangle with their fellows. A visit to the ‘pits’, basically the centre of the track, revealed that the tin cans whizzing round the circle are driven by girls and boys of any age from eight to ancient. Top of the billing was the Legends series, in which drivers race 5/8th scale versions of NASCAR vehicles of the 1930s and 1940s. All the cars are basically the same, with fibreglass bodies based on the Chevy Coupe, Ford Sedan or Ford Coupe from 1934 or the Chevy Sedan or Dodge Sedan of 1937, and imaginations apparently run riot when designing their livery. They may not reach the speeds of Formula One, but the petrol-perfumed atmosphere is just as potent and much less pretentious.

Retro livery on a Legend at Auto Clearing Motor Speedway, Saskatoon. 
The sponsor, Lucky Bastard, is named after the owner, who won 
the lottery and fulfilled his dream to open a distillery. 
When he was buying Champagne to celebrate his good fortune, 
a woman in the queue remarked 'lucky bastard'. 
He decided it was the perfect name for his company!

This car was probably going to be on the racetrack in about 10 minutes

Speed! Legends in action

The next Lewis Hamilton? An eight-year-old racer

Waiting for the chequered flag!

Jack getting excited about being behind the wheel

The following day was the bit I had been waiting for: a trip to La Reata Ranch amid the grasslands of south-west Saskatchewan. We drove south-west from Saskatoon, past mile upon mile of farmland, and turned right past Kyle to bump along a dirt track for some 10 miles before passing under the wooden arch announcing the entrance to La Reata Ranch. In a fold of the hills, looking out across Diefenbaker Lake, is the place George Gaber visited 18 years ago from Germany and with which he fell in love. Now, this 2,000-acre ranch is home to a collection of classic barns, a herd of Black Angus and Longhorns and 20-odd horses. It was clear immediately that it was something out of the ordinary: we arrived at noon and all the guests were still milling around the corral, getting tacked up for the first ride of the day. It turned out that they had all been drinking in the saloon til the small hours, so had got up a little later than usual. And by saloon, I mean a real live saloon, complete with bar, pool table and exhortations to leave your six-shooter at the door. After the guests had gone, we repaired to said saloon and spent an enjoyable hour before lunch quaffing Canadian beer and playing out Wild West fantasies with assorted (unloaded) pistols and rifles. With the nearest house many miles away and the nearest bar even further, George’s saloon is frequented by neighbours, not just guests, and I can easily imagine spending long evenings shooting the breeze, perched on one of the tractor-seat bar stools, and gazing languorously at the cowboy boots, branding irons and horseshoe sculptures. No wonder the guests had been a tad late rising!

An advert for Wrangler jeans? No, George Gaber, owner of La Reata

The saloon. Fights must be taken outdoors

Manning up: Finn and his guns

The relaxed look of a cowboy who's just taken on the sheriff and won?
Quite possibly... Jack gets the feel of a rifle

Afraid? You should be...

George doesn’t bother with schedules here. If you want to have a late night and ride late, that’s fine. There are no set timetables, no rules about bed times or breakfast times, and if you’d rather go for a swim in the lake, that’s fine too. Guests tack up their own horses and can take their own line across country – there’s no one-behind-the-other rigidity and the stifling fear of litigation so prevalent in the US is unknown. Beginners are welcome, but although George doesn’t exactly teach, he will make sure no one does more than they’re capable of or comfortable with. If you’re a beginner, you won’t be allowed to charge off, for the sake of the horse as much as anything, but if you can ride, as I can, you’re welcome to gallop. Thus it was that I found myself at full speed on smooth turf, letting my handsome paint quarter horse Oreo stretch his legs into the westering sun. Heaven.

The open range. Otherwise known as the Elysian Fields

Yee-haw! Finn aboard the gentle Gus

Me and the brilliant Oreo

Setting off

George and me on a buckskin and a paint. Can't get much more Western than that.

A few miles from the guest cabins lies the main ranch, and it was here, in a motley collection of corrals, that we found a handsome herd of classic longhorns. Having met up with the guests, we had plenty of people to round up the herd and indulge in a spot of cow-cutting, which involves splitting off one or more beasts from the herd and moving them away. It can be done in pairs or teams, and the trick is not to get the cattle worked up or all hell can break loose. A responsive horse is key, and Oreo was as neat a cow pony as I could have wished. Small movements of the seat and hand told him where to go, and it was bliss to feel him taking care of the situation. I've got an awfully long way to go before I'm a proper cowgirl, but riding Oreo has only strengthened my wish to improve. I may run away to a ranch yet... Given the enthusiasm of my fellow scribblers, I wouldn't be surprised if they came too - and Stuart's prowess with a rope, swinging the lasso as if he'd been doing it all his life, suggests they wouldn't be entirely useless, either!

George gives a roping demonstration

One of La Reata's classic longhorns

Heading home

Sunset view from the main barn, where slap-up meals of ranch-fed beef are served

Me

Leaving the fresh open air of cowboy country, we journeyed east to experience an altogether seedier world. Who knew that Al Capone’s nefarious doings spread as far north as a lonely Canadian town called Moose Jaw? That brilliant name diverted attention from its alternative epithet Little Chicago, earned as a result of the bootlegging whisky-drinkers who flourished during Prohibition and turned Main Street into a red-light district where respectable folk feared to tread. On the Chicago Connection tour, we became bootleggers in 1929 and delved deep into the tunnels below the streets via Miss Fanny’s speakeasy and Al Capone’s bullet-proof bedroom, which had secret entrances in the fireplace and the wardrobe. Miss Fanny herself welcomed us into the bar, where spooky mannequins played the piano and sprawled unconscious, drinks in hand, and hustled us below stairs when word of the approaching revenue men came through. Once through a heavy iron door, the lanky form of Gus, one of Al Capone's goons, took us on, through hidden doors and past barrels of the good stuff. The odd hail of bullets lent our footsteps urgency, but, thankfully, we escaped a bloody end to flee to our cars and onto a much-needed slap-up meal at The Willow on Wascana in Regina, capital of the province. From there we shrugged off our bootlegging past to enter the hallowed portals of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police... but, as I've already rambled on too long, that is a story for next time!

Regina City Hall

As befits a country who still recognises our Queen, a statue of Elizabeth II
as she is happiest, on horseback. A woman after my own heart

Ah, Canada