Life is full of highs and lows and while the early 1990s had some moments of achievement, there were also sad times. In the spring of 1991, I was re-elected by acclamation as the business manager of Local 183 for a four-year term and in August of that year I was also re-elected by acclamation as business manager of the Ontario District Council for another four-year term. Both the local and the council were the largest units of their kind in the International. The day of my re-election at the District Council I left for Goose Bay, Labrador, with our pension fund manager, Onorio D’Agostini and Chester De Toni, a Local 183 representative. I remember feeling down, despite my re-elections.
Part of it was that one of the candidates on my slate for the executive board was not elected. This was not a big political problem for me since I had a solid majority on the executive board and there was mutual respect between myself and the person elected who was not on my slate. What really bothered me was being double-crossed by a local that I had trusted completely and whose vote was crucial. The ballots were secret but it was not too hard to figure out who had betrayed me. I was disgusted at their political games. A friend is a friend and a true friend does not betray another. If they had come out in the open and declared their intention prior to the election, it would have been a different story.
While we were at the airport waiting for our flight, I expressed my feelings to D’Agostini, who was sympathetic but, as he saw things, it was now in the past and we had to move forward. We were heading east at the invitation of Pat McCormack, the business manager of the Newfoundland and Labrador Laborer’s Local and we were to join two Laborers International union representatives from the New England area.
Pat had organized a fishing trip on the Eagle River in Labrador, which is famous for brook trout and salmon and fly fishing. We flew from Toronto to Goose Bay and then boarded a small turbo plane to get to the lodge, about one hour away. Looking out the window at the landscape it struck me how desolate it was. There was not a single house or road in that wilderness. We arrived in the late afternoon on a Friday and immediately headed for the river. We struck out.
The lodge guides recommended we move to a higher location by another small lodge. They said salmon would be resting up there after clearing the rapids and we would have better luck. We needed to leave very early in the morning so we hit the sack and tried to get some sleep.
Unfortunately, I did not sleep well. I was sharing a room with my friend Chester and he was snoring like a chainsaw. When dawn broke I was a bit relieved to see it was raining heavily. I was hoping we would cancel and that I could go back to bed and catch up on my sleep. The guides, however, were certain the rain was going to end soon so we packed up and got ready to move upstream. It was an unusually warm day and we were wearing raincoats, which made hiking up the hills uncomfortable. Crossing the river was itself an adventure since the far side was full of big boulders and slippery to negotiate.
I did not know why but I had an ominous feeling. I thought it might be something left over from the re-election issue. It was definitely something negative. I told the guide how I felt and he said I should just take my time getting to the ridge and he hung back with me. There were another two guides, one with the Americans who were farther ahead, the other with Chester and Onorio.
The uphill trail was slippery and tricky, and the forest was thick. The trail had been built simply by clearing pines to create a path and over time rain had eroded the ground around the tree roots. We had to be careful where we walked so as not to get caught in the holes between the roots.
I took my time climbing with my guide and about halfway up we met Chester and Onorio resting with their guide. We joined them for a few minutes but they were off again almost immediately, despite my appeals for them to walk slowly with us.
A few minutes after they left and while we were still resting, D’Agostini came running back saying that Chester was ill. My guide took off like a mountain goat down that difficult trail to reach the base camp and radio for medical support.
I followed D’Agostini up about fifty meters and found my friend Chester on the ground with no vital signs. The guide said he had fallen and died instantly. I said a few prayers over him and moved on to the upper camp. I was dead tired but I felt guilty that I abandoned my friend so I went back to see him. The three guides were busy cutting trees to make space for the helicopter to land. I performed the last rites, although I have no idea whether I performed them correctly or not. I based them on what I remembered of a priest giving them to my mother.
With the heavy rain pouring down, I returned to the upper camp. The weather had deteriorated so much that the helicopter was unable to land. The three guides took Chester’s body to a small shelter about a hundred meters away, to protect it from wild animals. Chester was overweight and it was quite an undertaking for the guides to carry his body over such inhospitable terrain.
The following morning the helicopter came. First they took D’Agostini and me to the base camp and then they took Chester’s body to St. Anthony, Newfoundland, for an autopsy, which was required under the circumstances. D’Agostini and I returned to Toronto, taking four flights across Labrador and Quebec before getting home.
Before leaving, I told the three guides to visit me in Toronto. In the winter months they came west to work as carpenters. When they arrived, I helped them find employment and I asked them to take a small plaque with them back to Labrador inscribed: “This mountain stream is called ‘Chester Stream’ in memory of a good man who lost his life here.”
It was a small gesture and they were more than happy to do it for me. As far as I know, it is still there.