A clutter of communication satellites positioned high above the earth transmits television signals to the remotest parts of the globe these days.

Yet, just a short while ago in the early Seventies, television was not taken for granted North of 60. In places like Ross River, where even radio reception was sporadic, the 300 residents never dreamed of watching television programs as a routine activity.

In 1972, the Canadian government spent $90 million on a 270-kilogram (595 lb.) communication satellite. Anik 1 was put onboard a Thor-Delta rocket and blasted 32,000 kilometres (19,200 miles) into the heavens from Cape Kennedy that November.

The Florida launch was a great day for Yukoners. By January of 1973, Anik would allow the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation to beam its signal into relay stations at Watson Lake, Whitehorse and Faro.

While Anik was only designed to supply a television signal to northern communities with a population base of 500 or more people, Ross River expected to latch onto programs via its neighbour’s station.

A road distance of only 64 kilometres (40 miles) east of the 1,500-person town of Faro, a half dozen confident Ross River individuals had bought colour or black-and-white television sets in anticipation of the big moment.

One optimist was the late Al Kulan. The millionaire prospector had discovered the 63- million tonne Faro lead-zinc deposit that Anvil Mining Corporation brought into production in 1969.

He and his wife, Wynne, lived in Ross River where their two children, Brian, 12, and nine-year-old Beverley, attended school. Their oldest son, Barry, was going to university in Vancouver but came home for frequent visits.

From the roof of the palatial house, which Kulan referred to as a “pretty nice cabin”, sprouted a factory-built television antennae.

Kulan had bought a colour television set on the assumption the family would be watching programs in few months.

When Anik went into orbit, Kulan was perplexed to see the blank screen. The five-watt Faro station couldn’t send a picture the short distance.

Anik’s failure to deliver a signal from Faro into Ross River was a simple problem with a simple solution. The picture was blocked by the 1,260-metre (4,100 ft) Grew Creek Hill that loomed up halfway between the two towns.

Kulan, who had a strong initiative to explore new ideas, contacted John Dunne, Whitehorse-based partner in Total North Communications Ltd.

The quick-fix was to install a relay station on the peak, he told Kulan. A translator would pick up the signal from Faro and convert Channel 8 to Channel 12 before beaming the amplified product down into the Pelly River valley.

Initially, the two men attempted to go through the proper government process. However, to erect a tower and build a hut to house a few pieces of electronic paraphernalia was considered equivalent to an elaborate TV facility.

They would need a license from the Canadian Radio-Television Commission (CRTC) and a construction permit from the department of communications.

The officials who twirled in lofty Ottawa circles did not adequately grasp the Ross River situation. They discouraged the proponents from embarking on a do-it-yourself reception project.

Experimentation, on which Kulan thrived, was strictly forbidden. And to obtain the necessary license could impose a delay of up to nine months.

Since patience was not one of Kulan’s virtues, he refused to wade through what he saw as nonsensical bureaucratic red-tape.

His fellow residents of Ross River could ill-afford a required audit of community accounts that would cost $1,500, plus the hefty legal fees.

The federal exercise was designed by southerners with the intention of controlling broadcast rights in southern cities congested with signals.

But they were blind to granting permission to harness a wayward northern CBC signal that otherwise would be uselessly lost in the wilderness.

The simple solution was a bit of northern bailing-wire ingenuity. Kulan guaranteed a bank loan to cover the cost of electronic equipment. Each Ross River television owner was committed to repay the $6,200 at $10 a month.

In early 1973, a bulldozer was “borrowed’ from the territorial government compound. Local residents, who possessed savvy as Catskinners, punched out a rough road from the Campbell Highway up to the top of Grew Creek Hill.

Dunne of Total North Communications installed the translator which required minimal maintenance. A little box known as a Thelan Thermal-Electric generator was powered with propane. The annual cost for fuel was $250.

The local Indians shaped log poles into a teepee frame to elevate the cable above the heads of any grizzlies and moose that might wander by.

The technically-correct project enabled the one-watt transmitter to serve Ross River with a picture of good colour clarity. The first picture appeared on the screen around the last day of March, 1973.

The Ross River Community Association had bought aTV for the school. Residents huddled around the set to enjoy a hockey game. Many adults, and most youngsters, had never seen TV before, much less in colour.

But this wasn’t the end of the story.

Much to government chagrin, the tiny village had become a role model in how to snare television signals from CBC.

And the CRTC in Ottawa wasn’t impressed. The commission viewed their innovative technique an act of piracy, subject to stiff penalties and up to a year’s incarceration in the slammer.

Cleverly, the residents had arranged a deal to absolve any one person of guilt.

The government would have to charge every villager who had signed a statement accepting responsibility for the financial and legal obligations of the pirated signal. They also agreed to repay Kulan the $7,000 he spent to erect the tower.

Soon, the village had 20 television sets. Poking out of rooftops were antler-like devices rigged from pieces of coat hangers, copper wire, iron and sticks that substituted for fancy, factory-made antennae.

Meanwhile, the Ross River Community Club received an officious letter from the department of communications in Whitehorse. Members were in violation of Ministry of Transport and CRTC regulations.

While community pirates were ordered to shut down their illicit signal-grabbing operation, Kulan’s mailbox was overflowing.

The highly-publicized and celebrated operation had triggered a series of inquiries from politicians who wanted to bring live television into the many northern communities where TV had been absent, thus far.

An elected member of the Northwest Territories council asked how to emulate the resourcefulness of Ross River residents in remote places where CBC was unwilling to extend television services.

Yukon communities wanted similar services extended to Carmacks, Haines Junction, Burwash Landing and Teslin. Don Taylor, the Yukon territorial councillor for Watson Lake, received a quote to bring TV to Teslin.

After what Ross River had accomplished on a shoestring, CBC’s pricetag was a jolt. For a link with Whitehorse would require a capital outlay of $260,000 plus an annual operating expenditure of $266,000.

Besides big news in the Yukon, the Ross River bootleggers were garnering national and international headlines. They even became the focus for a House of Commons debate. Hoots of approval and applause exploded when member of Parliament Don MacInnis invited Communications Minister Gerald Pelletier to send a congratulatory message to the Ross River residents who had been undeterred by his regulations.

“There is a legal difficulty,” wrote columnist Maurice Western in a 1973 issue of the Albertan magazine. “On the narrow view, the CBC is in a sense being bootlegged into Ross River,” he acknowledged.

“(But) it would seem utterly ridiculous for the CRTC to permit a regulation, or even several, to stand in the way of culture, national unity, lectures on ecology, and the voices of CBC news personnel reporting in respectful tones the latest word from our political and bureaucratic governors in Ottawa.

“Such an attitude would never be understood by the enterprising folk of Ross River. In addition, it might arouse unseemly hilarity elsewhere in the country.

“The CRTC will doubtless realize, on reflection, that a most worthwhile work has been accomplished by Yukon residents inspired by patriotism, concern for derived children and the pioneering spirit of the True North strong and free.”

The CBC outlined plans to proceed with establishing a low-power relay station at Ross River in the summer of 1974.

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See article Al Kulan Welcomed into Canadian Mining Hall of Fame (north-land.com/ypa and diarmani.com) and the book Cashing In, a history of Yukon hard-rock mining, by Jane Gaffin. -

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The author can be reached at Jane(at)diArmani.com

Copyright 2007 diArmani.com