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ONE

CONFESSIONS OF A PARK RANGER

Every great advance in natural knowledge has involved the absolute rejection of authority.

— Thomas H. Huxley (1825–1895)

Before living the quixotic life of a park ranger, I was living the quixotic life but without the steady government paycheque. From the time I finished high school, to the time I was put on payroll as a park technician, I spent six summers, from break-up to freeze-up, in the canoe, doing what any normal, intransigent youth would be doing, I supposed, and it had nothing to do with what was expected of me.

In my renovated chicken-shed-cum-studio, perched on the brim of a hill in the tiny hamlet of Laskay, Ontario, I did my artwork. My mentor Jack McBride, a retired printer, had taken me under his wing and gifted me with the use of his country property, located well outside the dirty fringe of Toronto. There was an adjoining cottage but I preferred the chicken shed as it was easier to heat in the winter. In return for this rather splendid asylum, I supplied him with illustrations for various printing jobs. Also retired were various archaic printing presses that found a home in his basement; together we had quite a business percolating, making assorted greeting cards, hasty notes, posters, and bar mitzvah invitations.