Being a journalist in rural Alberta was the last thing I wanted. Then the town became my home
This First Person column is written by Pearl Lorentzen, who lives in Slave Lake, Alta. For more information about CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
I was sitting by the gas fireplace in the coffee shop and talking with a stranger about writing. I learned that, like me, this lanky fellow with massive work boots had moved to Slave Lake for a job. Unlike me, he had a terrible impression of the town.
As I listened to him talk about seven years of isolation, drugs and boredom, it felt like we lived in different universes. I’d only been here for a year but this northern Alberta town already felt like home.
That was the last thing I expected when I’d reluctantly accepted a job as a reporter for the town’s community newspaper.
In 2019, I had no interest in living in rural Alberta or in journalism. I took the job because it was the only one I’d been offered in the six months since I’d finished university.
My six years of studies had taken me from Vancouver to Edmonton to Japan and the U.K. Then I’d returned to my parents’ basement in Three Hills, Alta., about an hour southeast of Red Deer.
I was sick of moving. But, as it turned out, I was craving community.
During my first meeting with Lakeside Leader editor Joe McWilliams, held on a bitterly cold February day at the same Main Street coffee shop, that’s what I was promised.
Becoming part of the picture
My first front-page photo was of a woman celebrating her 101st birthday, posing with several generations of her family and a cake that had been donated by a local business. While I was waiting, one of her children asked if I was related to the Lorentzens who had lived in Kinuso, a small community about 50 kilometres away, and I said I was. My dad was about 12 when his grandparents moved the family there.
Decades later, that connection still opens doors for me.
After the photo was taken, the family invited me to have a piece of cake, but I had several other events to photograph that day, so I declined.
As a journalist, I’m often invited to be part of people’s special moments, which is an honour.
It’s also an honour to be trusted with their most important stories.
I wasn’t in Slave Lake during the 2011 wildfire, which destroyed part of the town, but I felt those raw memories in spring 2019 when the Slave Lake Forest Area was devastated by the largest single wildfire to burn completely within its boundaries. The town was never threatened but as the fire danger increased — with the hot weather, little rain, low humidity and strong winds — I felt the growing tension in my colleagues and neighbours.
I wrote many articles based on Alberta Wildfire reports, interviewed an incident commander at the fire camp and, once it was safe, went out onto the fire area. As we drove through deep puddles surrounded by burned trees and log piles interspersed with live trees and the pink and green of fireweed, I saw first-hand the destruction and regeneration of wildfires. I was overwhelmed and needed some time to process my emotions before I could engage with the photos.
That emotional connection makes the job more challenging at times but, working for a weekly newspaper, there is some flexibility to let things percolate.
Local context, personal connections
In mid-March 2020, almost a year after moving to Slave Lake, I was writing articles about Slave Lake’s athletes, team co-ordinators and officials who were getting ready for the Arctic Winter Games. Then as fears of the COVID-19 pandemic began being felt in our northern community, events started to be cancelled — slowly at first and then a complete shutdown. I put the articles in a folder, thinking I’d be able to use them after a while.
Those stories were never published. Instead, I turned my focus to writing stories that would provide my community with the local COVID-19 information it desperately needed.
I became obsessed with Alberta Health Services statistics and wrote daily articles about how the pandemic affected the northern half of the province, and — as the data became more targeted — local municipalities. During that time, I heard from many people that the Leader’s coverage of the local experience was the only news coverage of the pandemic that they followed. That was a reminder of why local news matters, especially as the journalism industry faces massive layoffs and budgetary cuts.
Bell Media is making significant programming cuts across the country after its parent company, Bell Canada Enterprises, announced widespread layoffs. The cuts include CTV noon newscasts and weekend shows, investigative show W5 as a standalone program, radio station closures and others.
One of my most emotionally challenging articles was the obituary of a local politician. Normally the editor writes obituaries but Joe was on vacation so the job fell to me.
I had gotten to know Brian Rosche while covering meetings for the Municipal District of Lesser Slave River, where he was a councillor, and through the Lesser Slave Watershed Council, where we both volunteered on the board. He was a lovely man, very kind and generous. It was a shock to hear he had died.
I had to juggle my own grief and the necessities of my job, including the series of interviews that needed to be done for the article, starting with the mayor of Slave Lake and the reeve of the M.D.
With every conversation, Brian’s story unfolded before me. Writing about Brian reminded me of the power of connection in the community.
Being a local journalist gives me a glimpse into people’s lives, both the joys and the sorrows. I can write about any topic I want, as long as it has a local connection.
A few years later, I ran into the stranger from the coffee shop; he was volunteering at the Food Bank and I’d been sent there on an assignment.
He’d continued to struggle but had come to a better place — both in and with our small town. That sums up the experiences of people I meet in the area. Some, like me, have had great experiences and others can’t wait to get out. A common thread, however, is that when things get hard, the people of the community step up.
In finding those connections, I have grown and have become embedded in the community. We don’t have press passes because all we need is our faces and cameras to open most doors.
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