Rod Stewart owes me a favour

9/12/2006

The way I see it, Rod Stewart owes me a favour.

It’s not as if Rod and I go way back. Far from it; but he owes me all the same. Our relationship is not a long one at all, dating back only a couple weeks, to when I lived for two days at his house.


While vacationing last month in picturesque Pemberton, British Columbia, just up the winding road from Whistler, I spent a day clearing trails for my new buddy Rod, and repairing his front porch.


Don’t expect the genius behind such pop classics as “Maggie May” and “Da Ya Think I’m Sexy?” to even notice my generosity, because Mr. Stewart does not get to Pemberton very often—or at all.


If the story I was told is true, the three friends I was visiting were one day reclining in the heat on Rod’s rickety old porch, when a helicopter touched down in the field across from the house. What came out of it was a vivacious, young blonde woman; reeking of perfume, money, arrogance, and all the other things rich people admire most.


She took one look around, brushed the mountain dust from her high heels, and flew away in the chopper as quickly as she had arrived. When the trio on the porch enquired as to her identity, they were told she was Rod Stewart’s wife, or girlfriend, or both, and that he had purchased the ranch, and was now, in effect, their new landlord.


That such a thing could, and does, happen in Pemberton comes as no surprise to anyone who lives there. With the Olympics coming up and the economy in high gear, there is money in the air in Pemberton and Whistler, and the rich and famous are already clamoring for a piece of the peace, seclusion and beauty of our Canadian Rockies.


The fact that his horse trails had grown in, and front porch had caved in, did not matter to Rod. He and Maggie May no doubt bought the farm as an investment, and probably won’t move in until Mick Jagger buys the place next door and builds a trendy spa to treat their wrinkled old rock and roll skin.


Regardless, I spent an afternoon cutting back the trees and brush that were choking the trails. I even scared off a bear, who was there eating berries.


Who knows what would have happened if Mr. and Mrs. Stewart had been out for a lovers’ stroll and met that bear. An old rocker in leather pants would look like a big stuffed burrito to a bear, but it wanted no part of a barefoot, 300-pound man, pouring sweat and brandishing a large machete.


The porch was an easy fix. After raising the entire deck with the jack from my car, I wedged a massive wooden block under the support beam. Now the entire crowd from Rod Stewart’s last concert, all two dozen of them, could dance the night away on it. Like I said, the guy owes me. Maybe he will get me tickets to a concert—just not one of his.