The fall of 1982 stands out in my memory for its red-
blooded adventure, its excitement, its hardships and its
sorrow. But most of all for its gift of the most
exciting night of my life!
The day gave no warning of the heart-pounding adventure
the night held in store. It was all peace and quiet from the
turmoil of the hunters and the guides. A day of grinding
sheep meat for hamburgers, of baking pies of cherry filling
in the cook-tent woodstove oven and a day of cutting and
hauling firewood in on my back from some distance from camp.
The two guides decided to leave the base camp for a fly-
camping hunting trip. I was "in charge" of shepherding the
remaining horses and putting up wood and generally looking
after things while they were gone. I was thrilled to have a
few days to work at my own pace without the friction and the
insults and I made the most of it, listening to the CBC on
the sideband radio while I worked and ate and generally
refueled my tanks.
Late the second evening, if memory serves me right, I
fired the coleman lantern in the tent and lay down for my
evening read. The wind was blowing hard from the south,
flapping the loose canvas of the tent, but creating no
particular discomfort, when suddenly there was a gruff
grunting sound from the front of the tent and the sound of a
terrified and heavy animal charging for the bush.
Of course the thought that it might be a bear entered my
cone of consciousness and this wasn't exactly great black
bear country... I unsheathed my 45.70 and slipped the
finger-thick cartridges into the tubular magazine, laying it
on the bed beside me. Rifles are a comfort on dark stormy
nights inside tents as a certain night camping with a friend
long ago had taught. The .22 seemed to make the threat of
raiding skunks seem less ominous somehow and now the same
comforting feeling came over me about the bear, sort of.
Just as I was beginning to believe that the body odour of
a Yukon horse wrangler had done the trick, the sound of my
new woodpile being torn asunder reached my waiting ears. The
clatter was considerable and I knew I was definitely in for
some kind of an adventure...
All bears in the woods command attention, be they black,
brown, white or blue. And Yes, there really is a blue phase
of black bear on the B.C. coast! Something about bears
demands notice be taken of them. They shuffle along slowly,
head hung low and swinging from side to side and causing fear
and dread wherever they plant their turned-in forepaws. Most
opt for the shoot first and ask questions later motto and
many harmless creatures die as a result. It's an unfortunate
state of affairs, exacerbated considerably by the multitude
of bear stories emanating from the deep, dark and to so many,
terrifying wilderness. Of the seven wild grizzlies I met in
person in the Yukon all but the two mentioned at the
beginning of this chapter fled in a blind panic when they
realized there was a man nearby.
Grizzlies, for all their horrible reputation are greatly
overated for the danger they present to people in the
wilderness. The fear their presence causes results in vast
tracts of unsurpassed wild beauty going unexplored and
shunned by those who would benefit the most from greater
contact with the wild.
As one writer wisely put it, "the grizzly objects to being
killed" and a great percentage of the horror stories one
hears do have to do with poorly shot bears. The Yukon
Territorial Government tourist information pack advises
that if attacked, you should play dead and with luck the bear
will lose interest and leave. A friend demonstrates the
common attitude among outdoorsmen with the following comment:
"Luck, hell, my .338 Winchester Magnum is Sure to make him
While fishing salmon on the Klukshu creek tributary of the
Yukon River I dozed in the hot afternoon in my camper with
the back door open. A black shape entered the clearing and
ambled fairly near my truck while I sat taking pictures,
quite thrilled as always, to see a bear in the wild. Others,
though, proved to be less happy about the visit.
"There's a bear!!!" rang out a woman's shrill scream. The
screamed warning had the effect of rapidly clearing the mouth
of the stream of human inhabitants. The bear, however, was
even more startled and raced off along the bank of the river
and into the bush where a shot suddenly rang out and ended
his terror and that of the campers and fisherwomen there.
During my northern sojourns I was privileged to hear manya
bear story, some of which were no doubt true. All of them
were interesting. In fact, I imagine that few human-bear
encounters are boring though many are more humorous than
frightening. One such incident took place I believe in B.C
or northern Alberta.
The crew dined in a common building, the cookshack, a
common enough practise where men gather make the changes
they're paid to make. While the cook prepared the meal a
black bear bumbled into the clearing and, attracted by the
aroma of good cooking, he raised himself on his hind legs to
place his nose in front of the kitchen exhaust fan to get
a better sniff of the kitchen contents. The cook apparently
was gifted not only in the culinary arts but also in the
fields of humour and mischief and saw an opportunity for a
little fun. Taking a handful of pepper he tossed it into the
whirring fan. This of course, forced pepper up the bear's
nose which set the terrified creature sneezing and coughing
as he raced for the sanctuary of the deep woods.
Another story about a certain guide named Eddy illustrates
the fear a sudden big bear can cause. Hunters and guides
sometimes get bored with hunting or fighting poor weather
and, like other creatures of the forest amuse themselves with
playing games in some shelter or other. In this case, it was
a game of cards in a tent.
After some hands had been played, Eddy felt the need to
pass some water and left the tent. Not caring to travel
from the tent he began his business before noticing the
huge grizzly facing him right front and center! Taking stock
of all possible priorities Eddy thought it best to back right
back into the tent. It's not always possible to stop a river
when the dam breaks...
Less humorous for Eddy at least, was the time a bear
chased him around a log cabin three times before he managed
to enter the door and barricade himself therein.
Bears do like breaking into cabins when they think their
appetites may be satisfied inside. One such shack we came on
exhibited all the telltale signs, the claw marks, the teeth
marks and finally the caved in door. A emptied can of yellow
paint caught my eye, emptied that is by Mr. Bear who'd opened
it with his teeth and apparently drunk the contents! This
particular iron-gutted creature shouldn't have been hard too
track in the days to come, had we cared to bother!
Early on in my Yukon days I bought an old red fiberglass
canoe and come the weekend, took it to a small river near
Whitehorse. Fighting my way upriver against the current I
rounded a bend and saw what I at first took to be an animal
the size of a large cow. Another second and I realized to my
great excitement that it was in fact a large grizzly bear. I
had this tag and the whole scene was almost more than I could
have hoped for. I raised the rifle and peered through the
The current here was swift and as I set the paddle down
across the thrwarts, it began drifting back downriver. By
the time I had my bear scoped a bush had drifted in between
the two of us and I held my shot for fear of wounding a
grizzly. The next instant the bear gave a whuff and pounded
off into the trees. The thumping of the bear disappeared
long before the thumping of my heart! Today I'm quite glad
to say I have never shot a grizzly and now I have no desire
to ever do so. I'd rather see a grizzly tearing into an old
log in search of ants than to watch a dead one hanging over
my fireplace year after year, collecting dust.
The range of the great grizzly has been reduced now to
only the most remote and inaccessible countries. Even here,
men travel through in search of minerals or game and shoot
bears indiscriminately. The parks and these difficult
regions are the last hope of this mighty animal, which fears
nothing in the wild. Sometimes even his fear of man is
... The woodpile continued falling apart in front of the
tent and noises wafted through the fabric from another
direction and I knew I was between two bears, a sow and a
cub as like as not! This was rapidly becoming hard on my
nerves of steel and my mighty man facade was cracking. It
occurred to me that should that sow attack, I would be unable
to shoot so well being somewhat in the position of a mouse in
a paper sack! This was not a very comforting thought and I
began to weigh my options. They didn't weigh much.
Furthermore, my coleman lamp lacked the fuel to run all
night and the spare fuel was out there by the woodpile! I
turned the lamp way down so the fuel would last. Daring to
peek outside I was chilled to find it much like the blackness
one would likely find inside a large mother grizzly bear.
Finally I did the only thing any red-blooded chicken-
hearted fool would do and played a bluff. I yelled at mama
grizzly just as loudly as I could to terrify her and send her
scampering from the camp for good.
Very Unimpressed, she uttered three of the deepest,
lowest, meanest-sounding grunts I had ever heard in my short
life and I knew just exactly what this grizzly talk meant.
I pulled the sleeping bag under the wooden table and crawled
inside like a scared little farmboy in a thunderstorm and
waited, maybe even prayed, I don't remember. And somewhere
during the night I drifted off to sleep. When they left I
do not know.
Next morning there were my two bears, up there on the
mountainside, two of the finest looking grizzlies I've ever
seen, looking all the finer for their great distance from me.
North of a grocery store and gas station known as
Johnson's Crossing winds a dirt road maintained in the
summer. This road, built hastily in an attempt to pipe oil
south for the war effort, (check) in year, winds its way
through spruce and poplar and up a mountain, crossing over a
pass before dropping back into a heavily forested valley
floor. As you wind in and out across this floor, reciting
the "winding in and winding out" poem in honour of the
original Alaska highway, wondering if you'll today meet your
Maker on one of these bends, you'll catch a glimpse of water
off to your right- if you're not watching the road!
If you leave your vehicle here and walk a few steps you'll
find yourself looking down a steep dirtbank and into a swirl
of slightly muddied mountain water. This water, quite fit to
drink, only a day or two previously left the mountains of the
_________ range on its meandering journey to Teslin Lake.
From there it will flow down the Teslin River,(check) joining
the Yukon River at _________ eventually trickling through the
Yukon Delta in Alaska where it will be blown through the
blowspout of a whale if it doesn't fill some prospectors
boot in the meantime.
A severely love-stricken Saskatchewan farm boy drove his
canoe-topped four by four up this road for about the seventh
time, steered off the road at the Yukon Territorial
Government campground and off-loaded the canoe. A battered
three horsepower outboard "kicker" of unknown origin had been
bartered with fifty bucks and now was fastened to the
farthest back possible section of the V-stern, red fiberglass
As I would be gone up the river for the next two weeks and
not everyone has faith I buried the truck in the bush some
distance away, loaded up and churned off up the river, or at
least that was the original intention. The roaring and
snorting and bellowing went on for some time but my position
in relation to the shore didn't seem to be changing as
quickly as the sun's position in the sky! But finally,
mercifully, the old kicker hit a rock and the sheer-pin did
what it was supposed to do and the whole propeller
Caching the kicker off in the bush where I'd be able to
find it on the way down later, I proceeded with my river-
travel in a more dignified, time-honoured fashion.
In R.M. Patterson's "The Dangerous River" "lining" is
described as being a very satisfactory way of moving a canoe
full of possibles up a river. Having already proven the
truth of this to my own satisfaction on this very river, I
put the system to work again, and a new educational field
opened for me on the Nisutlin. Many more educations were to
shortly follow, some painful, some pleasant.
In "lining", a thirty or forty foot length of cord is
fastened to aft and fore of the canoe and this rope is
grasped somewhat forward of the centre of the thus formed
loop. The fore of the canoe is then nudged out into the
current of the river and you walk off upriver, adjusting your
hold on the rope until the canoe pulls easily without
wallowing to port or starboard. It is astonishingly easy to
pull a generous amount of luggage along with you this way, so
much so that Dutch Ovens, large canvas tents, arctic sleeping
bags, and enough food to feed the whiskey jacks all along the
way, all present no problem and the heart is free to ponder
what it most feels like pondering at the time. In this boys
case a certain farm girl in Saskatchewan he was hoping to
impress, occupied all of his available pondering time.
This trip was the result of a flash of "inspiration"
received earlier that spring. Maybe a diary of a northern
river trip would be just the thing to get the message across!
This effort has surely been the second biggest mistake of my
life but at the time I was overjoyed by the prospect of
prospecting and enjoying two weeks on the isolated Nisutlin,
penning my love for my greatly desired future companion and
marriage partner into a two-bit scribbler I probably paid too
Travel that first three days was very satisfying and I
drank in the sights and sounds and feelings of the wild
country I had all to myself and indeed, I saw no other people
in the next two weeks, and even less sign they had ever
invaded the planet. I tried usually to keep it that way,
burning my litter and packing out my junk, except for certain
items such as sheerpins and props, incidentals along the way!
That first night found me setting up camp a fair distance
above the entrance point of my trip. Happy with my progress,
despite my failed whiteman-paddle, I left my canoe near the
waters edge, right-side up and began my epistle. Epilogue?
In the morning, when I loaded it again, something seemed
to be missing. Anyone with experience and sufficient funds,
both of which were sadly lacking in my case, would have
carried a spare paddle with him on a two week wilderness solo
canoe trip. Mine was still in the store. The only
explanation I could come up with was that a beaver must have
taken off with the thing! No motor, no paddle, no problem!
A young spruce tree grew there on the sandy beach of my
bank of the river and a few hours work with my axe produced a
very rude facsimile of the very first paddle seen on earth,
the one Adam likely carved to propel his craft away from his
"helper" now and then, after the fall in the Garden.
It weighed all of ten pounds, the wood being still fresh
and green like the young man who carved it but, by Crackey!
it did the trick and I knew I wasn't doomed to return to town
humiliated and disgraced. That would come later! After a
brief trial in the river I chipped more fat off the blade
until, finally, it was manageable in my hand and I paddled
some distance upriver, between the overgrown banks where
lining the canoe would have been a fool's nightmare. There
is another way of moving upriver which is referred to as
"poling" in which a long pole is pushed into the bottom of
the river and climbed hand over hand until the top of the
pole is reached and the process repeated. I have never tried
I found it was almost always possible to cross and re-
cross the river, taking advantage of the sandy beaches on the
inside of the curves and rarely having to paddle against the
current at all, though from time to time life got
interesting as the rockpiles were crossed, the canoe bouncing
against them, being suddenly drawn from behind by an "eddy"
or reversing current of the river. Sometimes the trees grew
near the edges or even hung down into the current, making
paddling or crossing the river necessary, but "always there
was a way" and three days later found me nearing the sought
after mountainous section I knew by my map was on the river.
The continuous melt-water running through and over and
around my runners (I made no effort to keep them dry) had had
a crippling effect on my left ankle. I could hear and feel
the tendon creak against the sheath within it and the pain of
going on began to overshadow the pleasure of it all and the
company of adventurers called a halt for a day lay-over on a
sandy little island. (There must be more than one of me or I
couldn't talk to myself like I so often do!)
The camp was comfortable and it was very enjoyable to
spend a whole day there with clear mountain water passing by
on both sides, soaking in the heat and drinking in the
sunlight's warmth and also that of, I'm now ashamed to say, a
bottle of Hudson's Bay Dark Rum I'd foolishly brought along,
seemingly just for this occasion. It's astonishing how
eloquent one can become and more astonishing still to later
realize what drivvel one can come up with when taking
such medication. What can you say when your minds a total
blank? I don't know if my ankle was helped but the day
passed pleasantly enough, though I've since regretted ever
being taken in by the trappings of this evil "medicine".
There's an easy way and a hard way of learning most things.
A day or two here found me ready to recommence the
"expotition" up the Nisutlin and so with renewed vigour from
the rest, I travelled on towards the mountains, soaking it
all in. Soon I came to a place where I was stumped. The
vegetation overgrew the bank on my side and the water
deepened until it reached the pockets of my Levi shirt, the
current too swift to fight with just a paddle and the
opposite bank looking far less inviting, being also overgrown
and just above a quick bend in the river.
There was one ray of hope, other than a portage through
all that brush and tangle, and that ray was very faint.
Directly across from my precarious position lay a sandbar,
prepared just for me. If I could just climb aboard and ferry
across in the usual way with the bow nosing directly into the
current, paddling like Popeye, I just might make that bar.
There was good enough reason to paddle like Popeye! If for
any reason I didn't make it I'd be swept backwards into an
undercut bank of the river and quite possibly upset and
pinned below the surface of the river against a "sweeper",
there to literally "breath the Nisutlin" until drifting off
into a hotter body of liquid to burn forever for my
unconfessed sins and rebellion! A sweeper, by the way, is an
evergreen which has fallen into the river and now sweeps it
free of floating swimmers and what-have-you.
With nothing to lose but my soul I jumped in along with a
few gallons of riverwater, picked up my sticky piece of
lumber and gave it all I had. The canoe wanted to get caught
in the current and it took everything I had to straighten it.
Then I dug for the opposite shore, realizing to my sudden
horror that I wasn't winning this battle with the river. I
wasn't going to make the sandbar! The bow of the canoe was
five feet or so from the last tip of the sandbar I had to
reach and I felt I was really done this time. Glancing down
into the water I'd soon meet much too personally, I realized
I could see bottom and it looked shallow! Not one to
normally pass up any given advantage, in I plunged, but only
up to my knees this time! Shoving the canoe onto the island
I sat down very rattled, and crossed myself! I'm not even
Catholic, nor do I ever cross myself, and I still wonder to
this very day what made me do this. I know I felt a great
sense of gratitude well up in my heart and I took a little
time to pause and reflect on what might have happened at this
spot, forty miles upriver, had the Great Spirit not been One
Who kindly helps fools, small children and drunks, myself
then qualifying on all three counts! But let's not dwell on
this too heavily!
Another piece of river and I came suddenly upon the wolves.
Pulling the canoe upriver, handing the rope from one hand
to the other through the trees, I'd just started rounding a
bend to the left when through the remaining trees of the
point of land I noticed to my unbridled excitement a wolf,
then another, and then another! The four or five pups
were trotting about and sniffing around there on the opposite
sandy beach and I struggled to believe that I had really
found a family of wolves!
The canoe was quickly tied and my camera grabbed from its
bag and the film-burning began in earnest, as usually happens
when I see some sight in nature that I won't likely see again
for awhile. When they'd all disappeared back into the trees
I crossed the river and searched the beach. Shortly I
discovered their den and, with the remembrance of Farley
Mowatt's story resurfacing in my mind, thought what a great
opportunity this situation could present to get some fine
photography done on the shy creatures.
So I began disrupting their lives for a time and set up
my tent some distance away there on the beach by the river,
making my cooking fire and writing the days events into my
diary, which I was gaining more false confidence in each day.
Each night I camped there I heard the mother wolf howl but
that was as close as I came to seeing any more of my wolf
pack, though if I'd had my eyes open one night I surely could
have got an eyeful and a half!
The weather had been amazingly kind to me on this trip
all the way through, but one night, just to remind me such
things could happen, it sprinkled, washing all the tracks on
the beach down like a school marm brushing the blackboard and
next morning I awakened to find a sight which really
got me revved. The mother wolf had left her fresh front paw
tracks two feet or so from the back of my smallish nylon
tent. This would have placed her nose right up against it in
the region of the tenters feet! This didn't alarm me as I
knew how shy and intelligent wolves are, and I knew how well
my .45/70 could kill one in the sad event I would have to.
After a couple of days of hanging around the camp and
hoping for the pups to put in an appearance I decided I'd
played Farley long enough and would go out and seek the
animals on my own two legs. The first days effort yielded
only total exhaustion and an empty can of beans as I found
myself fighting a war of crawling under and over, and
balancing on the previously mentioned pile of burned pick-up
sticks most of an afternoon.
Although afraid of meeting similar troubles on the other
side of the river, I dared to try it and taking my Trapper
Nelson backpack with tarp, camera, and a bit of food I
ferried the river and pulled up the canoe, setting off on
foot once again toward the base of the towering mountain
whose view I'd enjoyed half a week now. As always in the
Yukon, the climb was a hard one, first pushing through
forests of spruce and brush and then working my way up the
side of the mountain, pausing often to breathe hard and check
my progress against the mountain across the valley, usually
satisfied to see some new gain had been made.
The climb took all of that day and when finally I had
made the uplands I enjoyed the view a bit and then pondered
where I would hole up for the night, deciding finally on the
head of the little ravine I had just followed up the
There, I gathered what scrub wood I could find and
stowed it for the night and huddled as near the fire as
sleeping only off and on as the high altitude night settled
over the central Yukon and the stars showed themselves. The
temperature dropped well below my happy level and I longed
for the comfort of my arctic bag back at camp, hoping all was
well there and the wolves were leaving things alone.
Eventually a glow began forming in the east and lighting
up the ravine valley rock opposite my position with a rosy
glow, turning slowly to yellow and then bright daylight as
the sun kept the Creator's promise of Yet another days light.
After putting out the fire, I packed up what little comforts
I had and hiked up toward the east, back up on top of the
mountain. Suddenly I heard the thumping sound of a medium-
sized animal's feet on the moss and looked up just in time to
see a real live lynx race across in front of me and hardly
twenty paces distant! In another second the cat was gone but
I felt thrilled to have even seen one in the wild at all.
Another short hike and I sat down on the edge of a rock
cliff. The rain showers had swept the air clean and
visibility was good to any distance. A long way off I could
see many mountains covered in snow and ice, even now in July.
The cliff below me swept down a thousand feet to a base of
scree and below the lush green of a manicured golfcourse no
one knew of, the forest sent its perfume heavenward. Over
the Nisutlin a rainbow could be seen where a passing shower
was happening and way down there, I don't know how many feet
down, the Nisutlin followed its serpentine course along the
valley floor. I could see from here just where the whole
valley swung off to the right and knew, again from the topo
map there must be a good sized lake back in there. Someday I
would have to see that lake but I was quickly running out of
time and would have to turn back if I was to take the job I'd
applied for as horse wrangler and guide for one of the
Yukon's outfitters. But what a country! What a view! And
all of a sudden I felt a rush of emotion and wanted to cry.
There was no one to share the place with. No one at my side
to admire it with me. I felt I was in heaven but all alone,
and what fun would there be in that?
It was here that I decided to leave my reclusive life
behind and become involved with people again. I'd been
struggling for awhile already with the notion of leaving
everyone behind and holing up somewhere way in the
backcountry but today, although I knew people would give me
grief in their living and their dying I knew I wanted to pay
the price. But someday, I would have to share this beauty
with someone of the cleverer gender, and I began mapping out
the jetboat trip up this river I would take her on sometime.
Reaching camp early I made the decision to run the
river. The wolves weren't happening and the trip down would
take a full day and I was out of time.
Excitement gripped my heart as I tore down the tent and
rolled my bedroll, packing it all neatly and tightly into the
canoe for the ride down to the road. This should be fun!
Then I remembered some of the more challenging stretches and
began to have my doubts. I had been able to pull the canoe
up and through all the difficulties, but could I run them?
But soon the rougher stretches near camp had been dealt
with and the river swung gently to right and left. The sun
bore down and the temperature must have neared ninety.
Stripping off my shirt, I lazed in the stern, finding a
comfortable position on my back and lazily watching the
scenery go by.
Wasn't I the master of this river? Wasn't I an absolute
"monarch of all I surveyed?" "Hadn't I paddled a thousand
miles of river and dealt with many difficulties
successfully?" It was indeed strange that the mountains
themselves weren't shouting praises down to me as I drifted
gently down the river, not worrying that my canoe was
reversing position in relation to the sluggish current of the
young river. That was no problem, surely, for one so
experienced and skilled as I! No, no. Indeed, it would
probably be fun to run this next riffle backwards, with yours
sincerely in the bow and no aft paddler at all, and try to
miss that one single boulder near the left side. That should
present no problem whatsoever, although it did seem to be
heading generally my way. Perhaps I'd better apply a little
more force in my sidestroke here. Now, now, you must be
kidding! Oh NO!
The canoe bit into the rock and heaved up upon it
placing me in an extremely awkward position. I couldn't
believe this was really happening! There had been a hundred
feet of open river all around this one boulder and I had to
hit it right in the middle! As now forseen, my balancing act
there on the rock did not last very long and ever so slowly
the other end of the canoe began to pivot around until, when
broadside with the current, it flipped and I found myself
kicking in the river for the first time in my career of river
Soon the canoe full of water had righted itself and I
had reached the bottom with my feet. Hauling back for all I
was worth I worked the amazing weight of the thing far over
to the right shore and aways down the river and commenced
The bailing and emptying of the canoe, and dealing with
my sodden sleeping bag and grub box gave me time to think and
that night I wrote in my diary that "a wiser fool got back in
the canoe and paddled off downriver."
The canoe weighed a lot more now and so did the long
lens of my camera, which did not survive the dunking too
well. The slide film was also practically destroyed. I laid
all of this out on top of the packs to dry in the hot sun and
I forged my way downriver with the behemoth paddle and
wondered how quickly things could go wrong for a fool in the
As I passed by a bank of the river I looked up in time
to watch another lynx drift past, bemoaning the lost
opportunity for a picture he had presented. More rapids were
conquered, though not so bravely and one time some more water
sloshed in over the side because of the lack of freeboard I
now had to spare. By now the hand-hewn paddle felt like an
old friend and I wouldn't have traded for my first one, had I
Near dark, I got the camera working on a new roll of
black and white and photographed a moose too many times, the
only one I saw on this particular trip, and nearly at dark I
arrived at the truck. I sure was glad to be able to sleep in
it instead of in that soggy sleeping bag!
The diary was not damaged and was sent with a bit of
gold purchased in the city of Whitehorse the next day. This
was the only metallic gold I found on the trip. It crossed
my mind to send the book and all to her older sister instead,
the one without the boyfriend,but that didn't seem altogether
upright somehow. It's hard to say just where a feller goes
wrong sometimes... But then "what doesn't kill you makes you
stronger", they say.
"He climbed up big mountains and hunted great bears,
All to impress her but was unawares,
That while he was gone trying to be something big,
Another was with her and up was the jig!"