Yellowknife Didn’t See It Coming

Brutally hungover, Jacques Panache wakes up with a bagel-eating weasel on his lap and two women, who were promised an after-party, at his kitchen table. He needs them to leave — stat. He has repairs to complete and rooms to tidy before his landlord visits, likely to tell him that his decrepit shack is unlivable. Among its problems: a sunken foundation and a sink that empties straight into a bucket. Among the interior clutter: shelves topped with snowmobile parts and a shrivelled orange on a chipped plate. When his enraged buddy Craig pulls into his driveway, Jacques’s day gets a lot worse.

“I heard the whole story,” Craig shouts, as he hurls Molotov cocktails at Jacques’s outhouse. “You’re a dead man.” The crime? Apparently, Jacques, who can’t remember a damn thing from the night before, bartered with a cabbie to get home: one ride for one moose head. But the trade chip was Craig’s prized possession, a trophy of mythic size from a recent hunt. Craig gives “the Frenchman” until midnight to retrieve the head, or else he will burn down his shack. So goes Michelle Swallow’s Northern Bull, a fast-paced, hijinks-stuffed, and anxiety-inducing romp about a group of misfits in contemporary Yellowknife.

The moose head and its backstory make up a hefty part of the “authentic experience” that Craig has drunkenly promised three Korean travel writers he met at the Gold Range Bar the previous night. “I’m the head guide, CEO, and president of Bushman Tours, worldclass aurora spotter,” he boasts of a business that doesn’t exist. “I have a special on now for Chinese reporters.” A thirty-eight-year-old rogue short on awareness and accountability, he views the outsiders as his lucky break to gain exposure. And he has plenty of activities planned.

The would‑be proprietor outfits his first-ever customers in duct-taped parkas and quells their suspicion. “Look, if you wanna wear fancy jackets, you’ll have to go on a different tour,” he warns them. “Bushman Tours is all about giving you the real experience. You need to smell the sweat, diesel, and fear of all those who wore the parka before you.” Craig guarantees the Koreans will “never forget” their excursion. He borrows (or steals, depending on one’s perspective) six dogs from the animal rescue and attaches them to a sled, on which his new clients stand. Leading the pack is a food-motivated mutt that chases a moose roast affixed to the back of a snowmobile. The saga concludes with one visitor wiping out and the SPCA calling the RCMP. “I totally delivered,” Craig is convinced.

Craig lives in a trailer with Randy. Allegedly, they’re pals, along with that “Frenchman” Jacques and the wannabe dancer Vic, though their dynamic suggests otherwise. Hardly, if ever, do they act out of kindness. At one point, when the roomies find themselves stranded on the ice, Vic assures them he’s on the way before hopping into a bath. Randy, who gobbles mushroom pills as if they’re Tic Tacs to cope with Craig’s terror, secretly schemes to have Vic’s mother kick her lousy son out of her house so he can move in. A lot of the shenanigans happen before noon on what is likely a Friday. Most people are at work.

The will-they-won’t-they between Jacques and his neighbour Maggie revs the novel’s emotional engine. “Her peaceful property had turned upside down” after he moved in a few months earlier, their shared yard becoming littered with busted vehicles. He could be a good partner, she decides, if only he’d quit the booze and find a job. But he suspects she wants him “to fit into her perfect mould of what a good man was.” They spend most of the day together, oscillating between romance and anger. For her part, Maggie struggles to finish the erotic story she’s writing — the one she’s supposed to read at the upcoming burlesque show. Besides the humour it provides, the steaminess of her tortured attempts counteracts the minus‑40 weather. In one draft, her seductive protagonist queries a “woodcutter” about his product’s density. “I can assure you that the wood is very hard,” he replies.

Swallow’s depiction of northern Canada is as hilariously faithful as it is humorously exaggerated. Consider her portrayal of the strange, disenchanting dating scene that’s common in the region: Maggie agrees to have lunch with a twenty-five-year-old pilot, who turns out to be a nineteen-year-old punk — and possibly her boss’s son. But, generally speaking, everyone knows everyone (for better or for worse), shoddy houses and dismal living arrangements abound, and southerners either respect or disregard Dene values. When Craig harvests a moose, for example, he gloats and snaps selfies, whereas Jacques prays and makes an offering. “It’s how you say thanks to the Creator,” a local hunter has told him. “You pay the land.” One of the funniest moments comes when a frozen fish shatters Jacques’s window. Clearly Maggie chucked it, but she blames those pesky ravens, as abundant in the North as pigeons are in the south.

Reading Northern Bull is like watching Adam Sandler in Uncut Gems or Jeremy Allen White in The Bear. Trying to not get evicted? Your friend just fired a shotgun indoors. The only food in your fridge is expired ham? Here, eat this speeding ticket. Looking for your mom’s stolen van? It’s actually on fire now. By the satisfying end, every little frantic turmoil has served its purpose, and although the novel is set north of sixty, it’s sure to warm a reader’s heart.