Desperate Measures for Desperate Hopes

Chapter 9

"A man's mind plans his way,

but the Lord directs his steps."

Proverbs 16:9

 "SURRENDER!"

That single, dagger-like word in the largest print I'd ever seen any newspaper use, together with the April 30th headline, stated all that needed to be said. What else could have been said?

"What now?" feeling unsettled.

When I first began exchanging letters with Phi Bang, I never thought an end to that years-long Southeast Asian conflict would ever come. Nonetheless the armies and political systems of South Vietnam imploded into a disintegrating retreat that couldn't be slowed or halted. 

Over the years, Vietnam had been a political and social issue I'd so long sought to ignore. Like the abruptness of Death's arrival, no time remained now to even try to understand what the issues had been about. Surrender to the communist north and possible consequences was a situation beyond my comprehension. Regardless, a new era would dawn in Vietnam, but no one knew what could be expected. No one could even be certain that the bloodbath the Americans had for years warned about, actually would follow.

"Now what? What's going to happen to her? Is she safe from harm?" my heart imploring God for immediate soothing answers.

Seated at my desk, I picked up the photo of Phi Bang and began talking to her, "My love, I'm praying, hoping and trusting God will watch over you and your family. Don't forget Notre Pays du Soleil we imagined because I won’t forget that hope we briefly shared. I promise you I’ll never forget you Phi Bang, my dear love friend in Vietnam."

Like many times before, I reached forward for the pipe tin and a pouch of tobacco. After filling and lighting one of the pipes, I watched as the clouds of smoke billowed out of the bowl. My life seemed to have a certain similarity to pipe smoking, a similarity I detested, because life always seemed to be a series of hopes and dreams that always went up in the smokes of disappointment and failure. I'll conceded most failures were of my own doing, but others were beyond my control. Vietnam was beyond my control, but I knew I probably failed to tell Phi Bang exactly how I felt about her.

While gazing at the photograph of her I contemplated too what might've been, what could've been, what in secret I desired and hoped would've been, and in anger and frustration believed should've been. If only we had more time. If only...

"Why did everything in South Vietnam have to end so quickly?" I cried aloud to God.

I thought and re-thought about everything Phi Bang had written over the past several months, and that single same aspect about her letters intrigued me. Not once did she write about, or even indirectly mention the war, and she never revealed her concerns about what the future might hold for her and her family. I didn't know if she had feared the coming of this ending. Nonetheless, three days prior to the fall of South Vietnam she'd written to me again, having dispatched that final letter from Saigon. 

A large photograph on the front page of the evening newspaper showed desperate throngs at the American embassy as helicopters airlifted out the last Americans and others during the last minutes. American experts were estimating that perhaps as many as 60,000 people fled from the beaches at Vung Tau. The number was probably accurate because many of those people were being plucked from the seas by an American naval task force operating off the coast of Vietnam.

The following morning Canada Post refused to accept my letters or any mail destined for Vietnam, because an embargo had been imposed. No one at Canada Post knew how long the embargo would remain in effect, however the understanding postal clerk assured me this wasn't the first time mail destined to a country in turnoil had been embargoed. In all probability, mail services would return to normal within a few weeks.

"Within a few weeks?" that answer sounding like a new definition of forever. 

Wish as I might, nothing I could say or do would change anything.

Later that evening I listened to the radio and heard stories about daring escapes from a first handful of people who'd safely fled by boat from Vietnam. During the following days more accounts appeared in the newspapers about the thousands of people fleeing in boats from Vietnam. The numbers may have been in the hundreds of thousands as boatloads of refugees began landing on the shores of neighbouring countries. The Americans estimated that perhaps as many as 130,000 Vietnamese had fled during the final days of Saigon alone.

Throughout those few days after Saigon surrendered, I kept hoping one last letter would come from Phi Bang, a letter that had already been on the way when the situation was confused. Nothing came, and I stopped expecting to receive any word as long as the postal embargo remained in effect. While I may have understood the situation in cold clear logic, on an emotional level I kept wondering why. Perhaps my calling in life should have been to champion lost causes or to dream impossible dreams, but I wasn't from La Mancha.

The ensuing days were adding up into ensuing weeks, but I kept checking with Canada Post to find out if the embargo had been lifted. Nothing had changed. Nonetheless, I continued placing letters in mailboxes in different parts of Vancouver hoping that perhaps one would be overlooked and possibly leave Canada. All were later returned with a heavily inked notice stamped on the outside of the envelope that left no doubt about the reason for its return. "Embargo. Return to sender."

The news media continued to report heart-rending stories about boatloads of people being rescued at sea. Photographs portraying the Vietnamese and their plights kept frequently appearing in newspapers and magazines. I began scrutinizing the faces in the photographs, wondering if by chance I'd find Phi Bang. That probability was virtually non-existent, but I did it anyway. 

Refugees who were picked up by American ships were being transported to Guam, Wake Island or Clark Air Force Base in the Philippines. After processing, the refugees were being flown to the United States. The press reported that the tiny island of Guam quickly became a tent city holding more than 40,000 people.

Phi Bang's brief but special intrusion into my life had an effect on the few new pieces of music that I had been working on. For distraction I spent time in the library searching through musical reference books. I could not find any information about Vietnamese music but the reference books contained more than sufficient material about Chinese music. Chinese music appeared to be structured in almost the same manner as western music but that really did not tell me anything at all about traditional Vietnamese music. Regardless, I assumed that historical Chinese cultural influences on Vietnam had been significant. The five tone pentatonic scale appears to be universal, pervasive in Chinese music and just as pervasive in the music of my Celtic heritage. Structural differences were almost imperceptible when listening to recorded performances of both types of music. Even so, the lack of information left me with a nagging uncertainty about how similar or dissimilar Vietnamese music is to Chinese music.

When I finally had an opportunity to sit down at a piano and fiddle with the ivories, I refined the structure of my new composition and inserted what I thought were asian sounding musical idioms. At first I thought it impossible to produce the sounds I wanted to hear from the keyboard but slowly I wrested those timbres and tones I had been grasping for. The musical work took shape and was a marked departure from any of my previous compositions. Without ceremony or fanfare, my new opus was titled, "Sketches of a Vietnamese Girl" and dedicated to Phi Bang. 

I was depressed from having been cut off from communicating with Phi Bang. Her letters had been brief fleeting moments of sunshine that entered into my existence that had seemed so very much like the dreary winter rains of Vancouver. I missed receiving her letters. As ridiculous as the thought may have been, I missed someone I'd never met. I missed Phi Bang. 

Near the end of May I arranged to take a few days off work to add to the holiday long weekend. I was hoping a leisurely rail journey across the spectacular mountains of British Columbia coupled with a few days of hiking and camping would help me take my mind off Phi Bang.

Several days later Matthew heard about my planned trip and asked if he could accompany me. I readily accepted his offer. Although Matt had never visited eastern British Columbia before, he was nonetheless experienced with camping and hiking. Following an evening of discussion we decided to hike from Golden to Field, a map distance of 35 miles. Upon arriving at Field we would then wait to connect with CP Rail's westbound passenger train for our return trip to Vancouver. We figured our trek would take two days, however, we made an allowance for three days.

Maybe I should've got my head examined instead, because...

Fifteen hours and 470 miles of overnight coach travel later we detrained at Golden. We waited for the Canadian to disappear eastward over the route we were about to travel. CP Rail's eastward uphill alignment out of Golden through to Glenogle, a passing siding, follows the corkscrew route of the Kicking Horse River through the narrow canyon with the same name. On one side of the track is the river. On the opposite side, an almost vertical rock wall. 

Based upon what I'd observed from the train on previous journeys and what the topographical maps indicated, we chose to hike along the CP Rail route for the first several miles to the bridge where the Trans Canada Highway crosses over the river and CP Rail. From there our route would be along the highway, at least as far as Leanchoil. By following our projected path, we would avoid the steep and narrow road climb out of Golden.

After trudging over the first few miles of railway into winding Kicking Horse Canyon, we rounded yet another curve in the series of many curves and approached a black steel bridge that came into view with each step we made. Just beyond the far side of CP Rail's bridge over the turbulent river was the mouth of a tunnel.

"What's that?" Matt asked, 

"What's it look like?" 

"A bridge!" and sounding agitated. 

"It’s a bridge."

Well I ain't crossing it!" and he stopped at the steel structure.

"Haven't you ever crossed a bridge before?" 

"Not one with a railway on it." 

"It's no different from any other bridge." I assured him.

While between the rails he stepped forward to the edge of the concrete bridge abutment, peered downward between the ties, and balked, "I can see right through it!” 

"Railway bridges are usually like this." 

"Well I ain't crossing it!" 

"Matt, we can't climb the rock wall on this side and we can't cross through the river to that side so we don't have much choice now but to cross this bridge and go on.” surprised he hadn't made a peep about the tunnel.

"Well I ain't crossing it!" 

“Are we gonna walk all the way back to Golden and follow the highway?" 

"Well I ain't crossing it!"

"It's no different from walking along this track like we've been doing." 

"You cross it and show me how it's done." 

"Sure... but get off the track while you wait."

Dropping my backpack on the ground beside Matt after he got off the railway, I crossed over to the opposite end of the short bridge and then crossed back. A few years earlier, unsanctioned practice on CNR's much longer and higher bridge over Riviere des Prairies in Montreal had made crossing this small CPR bridge seem like a kindergarten lesson.

"You did it!" 

"I told you, it's easy." 

"Okay professor, but what if a train comes?" 

"First of all, don't panic or run. Just move out on one of those girders and climb into the span's framework. It's safe there as long as you don’t poke your head out to look at the train while it’s passing." I explained while pointing out the steel work connected to the spans.

"Have you ever done this before?" 

"Yeah... and on a bridge much longer and higher than this one.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, a group of us. We were right out in the middle of that railway bridge when a train came.

"Weren't you scared?"

"Of course I was scared." 

"So why were you doing that?" 

I wasn't sure if I wanted to recount this particular story out here right now, but I continued anyway, "Some guy walked across from the other side. Turned out he was a CNR cop and caught the whole group of us by surprise."

"Didn't you see him coming?" 

"We did, but he'd removed his hat and tie and put on a sweater to hide his uniform. Ends up he forgot to bring his pen and notepad to write down all our names and telephone numbers so he ordered all eight of us to accompany him across the bridge so he could take down the details at his car. All of us were out in the middle of that bridge when the train came." 

"Did the train stop?" 

"No, it couldn't... and we couldn't outrun it either." 

Matt said nothing and I continued, "I can't remember who saw the train first but that cop was more scared than we were. Anyway he told us how to get out of the way by climbing out into the spans."

"What if a railroad cop comes along here now?" 

"Out here in the middle of nowhere?" 

"Yeah." 

"No one’s that crazy." 

"Then what are we doing out here at this bridge in the middle of nowhere?"

"The longer we wait here debating about whether or not you're going to cross, the more likely it’ll be that a train or something else comes along... so let's go." I insisted before picking up my backpack.

"You go first. I'll follow." 

We started over the bridge and about half way across Matthew stopped. He'd been looking down between the railway ties at the water flowing beneath the bridge, became mesmerized and froze with fear. Worse, he was ignoring my coaxing to get him moving so I climbed out into the span.

When he realized he was alone between the rails, he shouted, What are you doing out there?"

"You can either go forward, go backward, or come out here on the span, but you can’t stay there between the rails." I shouted back.

He snapped out of his panic and charged forward off the bridge. I climbed off the span and joined him.

"Now was it really that difficult?" 

"I'll never do that again." he vowed with an unwavering determination.

"Yes you will." 

"Well I ain't going back over it."

"Who said anything about going back?"

He cast me a weird look but didn't say anything, so I broke the news, "There’re three more bridges to cross in the next two miles of track ahead." 

Acting like he hadn't heard what I'd said, he pointed at the dark opening in the side of the mountain, and asked, "Do we have to go through that?" 

"Bridges we can deal with but tunnels we avoid." and emphasized the word avoid.

"Where do we go from here?" 

"I'm gonna take another look at the map so lets take a break in that clearing over there." pointing at an area that had been bulldozed flat between the river and the tunnel portal.

During the hour and a half since we'd started out from Golden, the skies cleared. The sun had moved, shadows shrank until almost nil and the floor of the canyon became uncomfortably warm. The steel rails of Canadian Pacific's famous route radiated heat like hot water pipes that made our not so famous expedition feel even hotter. Out of curiosity we briefly peered into the curved tunnel. We were unable to see the other end nonetheless we could see daylight from the far portal reflecting off the tunnel walls. 

We left the track, dropped our backpacks in the shade at the trunk of a fir tree and found some temporary seats on boulders at the river's edge. We couldn't have been seated beside the river more than two minutes when a westbound freight train blasted out of the tunnel. Until the lead engine had charged out into the daylight, the trains' approach had been silent, or muffled by the noisy, fast-flowing Kicking Horse River.

"I can see why you want to avoid tunnels. We could have been killed!" Matt exclaimed. 

I folded the map, stowed it away in my pack and said, "From here we'll follow the river around this same hill the tunnel runs through. We'll end up back at the railway track near the other end of that tunnel."

"How far's that?"

"According to my calculations about a half-mile loop." 

Matt looked at the tunnel portal, and thinking he might be having second thoughts about a tempting shortcut, I said, "No way!"

Our half-mile loop proved to be an arduous detour. The river's bank was littered with thousands of craggy rocks and boulders, and most were too large to step over. At one point to get around the butt of the mountain, we were compelled to walk knee deep in the brutally cold blue-green water that had a chalk-like feel to it. The river's current was swift, and our footing upon some of the submerged stones was often less than certain. Loss of balance or slipping could easily have spelled a plunge into the deeper waters of the turbulent turquoise torrent. 

Incredulous, I wondered how anyone could possibly have trekked through these inhospitable mountains and frigid glacial rivers a century earlier to search out and survey possible routes for this railway. The surveyors must've been crazier than we were. Walking on the stones of the railway track today was difficult enough.

In the early afternoon we left CP Rail's route and the Kicking Horse River behind when we climbed the slope to the Trans Canada Highway. We paused briefly to rest and also to enjoy the view of the canyon and the railway from up on the highway bridge. Minutes later we resumed our plodding eastward, as far as Hunter Creek. The soles of our feet were sore and both of us were weary from the day's hard-won mileage. Upstream and away from sight of the highway we set up camp for the night. The ground was rocky and we were unable to peg the tent. Defiantly, we tied the tent cords to heavy rocks and eventually had a standing shelter. 

Our goal for the day had been to reach Leanchoil but we stopped several miles short, physically worn out from the harsh demands of trekking over miles of railway, river, highway and hills while carrying heavy packs on our backs. From the confines of a desk in an office in a large city, hiking and camping out in the wilderness of British Columbia had seemed like such an ideal and idyllic retreat. Being out here and actually doing it was a blunt sobering dose of reality. In spite of their towering majestic beauty, these mountains were absolutely inhospitable. As the sun beat down on us throughout the day we craved for and needed more water than we were able to comfortably carry. By travelling on foot we fast discovered that glacial streams were often farther apart than we wanted. When we found running water, the ice cold turquoise-tinted liquid was cloudy with minerals and tasted like chalk. We drank the water anyway and were grateful to have it.

In the evening we sat in front of a sparking fire and witnessed the waning minutes of daylight, I removed the note pad and pen from my pocket and started writing.

"What’re you doing?" Matt asked.

"Making notes." 

"I can see that but what for?" 

"When I get back to Vancouver I’m going to write to Phi Bang and tell her about this adventure!" I stated, and probably sounding as if I was making a vow.

"I thought you came here to get her off your mind."

"I did."

"So?"

"How can anyone just stop thinking about someone special?" asking, but not looking for an answer, "Some people may be able to do it, but I can't." 

I folded the note pad and returned it to my pocket. For a while I stared at the flames, kept throwing twigs into the fire and pondered. Yes, I came here to fight off depression but coming here did not mean that I was going to stop thinking about Phi Bang. No. I did not know whether or not she was still in Saigon or if she had returned to Tay Ninh. According to news reports that had leaked out, things were far different in Vietnam. 

Saigon had been renamed Ho Chi Minh City, but so far, no reports or rumours about thousands of South Vietnamese being killed by the communists. The embargo by Canada Post was still in effect, but even if it was lifted, I did not know if Phi Bang would be able to or allowed to write to me. My imagination painted despairing scenes of Phi Bang being forcibly sent off to a horrible labour camp because she had been caught writing a letter to a westerner. Bad news could be dealt with, but not knowing was torture. I just did not know the answers to any of my questions and concerns about Phi Bang. God just seemed so very silent on the subject.

Trucks continuously roared by on the highway. From the floor of the valley came the thudding sound of diesels on a freight train that was battling the hills to move commerce over the rails of the Van Horne route. As I lay awake on the uncomfortable rocky ground waiting for sleep to come, I wondered, "Why did I come here?"

Just after 02:00 I was awakened by the sound of sporadic raindrops hitting the tent. The pattering rain pattern quickly developed into a steady downpour and I fell asleep again. Around 03:30 I awoke cold and wet. Rainwater running off the higher ground had passed beneath the floor of my side of the tent. As far as I could tell, Matthew was sound asleep and oblivious to the weather changes that had occurred. I began shivering uncontrollably so I arose and left the confines of the tent. The rain had quit a while earlier but fog had rolled in to take its place. Fortunately I had the good sense, or plain blind luck, to shelter some wood inside the tent last evening so I quickly and easily had a blazing fire going. Trying to warm up, I huddled beside the fire and periodically puffed away on my pipe.

Hunched over in a ball-like seated position beside the fire I fitfully dozed until daybreak came. The fog had moved off our camp but was still covering the floor of the lower valley. With dense white fog covering the valley, the mountains of the Beaverfoot Range had the appearance of tall peaks poking through clouds, an absolutely beautiful sunrise. 

As the sun rose higher, the fog quickly burned off. I was tired, sore and definitely not ready to repeat yesterday's efforts. Liking our situation or not, we had to push on. We had no choice because we had no other way out. By 08:00 Matthew and I had everything stowed away in our backpacks and we resumed our journey toward Field.

A while later we passed through the entrance gateway into Yoho National Park. We paused at the first picnic site. Adjacent to the site a colony of gopher-like creatures had moved in. The small tawny coloured rodents kept poking their heads up out of their burrows but quickly disappeared when we made any attempt to approach and take a closer look at them. Obviously the nosey residents did not like equally nosey visitors. More than a dozen of the little inhabitants had dug out a maze of tunnels beneath the ground. As entertaining as they were to watch, we did not stay very long. 

We reached Leanchoil at about the same the eastbound Canadian was due to arrive in Golden. I walked down the hill along the gravel access road to the train station. The maroon and yellow C.P.R. structure was empty and dilapidated. I insisted upon waiting to watch and photograph the famous stainless steel passenger train as it passed by the station. The train was on time, made its daily appearance and I had my photograph for posterity. 

Upon reaching the sharp bends in both the highway and railway at the foot of the Ottertail Range, our direction of travel made a very marked change from south easterly to due north. Matt and I chose to follow Porcupine Fire Road over to the railway. We figured this route would be quieter than walking along the Trans Canada Highway that had become very busy with the non-stop stream of cars and trucks roaring by us.

CP Rail's route made a sharp curve around a rock outcropping, and beyond was a mile or more of straight right of way. After we'd been limping along for a while I noticed water was on both sides of the railway track. In 1884 this part of the right of way had been constructed through what looked like a bog. More than ninety years later this location wasn't a good spot to be in if a train came along.

"There’s something on the track up ahead." I said and stopped.

"What’re dogs doing out here in the middle of nowhere? Matt responded.

"I don't know but I hate the thought of meeting up with wild dogs." 

"They're not dogs!" Matt realizing they weren't dogs.

"So what are they?" 

"Bears!" 

"Bears?" disbelieving his assessment, "They don't look big enough."

"Maybe you’re right." Matthew said, contradicting what he had just said, and then added, "They look like dogs."

"Matt, they’re bears! This area is well known for bears." I stated.

"What do we do now?" Matthew asked.

"Nothing. They're far enough away for now. They not even be aware we're here. We'll just wait here until they get off the track and disappear into the woods." I suggested.

"What if a train comes?" Matthew asked.

"That’ll chase off the bears and solve our problem." I said.

"Yeah. Sure. Where are we going to go?" Matthew commented, not believing me.

"We'll go down the side of this embankment and, if necessary, into the water." I replied.

"The water is freezing." Matthew reminded me.

"I know, but I really don't think we'll have to go that far down the embankment to get out of the way." I explained.

"What’ll we do if the bears decide to come this way?" Matthew asked.

"I don't know, but I guess we can double-back the way we came. That camp site’s only a mile or so behind us." I said.

Matthew and I eased down the embankment to get off the railway and sat to wait for the bears to finish with their business and leave. Minutes later, a third bear joined the other two that were already on the track between the rails. We continued our waiting from what I was reasonably certain was a safe enough distance. We were in no hurry to proceed but neither were the bears in any hurry to get off the CP Rail mainline. We were also curious to know what the bears were interested in to keep them on the track.

The bears eventually wandered off and disappeared into the woods. Matthew and I waited a little longer, to be as certain as we could that the bears had actually moved away. We returned to the track and continued along the railway to the spot where the bears had been. Between the rails were the half-eaten, decaying mashed remains of an animal that had probably argued with a train over the right of way and lost. We resumed our plodding on toward Ottertail, CP Rail's next siding and the first location where we would be able to cross back over to the Trans Canada Highway.

Our limping became more pronounced as the soles of our feet begged us to stop. We could not remain where we were but continuing onward had become painfully difficult. Making each successive step was an act of will in a physical battle to keep moving. We eventually arrived at CP Rail's Ottertail siding and continued following the track to the railway bridge over Ottertail Stream. 

We were making our climb from the track up the embankment to the trans Canada Highway when I stumbled and rolled part of the way down the hill. In the tumble I banged my knee against a stone. After waiting for the excruciating pain to subside, and then satisfied nothing was broken, Matthew and I scaled the hill and reached the highway. Field was not far away but was too far for us to reach before dark. We crossed the highway and limped along while trying to hitch a ride to town. Dozens of cars and trucks raced by us but none stopped or even slowed to look.

Boulder Creek was as far as we would travel on foot that day. The soles of our feet were bruised, blistered and just too painful to walk on. Matthew and I were thoroughly exhausted and extremely thirsty because our water supply had run out hours earlier. This was in spite of the fact we had been travelling within sight of water in the bogs and gravel flats created by the confluence of the Kicking Horse River and Ottertail Stream. Boulder Creek was the first place we found water that looked safe enough to drink. We were able to hobble around out of necessity, enduring the discomfort of taking a few steps at a time. Eventually our tent was set up at the far end of a small clearing beside the creek.

My dream retreat of a relaxing stroll in the mountains had become a nightmare of unintentional self-inflicted torture. Recklessly, I had pushed myself beyond my limit for physical endurance and now wanted out of my predicament. Dangerously close to my breaking point and recognizing it for what it was, I needed to get out. We were stuck and I was consciously fighting to maintain my sanity. Mercifully sleep came.

At dusk we were unceremoniously awakened by a park ranger who ordered us to pack up and move to one of the park’s designated campsites. Upon inquiring, we were informed the nearest camp site was several miles back near Leanchoil. No way we were going to be moved in any direction away from Field, so we refused to move. In spite of the ranger's threats to fine us for illegal camping, we refused to be pushed in any further in any direction. 

Neither one of us could have walked anyway. Relenting somewhat, Matthew and I did offer to break camp only if we could have a ride into Field. The park ranger refused and gave us some official excuse about not being allowed to carry passengers in a park vehicle regardless of the fact his girl friend was in the cab. After a few more minutes of heated argument and our unbending refusal to move, the ranger finally gave in and accepted our terms. He drove us into Field.

Field didn't have a hotel or motel, but with some assistance from the park ranger, Matt and I managed to rent a room for the night in the upstairs of the local watering hole. Beyond the door to our room was a single uncovered light bulb in the ceiling, an unshaded window and two beds with bare mattresses. In some way the architectural similarity of the building reminded me of the bedrooms in my grandparents' house. 

"What a dump." Matthew complained.

"Looks pretty darn good to me...and clean too." I said, very grateful not to be spending another night outdoors on top of rocks.

"Eighteen dollars for this? I think you paid too much." Matthew commented.

"This was a bargain Matt. Believe me, in the morning you'll feel differently about this place." I said.

"Which bed do you want?" Matthew asked.

"The nearest one. I can't walk any further." I replied.

Our ordeal was over and I felt like a humiliated survivor rather than a triumphant adventurer. We fell four miles short of our goal but in those two days we had managed to cover at least 31 miles. Matthew and I were probably lucky to be leaving with our bodies and minds intact. The journey was a gruelling experience that neither of us would forget and that day would prove to be my last visit on foot into the wilds of the Rockies.

Mid June...

I'd given up trying to send letters to Vietnam, nonetheless each day upon returning home from work, I checked the table in the upstairs foyer for mail but only met with disappointment. Plenty of mail alright, and all of it for those quiet faceless strangers who lived in the four suites above mine. I was starting to lose hope I'd ever receive another letter from Phi Bang.

One particular evening I didn't feel like eating, and as I'd often do, I sat at the desk, gazed at the photograph of Phi Bang, and wondered about her. The photo had been resting against the backs of the books for nearly six months now, but was still in need of a frame to keep it in. From time to time I thought about buying one, but so far nothing had been done about it.

Because I'm Canadian and always lived in Canada, I'd always presumed I'd be immune to the consequences of the Vietnam War. After all, Vietnam had been an American problem. If I'd chosen someone else in another country to write to, then what might the outcome have been? 

That was a question I'd never know the answer to. 

Getting up from my seat at the desk, I went into the bedroom and searched through the new piles of papers that had accumulated on the bed since Ted's visit last summer. Moments later I'd found the magazine-like booklet that came from Mercury last fall. Returning to my seat in front of the desk, I began perusing the pages of that catalogue of familiar strangers, only this time I noticed many of the ladies had addresses in Saigon. Once more I looked at the picture of Le thi Lien Huong and then wondered, "What happened to all these Vietnamese people?"

Upon reaching the end of the booklet I realized I wasn't interested in writing to anyone else. All I'd been trying to do was find Phi Bang in the face of someone else. I don't know which Caucasian first said that all Asian people look the same, but he was probably some idiot who'd never bothered to take a close look at the faces of the peoples he had such disdain for. Not one of the hundreds of the young ladies pictured in the Mercury booklet resembled Phi Bang any more than they resembled me. 

In a fit of anger I hurled the catalogue across the room toward the trash container but missed it. The magazine hit the wall and flopped on the floor. Picking up the booklet and tossing it into the garbage, I vowed I'd never write another letter to a lady overseas.

After work on the first Friday of June, I visited my favourite shops on Granville and Hastings Streets. Many weeks had passed since my last evening out. While browsing through the soundless treasures on the shelves in the music store, I picked up the score for Schubert's Great C Major Symphony. After briefly studying the orchestration of the first few bars and then closing my eyes, I could silently hear the opening theme. The structure of the first movement could be described as circular because the beginning and closing motifs, while rhythmically varied, are unmistakably the same. 

Listening to the first movement was like going on a journey that would eventually return me to the place where I started. Whoever first described life as being like a journey along a highway could not possibly have known what he was talking about. So far my life had felt too much like being lost on unmapped, two-rut, back roads in unfamiliar wilderness. The last six months must have been a Schubert style journey because somehow I seemed to be right back where I had started. From nowhere, through nowhere, back to nowhere and still with nothing. Perhaps not quite the same person as earlier, or perhaps the same but not with quite the same outlook and perceptions; maybe rhythmically frustrated but so what? Why didn't Schubert finish his eighth symphony? Why didn't Beethoven write his tenth symphony? Where is Phi Bang and what is she doing? 

Returning the printed version of the Schubert symphony back to the shelf I left the store. Perhaps if Schubert had taken the time to complete the eighth symphony then he probably never would have had time to leave the world a ninth symphony. If Beethoven had written his tenth symphony then most certainly he would never have written all of his last five string quartets. I suppose that Phi Bang is back in Tay Ninh trying to adapt to life under a new government.

At the smoke shop I bought several tins of my favourite tobacco mixtures and also picked up a copy of the most recent issue of a railway magazine. Afterward I wandered over to the pizza restaurant with the Italian sounding name for an evening of pizza and beer while reading about trains and railroading. As I sat in the booth waiting for my order to come, I realized the route I had followed and the order of the shops visited was exactly the same as my previous night out in downtown. Had I just lived out the first movement of Schubert's ninth? Maybe, but the only difference was that the Chinese waitress was no longer working at the pizza restaurant. 

Well into the evening I headed home, if that three-room basement closet in Kitsilano could ever be considered home. The dwelling was a reasonably clean, quiet and comfortable place to live, but it wasn't home. My longing was for a place that I could genuinely call home and even feel that it was home. For me though, home would only be that dwelling where I could live out the remainder of my life with that one special person. A nice thought and a happy dream, but as far as I was concerned, an impossible dream.

The sun had long disappeared beyond the horizon but the western sky was not yet completely dark. The evening air was rather cool and would've been conducive for a brisk walk back, but my feet were still bothering me after last week's escapades in the Rockies. Instead, I settled for a ride on the bus and debated about whether or not to limp over to Kitsilano Beach to enjoy a pipe or two of one of the tobacco mixtures I'd bought.

Upon arriving and before settling in for the evening, I trudged up the stairs to the foyer to check for mail. When I found a small envelope with that familiar handwriting I'd been anxiously waiting for, my heart jumped with excitement. At last, a letter from Phi Bang. I tore the envelope open, desperately wanting to read what she'd tell me.

"Is the new government in Vietnam going to allow us to continue writing?" I wondered in suspense.

I unfolded the single small sheet of paper and several crisp new banknotes fell out. Phi Bang had written part of her letter on the now worthless South Vietnamese money.

"My dear, I'm not anymore in my country. So sad for that day to come and my heart so heavy with too much sorrow about saying goodbye to Vietnam. I not know how tell you about such event what happen. My English not very good and my thoughts so many to write. I can only come into boat with your letter. A souvenir about the last days at my country. I clutch to hold with hope.

Very afraid to think about what is the future that is mine. Now I'm at Guam. Can you please to help me? I not know anyone else person I can ask to help.

I was very afraid for several days about whether to live or die in ocean until American boat come to help us. There is not any house here at this place for me to live. I have nothing. Even such small piece of paper to write for you is such difficulty my dear.

Please write to me. I wait your letter but not certain about how long time I remain at this place or where else place to go after here."

Dumbfounded I looked at the envelope again, no stamps on it. God must've heard my many pleas. 

I read and reread Phi Bang’s letter, almost disbelieving she was now in Guam. This latest turn of events was a dream come true, and no dream ever came true for me before. Dreams had always been the stuff nonsense is made from. 

Against almost impossible odds, she'd fled and escaped from Vietnam. Now she was pleading for my help, so in my moment of exuberance, I was convinced she'd escaped to come to me.

She didn't have to ask. I would've only too willingly offered to help her.

Not having any idea about what to do or how to help her, I immediately wrote to Phi Bang at the address she had given to me. I promised her I'd help her in any way I possibly could and, if she wanted to come to Canada, then I'd do whatever was necessary to bring her here.

First thing on the following Monday morning I telephoned the Canadian Immigration department to find out what I could do to help Phi Bang. I was repeatedly placed on hold then transferred from one person to another before I was able to talk to anyone who was willing to listen to my problem. Finally someone instructed me to call another number and make an appointment to see an immigration officer. Much to my surprised and convenience, the Department of Immigration was only a couple of blocks from my place of work, and I was able to arrange an appointment during my lunch hour. A step in the right direction I thought.

Upon arriving at Canadian Immigration I was given several forms to fill out while waiting for my turn to be called. The nature of the forms was somewhat of a surprise because they dealt with making an application to sponsor a person immigrating to Canada. My only reason for being there was to obtain information about what I could do to help Phi Bang. When inquiring about the documents, I was politely advised that unless I filled out the forms then I was not going to be able to see anyone. 

I complied without argument and filled out the paperwork as completely as possible, and in doing so knowingly stretched the truth a little more than a little. My turn came and I quickly realized I was not asking the questions. Instead, I was replying to numerous questions about the information filled in on the forms and trying to provide answers to many questions I was unable to answer. Every time I tried to cut off the interviewer to ask a question, she kept asking me if I was really interested in helping Phi Bang. Yes, I was interested, but filling out papers and making an application to bring Phi Bang to Canada was not what I had in mind. Then again it was what I wanted to do but not just yet. I wasn't ready. We weren't ready. Phi Bang didn't even know what I was doing here. At that particular moment all I sincerely wanted was to ask the Canadian Immigration Department some questions and receive their answers to those questions. Nothing more. 

My next obligatory trip was to visit a place called Vital Statistics to obtain more forms that would have to be filled out, signed by both of us and then returned to Canadian Immigration. I had never heard of Vital Statistics before but upon arriving I quickly found out it was the government office where people were married without the services of a church. Outside the entrance of the building a couple dressed for a wedding were bitterly and loudly verbally fighting with each other on the sidewalk, oblivious to the crowds walking around them. I went in and picked up the required documents. Upon leaving I noticed that the squabbling couple had disappeared. I wondered if they were making a turbulent start to a new marriage or a vocal last chance escape from what might otherwise have been a stormy odyssey.

Days later a second letter arrived from Phi Bang post-marked from Camp Pendleton, a military base in California. Phi Bang was in a holding center waiting to be cleared for relocation to a refugee camp elsewhere in the United States. She had no idea where she would be sent or when. I was happy. No, that was an understatement. I was ecstatic. Phi Bang was already in North America and for the first time I was truly beginning to believe that we were actually going to meet each other and be with each other.

Convinced that it was only going to be a matter of months before Phi Bang would arrive in Canada and in a determined effort to be ready for her arrival, I began a search to find a suitable apartment for the two of us to live in. A small cramped dark basement apartment would not be an adequate place for both of us to start out a new life together. At least I had learned this much from Ted's visit.

A week later another letter arrived. Phi Bang's latest letter was mailed from Fort Indiantown Gap in Pennsylvania. I was surprised to learn that she had already been moved to a holding camp in eastern United States. Phi Bang also sent me some new photographs of her that had been taken at the refugee camp. 

I had no way of knowing if any of my previous letters had ever reached Phi Bang. She had not stayed very long at any of the previous locations she had written from and I did not have any idea how long she would remain at Fort Indiantown Gap. In spite of the uncertainty I wrote anyway and sent her all the forms and documents that I'd received from Canadian Immigration and Vital Statistics. I tried to explain to Phi Bang what the situation was for us. The only way I could help her was if she was willing to come to Canada to be my wife. Otherwise, according to the Government of Canada, there was no other way that I could possibly help her.

On the last day of July I moved out of my tiny three-room closet on West First Avenue in Kitsilano and across town into a much larger upstairs one-bedroom apartment on East Broadway near Fraser Street. My new dwelling was more than twice the size and similarly, the rent was more than twice as much. The living room had a large picture window that faced northward and provided an unobstructed beautiful view of the mountains north of Vancouver. I missed walking along Kitsilano Beach in the evenings, but since I was busy writing to Phi Bang again, I wasn't going out for a walk as often. Standing at the window and thoughtfully gazing at the view, I felt certain Phi Bang was going to like this place.

My only problem was a lack of furnishings. The furniture in the three-room closet had not been mine to bring with me to this new dwelling. My aunt and uncle helped out by providing me with a few pieces of used furniture from their basement, consisting of a kitchen table, two chairs and a couch. At least I had a place to sit and write. The couch was unsuitable for sleeping on so I removed the two cushions and placed them on the floor for my bed. Sleeping on the floor was surprisingly comfortable after adding a layer of foam rubber on top of the cushions. At first I thought about buying some better furnishings and a proper bed but then decided to wait for Phi Bang to arrive so that we could go out and choose together.

Very early one Sunday morning the telephone began ringing. I'd been sound asleep and didn't really know how many times the phone had rung.

"Who could possibly be calling now?" wondering as I squinted to read the time on the clock, a few minutes after 04:30. 

The caller persisted and the telephone kept on ringing. After several more rings I relented and got up to answer. 

Hoping the call wasn't going to be bad news from Mom or Dad, I half mumbled, "Hello." 

The person on the other end of the line said something but I couldn't understand her.

She spoke again, and from her accent I realized she was probably Chinese.

"I think you have the wrong number."

"No..." she insisted, but I had no idea what she'd said after no.

"I don't speak Chinese so you have the wrong number." I repeated slowly so she'd understand me.

"No... this Vancouver. Not wrong." 

"What number are you trying to call?" wanting to be helpful, but thinking about hanging-up and going back to bed.

"Not understand... please... again say." she said slowly like she was struggling to find the words in English. 

"Wrong number." I enunciated slowly and as clearly as I could.

"No...no." she insisted again, but I couldn't understand anything else she said.

I kept trying to convince her she'd called the wrong number, but whoever she was, she was insistent she had called the right number and this time repeated my telephone number back to me. I was about to hang up, but then the caller pleaded, "Wait please... my English very bad."

Those words jolted me awake. I'd read them before, and now realizing who the person on the other end of the line might be, I asked, "Are you Phi Bang?" 

"Yes! My name Vinh thi Phi Bang. Yes! Same Phi Bang... you write many letters for." she said in a very hesitant and accented English.

"I don't believe this. Yes, I do believe it. I don't know what to say. Hello! Welcome to North America." babbling away like an excited idiot.

"Very sorry but not understand." and she giggled nervously.

"You don't need to understand. I... I..."

Overwhelmed by the spontaneity of the moment I didn't know what else to say to her. I had often imagined clever and witty things I'd say to her when the day came we'd first meet, but now I couldn't remember any of them. Going blank didn't matter anyway, because complicating the situation was Phi Bang's very limited understanding of spoken English. Worse, I had difficulty understanding what she was saying or trying to say to me. So far all I'd done was spend the first five minutes or more trying to convince her she was a wrong number. 

During the remainder of our lengthy telephone conversation that required endless repetitions of sentences, I discerned from Phi Bang she wasn't alone, and she hadn't fled Vietnam to join me. Leaving everything behind, she and her entire family had fled together and escaped from Vietnam. Their immediate singular goal now was to keep the entire family together and settle somewhere in the United States, but  she didn't have any idea where that would be.

 

Although unbeknownst to me, the Canadian Immigration Department had already contacted her, because she mentioned the application I'd made for her to come to Canada. She wanted to stay with her family, and thus she'd declined my application to sponsor her. 

This was some wake-up call.

After hanging up the telephone, I walked over to the large picture window in the living room, raised the Venetian blind, and in silence gazed at the mountains beyond the far side of the city. First rays of sunlight were starting to light up the highest peaks. 

While observing this morning's beautiful and peaceful arrival in Vancouver, I was feeling dejected. I knew I shouldn't, but Phi Bang's news was disappointment. I felt some pangs of having been misled, but while thinking through the events of these last two months, I soon realized Phi Bang had never misled me. The fact was she hadn't asked me for anything more than my help, whatever form in her mind that might've been or could've been. 

On the contrary, my actions had been foolish, because I'd made too many assumptions in line with my wishes without first asking enough sensible questions to obtain the right answers. Instead I'd been reckless, and had charged ahead in gleeful optimistic ignorance based upon what I'd hoped for rather than on what she may have needed, expected or even wanted from me. And I understood, "A man's mind plans his way, but the Lord directs his steps." because I hadn't known what I was doing.

Nonetheless while Phi Bang had turned down my offer, she hadn't rejected me. Through the remainder of August she phoned me every two or three days, and in spite of her limited English, bit by bit we learned more about each other. 

A day came in early September when she called to inform me she and her family would be leaving the refugee camp at Fort Indiantown Gap, and she wouldn't be able to phone me any more. This said, she was unsure where they were going to relocate, but she promised to write and give me the new address after she arrived there.

About a week later a letter arrived postmarked from Pittsburgh. Now was my turn to do a little detective work. Following a call to Directory Assistance in Pittsburgh, I obtained a telephone number for the address Phi Bang had given to me. When I called, Mr. Vinh answered, but after identifying myself, he didn't question me before passing the phone to her.

Phi Bang was astonished and pleased I'd called, and during our short conversation, short because Uncle Sam was no longer footing all the long-distant charges, I learned Phi Bang and her family would be residing in Pittsburgh for at least a year. I also promised her I'd go to Pittsburgh to meet her and her family as soon as I could arrange to have time off work. She didn't really believe I'd go, because she knew Vancouver was far from Pittsburgh. 

What she didn't know and what I hadn't revealed, is that I'd already made travel arrangements and had my tickets in hand before phoning her. Later the same evening I wrote and gave her my travel itinerary. The plan was to fly to Montreal on the first Friday in October for a brief visit with my parents, and on the following Sunday evening head south and west by train to Pittsburgh via New York City.

"East is east and west is west and never the twain shall meet." 

At one time I thought this verse might've been something Mark Twain had written, until I looked up the meaning of twain in the dictionary. I'd known the little verse had a subtle prejudice in meaning, but after reading Kipling, prejudice in this life is everything but subtle. 

East and west; Asian and Caucasian; Pittsburgh and Vancouver; Phi Bang and me; were all these pairs so far distanced from each other they could never meet?

Or could we meet?

Or we could have one day and be together? 

Impossible to answer questions, because I was too naive to know whether or not the distances were too great.

"What a stupid line! 

It doesn't even rhyme. 

I may not play piano well, 

but at least I play in time." I muttered, and determined to have the last word to prove the verse wrong.

The Oddblock Station Agent