Most of the kids that I grew up with had rowboats, or at least access to them, including myself. When we were young, we would row around the local wharves, exploring the sea life found beneath the wonderful array of boats and docks. Sometimes we would have races where we would row under the high pier through the pillings, out past the breakwater. It was always good for a laugh. This was a fair-weather sport. When the weather came up, the waters outside the breakwater would get pretty rough.
My friends and I would gather feather duster tube worms from the edge of the floats and use them for bait. This sounds simple enough, but in practice, not so easy. You could find them by the thousands, growing just underneath the wharf fingers. To harvest them for fishing bait, you had to lie down on the dock and slowly reach toward the worms without touching the feathery plumes. When you were in striking range, you would lunge your hand forward before the worms could retreat into their tubes. You would grab one and pull him out. They would be around 25 cm long, and you could cut them up into small bait-size chunks. The rock cod would go nuts for these worms.
When it was a successful fishing adventure, I would take my catch home for my mom to cook up. This gave me a sense of independence, a feeling that manhood was now within my reach. I felt that I could look after myself and protect and provide for those I loved if needed. Of course, I was just around 8 years old, and my manhood was only a perceived conception, and in truth was still far off to me. Plus, my masculinity was always tempered by my mom’s teaching on how to be a good and gentle person. Mom had a way of using her grace and tenderness to teach compassion and empathy.
As we grew older, we all moved on to motorboats. Then there was no holding us back from fishing for salmon, ling cod, red snapper or giant halibut out on the waters of the Johnstone Strait. We spent as much time out there as we did on land. The fishing was great back then, and nothing beat fighting a northern coho on light tackle or hauling up a big momma ling cod from the depths. Two of my friends caught a 165-pound halibut from an 8-foot rowboat at the river mouth; it was big news locally with a front-page story.
Most of us had become accomplished fishers by the time we were 12 or 13 and were very much at home on the water. By the time my friends and I were getting into our mid-teen years, many of us were working as summer fishing guides for the local boat rental companies or commercial fishing on the Johnstone Strait. All of us would try to get a logging job during the winter months. There was always a short supply of loggers in those days, so we young ones could usually get rigging jobs as chokermen. I was 14 the first time I hired out to Elk River Timber.
When we were not working, we would be out exploring. At first, we stuck pretty close to home, but as we grew older, our trips took us further away. One of my pleasures was heading out when the weather was stormy. I would head over to Quadra Island to fish in the protected bays and inlets. I would be wave riding the storm, giving it gas as I rode the tops of the waves and backing off the throttle as I dropped into the trough between. It was like surfing, and it was awesome. Sometimes a number of us would race each other across. It was always exhilarating. Our boats were usually open 16-footers with 20-horse Johnson motors.
During these days of ocean-going fishing adventures, I would often see pods of Orcas sliding under my boat or sea lions running alongside to get a view of me. Sometimes we would make eye contact, and that was always a fantastic experience. Or perhaps I would see dolphins in the hundreds, all leaping out of the water as they swam by. The sea was my playground, and I was very comfortable out there.
My friends and I would go clam digging, crab and prawn fishing or oyster gathering and have a seafood feast around a beach fire. We ate from the sea regularly, and the eating was good. Sometimes we would head to Open Bay on Quadra Island, where the oysters were so thick that you had to break loose a big chunk containing many of them. We would place this on a bed of coals, and as the oysters began to cook, they would open up. We would race to eat as many as we could before the others got them first. The smells were incredible, and they tasted awesome. I could not have asked for a better place to grow up.
In the early 60’s, our family moved into the Campbellton area. It was still part of Campbell River, but somehow it felt like a community of its own. We leased an old farmhouse with about half an acre of land and a fruit tree orchard. It was the remains of a much larger farm that had been hewed from the forest at the turn of the century. The house was pretty old and was poorly electrified with only 30 amps, and it had wood heat in the form of a fireplace. It had been built in 1898.
The fruit orchard in our yard was full of apple, plum and cherry trees. I would spend hours out there eating whatever fruit was in season. I would climb high into the trees in pursuit of this feast. One late afternoon, I was going up an apple tree when I managed to get my left knee stuck in the crotch of the tree. I could not get it loose. I was in the farthest apple tree in our yard and not visible from the house. I struggled to get loose and called for help for more than an hour. No one heard me. No one missed me. Finally, Mom noticed that it had turned into night, and I was not home yet. She came out on the porch and began to call for me. I called back to say that I was stuck in a tree. It took forever for Mom and Dad to get me free. Finally, two of my older siblings had to help free me. When I was eventually pulled from the tree, my knee was twice its normal size. That knee gave me trouble for the rest of my days.
Being across the road from the river meant riverbank access, which allowed us kids to fish whenever we wanted. The fishing was great in the river. You were guaranteed to catch a fish just about anywhere you dropped a line. Sometimes we would fish off the logging bridge, where we could access both shores. Good fishing there, but when those fatboy trucks crossed the bridge, you had to run like hell to get off. So we mostly fished from the Silver Bridge. It was hard to get the fish up to the bridge, with plenty of them shaking loose on the journey up. So I got this grand idea that if I tied one end of a long rope to the bridge and the other to a big inner tube, I could float out right into the middle of the river. I had not thought this through very well, but as I was only 8, it’s understandable. One thought should have been, how in the hell would I get back to shore? The next thought should have been just where the tube would end up; it seems it happened to be right in a set of rapids, and as the tube reached the end of the rope, it started to dive under, then shoot up over and over, with me going underwater each time. I could not let go of the tube as I did not know how to swim. My tackle box and rod were gone, and I was screaming for help. It took the Campbell River Fire Department to save my ass. Sometimes my stupidity amazed even me. My dad would always say that one day I would wind up dead from my crazy-ass foolishness. I have had many close calls, but I always seem to squeak through. I always think of my dad’s words in times like that; he would say, “dammit, boy, you’ve got to think things through”.
Our neighbourhood was a great place for kids to grow up. There were school-age children in most of the homes found along our street. I had many friends here. There was one oversized, loud-mouthed, obnoxious kid who was a bully. I always had to be on the lookout for him. He had discovered that if he punched me in the bread basket, I would not be able to catch my breath. I would wind up on the ground, gasping for air. He took great pleasure in this. The first day we moved here, he threatened to beat me up if I didn’t go into a yard and get him a container of raspberries. When I brought them to him, he gave me a black eye and left me lying on the ground, gasping for air. He told me that if he ever caught me stealing berries from his cousin’s place again, it would be worse. I was 8. Years later, in a camp up the coast, I ran into him. When he realized who I was, he tried to bully me again. He was not successful this time, and he found himself lying on the ground with a bleeding nose. He left camp the next day.
As a teenager, if I were not out on the sea, you could find me canoeing our islands’ rivers and lakes, or hiking into the forest. Hiking in the high country was of particular interest to me. I still love getting out in the mountains, and hardly a week goes by without finding myself on a mountain trail. High-country hiking is more than a passion to me; it recharges my system, and it grounds me. I lived on an Island of wonders where adventures were just a step away.
I was introduced to canoeing at an early age, and I was hooked from the first time my paddle hit the water. Canoeing allowed me to travel without the noise others make. There is nothing like silently gliding along in the early light of a fall morning, sunbeams shining through the morning haze. You can sense the haunting pull of all things to nature, and it is very humbling. It can become a meditative experience.
I have had many grand adventures canoeing the rivers and lakes on Vancouver Island. Along with many places up along the coast and throughout the Chilcotin plateau. One of my pups, named Cody, grew up in my canoe; he could leap into the water while barely rocking the canoe and swim along for a while, or go to shore to take care of business. When he was ready to get back in, he would come up and put his front paws on the edge of the canoe. I would place my hand behind his head, and he would press back while at the same time pulling himself up and over the edge, again, barely rocking the canoe. Of course, he still had to shake the water loose. When I allowed others to join me in my canoe, quite often they would tip us over, an event that never happened with Cody. I had this 14-foot canoe, which was just right for the both of us.
I remember a winter trip down the Salmon River with a few friends. It had been raining for weeks, and the river was quite full. We had stopped above a wild-looking set of rapids. When my pup Cody decided to go across the river. As he reached deep water, he lost his footing and started to tumble down the rapids. My friend Dick started running down the river, actively trying to rescue him. I hollered out that Cody was fine and that he, himself, could get into trouble trying to save him. As Cody hit the bottom of the rapids and climbed ashore. He just ran back up the river and went in again, but this time he made it across. He loved getting out on the water. He was the best canoe partner one could ask for. Cody and I were inseparable. He was a big shepherd cross malamute.
When we were out canoeing or just camping, we seldom took a tent; a tarp was all that was needed. Mostly, we would eat fish or grouse gathered along the way, along with roots and various berries. In those days, fishing was good in most places, and there were always lots of grouse. A few cans of beans, some potatoes to roast in the fire, bacon and eggs for mornings. In those days, you could buy canned bacon, great for longer trips. Some salt and pepper to season meals, along with some coffee for the morning, were all that was needed. I used to mix instant coffee, sugar and coffee mate in a container. So morning coffee was easy.
When I was a young lad, we lived on St Ann’s Road, just at the junction of Alder Street. We lived above where the post office and Overwaitea Store were at one time located. Above us was the old St. Ann’s Hospital. This hospital was first opened in 1914 with 22 beds. Like most of the coastal hospitals in those days, it was funded by various logging companies, but it closed its doors in 1924 due to a lack of funds and was much missed. Efforts were made to bring it back into operation. They were successful. It reopened again in 1926, operated by the Sisters of St. Ann under the name Our Lady of Lourdes, but everyone just called it St. Ann’s. It closed its doors in 1959 when a new modern hospital opened up on 2nd Avenue, and the St Ann’s facility was turned into Campbell River’s City Hall.
Behind the post office and the Overwaitea Store was a hillside covered in a forest of big trees. At the top of this hill was the original three-story schoolhouse that was now a group of apartments. My sister Peachy and her family lived here in the mid-60s. This was a cool house, 3 stories high, and it had a big central staircase that went up the middle with units off each landing. Then the hillside was logged, and the old schoolhouse was torn down to build the Terrace View Apartments.
The forest below the old schoolhouse was my playground. My friends and I called it the hill. It’s where I acquired a taste for grouse; I used to hunt ruffed grouse with a homemade slingshot among the trees; my dad always called them forest chickens. My dad taught me to stand on the bird’s wings while pulling hard on its legs to separate the breast from the bird. It’s the only part that can be eaten without removing numerous tiny wing feather stems. Sometimes, when out camping, we would take a breast and cut it into strips like bacon and fry them with eggs in the morning. I was always on the lookout for licorice fern when I was in this forest. I would find it growing up in the old maple trees, in the crotch of the branches. I could chew on this all day. At the bottom of the hill were some swampy ponds where I would chase frogs and salamanders, and then come home covered in mud. My mom would just shake her head as she cleaned me up.
Our house was a big place with a large yard that bordered this forested hillside. My brother Howard and I used to dig up worms at the edge of the forest, down by the ponds, to be used as bait on our many fishing adventures. One day, I dug up a monster-sized worm. I mean, it was a giant. It was at least three feet in length and almost as big around as a garden hose. It was so big, I thought it was a snake at first. I still wonder to this day why this worm was so big. I have never seen another. We went fishing on one of our favourite lakes, and that one worm lasted all day; we would only need to cut a small piece off each time we re-baited our hooks. The worm had a sweet smell, and the fish might have liked this. We brought home a good feed of fish for dinner and many more for the freezer.
When we were little, my buddies and I used to go down to the beach just below our house when the winter storms blew in. We would put a few logs together with found boards, bent nails and rocks for hammers and ride the waves as they rolled in over the sandbars. By the end of the day, we would be soaked to the bones and cold as one could be, but to us, young lads, we were surfing in California. My friends and I hung out at this beach quite often. It was our ocean playground. This beach has now been filled in to create more land.
Out behind the beach on the north side of town was the estuary, a place of twisted trees, bogs, and giant thatching ant nests, a place of fascination and magic. In the middle of the estuary, right on the river, was the Elk River timber log dump. It was a massive A-frame built out of logs that could lift huge loads off the fat boy trucks and deposit them into the river. Not very long ago, trainloads of logs would roll through here with the a-frame, dumping load after load into the river. It is fat boy logging trucks now that get their loads slung into the river. We often would ride our bikes down to watch this.
On the weekend, during the summer, we would go down and swim here. One of the guys who swam here was this guy named Charlie, who was quite a bit older than us kids. He had a childlike demeanour. He would climb to the top of the log dump. Then he would stand on the top and dive straight off. It was so far down to the river, and only about ten feet of water to land in. I thought he was crazy. He popped up every time unhurt.
Across the river was the mill pond, a log storage pool that had been dredged from the river. It was made for Raven Lumber Sawmill. In this pond, they had stored an old pile driver, which was tied to the shore. There was a gangplank used to reach it from a small wharf. We would occasionally hang out there in the summer. You could dive off into the twenty or so feet of water or just swing out on the cables and back. One day, as I swung out, the whole cable, winch, and all, came loose and down I went. All the cables came with me. I was lucky it was a muddy bottom, as I went into the mud almost to my waist. As I pulled myself loose, a thought came into my head of all the cables landing on me. I swam away from the pile driver as I headed back to the surface. Just as I reached the air again, all that cable came down where I had just been. Quite likely, this cable would have pushed me back under and pinned me to the bottom. My buddies had tried to stop it all from going over, which may have saved my life by giving me a few seconds to react. The old pile driver was pretty cool, but I never hung out there again.
Out behind the dump was the lane field ballpark. This was a great place, it had a covered two-story bleacher and a concession stand where you could buy hot dogs, hamburgers and other goodies during various events. The community would gather here not just for ball games but to do all kinds of picnics and other occasions. Just behind the ballpark, there was an old diesel storage tank where the remaining contents had turned to wet tar. I only went in once. Some boards on the floor looked solid, but they were actually floating. I thought I could jump onto another one, but I slipped, getting myself covered in this foul-smelling black goop. My dad had to use gasoline to get me tar-free; it burned my skin. He kept hollering at Mom to get a feather pillow so he could see me tarred and feathered. He was joking, at least I hope he was. They removed this tank not long after.