This story is dedicated to the doe-eyed girl. She changed everything.
My twin sister and I came into this world on April 29, 1955. We were the youngest of seven siblings (four boys, three girls). All members of the Logan Clan. From what I have been told, right from the very start, it had been a rough pregnancy for my mom. There were plenty of health issues that developed during the first trimester, and then more serious problems began manifesting during her second trimester. After a series of tests, the doctors told her that she would need a cesarean birth as soon as possible. One of the fetuses was not doing well; they were afraid of complications with the birth if the mom went full term. This fetus was me.
The closest hospital was in Chilliwack. When they brought my mom into the hospital for surgery, she was almost two months short of full-term. My sister came out at a healthy 6.9 pounds, but I was just over 2 pounds. So I spent my first six weeks on earth in an incubator. No one expected me to survive, but it seems the universe smiled on me and survive I did.
My sister had sucked the life right out of me during our time together in the womb, but she would make up for this during our childhood years. You see, she was so much stronger and far more fierce than I, and she protected me passionately. What I remember most was how she would stand in front of anyone picking on me and give them that look, and if needed, she had a pretty wicked right hook. Sometimes she would put her arm on my shoulder and just smile down at me. Funny to look back now, but it was moments like this that made me feel safe. She was a pretty cool twin sister. I loved her in that way only a twin can fully understand. She may have been my sister, but she was also my friend. At the time of our birth, our family was living on the CFB Chilliwack Army Base in Vedder Crossing. Dad was a military man and a member of the Essex Scottish Regiment.
long before Dad joined the military, he had worked with my granddad, Robert Jamison Logan, a Highlander, third generation. My Grandpa owned three tugs that he chartered to various businesses on the St. Clair River, hauling barges and other cargo. Dad and my uncles worked on the tugs at one time or another throughout their younger years. Grandpa was married to Elizabeth Johnston, although everyone just called her Lizzy. She was Mohawk. She was born in Sarnia, Lambton, in 1881, but moved around Ontario with Granpa. After his passing, she moved back to Sarnia, where she lived until her passing in 1985.
When the American and Canadian prohibitions began in 1920, it proved to be a lucrative boost for tugboat operators on the St. Clair River and for Canadian brewers. You see, in the States, prohibition included not just the bars but all breweries. In Canada, there was an exclusion that allowed our brewers to continue brewing alcohol as long as it was not sold in Canada.
A section of the border between Canada and the USA was located in the center of the St Clair River. It was a perfect place to smuggle alcohol into the States. So my granddad became a rum runner. He was just one of many boat owners who took on the rum runner role. The St Clair River allowed the USA to become the main buyer of our country’s products. It was a free-for-all in the beginning, but by the late 20s, it had become far too dangerous.
My father and Uncles worked the tugs alongside Grandpa, and I have, over the years, heard many of the tales regaling their escapades in delivering the booze while dodging the American Authorities. Eventually, the USA put into use high-speed armed boats to try to stop these smugglers. Grandpa quit at this time. A short time later, the prohibition was lifted, and it was all over. Dad shared many stories with us kids. Were they true accounts? That did not matter as they were such awesome tales.
In 1956, the year following the birth of my sister and me, our family moved to Camp Borden. It was an army base in Ontario. Dad was a military man, and military families tended to move around a lot. I have but one good memory from living at the Camp Borden base due to being so very young. I remember being in a bobsled that was being pulled around an outdoor rink by my eldest brother Bob. I can still see my brother’s double-blade skates and the Montreal Canadians hockey jersey he was wearing as he raced around the ice, pulling me behind him. I was laughing almost hysterically from the thrill of it all. Bob was wearing Bob-skates, which seemed appropriate for a boy named Bob. It was all very exciting.
Dad finally retired in 1959 and joined civilian life. We headed back out west and into the setting sun. Dad had this awesome 1950 Plymouth five-door suburban that had sunshades over the windshield; it was green with wood panelling on the doors. It was a big car. There was plenty of room. My older siblings were in the back seat, with my eldest sister sitting up front with Mom and Dad. My twin sister and I were in the back. On top, we had a big army bell tent and all our camping gear. Our household belongings were being shipped by a transport company, compliments of the military. It took us all of two weeks to get across Canada, as we had taken the less-travelled routes, and we camped all the way. It was an incredible journey.
The wildlife we observed on this expedition was amazing; every pond and lake we passed seemed to have moose feeding along the shore. They were so majestic looking, standing knee-deep in the water. Their antlers were decorated with plants torn loose from the bottom as they lifted their heads to keep a wary eye on us as we passed. These animals were massive, as large as horses. I was enthralled by the magic of the natural world around us. This was when I first felt the draw of the forest. The need to be outdoors would only grow stronger as I grew older.
As we travelled through the prairies, we often saw enormous brown bears. One time, we came upon a sow with three offspring. We stopped to watch the antics of these little ones as they tumbled about, playing with each other on a grassy slope. I still have a memory of one of these cubs stopping to smell a small flower as the other two flattened him from both sides. Then all three rolled down a small hill to land in a pile. You could almost hear their laughter.
As we moved along, we began to encounter pronghorn antelopes. They could jump much higher than the whitetail deer that seemed to leap across the roadways around almost every corner. I had never heard of these creatures before and found them intriguing. Then, as we approached the Rockies, we began to see great gatherings of Elk. One time, we were driving above a river valley that was flat and fairly wide. Along the shore of the river was a series of large meadows of bright green grass. The river’s course travelled back and forth across this green bottomland. The meadows were intersected with beautiful, tall fir trees growing on the banks of small streams that flowed into the main watercourse. These meadows were filled with Elk, there must have been at least 500 of them, maybe many more, they filled the grasslands. As a herd, they were moving up the river. This assembly of elk was pretty impressive to see. I think the wildlife we saw on this trip was the highlight of the whole adventure.
Each night, we would camp beside a lake or river, where the fishing always seemed to be good. Mom would cook up some grub on the Coleman stoves while Dad set up the big bell tent. After eating, we would sit around the fire for a bit, talking about the day. There is something about a crackling fire, joined by the hiss and snap of the Coleman lantern, that would lull both my twin and me to sleep.
As we were driving through Saskatchewan, Dad took us on a side trip to a couple of strange places. The first was a very long saltwater lake that was also a bird nesting area. We camped close by and walked a series of trails along the shore of the lake. It was weird visiting a saltwater lake dab nab in the middle of Canada, almost like seeing a small ocean. The bird life was cool and varied, with many shorebirds, all calling by the thousands. The trails along the shore were a great way to get out and stretch. There are grasslands, shaded by big trees, where you can see deer and rabbits. All in all, it was worth the visit. I would like to return someday.
I don’t remember if there was any sea life that resembled what one would see on the coast and in real oceans. The lake was very salty, so I suspect there was not very much that could live there. People come here to float on the lake; they say it has healing powers. The Cree have used the waters of the lake for centuries to heal various ailments by soaking in its waters.
After this, we went to a forest of aspen trees, but unlike the tall and stately aspens you usually see. These trees were twisted in all directions, a lot like our coastal garry oaks or black hawthorns that grow in our estuaries on the BC Coast. I believe it was even called the Twisted Forest. This forest scared me. Almost like there was an evil presence or a windigo spirit that had made everything unhealthy. I was glad when we left this place. I made a mental note never to come anywhere near this forest again.
I learned that day from Dad that a grove of aspen trees is just one plant that lives below ground, and the trees are shoots of this plant. This whole part of Saskatchewan is covered in aspen trees, along with poplar trees and Norway spruce. Did you know there is a grove of Aspen in Utah called the Pando Grove, which is considered the largest living organism in the world? It is 1 tree underground with about 47000 stems, and it is approximately 80,000 years old.
Once we hit the mountains in Alberta, the roads got scarier, and some spots were so rough that Mom and all of us kids would get out and walk, watching, while Dad, at a high rate of speed, would drive through them. The roads in 1959 were not the superhighways of today; even the good roads were iffy then, but Dad liked to take the roads less travelled. These areas could be pretty rough. Sometimes it required us to backtrack to find another route. I found it all very exciting.
We saw incredible snow-covered mountains and lakes that were so blue and deep that it was hard to believe you were not looking at a painting. Waterfalls and wild rivers were everywhere, glaciers sparkling in the sun on all the mountains. I was spellbound by the beauty. That’s when I began to sense a whisper in a deep part of my brain, an awakening that one day would compel me to spend my days hiking into the wild lands, to search for these hidden places of wonder. As I look back on the many adventures we shared, navigating the less-travelled roads, always face-to-face with life at its rawest. I came to see that my dad was always looking for these same things. Those wondrous vistas of nature. It would seem that for truth, the apple does not fall far from the tree.
When we finally reached the Fraser Canyon, we found ourselves driving on well-built, but narrow roads that had just been paved, although there were still a few unpaved sections. The drop-offs into the canyon were pretty intimidating. We made a stop at Boston Bar for food, and Dad took us across a ferry that was in the air, suspended on cables. This took you across the Fraser River to North Bend. I seem to remember it only had room enough for one car. I have heard they have put in a bridge to replace the ferry now. After crossing back to Boston Bar, we continued driving south until we reached Hope and then on to Chilliwack. From there, we drove due east through Sardis to reach Vedder Crossing, the place of my birth.
We made a stop at a motel in the crossing, where we spent the night. It was our first night in real beds since leaving Ontario, and we all showered the trip off our bodies. We had done wash-ups in gas station bathrooms for most of the trip. The motel was a nice place just up from the shores of the Chilliwack River. All the cabins were surrounded by tall trees, along with flower beds and grassy areas. We would return to this motel numerous times when Mom and Dad would visit friends in Vedder Crossing. The next day, we headed down the road and finally reached the Coast of BC. This trip had been such a wondrous adventure; it was, by far, the best road trip I’ve ever gone on. As I look back on it, I realize everything my sister and I saw was viewed through the rear window of the car.
We spent the next two years living in Burnaby, out by Deer Lake. The area is all city now, but it was farm country when we lived there. Our home was quite close to the Oakalla Prison Farm. We lived right beside a creek that flowed into Deer Lake; this was one of the tiny creeks that fed Deer Lake. I can not remember its name.
I remember gathering stinging nettles along this water course with my dad, and how it took me so long to learn not to touch them. This was my first time gathering food with my dad. He had been taught about wild foods and medicines by his mom, my grandma Lizzy. Then he taught me these things that my Grandmother knew.
Though it was a small, treed area where the creek flowed, it felt like a vast track of wilderness to me. I can still smell the mustiness that seemed to permeate the whole creek bed. It was a wonderful smell of decay and rebirth. Salamanders and snakes moved about beneath the forest ground cover, while frogs seemed to fill the calm creek waters. Flying insects swarmed in the air. I found my love for insects in this creek, as it was alive with them. The sounds of these creatures were a constant hum, a melody of the hidden ones. There were so many dragonflies of such beautiful colours and designs flying all around me. They looked like little sky jewels. When they would land on me, I would freeze in excitement until they flew off again. It was incredible.
In those early years, I could sit in wonder, watching the ballet of these beautiful beings of the small world for hours. While all around me, the sunlight danced on the forest floor and sparkled through the trees as they swayed in the soft summer breeze. The background music was provided by the babbling creek.
The forest seemed to talk to me in a language only known to the innocence of youth. I knew unquestionably that if I sat quietly in the shadow of the trees, I would feel an almost mystical connection to everything around me. It was like an invisible force binding all things together. I felt the magic of the woodlands in a far more profound way back then. Although sometimes, even now, when I am deep in the forest, I still sense this magic that now lies just beyond my adulthood reach.
On one side of our yard was a farm where we would buy our milk, butter and eggs. Some mornings, Mom would ask me to walk over to this farm for one thing or another. She would always tell me to take the road, as going through the farmer’s fields was too dangerous. I would always cut through his fields to get there. Occasionally, it required me to run past farm animals. Never had much trouble dodging the big ones like goats and cows. But his geese were another thing; they would come at me like an angry flock of little demons. They had no teeth, but they could deliver pain with those beaks; teeth seemed not to be needed. I was afraid of them, and my fear was well placed. They were not easy to outsmart.
Living close to a prison was scary sometimes. One time, prison guards showed up to warn us that an inmate had escaped, and a guard was left to keep watch until it was either deemed that the inmate was no longer a threat or that they had been captured again. This would be both alarming and, at the same time, quite exhilarating.
I was young during this time of living in Burnaby, and I have only a few memories, but one of them is a very vivid memory. It involves the first puppy I ever had. A few months after getting this pup, it was run over by a car on Royal Oak Ave right before me. He died in my arms as I hugged him tight. I was sobbing uncontrollably with sorrow. It was the first time my heart had felt such pain, such loss.
Mom and I carried my dog out along the brook by our house, where she helped me to bury him. All the while telling me that ”God would take him to heaven”. The next day, I went out and dug up his grave to ensure god had taken him, and to my horror, my pup was still there. So I picked him up and ran crying to my mom, yelling that god did not take him, that god did not want him. Mom was appalled at the sight of her 4-year-old child holding tight to this small, bloody, dirt-encrusted, dead creature. She did her best to explain the concept of the soul to me as we reburied my pup. I tried to believe her, but in the back of my mind, I found that I did not think much of this God she put her faith in so strongly. If you asked me if I believed in God, I would honestly have to say no. Sometimes I would try to believe in him, but I always thought that if he were real, he could not be a good god. He always seemed to be looking to his followers to prove their devotion; was he this insecure? This vain? This did not seem very godlike to me. But then again, I was very young back then.
I had a strange upbringing as a child; my mom was a full god-fearing, church-going catholic woman who was constantly trying to get me to go to church with her. My dad, on the other hand, was a man who had no use for the Christian religion or any religion for that matter. Dad would always say that the forest was his church. I tended to agree with my dad. My dad was a man of the forest; he understood the ways of the plants and animals. He would say that all things had a spirit and you needed to show respect for everything, even the very stones of the earth. He would point to the sun and tell me, “That is the father.” he would put his hand to the earth and say, “This is the mother”. To him, this was something you could see and feel, unlike this god that Mom worshipped; her god was an invisible friend.
In 1960, we moved out of Burnaby to Vancouver. After settling in, Dad decided to take us all fishing. No matter how hard Dad searched, he could not find a place to cast our rods among the factories and pollution that seemed to be everywhere. Every time Dad thought we had found a spot, the no-fishing signs would be out.
Dad finally found a farm. A trout farm. This was not a normal farm; it was a farm where you could fish for trout in big, round, black container ponds. There were a number of these containers, and many people were fishing in them. We did not fish there. We went home. That was it for Dad; he said we were going to move. He set a plan in motion that had us headed for a small Vancouver Island community named Campbell River. I was quite excited about this turn of events. It took time, but we finally packed up our stuff and shipped it. Before we left, Dad had secured a job as manager of the EB Hosreman store and lined up a house in Campbell River. All that was left was to load up the car with us kids and drive us all out to Horseshoe Bay in the Plymouth. This was where we would catch the ferry to Vancouver Island.
This was a new ferry service for the BC Government; they had just purchased this run, along with five ships, from the black ball shipping company. I had never been on such a big boat, but looking back now, I realize that they were quite small compared to the ships that are in service on these runs now. I think I explored every inch of that boat. I had only seen the ocean in movies and books, and coming across the strait to reach the island was incredible. From the boat deck, I saw my first whale or at least a puff of whale breath from its blowhole, which may have just been mist. To me, it was like seeing Moby Dick.
As we drove off the ferry and began to make our way up the island to our destination, I could not help but press my face against the window, taking in the sights of the island. I believe we were all pleased to be leaving the big city. At least mom, dad and the younger kids. My older brother Bob had just signed up for the army and was posted in Germany, and my brother Joe had joined the Navy. They would not be joining us, and my older sister, Peachy, who had just gotten married, would not be with us as well. It was a strange feeling not having your siblings constantly around you. My twin sister and I, along with my sister Penny and my brother Howard, were the only kids still at home.
Dad had first set his footprints on Vancouver Island back in 1946 when he had travelled to Victoria on official military business. He was travelling with Mr. Armstrong, who would become my godfather when I was born 9 years later. After they had concluded their business in Victoria, they decided to locate a vehicle and travel a bit. They had some R&R coming, and the island had always looked enticing to my dad, so they secured a car and off they went. When they reached Campbell River, they saw it was quite small, and the main street through town was still gravel. These streets were not paved until 1953. Campbell River did not receive status as a village until June 24th, 1947. I think this village setting was what appealed to my dad. He said to Mr. Armstrong that one day he would move his family here. Their trip was in early June 1946; they were back on the mainland by mid-June, and this was a good thing. On June 23, a massive 7.3 earthquake struck the island, with the epicentre being in Strathcona Park, up on Forbidden Plateau. 75 percent of the chimneys fell in Cumberland, with many more in other close communities. There was a lot of damage and two deaths. If Dad had been there during the quake, it might have been detrimental to us moving there.
When Dad would talk about Campbell River, he spoke with such wonder and amazement. There was such passion in his voice that you could not help but imagine the beauty of this little island village.
