In the cabin at our Stump Ranch is a wall of fame of sorts, featuring framed photographs of departed good friends who spent considerable time with me out there, either fishing or hunting, or both.
I think of it as the wall of ghosts, because memories haunt me of the good times I have had with them in the cabin and at certain places around it where we had hunting and fishing adventures.
And so I am haunted as I search my files for an appropriate wall hanger photo to honour my old friend Roger Fink, of Red Deer, who died on Feb. 12 at the age of 88.
Each of us knows other people in unique ways, and I knew Roger somewhat differently from the hero portrayed, justifiably, in his obituaries and news stories following his death, and that is because, as long as I knew him, he never spoke of his acts of strength and bravery.
I first met Roger just four years after two of those acts of heroism, in 1959 in Halifax or Dartmouth where he was stationed, introduced by his brother-in-law, Joe Martin of Red Deer, who was a classmate at Dalhousie Law School. After he retired from the navy, Roger flew commercially in the north, until, with spouse, Mary, and family, he moved to Red Deer just three years after I had come here to practise law in 1962.
Roger continued flying helicopters in the north for a few years.
He paid his dues for his great enjoyment of hunting and the outdoors generally by using much of his down time after Christmas to organize the superb annual game dinners the Red Deer Fish and Game Association held back in those days.
Eventually a heart murmur cost Roger his license to fly commercially. A few of us commiserated with him out at the cabin, but he told us it was probably all for the best, because helicopters always got you, sooner or later.
At an age when some men consider retirement, Roger studied business administration at Red Deer College and so aced everything that one of his instructors, my late great hunting and fishing buddy, Lloyd Graff, whose portrait is also on my wall of ghosts, highly recommended Roger to my then law firm. Roger got the job and was administrator and accountant at the firm for 11 years, until he retired.
All this is well and good, but it was as a hunter and outdoorsman that a few of us knew and loved Roger, and as a superb teller of tales, most of which can be repeated in couth company, such as the readership of these columns. He was born near Menaik and grew up hunting with his family in the late 1920s, just as the efforts of the organized sportsmen of Alberta were bringing back the good old days from the turn-of-the-century wildlife crisis.
We all loved Roger’s “general store” tales of those days, such as the gent turning up and telling the proprietor that he needed a moose tag, “because my boy got a real good one last night.”
One time Roger and I were comparing our precious Puma hunting knives, and I mentioned foolishly lending mine one evening to a trespasser so he could skin a couple of beavers, but who did return it, saying “I should of stole that.” Up north Roger gave his Puma to a native guide who tested its edge, heft and balance, then, handing it back, said “sheesh, where do you sleep?”
Up until very recent years Roger loved to be turned loose to roam the boreal forest on the vast tracts of Crown land in the vicinity of the Stump Ranch.
He was an astute observer of the flora and fauna and always had tales of interesting sightings from these ramblings.
Actually, up to a mere 75 or so, we sometimes had difficulty heading Roger off so that we considered chaining him to a surplus fire hydrant on one of the nearby stump ranches to slow him down. But he loved to eat and always turned up for meals.
At dinner one evening he asked me — practically with tears in his eyes — if it would be possible to throw another batch of dumplings on the remaining Pheasant Phricassee, because he didn’t realize anyone did dumplings anymore.
They are called “the golden years” because of the high cost to you and your body. In recent years Roger would come out once or twice each deer season with our mutual friend, Mac Johnston, and they would stop by for lunch. Things got really good if other good old guys were there — Mac, Don Hayden, John Horn — even bug-eyed youngsters of 50 or less.
But last season Roger was in no shape to make it, and now we’ll always miss him out there. But his portrait on my wall will start the stories running in the minds and memories of we Stump Ranch survivors of Roger Fink, outdoorsman, friend and gentleman.
Bob Scammell is an award-winning outdoors writer living in Red Deer.