The death Douala

Back in my U of G days, (nothing but steers and queers down there, a guidance counsellor warned me) I made friends with a gal who was something of a feminist radical at the time.

Maybe we just bonded over our mutual love for long hours at the campus pub.

But she had one helluva career trajectory.

Had a dream to work on a west coast fishing boat. Which she did.

Had a job many years as the camp cook for a couple of gold prospectors who had a 100 acre stake in Yukon, where they panned just enough gold to do it again next year.

The fishing gig ends her up in Alaska.

Next news I hear about my old pal comes from a neighbour I never talked to before.

I'm out walking the hounds one morning, and this old-timer local pulls over, lowers the window, and shuts off the ignition.

I just came back from a camping trip up to Alaska. I'm at the border coming back to Canada, and the border girl saw my address, and wondered if I knew the guy walking his dogs all over town.

Well, holy shit!

There you go!

It's a small world no matter how far you run to get away from it!

My old pal went from border guard to midwife to Douala. 

Last I heard, she was a Death Douala.

That's quite a progression, isn't it?

Perhaps we'll meet again...