The allure of lighthouse keeping has intrigued people for a long time, but few fall so far under the spell as to take it up as a career. One of those rare people is Chris Mills from Ketch Harbour, N.S., whose lighthouse keeping days spanned 11 different lights on both the east and west coasts of Canada. Mills visited the Grand Manan Museum on July 25 to share some stories and photos of his adventures. His experience includes nearby light stations on Machias Seal Island and  -- his favorite --   Gannet Rock.
     "It epitomized everything about a lighthouse," he says of Gannet. "The horn, the light, the sea so close, the close proximity to fellow keepers -- all the facets [of lightkeeping] -- distilled into one really powerful drug. You either love it or hate it."
     Mills clearly loves it. He fell in love with lighthouses at age 5 on a family visit to Brier Island in Nova Scotia. He recalls being afraid of the loud horn at first, but soon came to love the sound. In 1989 a Scottish friend won a trip to Canada to see a lighthouse, and they visited Cross Island, where he learned there was a job opening for a relief keeper. He put in an application, and a career was subsequently launched. Asked if any particular training or background was needed, Mills says no, but "you had to be crazy." Many keepers came from lightkeeping families and grew up with the tradition, but for new recruits, he adds that the position involves mostly common‑sense maintenance that was learned on the job.
     He went to Seal Island in Nova Scotia, then the Bay of Fundy lights, then was transferred to British Columbia, where some remote locations included Langara Point in Haida Gwaii, Ivory Island, Bonilla Island, Boat Bluff and Green Island within sight of Alaska, where the wind could blow 80 knots "for days." After his first post as principal lightkeeper at Dryad Point he returned east in 1997. He says it was odd to drive a car again because so many of the light stations were only accessible by boat.
     During his museum presentation, Mills told stories about early lightkeepers' lives in the days when the light was a two‑wick kerosene lantern that had to be watched through the night and foghorns were cranked by hand. Wives and children might have to listen for boats sounding their horns in the fog, then run out to crank the foghorn in reply. Keeping the lighthouse soot‑free could be a challenge. With the advent of lights turned by clockwork that had to be wound every half hour "like a giant grandfather clock," Mills says he's heard stories about keepers sleeping under the weights with a board on their chests; when the weight reached bottom it would wake them up. "I wasn't there, so I don't know if I believe it," he said.
     Lightkeepers are the lowest‑paid civil servants, according to Mills. In the past, they made $500 per year. "Figure in inflation, and that's more like $600," he said with a laugh.
     He played some recordings of foghorns, naming each kind in the same way people recognize the voices of friends. The early diaphone horn was based on an organ pipe. "Isn't that nice -- I get goosebumps," he said. Foghorns were "a presence more than a sound," according to one lightkeeper's recorded comments, and conversations were held around them; pausing mid‑sentence for the horn and continuing afterward was commonplace.
     He showed many photos of his life at Gannet Rock, where he liked to sit on the top of the tower, watch the light go around and see the 14 other lights that were visible from that high vantage point.      The tiny rock was a no‑alcohol, no‑firearms site "for obvious reasons," but he enjoyed the company of fellow keepers and a cat. Gannet was exciting in a storm; you could put your back against the wall and feel the tower vibrating. "Minus 50 wind chill, sea smoke 50 feet high, the horn going -- it was wonderful," he remembered. The stove was kept going all the time as the hot water source. One Christmas, Santa Claus visited, talking to the keepers on the radio; then children who overheard began calling in asking if he was going to visit them, too.
     Automation of lights began in the 1970s, but maintenance was still important, as well as weather observations, taken every three hours. More lighthouses are still manned in British Columbia. Gannet was automated in 1996. Much of the structure is gone now, with just two LED lights; it is too isolated for preservation efforts to have been launched. Mills is saddened to see its demise, "but my memories are firmly locked. It was a special place. It wasn't always fun, but if I had the chance to do it again I'd go out tomorrow."
     Mills is a founding member of the Nova Scotia Lighthouse Preservation Society. His interest in the history of lightkeeping as well as his own experience has been translated into two books, Vanishing Lights and Lighthouse Legacies: Stories of Nova Scotia's Lightkeeping Families. He now works with search and rescue in Nova Scotia.