Growing up coastal was, I am sure, the best way to grow up.
My twin sister and I made our grand entrance into this world on April 29, 1955. We were the youngest of seven siblings, (four boys, three girls). It had been a rough pregnancy for my mom with many health issues during the first trimester, and then more serious problems began manifesting by her second trimester. Just into her third trimester, the doctors informed her that she would need an immediate cesarean as one of the fetuses was not doing well. This fetus was me. My sister came out at a healthy 6.9 pounds, but I was just over 2 pounds. So I spent my first couple of months in an incubator. The doctors did not expect me to survive, but here I am.
It would seem my sister had sucked the life right out of me, but she would make up for this as we grew up. She was much stronger and far more fierce than me, always protecting 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 smile down at me. She was a pretty cool twin sister. I have always loved her in that way only a twin can understand.
At the time of our birth, our family was living on the army base CFP Chiliwac, located in Vedder Crossing, BC. Dad was a military man with many years of service under his belt. But, long before joining the army, Dad had worked with my grandfather Robert Jamison Logan. My grandfather owned 3 tugs that he chartered out to various businesses on the St Clair River, hauling barges of various commodities. My Dad and his brothers worked on the tugs at one time or another throughout their younger years. My Grandfather was married to Elizabeth Johnston who was Mohawk, everyone knew her as Lizzy.
When the American and Canadian prohibitions happened in 1920, it would prove to be a lucrative boost for the tug boat operators of the St Clair River. It was also good for the breweries in Canada. You see, in the USA, prohibition included not just the bars but all breweries. In Canada, we had an exclusion that allowed our brewers to continue creating 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 making it 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 for most captains.
My father and uncles worked the tugs alongside my Grandfather. I have over the years heard some of the tales regaling their escapades delivering the booze while dodging the American Authorities. Eventually, the USA put into use high-speed armed boats to try and stop these smugglers. Then in the early thirties, the prohibition was lifted, and it was all over, but they had been through many adventures. Dad shared a few stories with us kids. Were they true stories? That did not matter much as they were such awesome tales, full of precariousness, and peppered with danger.
In 1956 our family moved to Camp Borden, in Ontario. Although I was young, I remember a certain day vividly, it was the day I truly learned to laugh. I was 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, almost tipping as we raced around the ice. 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 quite exhilarating.
Dad finally retired in 1958 and joined civilian life. We headed back out west and into the setting sun. Dad had this awesome 1950 Plymouth five-door suburban station wagon that had sunshades over the windshield, it was green with wood panelling on the doors. It was a big car. There was lots of room. My older siblings were in the back seats, and my oldest 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 journey was amazing, every pond and lake we passed seemed to have moose feeding at the shore. They were so majestic looking, standing knee-deep in the water, antlers adorned with plants torn loose from the bottom as they lifted their heads to keep a wary eye on us. These animals were massive, as large as horses.
I was completely enthralled by the magic of the natural world all around us, something deep inside of me was stirring, almost like it was the ancestors gently pushing me towards the forest.
As we travelled through the prairies, we often saw enormous brown bears. I remember one time we came upon a sow with three newborn offspring. We stopped to watch the antics of these little ones as they tumbled about, playing with each other. 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 imagine their laughter.
As we moved along, we began to encounter pronghorn antelope. I had never heard of these creatures before and found them positively intriguing. They could jump so much higher than the whitetail deer that seemed to leap across the roadways around almost every corner. I think the wildlife we saw on this trip was the highlight of the whole journey.
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 and my older brothers set up the big bell tent. After eating we would sit around the fire for a bit. Although, after a tiring day, my twin sister and I usually went down early.
As we were driving through Saskatchewan, Dad took a side trip to show us a couple of strange places. The first was a very long saltwater lake, or at least it seemed to be to my short legs. This lake was 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, the trails were a great way to get out and stretch. All in all, it was worth the visit. I would like to return someday.
After this, we went to a forest of aspen trees, unlike the tall and stately aspens you usually see. These trees were twisted in all directions, a lot like our coastal gary 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 to never 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. There is an impressive Aspen Grove in Utah called The Pando Grove, it is considered to be the largest tree in the world, it is one tree underground with about 47000 stems, and it is approximately 80000 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 would drive through them. The roads in 1959 were not the super highways of today, even the good roads were iffy then, but Dad took the roads less travelled and these could be pretty rough. Sometimes it required us to backtrack to find another route.
We saw incredible snow-covered mountains and lakes that were so blue and deep it was hard to believe you were not looking at a painting. Waterfalls and wild rivers were everywhere. Huge gatherings of elk could be seen in all directions. I was spellbound by the beauty of it all and even then, I knew my life would be spent hiking into the wild lands, always in search of these hidden places of wonder.
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. To reach Chilliwack from Hope, Dad took the Flood Hope Road down to Yale Road which we followed 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 and spent the night. It was our first night in real beds since leaving Ontario, and we all showered the trip off our bodies. The motel was a nice place just up from the shores of the Chilliwack River. All the cabins were surrounded by tall trees. We would return to this motel numerous times when Mom and Dad would visit friends in Vedder Crossing. Just across the bridge and up the road a bit was Cultus Lake. I always got to spend at least one day at the lake on our visits, usually under the control of an older sibling.
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 ever went 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 remember gathering stinging nettles along this water course with my dad and how it took me so long to learn not to let them touch me. This was my first time gathering wild food with my dad who had been taught about wild foods and medicines by my Grandmother Lizzy. Now I was learning the teachings of my grandmother through my father’s words.
Though it was a small, treed area where the creek flowed, it felt like a vast expanse 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. I found my love for insects on this creek, as it was alive with them. The sounds of these creatures were a constant hum, a melody of the hidden ones. Salamanders and snakes moved about beneath the forest ground cover, while frogs seemed to fill the calm creek waters and flying insects swarmed in the air. 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 breathtaking.
I would 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 for this epic show was provided by the babbling creek.
The forest seemed to talk to me in that 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 during my childhood. Sometimes though, even now, when I am deep in the forest, I still sense this magic that lies just beyond my adulthood reach.
On one side of our yard was a farm where we would buy our milk 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. Ocassionly 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 such pain with those beaks, teeth seemed to not 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. On occasion, prison guards would show up to warn us that an inmate had escaped, and a guard would be left to keep watch until it was either deemed it was no longer a threat or that the inmate 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 in front of me. I hugged him tight as he died in my arms. I was feeling such sorrow. It was the first time my heart felt such pain, such loss. It was devastating. The anguish I felt that day has not fully left my heart, and indeed it has been compounded by the passing of so many other pets since that day.
Mom and I carried my puppy out along the brook where she helped me to bury him, telling me that ”God would take him to heaven.” To ensure this had taken place, I went out the next day and dug up his grave. 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 was real, he could not be a good god. He always looked 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, and my dad was a man who had no use for the Christian religion or any religion. 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 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 invisible.
I grew up listening to Dad telling stories about the ancestors, the heroes and the villains of the past. There were tales about dangerous supernatural creatures and other mythical beings. Some narratives talked of love and generosity, and then there were stories of legendary animals, I loved them all, the animal stories most of all. Some were amazing legends about people turning into animals like bears and wolves. l was so enthralled with these stories that I believed I was going to be able to change into a bear when I grew up and wander the wilderness in search of adventure. If you had asked me what I was going to be when I grew up, I would always say “a bear” like it was a given. Broke my heart when I found out that I was destined to remain a human.
These stories stuck with me though, and as my kids were growing up, they too heard these stories from their dad. When they began school, I would spend time going into schools to teach all the children about our culture, telling these stories, and teaching about art, music and drumming. I loved telling these stories and the kids were so much fun to watch as their facial expressions changed throughout the telling. My children grew up on these stories.
In 1960, we moved into a new house on Church Street. It was a pretty cool house. It was a huge house, with 5 bedrooms, a spiral staircase and a yard big enough to play ball in. Dad was working for the Canadian Consulate, apparently, the pay was good.
On a beautiful sunny summer day, not long after moving 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 to the country. 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 to our new home, loaded up the car with us kids and then Dad drove us all out to horseshoe bay in the Plymouth. This was where we would catch the ferry to Vancouver Island. Mom was not so thrilled, she would miss her spiral staircase.
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 to the island was incredible. From the boat deck, I saw my first whale or at least a puff of whale breath from its blowhole. 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 Dad and us younger kids were, Mom would come around to living in this hamlet of loggers and fishermen.
My older brother Bob had just signed up to 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 got 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.
When Dad would talk about Campbell River, he spoke with such wonder, such amazement, such excitement. There was such passion in his voice that you could not help but imagine the beauty of this little island village. 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, the main street through town was still gravel according to my dad. Campbell River would only receive status as a village on June 24th, 1947. I think this is what appealed to my dad and he said to Mr Armstrong that one day he would move his family here.
Their trip was in early June, they were back on the mainland by mid-June, and this was a good thing. On June 23rd, 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.
And so the adventure begins.
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