ROCK OF THE WESTIES AND OTHER ASSORTED MUSICAL TREASURES

"Rock of the Westies", Elton John

Released October, 1975

Featuring hit single, "Island Girl"

Notes:

Long-time bassist Dee Murray and drummer Nigel Olson were fired from the band prior to recording the album. They were replaced by drummer Roger Pope and bassist Kenny Passarelli. 

Elton John in the early to mid-1970's was an incredibly versatile and successful musician. Each passing album produced incredible hits and featured perfectly-written songs (through his writing partnership with Bernie Taupin). As a child during that era, I remember the airwaves being dominated by Elton John and Paul McCartney and Wings, mainly. My dad was in his early to mid-thirties throughout Elton John's run at the top of the charts in those years.

 Dad was deeply into music in those years, and I remember peeking at him him down in his workshop below the stairs, while puttering around at his little workshop, listening to his tape collection on his prized portable tape deck. We also had a stereo upstairs in the living room, where he occasionally blasted his vinyl records (much to the chagrin of my mother). One day he came home from whatever errands he was running with a new record to show for his day out - Elton John's "Rock of the Westies". 

He immediately put the record on the turntable, and he was suddenly transformed and transfixed. Witnessing this display of musical rapture he was experiencing, immediately affected me. I too, at the age of seven, was suddenly thrust into this swirl of rock and pop music permeating my house. I saw my dad standing in front of the stereo, tapping his foot and occasionally playing some air guitar. The beats and melodies coming out of the speakers were infectious. The album in question is the afore-mentioned "Rock of the Westies". Little did I know at the time just how much this album would come back to affect me at several points in my life, and how much it played a role in the bond I would come to share with my dad over music. 

Looking at the album cover, my dad somewhat resembled Elton John during that era. Over the summer of 1975, he had grown his hair longer and he cultivated a beard. He wore a funky summer hat and started wearing jeans and t-shirts. He had eschewed the trappings of his clean-cut professional image, and became somewhat of a hippy / beatnik. Again, this was much to the chagrin of his wife, my mother. She did not understand what he was going through, nor did my siblings and I. However, to me, I thought my dad was pretty damned cool at that time. I idolized the man, yet feared him as well. He was a hulking figure, and was pretty much aloof and into his own pleasures and projects. Being a kid, and having a penchant for getting into trouble with my brother at times, all my dad had to do was raise his voice or change his tone and I was trembling with fear. My brother, on the other hand, just kept pushing his buttons. 

One of my dad's "simple" pleasures was music. He listened to it in a different way than most people did. He listened to the words and to the intricacies and nuances of the music. He was never a musician, however he was connected to music in other intrinsic ways. The "Rock of the Westies" album is one of those records he felt deeply connected to, as though the music was speaking to him. There are several tracks on the album that evoke memories of my dad at this stage in his life, but particularly "I Feel Like a Bullet (in the Gun of Robert Ford)", "Feed Me", "Dan Dare (Pilot of the Future)", and "Medley (Yell Help - Wednesday Night-Ugly)". It wasn't something dad necessarily shared with me, but I watched him in the living room tapping his feet and playing air guitar to the music, and I enjoyed watching him immensely. I grew to love this music he was playing too. 

Flash forward several years to my late twenties and early thirties, around the same age my dad was when the album came out. I was in that faraway land of Mongolia, living in a remote town. Most times I found myself isolated and alone in my little one-bedroom flat on a Friday night. It was during those times I felt most connected to my dad. I would often sneak out of my flat in the dark of the night (so as to avoid detection from curious townsfolk) and visit a roadside shop where I could buy some beer for the evening. I usually had enough in my pocket for about 6 cans, which I would triumphantly bring back to my apartment. 

I would have my portable CD / cassette player with  its accompanying cheap Chinese external speaker charged and ready to go, as well as my pen and journal laid out in front of me. Music at this point was a vital lifeline to me, and most of the music I had in my limited collection was gifted to me by dad. "Rock of the Westies" was one such album that was on heavy rotation on those nights, as I was basking in my beer buzz and solitude. As I wrote my deepest, and my most incoherent thoughts on those pages, I felt such a strong connection to my dad (despite being literally across the world from him). Dad and I also had a terrific correspondence via letters to one another. I would write tomes to him, describing my life as a conspicuous foreigner in a small northern Mongolian town, while dad would describe his life post-retirement as a wood crafter, selling his wares at various flea markets around the region. There was a true bond between us during these times, where after so many years of trying to figure one another out, we just clicked all of a sudden. 

The true gift of music, I have found, is that it can magically transport me back to these incredibly significant moments in my life. It was truly another lifetime ago, yet somehow when I listen to "Rock of the Westies", Steely Dan's "Aja", Dire Straits' "On Every Street", the Kinks, the Byrds, The Beatles' "White Album" and "Abbey Road", I am flooded with memories of my dad and how much he enjoyed these albums and artists, and many others too many to mention. I felt my dad was a true renaissance man - an intellectual, and at the same time someone who enjoyed crude humor and the simpler things in life. He reinvented himself upon retirement. Having spent so many years as an educator, he switched gears immediately and built a shop in his backyard to do his woodworking. He was incredibly talented at both. He was meticulous and disciplined. From his descriptive letters to me during my time abroad, I took great joy reading about his projects out in his shop. I could picture him out there, in his man cave, tapping his feet and playing air guitar to his music, just like he did when I watched him in the living room when I was a kid.    

A Year Ago Today - In Memoriam of My Father

 A year ago today, my father, Bruce Paterson, passed away at the age of 79. I miss him a great deal, but I know he is in a better place now.  Dad and I shared a lot in common, and particularly we bonded over music, beer, and a similar sense of humour (not necessarily in that order). I have a lot of fond memories whiling many a hot summer afternoon away out on his front porch, drinking cold beers and listening to some great rock music. We wore sombreros and looked like rednecks to all cars passing by, and we couldn't care less about it! Dad loved tapping his feet and playing air guitar to the sounds of The Band, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Clapton, The Beatles, and so on. I was a little more reserved with demonstrating my passion for the music, but watching Dad get into the groove was truly infectious and good for the soul.   Through that time, Dad and I were each other's best friends. He also pushed me to take a course and set goals for myself, and with his guidance I ended up embarking on a two-year adventure overseas to teach English. I had always dreamed of doing something like that, and he finally gave me the push I needed. 

Dad and I shared a truly incredible correspondence of long, epic letters to one another while I was in that faraway land, sharing details of our lives at that time. As I was cleaning out his apartment, I found my letters to him that he had filed away meticulously. I was choked up reading through them, and reliving the sense of love and comradery we had for one another. I was amazed by my father at that time in his life, as he had just retired after a 30 year career in education, and went back to school to learn woodworking. He became an artisan in his mid-fifties, building a workshop in his backyard and creating furniture and crafts to sell at local markets. It is astounding to me to think that I am now close to the age he was back then. Dad shared a lot of details about his daily life of working in his shop and making benches, rocking chairs, picture frames and such. He would load them all up in his van and head off to markets on the weekends hoping to land a few sales to augment his pension. Dad tended to look at it as a second career, as opposed to a hobby or leisurely activity, but that had a lot to do with the fact that he was often cash-strapped back in those days. 

I feel fortunate and grateful that I was there for Dad when he needed me the most, and that I was able to pay it forward in the end. I am also very grateful that his time was then and not now, with all that is going on with COVID. I believe it would have been very hard on my Dad not having regular contact with us, or other friends and family. I love you, Dad, and I miss you deeply. I will most definitely have a beer or two in your honour later. 

  

Time Warp Again

It's been a few years since I've visited this, my vanity project called "Pro-Lost or Pro-Found". I barely remember starting it, but I do remember it being spurred on by the impending finale of the program "Lost", which I was heavily into at the time. Themes of friendships, relationships failed, past regrets, atonement for past digressions, etc. all figured prominently into the plot lines. I really related to the show at the time. My overwhelming sense of nostalgia and sentimentality, often longing to recapture the free-spirited joy of my childhood was my overarching theme for this project. Coming back to this now, after so many years, I kind of feel I have let go of a large part of that longing or yearning to recapture the essence of my youth.

I have been back to Valleyfield twice in recent times. First as part of a trip with my son to see my dad. I brought him for a day trip to walk around and show him where I grew up. We also came and stayed in the only hotel in town during Thanksgiving Weekend. Again to visit my dad, but also to have a family trip. Both visits were pretty incredible, in terms of the overwhelming sense of nostalgia for seeing my house, my school, and other old landmarks so familiar to me. On our summer day trip, I brought my boy to Park Sauve, overlooking Baie St. Francois. It was like coming full circle, watching my boy play in the park where I once played and rode my bike as a child. I looked at him and thought how odd and random it was, the path I had taken to go from this small town to the point of travelling halfway across the world, then meeting my Mexican wife in Vancouver, and creating this incredible boy who has rapidly grown up before my eyes. 

I took my son to the house I grew up in, showing him the street and neighborhoods where I used to ride my bike or play hide and seek. The modest bungalow show below is the house I grew up in. I can still visualize what it looked like inside, and almost down to the fine details such as wallpaper design. I remember my dad doing things around the house, and having his little workshop tucked away in the basement. I remember him taking on the task of renovating the bathroom - it was a big job for one man. He also spent a lot of time in the back yard, tending to his garden, cutting the grass, and burning leaves in the autumn. I loved that smell, and like all good things, this is banned in most cities and towns now. Most of all, I am certain my dad puttered around and found projects to take on in order to avoid having to be around my mother, and probably us kids as much as possible. Being honest, I know my dad wasn't happy in his marriage. I believe he also wasn't content being a full-time father.

As a father, I am now reflective on the fact that I virtually grew up in a house without a father. I was eight years old when he left. I was almost the same age my son is now. In as much as my son drives me insane at the worst of times, I also cannot imagine not being a part of his life on a daily basis. I am incredibly proud of how he is turning out, and it is through the hard work and efforts of my wife and myself that he is so well-adjusted. He has a few issues, but what kid doesn't? It takes teamwork to raise children. My parents were never a team. I think there is a lot of blame to go around with both my parents, both having been equal parts selfish, self-indulgent, and self-serving. 

Despite all the pain caused by their splitting up, I still look back at my youth and hometown with great fondness. Perhaps it is because of that. I definitely believe I created some sort of whimsical fantasy land version of life in my mind, in order to avoid dealing with all the strife and chaos around me. We all have our coping mechanisms, and mine was to pretend there was never anything wrong. My bike was my vehicle for escape, and to explore strange new worlds beyond my normal everyday boundaries around home. Quite often I would hook up with my pals like Chris, but I was equally as happy going off on my own. Sometimes I even preferred it. I liked the silence, listening to the buzz of crickets and June Bugs, or hearing the sounds of a public address loudspeaker in the background. 

I am fast approaching my fiftieth birthday. I have a hard time reconciling my age with the notion that these memories still seem fresh to me. I wonder now if this "rose-colored glasses" version of Valleyfield is my sanctuary, where I retreat to when things get tough. Actually, I don't really wonder about that - I do often return to that corner of my mind. I can't help myself, nor do I really want to let go of that last strand of naivety and youthful exuberance. In a sense, I think I have a better grasp of it now, and it lies in the ability to not allow the nostalgia to overcome me. 

In the past year I have managed to track down my best friend Chris, and I look forward to the day when we can get together over a beer. We have been in touch, mostly through texts, trying to find an appropriate time to get together. Chris and I were inseparable as kids. I was devastated when he moved away at the end of grade 5. We had lost touch over those years, and suddenly found ourselves living in the same residence at York University ten years later! We were no longer kids, but it didn't take us long to become best pals again. Our language was a lot rawer, but he was the same old Chris I remembered. We were always hanging out together at university, but again, we lost touch since leaving there. Until catching up recently, we had not been in touch for over 25 years! I found out he has two kids around my boy's age. One girl and one boy. It would be fantastic to have our kids play together, like we used to. 

  

A Pigment of My Hallucination, Part II

I should warn whoever chooses to read this, that the following story is extremely long. I thought about breaking it up into chapters, but then I realized I am not that organized or inclined to do so. I prefer the long, drawn-out narrative, I suppose. While I have remained faithful to the facts as I remember them, I did embellish a few details along the way in order to keep things interesting (at least for me as I wrote it). My only regret is that I do not have any photographs from this experience to look back upon, or include in this post. Several images remain firmly entrenched in my memory, however it would have been a wonderful thing to have a visual record of this trip.
 As previously mentioned, several years ago I ended up as a VSO International volunteer in Mongolia. As the years progress, the memories fade just a little bit more. There are some that are permanently ingrained in the memory banks, though. Before launching into that, I should preface this story by saying that living so far away and outside my comfort zone was made so much easier and better thanks to a very special and select group of friends (both fellow volunteers and Mongolian) that I made. I have touched on this in past posts, and I will probably keep doing so in future posts. 

One such friend was Andy A. (Not to be confused with the other Andy (G.), who was equally a valued friend). This Andy was the one who I used to hang out with over marathon games of Scrabble, stale Chinese beer, and the ubiquitous packs of contraband smokes. This Andy introduced me to his eclectic collection of music including Radiohead, Pavement, Orange Juice, Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, Antonio Carlos Jobim and even the Hammond organ virtuoso, Klaus Wunderlich. Andy also introduced me to a world of literature that I would never have explored otherwise, such as the works of Franz Kafka, Dostoevsky,  and some of the lesser-known (but equally great) writings of Henry Miller. 

Andy was very philosophical, deep and introspective. At the same time, he and I enjoyed some of the more trashy aspects of pop culture as well. This was one of the many things I truly enjoyed about Andy. There was never a dull moment with him.  I think our friendship really hit its stride when he came up to visit me in Sukhbaatar  for a few days in the Spring of 1997. At that time I was living in the sleepy northern town on the Russian border, experiencing a great deal of isolation and angst. His visit came at the best possible time, as I really needed a sounding board. We hardly knew each other at that point, but that was what made the whole experience so truly unique and special. There was a sense of being in it together, and that was the greatest basis for establishing friendships.

Andy had a tremendous knack for "taking the piss" (British slang for "making fun/light of") out of  a situation, with just the right blend of cynicism and wryness. Having him stay at my flat and experience the nightly knocks on my door from local eccentrics helped me to see things from a fresh perspective. I had grown weary and quite jaded by this at that time, and having him there to joke about it helped a great deal. For him the visit was a welcome distraction from the hustle and bustle of Ulaanbaator. He reveled in the fresh, clean air and lack of noise pollution. The visit gave him some much needed respite to clear his mind of the clutter and din of Ulaanbaator. 
Over a few nights of drinking beer, chatting and watching cheesy soap operas and sitcoms at my flat, we hatched a plan for my upcoming three week vacation that summer. Andy was employed by the national university, thus being fortunate enough to have the summer off. I was working for a private enterprise, but managed to convince my Mongolian employer that I needed a three week break (even though I had only started in April). I mentioned to Andy at one point that I was anxious to see more of the country, and he came up with the idea of going to Lake Hovsgul. Apparently other volunteers had raved about this area, which featured a large and pristine fresh water lake and ideal surroundings for camping. This sounded like a real adventure, which I was craving at that point. Lake Hovsgol was way off the beaten path, and would require us to leave from Ulaanbaator by bus. Apparently it was at the very least a good 15 hour bus ride. The idea would be for me to meet up with Andy at his place, which meant I would have to catch an overnight  train from Sukhbaatar to U.B. 

Lake Hovsgol on a map of Mongolia. Travel to and from was either by bus or jeep over dirt roads.  

A view of the crystal clear shores of Lake Hovsgol

Somewhere in the middle of July, I took leave for my vacation, and crammed my backpack for my trip to the big smoke. It was an invigorating feeling, to be on the first leg of my trip to meet up with Andy and our other mutual friends. I arrived after a night of little to no sleep on a crowded overnight train, and eventually met up with Andy at his place early the next morning. We still had a lot of planning to do, and many supplies to round up. First and foremost we needed the VSO tent and camping equipment. Before all that, though, we needed to do a trip downstairs to the nearest kiosk to pick up several bottles of beer for the afternoon and day ahead. 
Before diving into our stock, we decided it was best to head to a bar and discuss the logistics of our trip in an atmospheric setting. Andy had the perfect watering hole in mind, just a stone's throw from his apartment block. The place was aptly named "The Elvis Bar", and it was a dimly-lit little dive hidden away in some nondescript rows of buildings near the central train station. Appropriately, the bar was adorned with all kinds of Elvis memorabilia, including portraits of young and older Elvis,  and the sound system blared out Elvis music on a non-stop rotation.
Naturally, as we sauntered into the bar, we were greeted by a handful of inebriated Mongolian patrons. They were somewhat surprised (but too busy with their drinks to bother with us) to see foreigners. We ordered a round of pints and settled in to absorb the environment. I was happy hanging out with my new friend, and the more we conversed the more we realized how much we had in common. Supposedly this was our first stop before moving on to some bigger bars, however we grew quite comfortable right where we were. We pretty much spent the entire afternoon there. When we finally stumbled out the door, we were struck in the face by the relentless glare of the sun. We had to make our way back to Andy's for a nap to recover. 

By that point I had been sleep-deprived for a good 24 hours, so I definitely needed to recharge my batteries. Out of all my friends in Ulaanbaator, Andy had the greatest couch to crash on. It was big and long, perfectly contoured for the body. Cushions were firm, yet inviting at the same time. This couch definitely had a long history, judging by the various blemishes and burn holes on it. However, these things were easily covered by a blanket, and by wrapping oneself up in their sleeping bag. In other words, the comfort of the couch easily outweighed the blemishes.
 By the time we got up from our naps we were well into the evening hours. We needed something to eat before deciding what to do next. We feasted on huushur and buuz - Mongolian versions of fast food (I won't get into describing them here). Andy had put on some music from his collection, a lot of things I had never heard before - groups like Pavement with their alternative rock styling as well as the dulcet tones of the band Orange Juice. Andy also had a soft spot for Burt Bacharach compositions, particularly those sung by Dionne Warwick. Oddly enough, so did I. He also had a deep appreciation for Brazilian samba standards, particularly the music of Stan Getz and Antonio Carlos Jobim.
I was familiar with a lot of this music too, recalling my parents' record collections from the sixties  and early seventies - artists such as Sergio Mendez and Brasilia '66 as well as Stan Getz and Tom Jobim. We took great delight in listening to and appreciating these tapes in his collection.  He also had a tape of Hammond organ music by Klaus Wunderlich. Listening to these whirling organ runs evoked memories of my younger days growing up in the seventies. Andy and I were of the same generation, and as such grew up with the same musical influences. Listening to such music invoked many funny images images of the adults of our time having fondue parties,  with some sort of jello or parfait concoction for dessert, spinning records and dancing on shag rugs.
Over the course of this introductory music session, Andy asked if I liked playing Scrabble. I was indeed enthusiastic. He brought out the board and tile bag, and asked if I'd like to engage in a friendly game. I was happy to oblige. Little did we know that this introductory game would flourish into a great competitive, yet friendly rivalry that would span over a year and a half. Our first game ended in almost a tie, with Andy edging me. In fact, he probably beat me every time we played, but with each passing game our strategies grew increasingly more complex. If it is even possible to compare Scrabble to chess, I think we came pretty close to it. If there was ever an occasion to play team Scrabble competitively, Andy and I would have become world champions. Slight exaggeration, maybe. However, we were really excellent players. We eventually modified rules to our own liking, to keep things fresh. Little did I know just how significant this game would become in the course of our friendship. 
A couple of days had passed without making any real solid plans about our trip across the Mongolian countryside. I had grown quite comfortable hanging out at Andy's, and our routine had become really enjoyable. Late mornings after slowly getting up, we'd have a game of Scrabble over stale bread and cheese with instant coffee, smokes, and music in the background. Early afternoons would be over beer and more Scrabble, some sandwiches and louder music in the background. Late afternoon was nap time, then some dinner with more beer and possibly Mongolian vodka, followed by raucous blasting of his stereo while we prepared to go out for nights on the town. Late nights would find us dancing with hot Mongolian ladies at the discos. Despite our shaggy looks, we did seem to attract quite a bit of attention (good and bad) at those places. 
Anyhow, after about a week of this, it had become quite imperative that we get out of dodge and breathe some clean countryside air. We forced ourselves to buy our bus tickets the next morning. We had decided to get our tickets for the day after, so that we had a good two weeks to make our journey. I had to rely on Andy a lot in those days, as his grasp of Mongolian was much better than mine. He went up to the ticket booth and asked for the tickets. There was an obstacle to our plan - the bus to the nearest "city" (Moron, appropriately enough) only went twice a week. We had to wait another 3 days, as it was already the weekend by that point. 
Perhaps the height of all the chaos had been reached the final morning before our bus journey. We had set out to grab the tent and all the supplies, when all of a sudden we heard shouting at us from across the street. They were calling out to Andy. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but they were motioning at him to come over. The closer we got to them, I realized that they weren't Mongolian. Andy finally recognized this motley group of young guys as a travelling Peruvian folk group who had performed at a nightclub he went to one night. Andy had spent some time in Spain prior to going to Mongolia, and as such he was able to communicate in Spanish with the musicians.
It was only ten or so in the morning at this point, but the fellows were eager to have us join them at their flat for some breakfast and vodka, of course. I knew absolutely no Spanish at this stage of my life, so I really was limited in terms of communication. It didn't matter, though. We all got along fabulously the more we drank. At one point, things got so spirited that the band members took out their respective musical instruments. There was an acoustic guitar player, pan flutist, and a maracas / percussionist. Without a word to one another, they broke out in a rousing and heartfelt Peruvian folk song, followed by a more somber sounding one. After about 5 amazing songs, they collapsed from exhaustion. The mood had become much more serious in the room, and I asked Andy what was wrong. He said that they told him they had been travelling around the world for about two years straight and they were incredibly homesick. The last song they played was a song pertaining to the lament of being so far from home. It really struck me at that moment how odd and random it was to run into a Peruvian folk ensemble in Mongolia, of all places. Their music touched me deeply, as did the whole experience of making their acquaintance. I certainly did not intend to get drunk so early in the morning, yet here I was stumbling back to Andy's place again. Time for another nap, and to put a cap on the partying. We had to catch our bus early the next morning so a good night's sleep was in order.                                               
 We woke up quite rejuvenated and ready for the trek across the countryside that next morning. Off we went to the bus station, backpacks firmly on shoulders and tent and accessories securely bundled. We had rations for the trip, figuring on about 15-18 hours on a bus. Once Andy figured out which bus was ours, we boarded and got a seat near the back of the bus. We had about ten minutes to departure, and the bus was less than half full. We felt pretty comfortable, thinking we had plenty of place to stretch out and sleep. As we inched closer to the ten minute mark, we noticed more and more Mongolians lining up outside the bus. The driver finally showed up, and started to let more and more people on. We looked at each other and realized our stretching space was no longer available. As people boarded, they looked at us with bemused curiosity, as we were the only foreigners on board. 
We looked at them with slight irritation, as they seemed to be bringing their entire life belongings with them. One man, dressed in traditional countryside attire, boarded with fresh sheep pelts. It was an extremely hot and sticky day out, and the smell was overwhelming. Naturally, he plopped down in the seat right in front of us, and as he turned to look at us, we were again overwhelmed by the smell. He reeked of alcohol, appearing quite intoxicated. We thought we were bad, but we had nothing on this guy. By this time, the bus was already a good hour late. Another hour passed, and with each minute the fellow in front of us grew bolder and bolder as he attempted to communicate with us. He even started to get his fellow passengers in on the act, to get us to crack I guess. They all seemed to think he was a Mongolian Jim Carey or something, because he was making them all laugh hysterically. Andy and I were already thinking up ways to kill him without detection. 
The bus finally got going a good 3 hours late. We stayed on the bus all that time, knowing there wasn't another one to take. They had already turned back several people as there was no room on the bus, so we didn't necessarily want to give up our prized seats. We were quite relieved to be moving, and finally getting some fresh air blowing in our faces. The bus made its way out of the city, and as we reached the outskirts, there was a loud thud coming from the rear wheel well. Naturally, the wheel had been punctured by something on the road, and we were stopped dead in our tracks yet again. It took a good 2 or so hours to get the tire replaced, and back on the road. The frustration levels were reaching a simmering boil at this point, and we had barely gotten out of Ulaanbaator. We still had a good 18 hours to go. The fellow in front of us had developed somewhat of a stand up comedy routine with our fellow passengers, as he grew more and more animated with each sip of vodka from the bottle he had stashed in his overflowing traditional robe. We really weren't in on the joke, due to language and cultural barriers, however we couldn't shake the feeling that we were the butt of it. The gesturing towards us and his inching closer and closer to us with his putrid breath were pretty much a dead giveaway. 
Finally we saw the tail end of the city lights, and as it grew darker out, people began to unwind for the long trip ahead. I should say most people. Our master of ceremonies in front of us was just getting primed. He seemed to have an endless stash of bottles hidden away in his deep pockets, and by that point he was feeling pretty generous to share some with us. In my experience, Mongolians did take offense when they offered something and were refused. With that in mind, we politely declined, feigning stomach problems and what not. He was not about to take no for an answer, as he was nose to nose with me at that point. The breath was enough to make me submit, so I took a sip, thanked him and hoped that would be the end of it. Unfortunately, it wasn't. Andy was still holding out, and by this time it had become a battle of the wills between the two. Andy had started off politely, but the more the inebriated passenger insisted, the more irritated Andy had become. I could see Andy's teeth clenching, as he steadfastly refused. It proved fruitless, and then Andy started in English with as many curse words as he could muster. He finally closed his eyes and did his best to tune him out. I followed suit, however there was no stopping the guy. He would get out of his seat and start shaking me at some points to wake me up. He would lean over and slap Andy's arm to get his attention. I found myself praying not to haul off and hit him, for fear of the rest of the bus ganging up on us. I begged God to do something drastic to this guy to shut him up and make him finally pass out. Then, for the first time in my life, my prayers were answered.
We had been travelling over dirt roads through the countryside, and the lack of shock absorbers caused us to bounce wildly up and down off our seats throughout the grueling ride. At one point we hit a really deep hole in the road, and the whole bus load of passengers flew out of their seats into a big heaping pile. The obnoxious drunk in front of us was completely unprepared for this, and apparently flew up head first with a tremendous impact into the metal ceiling of the bus. He was apparently knocked out cold by the blunt force of the impact. We weren't totally callous about the accident, as we did take a look to make sure he was breathing and wasn't bleeding. At the same time, though, we were relieved to finally have some good karma coming our way. The next 4 or so hours passed without incident, and we were finally able to get some sleep. By the time our fellow passenger awoke from his haze, we had reached a sort of oasis in the middle of nowhere. It was a small compound of gers (yurts), where the driver stopped to unload passengers and have a rest. Few people disembarked with their belongings, but again the fates were positive for us. Our mate got off and disappeared into the village with all his belongings. 
It was a welcome relief on all fronts to get out and stretch our legs, and have a smoke. We were offered all sorts of freshly made dairy products, including a traditional drink called "airag". This consisted of fermented mare's milk. I had never tried it before, and thought for sure it would make me sick. However, I owed it to myself to try it, and any sort of pick-me-up was badly needed at that point. Surprisingly, it went down quite smoothly. So much so, that I consumed a fair amount before getting back on the bus. By then, it was early morning after a sleepless night traveling across the landscape. Both of us collapsed from exhaustion, only waking up several hours later as we approached our final destination aboard the bus. We arrived in the late afternoon to Moron, the closest large town to Lake Hovsgul. By this time there would be no buses leaving for Lake Hovsgol, nor were we really inclined to hire a driver at that point. We stood around the bus depot deciding what to do. Apparently the only hotel in town had been closed for some undisclosed reason, so we thought we would end up sleeping on benches in town. That might have been a risky thing to do, but it was our last resort.                                        
As we stood bewildered, exhausted and confused, a fellow passenger neither of us recognized from our bus trip observed our predicament. He approached, and spoke to Andy in Mongolian. He had a very friendly face, and seemed soft-spoken and humble. He put his hand on Andy's shoulder and motioned for us to follow him. I asked Andy what was going on. He told me that we had been invited to stay at his family's place and have something warm to eat. I asked Andy what he thought, and he had the same vibe from the fellow as I did. He led us through a maze of wooden homes along the side paths around the outskirts of town. We reached a fenced enclosure, to which our new friend made a noise. A young fellow came out to open the gate, and our friend motioned for us to enter the property. 
We followed him through the front door, which was adorned with a beaded curtain with bells hanging. As we parted the curtain to go through, the bells rang with a faint, but heavenly chime. Immediately we were struck with the scent of incense burning. The sun was beaming through the side window, but we could make out the shadow of a large figure sitting in a chair against the wall. Our new friend introduced himself as "Davaa", and introduced the large, shadowy figure as his father. It was a scene somewhat reminiscent of Martin Sheen finally coming face to face with Marlon Brando in "Apocalypse Now" (only, it wasn't apocalyptic....it was serene).    His father emerged from the shadows and gave us a warm handshake. He was a Buddhist monk!
The young fellow who greeted us was the monk's student, and after a cordial greeting and discussion of where we came from, he went right back to training his young disciple in prayers and chanting. We were offered a nice warm cup of milk tea, and some Mongolian biscuits. At that point, as we breathed in the lovely aroma of incense and candles, warmed our gullets with the tea and filled up on biscuits, we were overcome with a feeling of relief and relaxation. After a short time with the monk and his student, Davaa instructed us to follow him outside.
He led us to the wooden house next door, and motioned for us to proceed into the wood home. It turned out that this was actually Davaa's house that he shared with his wife, their two young children (a boy and a girl), and his mother. The women were busy preparing food in the kitchen while the children were playing in the living room with the tv blaring in the background. The children rushed up to greet us as soon as they heard their father come through the door. Davaa gave them a warm hug and pulled out some candy from his bag. Their mother looked on somewhat disapprovingly, but was happy to see her husband home. There were several sets of eyes staring at the grubby vagabonds he brought in with him, though. 
Davaa made some introductions, and I assumed that he was letting his wife know that we would be their guests for an undetermined amount of time. Right away he led us to his living room, where he lit up a pipe and offered us a haul. We gladly accepted. He showed us some of his prized possessions, including volumes of encyclopedias from Russia, as well as his coveted chess set. With that, his wife presented us with plates of food, to which we were beyond grateful. We devoured helpings upon helpings of traditional Mongolian dishes as they were presented to us. We were not the least bit embarrassed by the sets of curious eyes upon us. Our hosts were tremendously pleased that their foreign guests were enjoying the food so much. 
After dinner, Davaa brought out some vodka and we had a ceremonial Mongolian shot. The vodka was poured into a small and ornate drinking bowl, and Davaa dipped his finger into it, flicking the vodka in the air as if to bless it. He took a sip and passed it on to us. The bowl got passed around several times until we decided to drop tradition and just take shots from an actual shot glass. We were happily buzzed after a short time, to which Davaa challenged us to a chess game. He told us he was a bit of a chess prodigy, and to prove it he wanted to play us simultaneously on two different boards. Neither Andy nor I were any good at the game, however we did have a basic grasp of it. We accepted the challenge and Davaa had both of us in a checkmate within seconds. He let out a hearty laugh at how pathetic we were as opponents, and we were humbly appreciative of his mastery. 
The children came back to the room after playing outside and the ladies joined us as well. We all sat around, and made our best attempts at communicating with one another. This was truly my first experience being with a Mongolian family, and I felt so relaxed and at home with them. They were truly wonderful people. Both children were absolutely adorable, and they were so keen to interact with us. Davaa and his wife were obviously so proud of their children and were terrific parents. Davaa made sure to instruct his children to practice what little English they knew with us, and we made sure to compliment them on their abilities. The rest of the evening was spent sipping more vodka, and eventually we settled down to watch tv. They found a channel that came in on the rabbit ears, and there was a movie playing with English subtitles. At first I thought it was a Mongolian movie, as it featured shots of scenic nature. Then as I looked closer, I couldn't help but shake the feeling that it was Canada. 
Sure enough, we were watching a movie entitled "Black Robe", set in the early settler days of Quebec. It was a gripping tale of a Jesuit priest trying to convert the local natives, with all the perils that he brought on to them, as well as the perils of the elements surrounding them. I was flabbergasted and elated to be able to tell my hosts that this was my country's history we were watching!  The whole family sat quietly through the movie, and as it finished, Andy and I realized we were exhausted and it was late. There was a moment of awkwardness, as we realized their living room was where the whole family slept. We quickly hatched a plan to set up our tent in the back yard, so as to avoid one or both of our hosts giving up prime sleeping space. We knew they would go as far as not to sleep if it meant providing us with a place to rest. 
Andy explained our plan to Davaa, and as much as he protested, we could tell they were relieved. They too had had a long day. Davaa had been on the grueling bus trip the whole time with us, so he didn't sleep much the past day and a half either. We got the tent up under the light of the brilliant moon, and quickly collapsed into a restful sleep. The next morning, I woke up to voices and giggling outside our tent. I unzipped the tent to find the children peeking in with great curiosity and amusement. Andy and I invited them in and they were incredibly excited. We surmised that they had never seen the inside of a tent before, so it was all a new experience for them. Andy and I found a couple of snacks to give them, but we made sure to make gestures to them not to tell their parents. 
That morning I felt a complete sense of release, of all the tension we had encountered on our bus trek across the Mongolian landscape. Gone were my feelings of ill-will towards our fellow passenger, as well as my frustration with the system of travel in Mongolia. Andy felt the same way, and we were overcome by how happy this young family was despite their lack of money or material wealth. Actually, we had determined that they were happy in spite of it, rather despite it. The laughter of the children in the tent, and how open they and their parents were to us had tremendous impact on me. We knew that we were supposed to be finding a bus or a jeep to head off to Hovsgul, however we were not in such a rush anymore. Soon after, Davaa came around and scolded his kids for waking us up. We insisted we were happy to have them there, and that it was no problem. 
Andy and Davaa spoke a little about transportation matters, but Davaa told him that it was time for breakfast. Off we went back into the house. Our hostess had an assortment of cheese, bread and biscuits laid out for us. Again, we delighted in being fed. Davaa sat with us over breakfast, and explained he needed to go into town for a while. He told us to stay at the house and to make ourselves at home. We did so, playing with the kids some more while mother and grandmother tended to domestic duties. After a while, Andy and I felt we should go into town and buy something for our hosts. It was a small town, and easy to find our way around. We made sure to observe certain landmarks to ensure we found our way back "home". 
We picked up some little gifts for our hosts and children, then we found a store where we could buy some beer. We brought that back to share with Davaa, and he was quite pleased to have one with us when he got back from his business in town. After another delicious dinner, Davaa and Andy finally got down to the bare bones of our plans. Davaa instructed Andy that it was far easier and better to go by jeep, and that he had already pre-arranged a driver for us. This was a friend of his who he obviously trusted implicitly, and we once again felt humbled by all the amazing things our hosts were doing for us. Davaa explained that his friend was getting some work done on his jeep, but he would be ready by the next afternoon. Once again, we were happy to stay another night with our family, and at this point we were feeling very attached to them. 
The trip by jeep was yet another few hours, barring any setbacks. At this point we were well aware to expect the unexpected. At this point, we didn't care - we had a whole jeep to ourselves, and it would be at the most a half day journey. After we said our heartfelt goodbyes to our host mother and children, we set off to town with Davaa. It was a bittersweet feeling parting ways with them, as we had grown very fond of our adoptive family. Our host mother took it upon herself to make sure we were well-rationed for the trip. She sent us off with bread, cheese, biscuits, and pretty much everything else she could find at the last second. Davaa ushered us down to the market, where we met up with our driver. He was quiet, however took his role seriously as our driver. Davaa seemed to give him some last minute instructions, and we said our goodbyes at that point with him. My only disappointment in that whole experience was that I could not express succinctly how deeply grateful I was to him and his family for taking us in. I wanted to tell him how extremely wonderful he and his family was, and that thanks to him I felt a sense of rejuvenation about my whole Mongolian experience to that point. Instead, we shook hands and embraced Mongolian style, and that was the last we saw of him. 
The driver made one last inspection of the jeep, and ensured that everything had been packed securely. Davaa had informed Andy about how much money to pay him. Andy and I had our money ready to hand him as soon as we got in the jeep. Our driver was extremely embarrassed to take it on the spot, and insisted we pay him at the end of the trip. Unbeknownst to us, Davaa had made one last incredibly generous gesture of kindness, which was to arrange for the driver to take us to a nearby river for a picnic with some friends of his. Davaa had really wanted to show us what a true Mongolian experience was all about. The driver explained all this to Andy, and while it took us by surprise, at this point we were still very high from all the love and kindness that had been extended to us. We were more than happy to divert a little from the plan. The driver assured Andy that we would get to Hovsgul before dark. At this point, it was probably around 9:00 in the morning. 
Within a few kilometers from the town limits, the driver veered off the main road back into the dirt trails. We bounced around a fair bit, but this jeep was built for off-roading. In the distance was a line of coniferous trees, and the driver pointed towards them saying something neither of us fully understood. We assumed this was where he was heading, so that was good enough for us. Once we got to the tree line, he pulled right into the forested area. Right before us were a bunch of people, most of them about our age, setting up for a picnic. They all made their way to the jeep and seemed to know the driver really well. They invited us over, and sat us down on the blanket to be fed. We could not believe that a party was literally unfolding before our eyes, in the middle of nowhere. There was lots of Mongolian joke-telling and roars of laughter, as well as a portable stereo blasting out Mongolian and North American pop songs. Andy and I immediately noticed some fine looking young women in our midst, and they looked very tempting indeed. The vodka was going around very liberally at this point, as was the beer. Much dancing ensued, and I was completely up for the party. Andy was a little more hesitant to throw himself all in, however he was enjoying himself a great deal. 
Suddenly someone yelled something out, and everyone began to strip down to their underwear! Everyone motioned for us to do the same, and immediately Andy had drawn the line right there. He was not going to strip down, especially not knowing the reason why. I on the other hand, was willing and able to throw myself right into it at that point. Everyone roared with delight to see the scrawny goat-like white guy in his underwear, in a very appreciative way of course. They led us down a short hill to reveal a pristine river, where everybody plunged right in. I followed suit, and it was the most refreshing plunge into a river I had ever experienced. It was an extremely hot day already, and the sun hadn't even peaked at that point. On top of that, I was already feeling drunk from the vodka, so dousing myself in cold fresh water was the best thing I could have done for myself at that stage. I encouraged Andy to join us, but he was not really into it. I sensed that he was getting a little anxious to hit the road, considering we would have to find a spot to set up camp. He was absolutely right, but I was really enjoying myself. 
After drying off and heading back to the picnic, Andy expressed his/our desire to get going to the driver. I had been in Mongolia for about 6 months at that point, and I had already grown to understand that Mongolians, particularly in the countryside, did not have the same sense of urgency that we Westerners did. This could be the source of a great deal of frustration to a lot of people (myself included at various times), however in moments such as this I found it absolutely liberating. By the same token, I also understood Andy's rationale, that we wanted to get to our destination (wherever it ended up being) before night fall. We parted ways with our new friends, and once again it was with a touch of regret on my part. I still wanted to get to know some of the ladies in the group, but it was not to be. I hopped into the back of the jeep, half dressed, while Andy rode shotgun. The driver did not seem to mind taking off when we did, so he was happy to oblige. 
We had been on the road for a couple of hours over rugged terrain, as we meandered through valleys of ger settlements and then nothing as far as the eye could see. At one point it felt as though we had hit a pot hole, and the driver stopped to check out the jeep. We had a flat tire, but he assured us he would have it fixed in no time. I could see Andy getting a little worried that things might digress as they did with the bus trip early on. I chose to put my complete faith in our  driver, and ride the wave of good karma. The driver seemed to know the terrain like the back of his hand, and he proceeded to drive with the flat tire down a barely visible dirt trail. We went into a valley of hills, and as we passed through, we were at a small village of about 2 or 3 gers. He stopped in front of one, called out for the occupant, and a lady who looked like she might be in her fifties poked her head out the door. She had a cigarette dangling from her mouth, and motioned the driver to come in. 
The driver explained to Andy that she would feed us while he fixed the flat tire. Andy was getting tired of all the hospitality at this stage, and just wanted to get to Lake Hovsgul. I was still a little buzzed from the party, so I really didn't care. The driver assured us that he would only take a few minutes. The lady motioned once again for us to come in, while the driver called out for another fellow to help him with the tire. Andy and I headed towards her ger, where she had a radio blaring inside. It wasn't the most ornate ger I had seen thus far, but it was cozy inside. She had just finished cooking something, which had a distinct odor. Andy and I felt the situation was getting somewhat surreal, as the lady resembled a chain-smoking witch. The radio was tuned into the BBC, and just at that moment the opening chords of "Sympathy For the Devil", by the Rolling Stones was blaring through the speakers. She yelled at someone through her door, and with that an attractive young woman, probably in her late teens came in. She instructed the girl to start serving us. 
I had expected something hot like a bowl of soup, however we were served some sort of white porridge with curds in it. I turned to Andy and asked what it was we were eating. He replied that it was home made yogurt, which I was not in the mood for. The lady then instructed the young girl to start pouring us drinks, which of course was vodka. She did not have a sipping cup, so she had the girl serve it to us in regular coffee mugs. Andy played it wisely, pretending to sip his vodka and tossing it over his shoulder when she wasn't looking. I on the other hand, was fully immersed in the experience and made sure to take everything that was given to me. As the Stones were blaring in our ears, with this sinister-looking hag and her attractive young daughter, the situation was taking on very weird overtones. 
The lady realized that I could not speak Mongolian, so she turned her attention to Andy. She leaned over to him, while chattering away to her daughter who was protesting. Andy's face had grown quite serious, and I demanded to know what she was saying to him. Andy gulped and said, "I'm not quite sure, but I think she is offering to sell us her daughter." That was it for both of us. We had to get the hell out of that ger. It was all too surreal, confined in this ger in the middle of nowhere, listening to "Sympathy for the Devil", and being solicited to buy some witch-like woman's daughter. Fortunately the driver had the tire fixed by then, so he was ready to go. Andy told him quite emphatically to leave immediately. The driver did as he was told and went flying over the dirt mounds away from the settlement. 
As we bounced around up and down, I felt a series of tremors rattling inside my stomach. Suddenly it seemed that mixing this home made yogurt with vodka was not such a good idea after all. I leaned forward to ask the driver to stop, but before I could get a word out, I spewed forth and splattered the entire dashboard and front inside windshield. It was a stroke of luck that I had leaned straight forward, though, as one degree to the right or left would have spelled disaster for either of the front seat occupants. The poor driver's jeep was a mess of sticky white curds and what-not. Immediately we pulled over and I sheepishly offered to clean the mess. The driver declined, probably because he was concerned I would do it again and get it all over some hard to reach spot. I stripped down to my shorts and took everything else off for the rest of the trip.
The driver didn't seem to be too upset over his jeep getting all messed up, and refused to take any extra money from me for the "upheaval" that I had caused. I actually felt quite relieved and ready for the final leg of the journey. We drove on, and finally after a few more hours we approached our destination. The driver spoke to Andy and pointed in both directions. Andy told me that he was offering to take us into town, or to find our spot to set up our tent. Andy told him to drive on along the road and he would tell him when to stop. We looked along the winding road and as we passed a long row of trees, the lake was there in full view down a steep embankment. Andy instructed the driver to pull up off the road and we would hike the rest of the way down. The driver seemed a bit reluctant, and pointed at the clouds rolling in. He told Andy that it looked like a storm coming in. We didn't care at that point. We just wanted to get to our spot and set up camp before any rain came. The driver reluctantly obliged, and we paid him and said our thank you's and goodbyes. 
The air felt a little fresh where we were, due to the proximity of the large lake and surrounding mountains. We marched through the thicket of trees, down the embankment, and settled on a remote spot right near the shore. It was a perfect location, near the beach yet sheltered in some trees. Sundown was rapidly approaching and we knew it was imperative to get our tent up and start a campfire. Just as we got the final peg in, the rain drops began to fall. At first it wasn't an intense rain, so we figured we could still get the fire going. We set about to collect fire wood, and as soon as we were about to start the fire the rain intensified. We sought shelter in the tent, and that was where we would remain for the next three days. 
That night the rain raged and the winds whipped our tent from side to side. Fortunately we had secured it well into the ground, otherwise we would have lost what little shelter we actually had. We took turns peeking through the tent flap to check on the rain, and by that point we could not see the lake which was a mere stone's throw away. As night fell, it grew colder out. We had a couple of flash lights, but were concerned about draining the batteries. We did not anticipate such an intense rain, the likes of which I had never encountered in my life. Had we known, we would have stocked up on more food beforehand. After a quick check, we discovered all we had were biscuits. That would be fine, though, because we were certain the rain would let up by morning and we could do the 10 km hike along the main road into town the next morning. We settled on a game of Scrabble by flash light, to get our minds off the cold and dampness that had set in. 
We got through one game, and realized our tent had a leak. Then we discovered another one, and then a few more. We could not stop the leaks. The rain had only intensified even further into the night, and suddenly everything was wet. All of our clothes, our sleeping bags, and even our biscuits were completely soaked. The only thing that we managed to keep dry was a lighter, which we were able to use to light our soggy imported Bulgarian cigarettes. There were no words we could use to describe the absolute frustration and misery we were starting to feel, so we chose not to talk at all most of the time. For the first time, I felt as though my friendship with Andy was being tested. Through his silence, I wondered to myself if he somehow blamed me for this cruel act of nature. Then I thought perhaps it might have been my fault. I ran through the events leading up to our setting up camp, and began to wonder if things might have been different had I not thrown up in the jeep. Perhaps that might have been the catalyst that forced Andy to decide to set up camp right away, rather than get dropped off in town. Maybe it was even further back than that, when I was so eager to party and swim in the river earlier that day. All the while Andy was getting more and more impatient to get to our destination. 
I realized, though, that this was something much larger than the both of us, and there were external forces at play. Call it fate, destiny or karma.....there was nothing either of us could have done to alter the course of events as they unfolded. It was simply meant to be. As I sat huddled and shivering in my tiny dry corner of the tent, I absolved myself of any guilt over the disaster that had transpired. Since I couldn't see Andy, I determined that he was simply meditating and willing the rain to go away. Time by this point seemed to have stood still. Neither of us had any idea what time of night it was. It felt like a long time had passed, but I couldn't be sure. One thing we were certain of, though, was that we were alone against the elements. There couldn't possibly have been another soul within miles of us, as Andy made sure to pick a very obscure location. His top priority by this time was to get as far away from civilization as possible. 
Naturally, as would always seem to happen in Mongolia, a local appeared out of nowhere and knocked / scratched on our tent door. I unzipped the tent, and could barely make out a figure standing in front of the tent through the pelting rain. I rubbed my eyes as if to ensure I wasn't imagining an apparition. The man crouched down and I had a better look at him. He was dressed in yellow rain gear, complete with the fisherman hat, and was holding a dead fish out. I heard Andy asking who the fuck that could possibly be, so I explained that it was a Mongolian fisherman holding a fish. 
Andy thought I was hallucinating so he took a look. The man spoke to him, and Andy sent him off. "What did he want?" I asked. Andy said that he was wondering if we wanted to buy the fish he just caught. We then found the humor in the whole situation, as it was absolutely a surreal encounter. The man never offered to help us out, and in fact seemed quite upset that we wouldn't buy his fish. What were we supposed to do with it, anyway? We had no way of cooking it, and it wasn't the type of fish you would want to eat raw. It really was like a Monty Python sketch. After a while, we settled back into a deadened trance. We were still soaked, and our tent was not holding up against the elements. There really was no dry place to sleep, so we had to lie in our wet sleeping bags. The air had become unbearably cold overnight, and there was no relief in sight. I tried to keep my composure, but I couldn't help but let out a couple of disheartened sighs, and perhaps even a whimper here and there. 
The next morning we surveyed the damage, and there was virtually nothing left of our food stock. We had a tin of instant coffee, but no fire to boil water. The rain was still coming down in buckets, and there was no refuge from it. We stuck it out another day, as hiking would be completely out of the question. There was flooding all around us, so we would never make it up the steep embankment with all our gear in tow in our sopping wet clothes. There was no telling what the road up above would be like either, as we imagined it being completely washed out. We resigned ourselves to the fact that we would be stuck in that spot for the foreseeable future, until the rain subsided. It lasted for another two days. Little did we know that we picked the worst possible time to camp out in that part of the country, as we were in the midst of the rainy season. We somehow toughed it out over sporadic games of Scrabble and little to no sleep at all. We read our books in silence with what little daylight we had as another means to occupy our minds. To this day I am surprised neither of us ended up with pneumonia. 
Finally by the third morning, the rain subsided into a mist, and the clouds slowly parted and gave way to a couple of rays of sun. Andy seized that moment to declare that it was time to get the hell out of there. I was with him, and didn't know or care what the plan was. Andy didn't really have a plan, except to bundle up what he could and scrape and claw his way up the embankment. I followed suit, and the load I had was absolutely overwhelming at times. I forged on, though, because by this point Andy was far ahead. He was like a bolt of lightning, and was determined to make it to town without stopping. I kept up as much as I could, stopping only when I could keep him within eyesight. At one point, I could feel my legs buckling, and I shouted for him to go on and to send help for me. Then I thought that it was a bad idea, should he not remember where we were. I forced myself to continue, as exhausted as I was. 
We made our way to the road, which was indeed flooded. As such, there were no vehicles passing through and we could not get a ride. We would have to hike the distance. At this point I felt my spirit breaking, and was resigned to collapsing and allowing the vultures or any predators to eat me barely alive. Andy would bellow out for me to get up and keep going, so I did. Finally I could hear Andy faintly shouting with excitement that he could see the village ahead. I was suddenly lifted off my feet and even managed to catch up to him. We headed for the first building we could see, and we didn't care if anybody was there or not. We were going to break in and get out of our soaking wet clothes. Luckily it didn't come to that, as Andy swung the door open to reveal a room full of Mongolian men sitting around a table eating. Andy sputtered out as much Mongolian as he could, namely that we needed help, and the men ushered us to the stove to warm up. We were numb from the dampness and cold, and without hesitation we whipped off all of our clothes. 
The men roared with laughter at this point, and once they got us some blankets, they sat us down near the stove to eat some hot soup. Once Andy was able to talk, he found out we had sought refuge with the local fire and rescue brigade. It was a stroke of great luck, after 2 1/2 miserable days huddled in the cold and wet confines of our tent. Our fire team took us under their wing, feeding us hot plate after hot plate, drying our clothes and equipment out, and then providing us with comfortable cots to sleep on. We must have slept a good six hours that morning and afternoon. It was only after our nap that we were able to thank our hosts properly.  They brought out some vodka and beer, to which we had a couple of toasts. The men regaled us with tales of the foreigners who came in from the rain, soaked to the skin and in desperate need of food and shelter. After a while we were able to laugh about it, and once again we were recharged. 
By this time the skies had cleared and we were basking in the warmth of the sun. We couldn't stay indefinitely with the fire brigade, as they needed their space for emergencies, and obviously they had a lot to contend with with the flooding. They advised us there was a hotel down the road, so we said our goodbyes and expressed our gratitude once again. Before we left, we surveyed our funds, which we had pooled for the trip. We had budgeted what we thought would be enough, however that didn't include anything for emergencies such as getting a hotel. We were dangerously low, and knew we had barely enough just to get back to Ulaanbaator. There was nothing in our budget for an overnight stay in a hotel. We weren't sure what we were going to do, but I suggested we go to the hotel and explain to the owner our situation. We could then offer to clean rooms or dishes if that would be acceptable. It was a long shot, but it was worth a try. 
As we strolled down the path toward the hotel, we discussed the events that led up to where we were at that point. We agreed that we should have budgeted more carefully, however we were still riding the wave of good fortune so we weren't going to get pessimistic. We were engrossed in our conversation, so I didn't hear the shouting in the distance. Finally I heard my name being shouted out repeatedly, and then Andy's. We couldn't believe somebody might know us in the village, but as we got closer the voice was very familiar. It was our friend Andy!! That is, it was the other Andy (G.) that I mentioned way back at the beginning of the story! We were ecstatic to see one another, and couldn't believe that we were in the same remote village at the same time. We had prior knowledge that this Andy had been planning a trip out there, but we didn't know when he was going. With that, the other members of his group emerged from the building. It was Jeff and Alison, a couple that were volunteering with VSO as well. We were all happy to see one another, and began telling stories of our respective journeys.
They too had been caught up in the deluge, but were smart and/or fortunate enough to choose a spot on higher ground. As such, they were spared from much of the flooding. They also had better equipment, and their tent stayed dry. Still, they decided to head to the village in case things deteriorated. They were staying in the hotel, and invited us to their room. We had a beer together, and we sheepishly admitted we didn't have any money for a room. We also admitted we barely had enough money for the trip back, as we were pretty certain we were going to hit roadblocks on the way. Alison was very much the mom figure of our clan, and she took it upon herself to lend us money, along with a stern lecture about planning these things properly. We gladly accepted the lecture and were extremely grateful. We decided not to press our luck any further and just stay the night and get a jeep back to Moron the next day. Andy, Jeff and Alison had further travel plans so we parted ways and would eventually meet back in U.B.
We made our way back to Moron without much incident that next day. There were no buses going out to U.B. that day, or even the next if I remember. We weren't sure what to do from there, but our driver graciously offered to put us up in his family's home that night. My memory is a little more cloudy at this point, as I was completely exhausted from the whole experience. The family we stayed with was once again very nice, but at this point all we wanted to do was get back home. We knew we had a grueling trip ahead of us, so we just kept focused on that and didn't allow ourselves to get too involved with anything or anyone else. We were extremely grateful for the hospitality once again, as our driver took us the next morning to the market. He said that he could possibly find a driver that could take us at least part of the way, to the nearest bigger town if need be. Andy was willing to try anything. The driver found a friend of his, who was a truck driver. He claimed to be going to U.B. and would be taking passengers. We seized that opportunity, and made arrangements to pay him. He took us to his vehicle, which was a flatbed truck with a wood gate around it. We climbed aboard, knowing this might be perilous (but desperate enough to take anyway). Again we were lulled into a false sense of security, thinking we had the whole back of the truck to ourselves. The driver took off with us as his only passengers, only to make several stops around town to pick more people up with all their cargo. We were once again overwhelmed by the smell of sheepskin, and who knows what else. We were now packed in like sardines, and finally the truck hit the main road out of Moron. 
A sense of desperation hit me, in that this was going to be another awful trip. It would certainly be close to 18 hours over bumps and dirt roads, under the dark cold night with no shelter from the wind. I felt uncomfortable in the position I was jammed into, but had no room to maneuver. Andy had been squeezed into a spot close enough, but far enough so that we could barely hear each other. 
I am sure this suited him fine, because I knew by this point he was all talked out. I saw in his face that he had lost the spark from being saved by the firemen and our chance meeting with Andy, Jeff and Alison. He dropped his head down and pulled his hat over his eyes. He was determined that this time around he wouldn't be doing any of the talking with the locals. 
I was not in much of a mood to entertain our fellow passengers either, but I thought that it was up to me to maintain good relations in case we needed it. I at least managed to smile a few times, as curious eyes locked on to us. I had even managed to make friends with our fellow passengers at a pit stop early in the trip. I forget how it all started, but I recall having my shirt off and doing some sort of mash up Irish jig / break dance for the enthusiastic crowd. After the getting back on the road, The driver had reached a comfortable speed (for him) as we were bouncing and flying around the back of the truck. The wind was hard against the face, but at least the sun was still shining and warm. 
After a while I realized that the sun would be going down, and it would get really cold out in the open. Andy had already prepared, pulling out his sleeping bag at that point. It was another relatively sleepless night, and at various points I felt my sanity being tested. I resolved not to let things get to me, though, so I followed Andy's example and simply buried my head into my chest. I recall that I was able to remain calm this time around, mainly because I wasn't being harassed by a drunk passenger. I had also found solace at various points, staring at the brilliant moon as it beamed in the clear, dark sky. Up until then, I hadn't truly noticed how beautiful the night sky was in those parts. Despite the pain and discomfort from being twisted into a pretzel throughout the trip, I did manage to catch a few winks along the way. I woke up rejuvenated enough to look around and see that I had no idea where I was, or how much longer the trip would take. I was okay with it this time, as I knew we were eventually going to reach the creature comforts of the big smoke again.
We finally did reach Ulaanbaator, sometime in the early evening hours. The only two things we required, or I should say desperately needed at that point where a bath and a good night's sleep. Prior to our departure, Andy had lent his flat to a fellow VSO who was in from the countryside. She agreed  to leave the key with another fellow volunteer who lived upstairs if she were to go out somewhere before we got back. We finally made our way up the stairs to his flat, and of course the door was locked. We trudged up another few flights of stairs to his neighbor's flat, and fortunately he was there. Unfortunately, he did not have the key. Someone forgot to leave the key with him before going out!! We pretty much barged our way through his flat at that point, leaving his neighbor shocked and indignant. 
To say we were dirty and smelled awful would be putting it mildly. I really cannot put into words or give justice to how nasty and vile we were at that stage. Adding insult to injury, he was hosting a lovely young lady that evening and we pretty much ruined the atmosphere. We didn't care, to the point of threatening to hijack his bath tub and steal whatever clothes he had available. Alistair was a really good man, and we didn't necessarily want to walk all over him. However, it was truly a desperate moment, and he was simply collateral damage. We issued an ultimatum, that we were staying until we got Andy's key back. Alistair managed to usher us into his kitchen while he attended to his guest. He closed the doors on us, coaxing us into submission with biscuits and hot tea and coffee. After about an hour or so, there was a knock on the door and it was Andy's guest returning with the key. It was a coin toss as to who was more relieved at that point - Andy and myself, or Alistair. 
We raced back down to Andy's apartment and naturally I ceded first dibs on the tub to him. It was after all, his place, and that meant I would have to stew in my own filth for just a little while longer. I took great pains not to flop down on the couch, as I knew I would be sleeping on it later that evening. Basically I paced around, had a couple of beers and listened to music while I waited for what seemed like an eternity. Andy finally emerged, and I ran in for my turn. The shower was truly refreshing, yet at the same time it was frightening to see so much filth all over me. I smelled like stale alcohol mixed with cigarette smoke and rancid sheep skins. I'm sure there was a trace of vomit residue left over from the horrible jeep incident a few days earlier as well. I really didn't care that I had been standing in an ice cold shower for such a long time. I was determined to emerge squeaky clean and ready for a good sleep. Needless to say it was a damned good sleep, and Andy's couch was a welcome relief. 
I stayed on a couple of more days with Andy before heading back to my sleepy town up north. I was deeply impacted by the friendship I had formed with Andy during this trip. We had endured a great number of hardships, or tests if you will, to our newly-developed friendship. The fact we didn't kill each other in that water-logged tent was a great testament to the bond we had forged. That and the fact that we endured such grueling trips there and back without a nasty word to one another really meant something to me. When I finally boarded the train back to the frontier, it was nearing the end of August. Summer was quickly fading into fall, and many changes in my life were on the horizon. A few months later I found myself back in Ulaanbaator - this time permanently. Perhaps some day I will fill in the gaps of my life in Sukhbaatar, or perhaps not. There are many things I would like to express and write about during that phase of my Mongolian experience, but at this point I have written enough to last a while.  

   

Boyhood Idols

Summer is finally here, and with that come the memories of childhood. I think back a lot to my days growing up, and today I am thinking about the popular figures of years ago who I once called heroes. The larger-than-life legends where I came from were mainly athletes.  Since I grew up in Quebec, hockey heroes of the 1970's Montreal Canadiens dynasty ruled the day. My thing was baseball when I was a kid, so even though I was swept up in the hockey frenzy, nothing was more important or significant than my beloved Montreal Expos. 
Baseball over the course of my childhood proved to be one of the few real opportunities for bonding between my dad, brother and I. My dad was keenly interested in the Expos, despite fielding abysmal teams in the early years of their incarnation. When I was old enough, my dad took my brother and I to Montreal to see games. For a young boy such as I, it was incredibly exciting. The Expos initially played at Jarry Park, a makeshift open-air baseball stadium on the east side of Montreal. They played there until 1976, after which they moved in to the cavernous Olympic Stadium nearby. 

                                                                            Jarry Park, Montreal in the 1970's.

Some of my earliest memories are of going to Jarry Park for an afternoon game on a Saturday or Sunday. Dad always instructed my brother and I to bring our baseball gloves, in case a fly ball came our way. He never expected it to happen, however one came perilously close to hitting my brother one time. A foul ball came whizzing right towards us, and my brother earnestly stood up on his seat and stuck his glove up in the air to catch it. He couldn't have been more than 6 years old. My father saw that this ball was heading straight towards his head, and at the last second pulled him down out of the way. While Jarry Park was probably one of the least-liked stadiums among the players of the day, the fans really liked it. One thing that made it so popular was that the fans could go right down to the dugouts to ask for autographs. In those days, the athletes were more obliging, and would even give signed balls away. My brother and I would always head straight down during batting practice to try to get their attention. We were never lucky enough to get a signature, though.  

While the Expos did not field competitive teams in their early days, they certainly had a number of colorful players on their squads. Their names still stand out in my mind - Coco Laboy, Pepe Frias, Tim Foley, Ron Hunt, Bob Bailey and of course Rusty Staub. Coming over in a trade from the Mets, Rusty Staub had become the first bonafide hero of the early Expos teams of the seventies. I couldn't tell you if he was an amazing player, but he had become a legend in the city of Montreal. The predominantly French population adopted him with open arms, giving him the nickname "Le Grand Orange". Rusty, as his name suggests, had a glorious mop of red hair. He platooned at first base and right field, I believe, but he was more appreciated for his enthusiasm for the game. Rusty did deliver with the bat on several occasions, hitting clutch home runs and driving in game winning runs. There were other heroes such as Bill Stoneman, a pitcher who delivered not one, but two no-hitters in separate seasons for the Expos. 

 Montreal newspaper ad with Rusty "Le Grand  Orange" Staub 1970's

By the mid-seventies, the Expos were not producing stellar numbers. They were still drawing crowds at Jarry Park, but the stadium was never intended to be a permanent home. Once the Montreal Summer Olympics came to an end in 1976, the Expos now had a stadium to call their own. Despite the initial buzz of playing in a new stadium, the move didn't help the team stay out of the cellar during that season. They had compiled their worst season to date, losing over 100 games. There were obvious problems associated with the Olympic Stadium, namely not having a roof. The stadium was initially considered an architectural marvel. However, what had been overlooked was that the stadium went up extremely fast in order to meet strict deadlines for the Olympics. That should have been a clue that corners were cut during the construction period. Somewhere down the road, there would be pretty hefty repairs to be done.

View of the Olympic Stadium (with canopy roof) against the Montreal skyline.

The one bright spot of that season was that they were able to give young players from their farm system a try. One such player was a young shortstop by the name of Gary Carter. They cultivated Carter and molded him into a sorely needed starting catcher. Soon after being called up, Carter was given the nickname "Kid" by his peers. He played with the exuberance of a young boy, caught up in the excitement of playing in the big leagues. Gary Carter soon won over legions of fans across the province, then the country, and eventually throughout the U.S. as well. He played  with unbridled passion, and always maintained his trademark grin and positive attitude throughout his illustrious career. He was quickly given the starting catcher assignment, and he seized the opportunity and never looked back. 

Gary Carter became the nucleus of a group of incredibly talented young ball players, all of whom captured the heart and imagination of the city they played for. Players such as Andre Dawson ("The Hawk"), Warren Cromartie, Ellis Valentine, and Larry Parrish provided a potent offense alongside Gary Carter. They were acrobatic in the field, pulling off major plays as if they were routine. The fans embraced their young team with open arms. By the summer of 1979, the Montreal Expos were in their first playoff hunt for the division title. The Toronto Blue Jays had recently joined the Major League ranks over in the American League, however they were not anywhere near as popular as the Expos at this time. From coast to coast across Canada, people were tuned in and turned on by the Expos.

Gary Carter with his trademark grin, swarmed by legions of adoring fans. Circa early 1980's

By this time my dad had remarried and moved. He lived in an old house on a serene tree-lined street in another town near where I lived. I had extended summer visits with him, and his back yard provided the idyllic background for listening to ball games over the transistor radio on a beautiful summer afternoon. Dad, brother and I still had the common bond of baseball, as we listened to and watched games on television together. The play by play was provided by Dave Van Horne and the great Duke Snyder from the old Brooklyn Dodgers of yesteryear. They had the perfect voices to provide a baseball radio broadcast - gentle and warm and not in the least bit annoying. They transmitted an air of familiarity and liking towards one another as well. The more I listened to Dave Van Horne, the more I learned about the intricacies of the game. Duke provided the voice of experience, but in no way was he ever condescending about it.  

The great thing about listening to the games as opposed to watching them, was that it allowed the imagination to capture the action. One could hear very clearly the crack of the bat and the excitement in the crowd in anticipation of a home run. One could also hear the buzz of the crowd, and the vendors yelling out "Peanuts! Get your fresh peanuts here!!!" It was almost like being at the game, except lying in the comfort of a hammock in the back yard. Going to the game was still a thrill, however by then there was virtually no chance to ever get an autograph from our heroes. The Olympic Stadium was far too big, and they kept fans a safe distance from the dugouts. 
We started a tradition as we got older to take our dad to see a game for Father's Day. My dad was pretty much a walking encyclopedia when it came to player stats. He used to record stats in the box scores included with the programs. As my dad reached towards the age I am now, his favorite Expo was a relief pitcher by the name of Woody Fryman. He was my dad's age, and definitely considered over the hill by baseball standards. Somehow, though, he stubbornly managed to defy the odds and put out impressive numbers in his role.  
My list of favorite players had grown exponentially in the late 70's to early 80's. The team had matured a great deal, yet still had room for colorful characters on the squad. Bill Lee, a towering left-handed pitcher, had become a cult phenomenon in that time. He came to the Expos in a trade with the Boston Red Sox. He was incredibly eccentric, and was considered somewhat of a renegade. He got himself into bizarre situations, on and off the field, and was a constant thorn in the side of the powers-that-be. One time, as he was jogging to the Olympic Stadium for practice, he apparently ran into a taxi. He was in a mental zone somewhere far away and literally ran right into a barely moving taxi. He grew out his beard at one stage just to irk his superiors, to the point of looking downright motley. He resembled a homeless man wearing a baseball uniform. The organization indulged his whims for the most part, as he was extremely popular with the fans and posted impressive stats throughout his time as an Expo. The press appropriately nicknamed Bill Lee "The Spaceman". 

 Bill "Spaceman" Lee, early 1980's

Another emerging superstar of that era was a young fielder by the name of Tim Raines. He was a little short, but built like a tank. Raines was a great outfielder, but became known for his impressive hitting as a lead off man, and even more famous for stealing bases. Raines created runs out of nowhere thanks to his speed. Despite having some personal issues with the drug of choice during that era (cocaine), Raines overcame his demons and won over the hearts of his fans. Raines became known as "The Rock" in the Montreal Press, and the name stuck throughout his career. Andre Dawson had become a mentor of sorts to Raines through his early career, and they formed 2/3 of one of the most formidable outfields in baseball. 

Warren Cromartie, Tim "The Rock" Raines,  and Andre "The Hawk" Dawson, 1980's

"The Hawk" and "The Rock" made playing outfield attractive to young kids like myself. They covered a wide swath, and through their speed they were able to chase down home runs and snag them while leaping up the wall. With their machine gun arms, they could throw out opposing base runners with ease. The final piece of the outfield in the early days was usually Warren Cromartie, who also platooned at first base. Cromartie was another fan favorite, who started selling his own chocolate bars for charity. He called them "Crobars". He eventually went to Japan, and became somewhat of a sensation there as well. Ellis Valentine was another famous outfielder for the Expos, but by the early 1980's he was gone. He never really endeared himself to the fans, or to the management. Still, Valentine was a marvel to watch when he was in the mood to play. 
Other players of note through the eighties were the likes of Larry Parrish at third base, and Chris Speier at shortstop. Parrish was always one of my favorites, mainly because he looked rugged and could make good defensive plays. He was also a consistent hitter, usually hitting close to .300 in his seasons as an Expo. I never fully appreciated Chris Speier, because I felt he seldom delivered clutch hits when they were needed. He couldn't hit for power, though I didn't know that most shortstops couldn't anyway. I never realized he was an able and versatile shortstop either, but my main attention was always on offence anyway. My dad felt he was a decent player who contributed significantly, so I would give him the benefit of the doubt. 
The pitching staff had really come into their own in the late 1970's through 1980's. The ace of the rotation was Steve Rogers. He too was one of my all-time favorite Expos. Rogers was a left  hander (or "southpaw"), as was I. He never reached the 20 win mark in a season with the Expos, though he came close on a few occasions. He was valued as an experienced veteran among a staff of young guns in the eighties. A couple of them had brilliant seasons with the club, including a rookie right hander by the name of Bill Gullickson. He came up to the big leagues in 1980, and set a record for most strikeouts in a game by a rookie (18). The record held for several years. It was discovered early on that Gullickson was battling type 1 diabetes. Many considered it miraculous that he could be so successful as a major league pitcher while fighting the disease. He became a role model for many people with the disease.  
The Expos had a string of seasons, from 1979 through 1983, where they were contenders for the playoffs. Each season was a heart breaker in their own respect. In 1979, the Expos came within an eyelash of winning the East division, losing to the Pirates in the final two home games of the season in front of record crowds. the Pirates went on to win the World Series that year, so it was some sort of consolation that the Expos lost to the best. In 1980, the Expos found themselves in contention late in the season against the Phillies, but again came up just short. There was lots of promise for the next campaign, though, and the Expos were now considered among the elite teams in baseball. They were now taken seriously as a threat to take it all. The following season, in 1981, the Expos reached the upper echelon by winning the National League East division title. It was a strike-shortened season, however the Expos came on strong in the second half to take the pennant. 
 Reaching the World Series was now a strong possibility, and not a pipe dream. The Expos went on to face the Dodgers, the National League West division champions, for the National League Championship series. The winning team would go on to the World Series for all the marbles. I was now a teenager, and as the fates would have it, my mom chose to remarry and move to the U.S. at that very moment. I was now far removed from the excitement and World Series frenzy that had captured the imagination of Montreal, Quebec, and Canada. Because the Expos were a Canadian team, they were barely covered in the media where I was now living. Looking back, perhaps it may have been a mixed blessing. I was not there for the heart breaking game 5 loss that sent the Expos packing for the off-season. I did manage to see the game on tv, when Rick Monday blasted the tie-breaking home run off Steve Rogers in the top of the ninth inning. To this day, the armchair pundits (my dad included) lament the decision made by then manager Jim Fanning to send Rogers (their ace pitcher) in relief (rather than Jeff Reardon, their ace closer).
 The following year served as a sort of coming out party for the Expos, as Montreal hosted the 1982 All Star game. Four Expos were selected for the starting line up, including: Gary Carter, Andre Dawson, Tim Raines and Steve Rogers. It was the first All Star game to be played outside of the U.S. and it gave the rest of the baseball world a peek at how amazing the electricity was over this team up north of the border. It was a huge deal in Montreal and the rest of Canada, and for me even more so as it was played the day before my 14th birthday. I was really happy to be back in Quebec that summer visiting my dad. We didn't go to the game, but it was still exciting watching it on tv. The event helped wipe away a little of the bitter disappointment from the previous year's setback.
Throughout the rest of the 1980's into the early 1990's, they had bounced between mediocre and good, but never great. I had lost pretty much all interest by 1985, the year they traded Gary Carter to the New York Mets. In his place they got a few journeymen players, but nobody nearly as powerful in stature and in the field as him. It was a sad day for many Montreal fans, as he was truly adored by the masses. He never shied away from a camera or microphone, so his accessibility was a unique thing for the press as well as the masses. One flash of the trademark grin of his, and he had the media eating out of the palm of his hands. Perhaps if there was one criticism against him, it would be just that. He did have a bit of an ego, in the sense that he basked in the spotlight. In fact, that was one reason why my dad wasn't completely sold on him. He truly admired his skills as a ball player, but he felt he was a bit too much of a showboat. For a kid like me, though, this made him larger than life. 
Number 8 was just as heartbroken to be leaving the club and city he called home for so many years. This was strictly business, though, and the Expos were not in the financial position to hold on to him any longer. The trade turned out to be a good thing for his career, ultimately. He went on to the World Series in 1986 with the Mets, and proved to be an instrumental part of winning the coveted title he never won with Montreal. He had also become a hero to the New York fans, and therefore the rest of the U.S. finally caught on to his greatness. 
 Since I was no longer living in Canada, I wasn't really able to keep up with the team as much as I used to. My dad would fill me in over the phone, but I could sense that he too had lost a great deal of the passion he used to have for the team. Occasionally he would send me newspaper clippings of the goings on with the club, but most of the time it was about how the Olympic Stadium was falling apart and how they never managed to find the money to build an actual roof for the place. Someone came along with the bright idea of using a retractable nylon canopy structure, which of course ripped wide open during a torrential rain storm. This was pretty much indicative of the way the club was going. They never seemed to be able to overcome the bitter disappointment of losing that key game to the Dodgers. 
Still, though, one thing the Expos always did right was building up their farm system for future prospects. They managed to groom players into superstars in the making. The last group of great prospects arrived on the scene in the early to mid nineties. By 1994, the Expos somehow managed to produce an amazing product, despite budget constraints and their home stadium falling apart at the seams. The club started off the 1994 campaign with a tremendous bang, and sent the signal to the rest of the major leagues that they were in it to take it all that year. They were dominant in the National League East, and even led the entire Major League in many categories. They had the best record, and most potent offence in baseball. This squad was led by an affable manager named Felipe Alou, who had a long and storied career in baseball (as a player and a coach).
 Felipe Alou had been with the Expos since the seventies, in various capacities. The manager was embraced by the fans and media alike as a hometown icon, just as much as any of the great players were. Alou led his young group to dominance through patience, and faith in their abilities. He was soft spoken and humble, always smiling. This young group included his own son, Moises, who was an outstanding outfielder and power hitter. Alongside Moises was a young Canadian-born outfielder named Larry Walker, who would go on to win multiple batting titles throughout his career. The upstart Expos of 1994 had surprised the entire baseball world by finding themselves with a commanding lead in the rankings, about two months into the campaign. In fact, many pundits were already predicting this team to take the World Series. Once again, Montreal Expos fans had something to get excited about. 
The angry gods of fate struck the weary Expo organization and its fans once again that year. By June, the Major League was in the midst of a strike. Effectively, the stake had been driven right through the heart of the club, as well as the fans. The final nail was placed in the coffin, but not yet hammered in. The strike ended the Expos' improbable and glorious run atop the rankings, and the question now became "Could they have gone all the way?" The general consensus among the baseball world was a resounding "Yes!". Instead, the owners decided to resume the season with replacement players, mainly minor leaguers. The product was awful, and fans turned away in droves. 
Had the Expos gone on to the World Series, and won it, they would have reaped all kinds of financial rewards from the proceeds. They would have been financially secure, and would have reestablished the interest of the core fan base (many of whom had lost interest and stopped attending games). They could have afforded to keep key players, who thanks to the financial drain of the strike, left to bigger markets. They could have sold a high amount of season tickets and box seats. In a nutshell, they could have put a lot more asses in seats, and sold a shitload of merchandise. They could have generated enough political will to build a new stadium, which at this point was pretty much necessary to their survival. By 1995, the writing was on the wall, though it would take a few more years before it finally came down. 
The core of the hugely successful team of 1994 was pretty much decimated by the strike. The Expos once again had to rely heavily on their farm system and lesser known talent. They still managed to produce some quality major league players. Among the final group of potential superstars were: Marquis Grissom, Vladimir Guerrero,  Delino DeShields and John Van Der Wal (to name a few).  Despite their best efforts on the field, though, behind the scenes in the front office moves were being made to finally pull up stakes out of Montreal. There would be one last remarkable footnote to this organization known as the Montreal Expos, though. 
Gary Carter made one last return to Montreal in 1992. By this time he was in the twilight of his playing career, and was being groomed as a coach. He led this young and inexperienced club through example and dedication to a strong run that season, ending up in second place in the N.L. East. It was a fitting swan song for Carter, who got to end his playing career in front of his adoring Montreal fans in the city that gave him his start and arguably his best years in baseball. Carter went on to have a good career as a coach and analyst in baseball, primarily through the Florida Marlins organization. He never forgot what Montreal meant to him as a player, and chose to be inducted to the Baseball Hall of Fame as an Expo. It was a gracious gesture, as he could have chosen to be inducted as a New York Met, the team he won a World Series with. 
The Expos were eventually sold and relocated to Washington. They were renamed the Washington Nationals, and pretty much any tie to the original franchise is now extinct. It is a shame to think the team I grew up idolizing and following so dutifully is no longer around. The Expos were not just a baseball team, but they were also part of the cultural mosaic that was Montreal, Quebec and Canada all those years ago. There were no linguistic or cultural differences between the French and the English when it came to the Expos. We all loved them and sat side by side to cheer them on. They were also loved by a great deal of fans across the country, and it was only when the Toronto Blue Jays came into existence that loyalties became divided. 
This post is primarily dedicated to my first real hero, Gary Carter. He was a larger-than-life athlete, but also a guy I would have loved to meet as a young baseball fan. Sadly, Gary Carter passed away at the young age of 57 in February, 2012. It has taken me this long to write about him, as I still have a hard time believing he is gone. He was superhuman to me. I remember very well the drive to my grandparents' house in Pointe Claire, Quebec. There was a small (at the time) subdivision along the Trans Canada Highway Highway called Kirkland. I had heard or read somewhere that Gary Carter and his family lived there. In my young mind, I always thought it conceivable that I might see him driving by next to our car, and he would wave at me. I also thought it would be great for my dad to pull off the highway so we could look for his house. My dad never obliged, even though I dropped not-so-subtle hints. "Hey dad! Isn't this where Gary Carter lives?" My dad would reply "For the thousandth time son, yes it is!" I guess my dad thought at the time, as I do now, that it would have been a  bit creepy. I still think, though, that if Gary Carter were still alive, I would have felt like a little kid again if I had been fortunate enough to meet him. 

Gary Carter holding up the two caps he wore during his great career.

EPILOGUE

My passion for baseball pretty much died when the Expos folded and moved to Washington. The Blue Jays are still around, but they do not mean nearly as much to me as my hometown team did. So many great players, and colorful characters sat in that dugout during the team's history. The Olympic Stadium still stands in Montreal, but is more of a symbol of what the city used to be. It is a painful reminder of how great the city once was, and is more of a relic of bygone times. My dad still lives near Montreal, on his own now. He is more into hockey these days, as he finds comfort in his old age reclining on the Lazy Boy over a beer and hockey on a cold Winter Saturday night. He no longer has the house with the back yard perfect for listening to baseball, nor does he really have the patience to sit and watch a game that doesn't mean anything to him. He stuck with the Expos throughout their existence, however he too lost interest for the game once they folded. By then, baseball was big business, and players were being signed to ridiculous multi-million dollar contracts. Smaller market teams could not, and cannot compete with big markets like the Yankees. 
I guess in a way this post is also dedicated to my dad, as it was really through him that I became such an avid fan when I was a young boy. Baseball was a way for us to connect, and that is truly what the magic of the game of baseball is. The sport used to bring fathers and sons together, at the game or at home over a transistor radio broadcast in the back yard. Maybe I might reconnect with the game through my young son. If he does get interested in the sport, I would certainly reconnect with it. I would still like to take him to a game in the near future, when he is a little bit older and will be able to enjoy it. The atmosphere in today's stadiums is certainly not the same as it once was at Jarry Park all those years ago, but when it comes right down to it, the game is.