Paradise

Back in 1961, the community of Campbell River was just a small fishing and logging village on the east coast of Vancouver Island, it was not very big. That being said, there was a large fishing fleet with quite a few piers along the shoreline to hold them all. It was just a short walk to the harbour from my house and I spent most of my time hanging out on the docks. Some of the old fishermen who had boats here were born in the last century. They had stories to tell, amazing stories. I loved stories. These narratives they told were always grand illusions of behemoth fish that got away or of the mighty Pacific storms that they had survived against all odds. Many more tales were told of lost loves in distant villages or homesteading some hidden bay up in the inlets of our inside coast. I would sit, immersed in these chronicles all the while watching them mending their nets and gear with their old and gnarled hands. I am quite surprised that I had never become a commercial fisherman myself, although, at 13, I did spend a summer working on a West Coast trawler.

Across the road from the docks was the police station. I think we had 6 members in total and the bylaw officer/dog catcher. Up from the beach was the main road that ran through town. This road held most of the businesses that were in town. Plus the theatre where for a quarter, we could go see a movie along with a drink and popcorn on Saturdays. My friends and I found this was a great way to spend an afternoon. The theatre is still in use today but for live-stage events only.

A big section of the area down by the shoreline was owned by the Thulin Bros, Fred and Charles. They built the Campbell River General Store right in front of the main wharf. You could purchase almost anything in this establishment. It was sold twice over the years, with the Lavers family buying it in the late 40s and renaming it the Lavers Department Store. As a young man, I shopped here all the time.

The Brothers owned a hardware store across the road from Lavers where you could buy a variety of hardware, including camping and fishing gear. I was a regular shopper here. Over the years it morphed into a Home Hardware store that is still owned by the family, I shop there regularly,  They also owned the Willows Hotel. The Thulin’s had begun their history in Campbell River in 1904. They are still prominent in the community and respected by all.

We finally arrived at the house Mom and Dad had rented unseen while we were still in Vancouver to discover it was very old, I mean, ancient. It was on Rockland Rd. There were only 3 houses on the old logging road, ours was by far the oldest. Mom and Dad immediately began looking for another home. Mom wanted nothing to do with this ancient house. The area around the property was a barren landscape due to logging, and there were bats in the attic. Mom did not like bats.

We were only there for one night and that was all, Mom and Dad found a place in town even before the transport company arrived with our belongings. It was located just behind the Willows Hotel. It was 1962, the year before the hotel burned to the ground. Our new home was just one block away.  It was a big house we had, I think at one time it housed the St Annes Hospital staff. There were three extra rooms that we did not use, so Dad blocked a hallway off so you could not reach these from our side of the house. Mom would rent these rooms out to a few old loggers, they had an entrance that was separate from ours.

My mom would try to keep me away from them, but I always found a way to sneak in a visit. There was a bench out in front of their door where these old timers would sit. I would join them to listen to their tales of adventure. I would sit on the grass and listen to the stories they would tell. Their tales told of high-rigging spar trees, or of using the steam donkeys that were built on skids to pull themselves up the hills. Some told tales of the oxen roads that would run for miles. Other yarns told of the men who built the railway trestles and how dangerous this job was. There were epic narratives of trains that ran away and of hidden hospitals up the coastal inlets that would repair these old loggers when they were broken. These hospitals were funded mostly by local logging companies. One of the biggest was in the community of Rock Bay, the town and hospital were built by the Hastings Mill Company to house and fix its workers when they were injured. At one time Rock Bay had a population of more than 500.

The village of Campbell River was still just a speck on the map of the world and was located in a vast hinterland of wonder. In those days the forest that began at the edge of the village seemed to go on forever. This woodland was composed of ancient old-growth fir, hemlock and giant red cedar trees, speckled with huge maples that we would climb in search of licorice fern. The shadows that fill the spaces between these giants highlight the wonderful colours that are hidden in the gloom except when they are emblazoned on the beams of sunlight that penetrate through the canopy of green. Look closely, and you might see a variety of small creatures scampering about the mossy ground, while the tree branches always seemed filled with birds of all kinds and colours. Many small streams were running through these woods, and some were studded with beaver ponds where during the winter months, we local kids would ice skate.

The ocean shores and tidal pools at the boundary of this forest of green were full of a dazzling array of fascinating creatures. I could spend all day looking into these little tidepool gems of wonder. They were like tiny little oceans full of life.

Sometimes I would lay at the edge of the forest and the sea, listening to the voices of the animals, trees and rocks for hours. It was a melody of breathtaking beauty. To this young lad, it seemed I had landed in a place of wonder. Some might say I was in paradise.

Most of the kids that I called friends had rowboats, or at least access to them, including myself. When we were young, we would row around the local piers, exploring the sea life found beneath the incredible array of boats and docks, always protected by breakwaters. Sometimes we would have competitions that involved racing through the pilings under the high wharf that held the net loft. It was always good for a laugh.

I would gather tube worms from the edge of the floats to use for bait. This sounds simple enough, but in practice, not so easy. It requires you to wait till the dusters come out of the tubes, then quickly grab hold before they disappear back into the tube and at the same moment deftly remove a section of the worm with a sharp knife to use as bait for rock cod and sea perch. All this without pitching headfirst into the chuck.

When it was a successful fishing adventure, I would take the catch home for my mom to cook up. This was almost spiritual, it gave me a sense of independence, a feeling that manhood was now just within my reach.  Of course, this feeling of manliness was always tempered by my mom’s teaching on how to be a good person. Mom had a way of using her grace and tenderness to teach compassion and empathy.

As we grew older, we moved on to motorboats. Then there was no holding us back from hitting the open water to fish for salmon, ling cod, red snapper or giant halibut out on  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. I already knew many of the hot spots from fishing with my dad. Dad had this old clunker with an inboard bulldog and doman single-cylinder engine powering it, when we would go out in this old beast, you never knew if you would return to the dock under your own power or be towed back. We fished for salmon, cod, crab, prawns and halibut. Our table was filled with copious amounts of seafood after a fishing expedition with Dad. One of the things embedded in my memories of my childhood was the chug, chug, chug sound of the boat’s old engine.

Most of us had become accomplished fishers by age 12 or 13 and were very much at home on the water. When my friends and I were young teenagers, many of us worked as summer fishing guides for the local boat rental companies. Campbell River was known as the salmon capital of the world and there were over 350 guides who worked for the various fishing outfits and a further 300 independent operators. We could hardly keep up with tourists who came to fish our waters.

When we were not out-guiding, exploration was the order of the day. We stuck pretty close to home at first, 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 across the straight 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. Our boats were mostly open 16-footers with 20-horse Johnson motors. It was always exhilarating.

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 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, 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 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 each other to eat them. The smells were incredible and they tasted so good.

If I was 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.

At an early age, I was introduced to canoeing, 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 mist. You can almost sense the ancestors as you silently glide through the waters. Canoeing would become a lifelong passion.

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, a 120-pound malamute cross 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 perhaps head to the shore on personal 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. When I allowed others to join me in my canoe, quite often they would tip us, this never happened with Cody. He loved getting out on the water. He was the best canoe partner one could ask for. We were inseparable.

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 plants and various fruits. 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, salt and pepper to season, along with some coffee for the morning was all that was needed. During my youth, I would find many ways to satisfy my need to be out in nature. Hiking, canoeing, kayaking, mountain climbing and caving were forever on my mind.

There is something about the call of the wildland that is hard to ignore. It has me always searching for that meadow surrounded by old-growth forests, perhaps a mist rising from a small watercourse tumbling down from up high to flow into a series of small ponds ringed with wildflowers or that hidden channel between 2 bluffs where your kayak barely fits that lead you to a secret cove with sandy beaches. I knew even in my early youth I would with passion follow this call.

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 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 again. 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 the St. Ann’s. It closed its doors in 1959 when a new modern hospital opened up on 2^nd Avenue and the St Ann’s facility was turned into Campbell Rivers 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 private home. My sister Peachy and her family lived here in the mid-60s, just before the hillside was logged and the old schoolhouse was torn down to build modern apartments. This was a cool house, 3 stories high and it had a big central staircase that went up the middle with rooms off each landing.

The forest below this house was my playground. We 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. There was so much to do in this forest, I played there all the time. 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 on 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 close to three-quarters of an inch in diameter and almost three feet in length. I still wonder to this day why this worm was so big. I have never seen another or for that matter, even heard of one of this size locally. There is an invasive worm, the lumbricus terrestris, or dew worm that can reach this size but I have not heard of one this big on the island. They are generally smaller here but a subspecies from China can reach up to 2 feet in length. Maybe this one came as ballast in a ship that sailed out of China.

We went fishing in Gooseneck Lake that day 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 lumber, 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 8 or 9-year-old lads, it was a blast. My friends and I hung out at this beach quite often. It was our playground. This beach has now been filled in to create a shopping center.

Out behind the beach was the estuary, a place of twisted trees, bogs and giant thatching ant nests, a place of fascination. Just above the estuary 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 dump them into the river. We often would ride our bikes down to watch this. Just a few years earlier, trains offloaded their cars of logs here. That would have been cool to see the long line of train cars being offloaded one at a time. The main street in Campbellton would be blocked as the trains rolled across it, sometimes for hours.

On the weekends we would go down and swim here. You could dive right off the deck. There was this guy named Charlie who was quite a bit older than us kids, he would climb to the top of the A-frame, then stand on the top and dive straight off. It was so far down to the river and only about ten feet deep. I thought he was crazy.

Across the river was a bay where they kept an old pile driver. 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 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 cable landing on me, pinning me under the water. I swam away from the pile driver as I headed back to the surface. Just as I the reached air again, all that cable came down where I had just been.

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, then my dad had to use gasoline to get me tar-free and it burnt 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.

My twin sister Patsy was pretty awesome. Every weekday, we would walk across town to reach Elm School, when I was in grade 1, and my twin was in grade 2. I could not tell time yet, so every day as we walked past the old post office. She would use the big wall clock to teach me. Thanks to her, I finally got it. Although she was my twin, she was at least a foot taller and far smarter than me. I was still pretty frail in those days so she looked after me like an older sister would. We fought as siblings do, but I loved my sister deeply, there was this connection between us, more so with her, she would always know what I was up to. “Later in our lives, my sister was married to a military man, and in 1979, they were living in Beausejour Manitoba, which was a radar base in the NORAD defence system. One winter I was visiting a buddy in Edmonton and on the spur of the moment I decided to travel to the base to surprise my sister. I planned on going by train to Winnipeg and then hitchhiking up to Beausejour. When the train reached the station and I was disembarking, my brother-in-law was waiting for me. I asked him why he was there and he said that my sister told him I was on the train. I had told no one and my friend in Alberta did not know my sister.” She did this all the time.

I have many grand memories of my twin. One of my favourites is watching her rollerskating in our local parades, she was a member of the Campbell River Rolling Skate club and would be out in front with several other young ladies, on their skates, twirling their batons, tossing them high into the air and catching them again. All the while spinning around, followed by a marching band and the rest of the parade. She was incredible. I was so proud of her.

When my sister was due to give birth to her first child, her husband Bruce was up north working on a section of the Dempsey highway on a military project and could not be there for the birth. My sister asked me to come and stay with her on the base so I could get her to the hospital when the time came. They were stationed in C.F.P. Chilliwack. I had not seen my sister for quite some time and the thought of hanging with her for a few weeks was pretty exciting.

When the day came, I was marching back and forth outside the OR, worried almost to death over the whole ordeal. When the doctor came out and said it was a healthy girl child, I was so excited that I must have looked like a cat chewing bumblebees. The doctor broke out laughing at the big smile on my face. I was allowed a few minutes to see my sister and meet my new niece. My sister asked me to name her. As I had just finished a book about Princess Natasha of Russia, I got to welcome my niece Natasha, into the world. She was born in the same hospital as my sister and me.

My sister is no longer with us, she was in a car accident, on June 10^th, 1988. Patsy and her husband had separated and she had been hanging out on Denman Island with some friends. They all were drinking and during the night, they put the truck in the ditch. While they were pushing it out, my sister fell forward just as the truck rolled back trapping her underwater where she drowned. I still have nightmares about this. I woke up in turmoil the day after her death, not able to get my shit together, I had no idea what was going on. Then I got a phone call from my brother Howard telling me of my sister’s death the night before. I cried for days, and still do sometimes when I am alone and thoughts of my sister float to the surface of my mind.

She came to visit just a few days before her death, I was at work and would be gone all day. My sister wanted to get to know my wife Gina better without my being there. So they spent the day together and had an awesome visit, I do regret not being home that day but can look back on my wife and sister hanging out all day, sharing stories. Gina told me it was cool to hear the narrative, from my sisters’ point of view, of the events of her and me growing up.

In 1963, a short time after the destruction of the Willows Hotel by fire, our family moved into the Campbelton area on the north side of town. We leased an old farmhouse that had about an acre of land with 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 only had wood heat in the form of a fireplace. It had been built in 1898. This was not long after our first settler, Fred Nunn arrived in the area 11 years before this. His farm location was just south of our home location.

Frederick Nunns and his brother Jack were born in Ireland on January 30, 1858, and before he had turned twenty, Frederick had set off to travel the world. He travelled alone to London and then to Morocco, where his brother Jack joined him, together, the twin brothers ventured to Australia, New Zealand, Cape Town, and South Africa where Fred spent some time as a member of the Mounted Police. Then the brothers emigrated to Canada and settled in the Campbell River area in 1887. They had plans to start a farm. The pair homesteaded several hundred acres just up from the estuary on the Campbell River. It was tough to work the land but they cleared a large portion and did indeed build a farm. Over the years many relatives and friends of Fred and Jack would arrive in the area to help, some staying only briefly, and others remaining for many years.

We know this because Fred Nunns kept a journal of his life in the Campbell River area. Entries were posted most days and usually talked about the weather, occasionally though, he would add details about other settlers or exciting things that happened on the farm. Some of the families that he knew and had interacted with quite often were mentioned in the journal. We know a lot about the early years in Campbell River and about the lives of the first settlers because of Fred’s Journal. Fred’s life was tough, as it was for the other settlers as well, but through hard work, they created a life here for themselves. Fred often talked about the fact that they could all rely upon each other in times of need. They would offer a hot meal and a place to sleep to travellers without hesitation and help with any construction that was being done by a neighbour in need. Fred Nunns was no exception to this rule and was known for his kindness, he was also known as a bit of a recluse. He was an eccentric old gentleman that spoke little, but always with intelligence. Fred had some strange rituals in the morning. No matter the time of year, Fred would get up, light the stove, and while still wearing his pyjamas, he would walk down to the river. He would wade into up to his waist, and proceed to wash up. Then he would walk back to his cabin, remove his pyjamas, and hang them beside his day clothes behind the stove, where they would dry before bedtime. All this is according to Mr. Campbell, the area’s first school teacher who had boarded with Fred.

In 1923 Fred had to visit a local dentist to have six abscessed and painful teeth removed, they had used Novocaine during the removal, he collapsed after the treatment and died, they suspected that it was an overdose from the Novocaine. Fred has left a legacy though, and his name lives on, The Nunns Creek Park is one of the places that keeps his name alive, it’s a wonderful park where there are several ballparks and a logger’s sports area that has some of the toughest loggers from the Pacific Northwest compete for the honour of being labelled the best. The park has many trails that let one wonder about the wetlands, the bird life here is just incredible. There are copies of the journal available to read at the CR Museum’s Archives Research Centre.

Our house was across the road from the shores of the Campbell River. Our orchard 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 furthest apple tree in our yard and not visible from the house. I struggled to get loose for more than an hour. No one missed me as I was always late getting home. 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 that I was stuck in a tree. It took forever for Mom and Dad to get me free as my knee was now twice its normal size and jammed in tight. That knee has given me trouble since that day.

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 Silver Bridge or the logging bridge where we could access both shores. It was hard to get the fish up to the bridge most of the time 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 best fishing spot. 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, 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 under water 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 always would say that one day I would wind up dead from my crazy-ass foolishness, I have had many close calls but always seem to squeak through. Quite often I still hear my dad’s voice saying “ dammit boy, you got to think things through”.

I delivered papers in the area and one of the homes was occupied by a man in a wheelchair. I used to walk up on his porch and put his paper where he could reach it easily. Sometimes he was sitting out in his chair and would ask me to sit and chat, I think he was lonely and felt the need to know he was still visible to the world around him. This oldtimer lived in a small house just about where the White Tower Restaurant stands today. He was a nice old guy.

He had been a highball logger in his youth. I still remember sitting on his porch in Campbellton, watching the traffic go by as he told me stories of logging on the coast. He would get a gleam in his eyes as he recounted tale after tale.

These were always incredible stories about the trains that pulled the wood to the sea. He had worked in the Campbell River area for his whole logging career, he worked for years in the Mohun Lake area, and lots of the names of other loggers he had worked with and the places they logged were known to me., this made them more truthful in my eyes.  I never tired of hearing these yarns. He had begun logging back when he was a teenager back in the 20s, from what I remember from his tales is that he was from a logging family. For the life of me, I can’t remember the old fellas’ name.

When I met him he was missing one leg up above the knee and the other was missing below the knee. He had told me it was due to having diabetes. Even after I had stopped delivering papers, I would still stop by for a chat on his porch whenever I saw him sitting there. Over the next couple of years, I watched him lose his legs right up to the top. Then one day the house looked empty, and a woman was cleaning the place, she told me that her brother had passed away. I would miss this man and his stories. I can still vividly remember sitting on his porch in Campbellton, watching the traffic go by as he told his tales of logging on the coast. Could you imagine if his stories were put down in a book, what a glorious book that would have been!

I was always getting in way over my head with my adventures and although I would become an ocean-going youth by the time I was hitting my teens. This knowledge was quite lacking when I was 8 years old. One day, a friend and I were playing along the bank of the river in front of my house. We were having a great time doing what kids do, chasing frogs, watching all the different insects and eating salmon berries. Towed along behind us was this little blue tub, just big enough for one to sit in while the other pulled. As we were enjoying our day, we happened upon a possibly abandoned boat, although that may be debatable. It was maybe 10 feet long. It would hold us both.

We played around this little boat for a while to see if anyone came to claim it, but no one came. It looked pretty solid so we got in, but leaving the boat tied to a rock on the beach. Still, no one came. So we decided to untie the boat and float down the river like Tom Sawyer and Huck Finn, just like in the book. We tied our blue tub to the stern to be used as a lifeboat and off we went.

At this point, the river was moving slowly as it worked its way into the estuary and we pretended to be in the wilderness. There were no paddles or life jackets, but we had our lifeboat. We had lots of fun as we slowly drifted down the river. We planned to just go ashore when we reached the sea at the river mouth.

At one point we were opposite the Elk River Timber “A” frame log dump. A big Fatboy truck was being readied to have its load lifted off and dumped in the river. The load was lifted up and over the side of the truck and then the load of logs hit the river with an enormous splash. We watched as a big wave headed our way and we rode it like river champs. This was all very exciting to both of us young lads.

Around every corner was something new to see, ducks of all kinds, sporting bright colours taking flight as we floated towards them. Canadian geese by the hundreds honking loudly to warn us to keep off their nests. Deer were feeding on the shores while eagles soared up high on air currents.

The booming grounds were downriver from the dump and the gentle river current was put to use to guide the logs into the various booms. Most of these would be towed to mills around the island, but some would be towed up a channel to the mill pond at the Raven Lumber. Here they would await the journey up the green chain that was used to feed the mill a continuous supply of logs. The mill ran 24 hours a day, I grew up to the sounds of the green chain. As we coasted past the log booms, we got some weird looks from the men who worked there, perhaps they could see what was coming.

On the lower river, we saw many trumpeter swans that hardly moved as we drifted through them, they are such magnificent birds. The sounds of seagulls in the sky were like a song of the sea playing in our heads while we watched great blue herons feed at the edge of the river, knee-deep in the water. It was a warm sunny day and we were having so much fun.

As we arrived at the edge of the ocean, we saw it happened to be low tide and the river was flowing pretty fast, to our total dismay, we just shot out into the strait between Vancouver Island and Quadra Island. Now two boys, both 8 years old, in a very small 10-foot boat with no paddles or life jackets, out on the waters between these Islands is bad enough, but things were about to get much worse. Unfortunately for us, the tide was pulling us towards Seymour Narrows a few miles up the strait. Up until the 50s, Seymour Narrows had an underwater mountain that at low tide was only 3 meters below the surface. Many ships and 114 lives were lost to the turmoil that was caused by this underwater mountain. Then on April 5, 1958, that all ended when approximately 635 tons of rock were removed from the mountain in a huge explosion.

The threat of striking the underwater mountain is now gone but it is still a narrow channel filled with back eddies, whirlpools and the tides can run through at 28 knots. This is still a dangerous piece of water. If we were not rescued before we reached the narrows, we would, beyond any doubt, be pulled down by one of these giant whirlpools. Or perhaps flipped over by a massive back eddy, and that would be that.

We started to cry out for help, but for all our shouting, no one heard or saw us. We drifted past the painter’s subdivision crying for help, then past the pulp mill, yelling for help, past race point, still hollering out, past the entrance into Menzies Bay, crying out, and then we were in the narrows. We were no longer crying for help, we were holding on for our lives. There were boiling back eddies, and monstrous whirlpools all around us, things were pretty grim and we were sorely afraid for our lives. I was terrified.

Then all of a sudden, out of the blue, a seaplane comes flying in and lands right in the narrows, amongst the tumultuous maelstrom of the waters. As it pulls up to our little boat, dodging whirlpools and back eddies on its way, the back door flies open and a young girl, 7 years old, hollers at us to get in the plane, she looked like an angel to me. We got in, and off the pilot flew, taking us back to town. The pilot was the little girl’s dad, and he was pretty damn mad at us.

When we got back to the wharf, he phoned our dads to come down to get us, they were pretty mad too, especially after they were chewed out by this pilot. When we got home, Dad did what he always did when he felt he needed to teach me a lesson. He took his belt off and beat me black and blue, he held me up by my hands and just beat me until I was almost limp. I sure came to hate those beatings.

The girl is still my friend all these years later. A few years back I ran into her, and she had her dad with her, he was pretty old, but after taking one look at me, he stated, you’re that dumb kid I pulled out of the narrows back when you were a sprout ain’t ya?

I often wondered who had tied that boat up and what they thought when it was found gone, I wondered how it and the blue tub fared after we left them in the narrows that day. Do I feel guilty about it, ya, a bit? I had no right to take that boat, and I almost killed myself and a friend doing it.

Sometimes my adventures were on the more dubious side, sometimes they involved the police. This would become a pattern for a while as I grew older. There was this one time while I was still 8, and I was visiting a buddy who lived downtown. He was the first friend I had in Campbell River.

I was always at his house, as coming to my house was out of the question as you never knew how my dad would react. I did bring him into my kitchen once to ask if he could spend the night. My mom was making bread and dad was just about to make tea. I was just behind him when I asked. He turned on a dime swinging that ceramic teapot at my head, I ducked down as Dad tried to kick me as I dove out the door. If Dad had connected that teapot with me, he might have killed me. After this, I never brought any friends into my house. Dad had been drinking that day. He drank often.

Anyway, my buddy and I had been playing outside, down by his house and we found ourselves behind the Safeway store. It was just across the street and up a sand bank from his house. While we were playing around, we discovered a way to climb up onto the roof by using a drain pipe attached to the back of the building. Once on the roof, we could see several flags blowing in a breeze. We stole a Union Jack flag. Not sure what we were going to do with it, but when we climbed back down the pipe and turned to run, laughing about it all, we came face to face with two young police officers. The sight of them stopped us in our tracks. They promptly arrested us. We were put in the back seat of their black and white police car. There we were, sitting in the car while the cops slowly drove us through town, We could barely see over the window sills, but watching the buildings go by was pretty scary. We had no idea what was going to happen. They took us to the little jail building that was across from the fisherman’s wharf, hauled us upstairs and put us in a cell. Now things were getting damn frightening.

It wasn’t often I would guess that they had children in the jail, and I think in all likelihood, we might just have been small enough to squeeze through the bars. After locking us up, the police called both our dads to come down. Our dads arrived, and they were pretty upset, not at us being in jail but for why we were there. My dad frowned on stealing. I knew I was in for sound beating once I got home as Dad told me as much from the other side of the bars. Our dads and the police had a long chat just outside our cell. We were listening with all ears. The police were saying that they needed to keep us locked up for the crime we had committed. As stealing a flag was a federal offence with severe penalties. Our dads were telling them that if they released us into their care, they would make sure we kept our noses clean. The conversation went back and forth for quite some time. We sure were hoping our dads would be able to get us free in the end, beating or not. After some deliberations, and agreements from us to keep our noses clean and to not steal again, our dads convinced them to let us go, and we were released. Of course, it was all a ploy to teach us to behave, and you know what, it worked for a while that’s for sure. When I got home, Dad pulled his belt off and beat me for stealing.

A nice family was living across the street from our house in Campbellton and I occasionally hung out with their boy who was my age, we were both 9 years old. He was an only child, a bit spoiled and his parents fiercely protected him from all dangers. Whenever he was injured, even if it was nothing more than a bump, he would run home crying that he had broken something. He was a bit pampered, so different than the way I grew up.

One day this family invited me to go swimming up at Echo Lake with them. There was one stipulation and that was that I needed to be able to swim. I could not swim, but I assured them that I could. Getting to the lake was fun, the old general hill was steep and quite curvy, we finally arrived and set up just below the old Echo Lake Lodge, this lodge was at this time a private residence. One of my schoolmates lived there. I have tried to find information about the original lodge, but have not been successful. It is no longer there, not sure when it disappeared, maybe heard it burnt down.

The lake is a very pretty lake surrounded by forests with some mighty big trees along the east side where the highway runs. This was not always so. When Elk River Timber’s camp 8 was going full steam, the west side of the lake was logged right to the lake. Rail trestles were crossing the lake and the camp was on the northwest shore.

This was a big camp that even had a school. By the time I was a lad, all the crew accommodations and infrastructure were gone, or at least most of it. The only stuff left were the offices and mechanic shops. All that was left of the trestles were some pilings that remain to this day, the forest has grown back around the lake. Nature has begun the journey to heal the land around the lake.

Echo Lake would freeze up in the winter and when I was a teen, we used to go ice skating there. Sometimes it froze so thick that you could drive your car out onto the ice. We had a steel barrel that was cut in half and we would set this up on a log support and build a fire in the barrel, we could skate over and warm up when you got cold. Someone would have an 8-track stereo blasting out tunes. It was lots of fun. We could camp at the lake in the summer and we would catch some good size trout. There is no camping allowed now but the fishing is still good and there has been a fishing float added that is wheelchair friendly. Echo Lake is fed by numerous springs that bring in nutrients. It’s not a big lake but trout up to 15 pounds have been caught there.

At the lake, my friend pulled out a snorkel, mask and flippers that he said I could use, he had 2 sets. I had never used these before but found that with my face down and breathing through the snorkel, I could just float around. I was fascinated with the wonders that were visible to me for the first time. The dark green colours amid the shadows, and the incredible array of life. Seeing this breathtaking underwater world was beyond awesome. The bottom was covered in sunken logs from the logging days and you could see fish of all sizes swimming among them, to my surprise there were also a variety of insects both at the surface and within the water column itself. I was swimming in water that was over my head for the first time in my life and it all was very exhilarating.

Then, all of a sudden I dipped the snorkel end into the water and with water flowing down my throat, I began to panic. Reality came rushing back and I became hysterical. I called out for help as I struggled to keep afloat, but they were just looking at me. Suddenly,  the realization that no help was going to come and whether I drowned or not was going to be up to me. I got hold of myself, held my breath, put my head face down, and swam for all its worth and made it to shore. Once there, my friend’s parents were quite angry with me and were saying what if I had been really drowning and not just pretending, then where would I be? I said I was sorry. I almost drowned that day, and no one but me knew it. They never took me swimming again.

In 1965 we moved back into town, into a house with central heating. Just move a dial on the wall and no more cold mornings. Another bonus was that Elm School was right across the road. I would head to school when the bell went off and always ate a warm lunch at home. Out behind our new house, there was a small woodland of trees, it was a great place to hang out as a kid. These trees were pretty big and it felt like one was out in the forest. One day I was playing in this forest with a friend. We found an old overgrown logging road that we had never noticed before. This road went through the forest right about where the courthouse is now.

On this old road, we found a real ancient logging truck. This truck was pretty old, I mean it was mostly rust held together by moss and vines, To us boys though, it was a majestic log-hauling machine. One could just imagine this truck when it was shiny and new, and how thrilling it would have been driving it through the giant coastal trees as you made your way to the log dump.

It seemed to us to be a good idea to climb in the cab and pretend to be logging truck drivers. The doors were closed and jammed pretty tight with rust, and we struggled to open them. We looked around for something to pry them open with. We found an old board and by pulling on the handle and prying with the board, we got it to open, at least we opened the passenger door this way. We could not budge the driver’s door. It took both of us pulling and pushing on the passenger door to open it wide enough for us to get in, the hinges were so rusted up. It made a hell of a squeal but we got it open. The truck windows were broken and we could have gotten out through them if we had thought of it.

We got in, forcing the door closed again, I was in the driver’s seat. We began to bounce up and down on the old spring and horsehair bench seat and act like we were travelling down a bumpy logging road. This activity was very upsetting to the wasp nest and its inhabitants that were attached to the underside of the seat springs. If you have ever had an encounter with wasps you will know what happened next. They came forth like an angry mob, they were like tiny little demons banishing thin blades that dripped poison, stabbing you over and over again and again. Before we knew it, we had hundreds, if not thousands of them stinging us everywhere. It was like a horror movie.

We sure had a tough time getting the door open again, and by the time we got out, we were screaming in pain. You could hardly see a spot on our bodies that was not stung. I was stung on my lips, eyelids, in my nose, everywhere and it hurt. It felt like fire. Once out of the truck, we had to run brushing wasps out of every spot they could be, they were even in my shorts. I was spitting them out of my mouth. The angry terrors from hell chased us halfway to my house. By the time we got there, my eyes were nearly swelled shut.

My friend’s parents were called and they came and picked him up. My mom then ran a bath with oats and salt in it and had me soak for an hour, it helped. I looked like hell and missed a few days of school. Mom took me to see  Doctor Margetts to be checked out and all was normal considering. At least I found out that I was not allergic to wasps. To this day, I still have a huge respect for wasps nests of any size. I give them a wide birth during any encounter.

One of the great things about growing up in Campbell River was the amazing fishing opportunities found here. Dad would take us out to lakes, rivers or out on the chuck as often as he could, he loved fishing, and all of us boys got the bug. When I was a young man, I was known to quit jobs just so I didn’t miss out on a fishing trip with my buds. Fishing was a year-round activity in our family.

Not long after arriving in Campbell River, my mom and dad met an old couple who had first arrived here back in the 1920s. His name was Paddy, and his wife’s name was Hazel. Paddy took a shine to us all and began to take us to his hidden fishing holes. One of those fishing spots was up on Gooseneck Lake. The road to reach the lake was the old Argonaut mine road, it was pretty rough going with washouts and huge potholes, but this was crucial to how good the fishing was, not many fished here due to road conditions. The washouts along this road, (and there were quite a few), could be pretty big.

I can remember my brother and I would stack rocks up to allow Dad’s car to get over. Then my dad would drive across at high speed, bouncing over to the other side. Sometimes his rear wheels would be caught on the edge and Dad would just gun it. He would get across mostly from the momentum of high speed. I sure miss those days of such grand adventures with my dad. Sometimes, he was the best dad ever.

One day Dad bought my brother and me new rods and reels, these were pretty nice setups. Then we headed out to Gooseneck for a day of fishing. These new rods allowed us to get our bobbers quite far out into the lake. Dad on the other hand had his old rod, and he was getting disappointed at not being able to reach as far as us boys. So he gave it his all with a mighty cast. It was a herculean effort, but as the hook ran past my dad at a high rate of speed, it caught him in the ass, and it went deep. Dad was dancing on the trestle, growling like an old grizzly bear, holding onto his butt cheek. We tried to remove it but could not get it out. So into town, we went, but as my dad sat in the driver’s seat, he realized that he could not drive. So my brother at 13 years old, had to get us into town and get Dad to the hospital. He was not a good driver, grinding the gears on Dad’s 58 Chevy. We were flying down the logging road like some rum runners in the 20s, hardly slowing down for the washouts. My brother could barely see over the dash. Dad was lying in the back seat yelping in pain with every bump and I was riding shotgun and hanging on for dear life. We arrived alive, Dad got the hook removed, and all was good. He bought himself a new fishing rod and reel before the next fishing adventure on the trestles of gooseneck.

Not long before we arrived in the area, this lake was being used as a booming ground, there still were train trestles running all along one side of the lake. The old wharf has mostly crumbled into the lake now, but back in the 60s, you could drive right out on it and fish right beside your truck. There were two wharves on the lake. The first one was used to offload the logs from trains into the lake. After offloading the logs, they would be sorted into booms and towed over to the second wharf where they would be loaded back onto trains all sorted and sent to the mills. You could still see the remains of one of the old steam boilers on the wharf and the remains of shops on the shore.

Most log hauling on the island was done by train back in the day, steam was the power that drove not only the trains but all the other equipment that was used. Steam donkeys for logging were phased out in favour of fuel-driven engines before my logging days, although my older brother worked on one of the last in operation, out in the Port Renfrew area.

Back in the early ’60s, when we met Paddy, he was the gatekeeper up at the upper Campbell Lake trestle. If you were travelling on this road between 6 am to 6 pm, you had to get a pass, and it was Paddy who gave them out. This logging road was the only road to the north island, as the new highway 28 that ran to Gold River along the eastern shore of the lake would not open until 1970. The inland island highway from Sayward north would not open until the late 70’s. So in the 60’s you either took the logging road that went through Gold River and then, back across the island to Woss or you took the ferry out of Sayward that took you to Beaver Cove to reach the north island.

When you took the ferry, you would go right by Robson Bight where Orcas would gather to rub on the beaches. Sometimes you get to see them enjoying this activity. This behaviour is only observed in the northern resident whales. It would appear that it is a social behaviour passed on from generation to generation. All the various populations of these Orcas along the western shores of North America have their distinct languages and do not communicate with other populations in any meaningful way.

On the logging road route you can fish, and there are plenty of spots to fish and camp. The scenery is quite impressive. The trestle that crossed Upper Campbell Lake was pretty cool as well. This bridge and logging road are now closed and are impassible, you must take the highway to Gold River now. The road from Gold River to Woss is still open and is labelled as a highway, although it is a gravel road. There now is another logging road from Gold River to Sayward that is open but can only be travelled during the summer months due to heavy snowfall from winter storms.

I remember the first time I travelled on the Campbell River to Woss logging road. I was with my favourite cousin Jack, who was on his way to visit his son John who worked in Port Alice. I was 14. As we drove along we came upon a forest fire that was burning on both sides of the road just past Muchalat Lake. We were required to follow a pilot truck to get past the fire. This was my first closeup of a forest fire, there were flames right up to the road. Occasionally we would see the fire crews at work. It was all quite exciting. I thought it would be a magnificent job, and years later I would work for the BC Forest Service as an initial attack crew lead for 13 years. It truly was a magnificent job.

After we finally arrived in Port Alice, we got to watch Neil Armstrong walk on the moon. The Delta Hotel manager had pulled a TV into the lobby and everyone gathered around to watch this amazing event. It was July 24^th, 1969. All in all. Quite a day for a young man.

Paddy would stay in the gatehouse located close to the trestle from 6 am to 6 pm, Then head home. They had a sweet cabin over on Paterson Lake where they lived. Paddy had an old truck that he used to go back and forth with, this was an old truck, a 1940s corn binder. It had a split windshield, fold-up engine covers and headlamps on the fenders. Hard to tell if it had started life as a green or red truck, both colours were present. A few times I got to ride with him to the cabin. The drive over the Greenstone road was always epic. I loved to visit them at the cabin with my family, and fishing was always good at the lake.

The drive into the cabin was always without fail an adventure where we commonly saw deer, black bears, and many smaller creatures. I never grew tired of the trip. After a day of fishing, Hazel would fire up an awesome meal on the wood stove, then paddy in the light of the lanterns would spend the evening telling us stories of the pioneering days of living on Vancouver Island. At times you had to wonder where the truth stopped, and his passion for storytelling would take over. It mattered not to me though, I could sit for hours listening to his tales.

Quite often I would fall asleep in front of the fireplace, as I imagined living through the times of his stories. Paddy’s health had begun to deteriorate over the time we knew him and eventually, they had to move into town. They still spent lots of time out at the cabin though and they gave us a key so we could use it as well. It was 1965.

The Lake is like a jewel, with a big island set in the middle where another home was located. I have explored this area for years and hiked in the high country above this lake. I have found many caves to venture into. At the time of this story, the lake was surrounded by giant trees and plants of all descriptions. When you were walking in this vast forest of green, you could just imagine how it was before first contact, it was still possible to feel the oldness of these incredible giants and you could not help but be in amazement at the glory of this. The forest was filled with wildlife, and hiking here was awesome.

One time we had gone to the paddy’s cabin to do some hunting and fishing. This cabin was quite old, it had been built when Paddy was a young man. It was like two cabins really, there were 2 sections with a deck that was covered by a roof between them. One side was where Paddy and Hazel lived and the other side was where they kept their gear. It was right on the shore with a well-built dock that went out into the lake. The cabin was on the eastern shore of the lake. It was beautiful.

After we arrived at the lake, Dad and my older brother went hunting, leaving me alone at the cabin. I was given very specific orders from Dad to not go anywhere, if I wanted to fish, I was only to fish from the wharf. He made me promise. But you know, there was this boat and motor at the wharf, and as the fish were not biting here, that boat and the motor began to look pretty good. I figured that I could go down the lake and find some fish, and get back before my dad and brother did. So into the boat, I hopped, fired up the motor and headed down the lake. I got to a favourable-looking spot, anchored the boat and sure enough, the fish were hitting my line with every cast, I nailed a couple of nice ones.

I then decided to head back to the cabin. I started the motor and quickly realized that for some reason the motor was stuck in one position and all I could do was go around in big circles. I tried everything I could to get the motor loose to no avail. Eventually, I found that by tying one of the paddles to the side of the boat and sticking it into the water, I could steer the boat somewhat to get it going in a sort of straight line, it was slow going, and it had been quite some time since I left the cabin. When I came around the corner I could see my dad and brother standing on the wharf, and knew I was in shit. Dad was pretty mad, it seems Paddy had told him there was a problem with the motor getting stuck sometimes and said that we should not use it.

Dad gave me a talking to then and there, later my brother told me that Dad had been very worried about me being out in that boat. He also told me that he was impressed that I had figured out how to get the boat back, this helped cheer me up. I was 10 years old.

When I was born, I was only just over 2 pounds and everyone thought I was not long for the world. I was placed into an incubator where they continued to grow me for 6 more weeks. From what I was told, mom only left her position at my side, which was to feed and care for my twin sister. Throughout my childhood years, I was a sickly boy with many return visits to the hospital. My mom was always there, like an angel looking after me.

There was something about my mom, something innocent. She emanated goodness and treated everyone with kindness. I could not have asked for a better mother.

My mom was prone to having heart attacks, it was a result of something that had happened back during the war years in England, where my mom was a wartime ambulance driver. She would go out after the nightly bombings to help those who were injured in the raids. While doing her duties, a bomb landed fairly close to Mom, throwing her against the ambulance. The force broke her jaw and knocked out all her teeth. The blow also took one of Mom’s lungs, and this was the cause of her numerous heart attacks. After she healed, she went right back at it. My mom for all counts and purposes was a badass. My mom and dad met during the war years when my dad was stationed in England, seems my mother loved to sing and one evening, while she was singing in a local tavern, in walks my dad. They fell in love and married.

Mom was one of those people who loved everyone and always had a kind word or a helping hand for friends and strangers alike. She was highly respected within the community and this was well deserved. She was always baking goods for one fundraiser or another and she could bake all those little English cakes and tarts. I enjoyed her treats. They always were the first to go at these events. The funny thing is, she was a bad cook, and her suppers were bad, can’t believe I am saying this, but that is how it was. So during the week, we suffered through hard potatoes and leather-like liver. Potatoes mashed with turnips, god I hated that, never understood why she did it. Her timing was always off, meat cooked and vegetables just starting to boil. On the weekends though, my dad took over the kitchen and we ate like kings. We fished and hunted for most of our meat and Dad would cook up something wild like a goose or deer roast, mashed taters, vegetables from our garden and the best gravy ever. My dad made the best-baked beans hands down, he would bake them for 9 hours and man were they good. I always looked forward to the weekends and always helped my dad. He taught me to cook.

Mom was pretty cool in other ways, she taught me how to knit and I would make my toques and scarfs, this was something I kept to myself though. I think my buds would find it a strange thing to be doing. Odd or not, these became cherished memories for me.

Mom was always knitting blankets and outfits for all the new family members from my older brothers and sisters, and when she had time she would make them for other families. My mom loved kids and would always break out with joy when she would hold a new baby in her arms. She had a soft spot for young mothers and was always helping them out. Mom had 7 children of her own, plus 22 grandkids. Somehow she made us all feel like we were her favourite one.

Mom and I did all the gardening, and she was quite capable at canning. We had a big garden and I would help mom look after it. She would spend weeks during harvest, jarring all kinds of stuff that would last us all winter. Mom was pretty awesome. Her jarred pickled beets were my favourite.

When you walked into our larder you would see shelves stacked high with jarred goods. There were vegetables and fruits. Plenty of dried products were included. Spices hung from racks and containers of dried beans and onions were on a table in the middle.

Families don’t do this anymore and I think that is a real shame. Mom and I bonded as we cared for the garden, she taught me so much about building up soils and when to plant. These lessons have been passed down through the generations. Thanks to my mother,  I have always found enjoyment in gardening.

When I was 10, my mom suffered another heart attack and was in the hospital. I was being cared for by my oldest sister Peachy who had come down from Sayward to help. My sister Peachy was so much older than I that she seemed more like an auntie than a sister. When I was very young, she was more like my mom and was pretty much my primary caregiver. Our mom was busy looking after our home, my siblings and working a full-time job. My sister was born in 1940 in England during the war years. She was my favourite sister. By the time I was 6, she had married and was living a life of her own. I missed having her around. It was delightful to spend time with her again.

One afternoon, I was playing in our alley just up from our house, where there was a great big willow tree. This tree played a major role in my growing up, it was in an empty lot surrounded by a sturdy wooden fence. All the neighbourhood kids hung out in this lot. There were fruit trees and raspberry bushes that we all ate from. The weeping willow tree was growing close to the fence, in the corner and was gigantic, the branches cascaded right to the ground and it was like a fort within the confines of this beautiful old mother willow.

The fence was well built and we could run down the top of it, holding onto the willow branches, then as we reached the corner of the property where the fence ended, we would swing off over the alley and back down to the ground. It was great fun, anyway, there I was, running along the fence top, when just as I reached the end, I noticed a car, a big black car, rolling slowly down the alley. There was an old guy at the wheel. I thought it would be fun to see if I could swing right over his car. Things were looking great, and I was really getting some height, when all of a sudden, the branch broke, and I was heading straight at the car. When I connected with the windshield, my right leg went right through, hitting the old guy in the face, my leg got sliced open right to the bone. I pulled my leg out, most likely doing more damage, and half ran, half crawled the short distance to home. I was a ghastly mess, I was in shorts and as I looked at the wound, I could see the bone.

My last sight of the old guy showed he was stopped, the car stalled, and he was blankly staring out through the hole in his window. I hope he got over it all. It must have been quite a traumatic experience for him.

By the time I got in the house, I had bled pretty bad, and was covered in blood, my sister screamed at the sight of my leg. Then she just wrapped my leg in a big green bedspread, scooped me up and rushed me off to the hospital. She was pretty upset and worried. I bled all over her car.

At the hospital, they were taking me directly into the O.R., but my mom was also in transport from one hospital area to another. The hospital was not very big. Dr Margetts, our family doctor hoped to avoid running into her, and having her see me covered in blood. I was bleeding so badly that there was blood flowing off the gurney, leaving a red trail behind me. Well, we ran into my mom in a hallway, and she saw it was me. They whisked me right past her, and all I can remember hearing was her screaming my name. The doctor got all the glass out, connected the arteries and stitched me up. Luckily I did not sever my femoral artery or I might not have even gotten home. I did require a transfusion to replace the blood I lost. All ended well with Mom and I going home together a few days later.

I loved fishing, hiking, caving, canyoning, canoeing, kayaking and mountain hiking, spent most of my youth doing those activities. One time, a friend and I had gone to Gooseneck Lake to camp for a few days, we were both 11. My dad drove us up in the morning, and helped us set up our camp before he took off, we spent the day fishing and hiking about. We found a bunch of old railroad ties that we carried back to camp. We set them around the fire 4 high and used a couple more for seats. As evening was setting in, our thoughts turned to supper. It consisted of beans, corn, and trout, cooked on the fire in our improvised outdoor kitchen. A bit after dinner, I started to feel sick with nausea and had a bad pain in my tummy. Then I began to vomit. I told Jimmy that I needed to go to town. It was just getting towards dusk. There happened to be a man fishing at the lake, and we caught him just as he was ready to drive out. I asked if he could take us into town, and he agreed to give us a ride.

We left the gear there thinking maybe we would be back out tomorrow. The man took us home and I am always so grateful for that ride. Later that night, as I was lying in my bed, sometime around 3 a.m., I started to hurt. My mom and dad came into my room to see what I was moaning about. My dad pushed in my tummy slowly, then released the pressure quickly, the pain was agonizing, but my dad knew what it was and rushed me to the hospital. Our family physician, Dr Margetts was on call when we got there, he took one look at me, and immediately told the nurses to get me ready to operate on. I did not quite make it into the O.R. before my appendix ruptured and filled my gut with poison, I spent the next 2 weeks in the hospital. If I had stayed out camping, I would have died with Jimmy looking on, helpless to do anything.

Jimmy and his mom Betty went out to retrieve our gear the next day. For some reason, Betty lost my tent. This was not a big deal, we had others. The funny thing though is that in 2021. Betty and I reconnected in a grocery store lineup. Betty informed me that she had found that tent again shortly after she lost it and had kept it for 55 years, waiting to see me again. She gave me the tent. It was funny to see that old tent again. One day I will write a story about this tent.

This was not my first bout with my appendix though, the past year, when I was 10, my parents had sent my sister and me to a summer camp in Nanoose Bay. It was a church group that ran this camp. A few days into the 2 weeks I was to be there, I woke in the middle of the night, with a bad ache in my tummy and began to vomit on the floor. The camp head guy was summoned and he said he would take me into Nanaimo, to the hospital emergency ward, but only after I cleaned up my mess. So there I was, on my knees, at 3 a.m., wiping up vomit, feeling pretty sick and in pain. After the mess was gone, off we went. He made sure I knew how mad he was for getting him up in the middle of the night as we drove to the hospital. When we arrived, they took one look at me and admitted me right away, acute appendicitis. My parents were called, and after they arrived later that day, I told Mom how I was treated by the camp leader. On our way home, she had Dad stop at the camp. She gathered up our stuff, collected my twin sister and then went into the office to chat with this head guy. When my mom was mad, she was a formidable force, and I am sure that he knew how mad she was. She was in there for quite some time and was pretty red in the face with anger when she came out. My understanding is that they said they would fire the head guy and refund Mom all the fees my parents paid. Never went to summer camp again. This suited me fine.

There were many lakes that we would fish in during my youth. One such lake was Fish Lake, (probably not its real name). This lake was named appropriately, as the fishing here was incredible, it is located in the Sayward Forest. The road was very rough and this kept most fishermen away. From where we would park, you still had a fairly long hike over a hidden trail to reach the lake. As a young man, I just loved fishing here. It was a beautiful little lake, it had two big sections with a narrows in between. The far side of the lake had some impressive rock bluffs.

I remember one time when we were hiking in to do some fishing, I was running ahead and had reached the lake before my dad and brother. I took off along the trail that followed the shore. This path led to our favourite fishing hole. It was right at the narrows. Fish travelling from one part of the lake to another had to pass through these narrows. Part way down this trail, there was a small hill, not much higher than 3 or 4 meters. The brush at the top of the hill was pretty thick. I was running up the one side, going full tilt. I was unaware that there was a young black bear, also running up the other side, full tilt. The bear must have heard our sounds echoing on the bluffs on the other side of the lake and was running away from it. We met at the top of this little hill, as we slid to a stop we were nose to nose with just our heads sticking out of the brush. We both took one long look at each other, and then turned, and ran in the opposite direction.

My dad and brother could only see us from the shoulders up. They could not stop laughing at this. On the other hand, I had almost soiled my shorts, and it took me a while to find the humour in the whole affair. It must have looked pretty funny though.

I had a dog when I was 12. His name was Boots, he was a Pomeranian who thought he was a wolfhound. Me and Boots were connected at the hip and I went nowhere without him. He would think nothing of facing off a much bigger dog to protect me. Sometimes he could get aggressive with people he did not like. He had bit a few people. I felt most of them deserved it. But I might have been a bit biased as he was my best friend. One day, boots bit a girl, and she had to get stitches. She had taken a swat at him for barking at her and he caught her finger as it went by. Understandable, her parents were pretty upset. She told them she had only tried to pet him. Perhaps she had, I can’t say for sure. A few days after this, my parents sent me on a trip out to Tahsis to visit my sister Peachy who had recently moved there from Sayward. I asked Mom to please look after Boots while I was gone and she assured me that she would.

I enjoyed the flight in, it was on a Grumman G-21 Goose, which had seating for 8 passengers. It was like a flying boat.  These planes were first put into production in 1937 and they were Grumman’s first commercial airliner. They are still common on our coast. We took off on a runway at the Campbell River Airport, but we landed on the water before driving up a paved ramp for disembarkation in Tahsis. The water outside the window was halfway up the sides of the plane as we landed. It was a very loud and slow plane, and that allowed me to take in the sights.

The island was much larger than I had thought. I observed many lakes and rivers from the plane, each one more enticing than the last. Where there wasn’t water, there were forests of giant trees growing up sides of mountains topped by rocky, snow-covered crags. This primeval forest seemed to go on forever and it was beautiful. This influenced my love of the island backwoods in such a grand way. I would spend my life hiking the backwoods and high country of our incredibly diverse and wondrous island.

After leaving the small Campbell River Airport, we flew up along the center of the island until we reached Woss Lake. Once we were over the logging camp at the community of Woss, we turned left to fly above the lake and onward to Tahsis and the west coast.

Woss Lake is about 11 km long and is set in a narrow valley that is no more than 1 km wide. It is a deep lake. From the west end of Woss Lake, it’s just a short run into the town of Tahsis. In 1995, the southern end of the lake was made into the Woss Lake Provincial Park. This is a total wilderness park where the only access is by trail from Tahsis or by boat on Woss Lake. To hike the trail from Tahsis, you drive up Tahsis road as it follows the Tahsis River until you reach the trailhead, It is only 12 km from there to the lake. Most people go this route and come out the same way.

It was amazingly scenic as we flew between Rugged Mt and Mckelvie Mt, both located in the Haihte Mt Range. The Haithe Mountain range is referred to as Patagonia North. The pass between these mountains is only 500 meters above sea level. You could see the ocean and Tahsis from the mountain pass. I could see it was a beautiful little village. It is located on the west coast of Vancouver Island, at the head of the very long Tahsis inlet. There is a fairly well-maintained gravel road from Gold River that runs into town now, but when I was a boy there was no road, the road from Gold River did not open to the public until 1972. To get there, you either flew in or took the Uchuck Freighter that sailed from Gold River. The Uchuck was a cargo boat that served the communities and logging camps from Gold River to Fair Harbour. Many times I sailed on her as I went to one camp or another.

An interesting fact about this boat was that the Uchuck cargo hold had a rather small opening and when someone wanted to transport a vehicle to Tahsis, it had to fit through this opening. Otherwise, it needed to be barged from Gold River which was not cheap.

There was only one brand of tiny car that fit in the hold that was available in BC. They were tiny German-made cars. There were many of them in town. None had licence plates as the roads were private and there was no way to leave the area. Hell, you did not even need a driver’s licence to operate them. I must admit, I was taken aback by these little bubbles of transportation. I still laugh about them today. The horn on these cars sounded like a circus clown horn.

When you talk to people who live in Tahsis today about these little cars, most have no idea what you are talking about. It’s funny how something so iconic could disappear from the memory of the world. I remember them. I thought they were awesome.

My sister and her husband Pete had found their way here via Sayward. Pete was in culinary school in Vancouver when we first moved to Campbell River. Not long after that, he finished up at school and took a job cooking in the M & B camp located on the shores of Kelsey Bay. It was a big camp and Pete worked his way up to head cook. There were several 3 story bunkhouses where the loggers who came here to work were put up and they all ate in camp. Back in those days, you paid 2.50 a day for room and board and this got you accommodation and food, and when I say food, I mean food. Loggers ate like kings.

As more and more of the loggers began to buy homes in the village being built just back from the bay, and production began to slow, the camp began to wind down. The old bunkhouses are now gone, leaving an empty lot where they once stood and the cookhouse is no more.

In 1966 Pete was offered a job as head chef in the new Delta Chalet in Tahsis. The hotel flew them in and put them up for the night so Pete could decide on accepting the job They saw it was such a pretty little town, and it would be a great place to raise their kids. Pete took the job.

After I arrived in Tahsis, I began exploring the area, at least as much as a 12-year-old kid could. Mind you, I was pretty independent even at that age. There was so much to see, the Liener River estuary was a wonder to behold. I did have a good time. Tahsis is such a beautiful area.

I spent as much time as I could with my sister’s girls, Ronny (the oldest) and Theresa, they were pretty awesome. The youngest was a pretty cool kid, she was so much like me. She was pretty young but as she grew older I remember how she would hop up on my lap and say “When I grow up Uncle Bud, I want to be a hippy just like you”. I lost track of this little one when she was about 10 after my sister and I had a falling out.  Have not seen Theresa for close to 50 years, but I do search for her on occasion. One day I might just find her.

The wildlife in the area was stunning, you could see black bears, cougars, wolves, deer, elk, raccoons, pine martin and mink in spring, summer, and fall. I was enthralled with this abundance. Plus it was awesome to spend some time with my sister and her family.

After a week though I was missing the rest of my family and was very much looking forward to going home. As I got on the plane, I could hardly contain my excitement at the thought of seeing my pup again, I had missed him a lot.

Mom and Dad met me a the airport, and the first words out of my mouth after not seeing my pup were “Where is Boots”. Mom’s face went ashen before she told me that the day I flew out, Boots had leaped out of her arms and ran after the plane, they watched him disappear down the runway. She told me they looked all over for him but he was gone. She told me I should be proud to have had a dog that loved me that much.

It was not until I was 64 yrs old that I had an epiphany about the whole damn thing and realized that she had lied to me. Sending me to Tahsis was the way they could put boots down for biting that girl without my knowledge and my sister was involved. I can’t believe it took me all those years to figure out the truth. I have had many dogs and cats since then, but Boots still holds a special place in my heart. Paradise had become a lonely place.

School was not a place I liked to be, it seemed I was always in trouble, and then I would find myself sitting in the principal’s office waiting to get the strap. For those who do not know what that is, it was a heavy leather strap about 12 inches long, and 3 inches wide, that had a wooden handle. They would make you hold out your hands while they swung it hard numerous times against the palms. Hurt like hell. Never flinched. It always seemed to be one thing or another at school.

One day in grade 4, I was walking out to the backfield. When unknown to me, someone had bounced a super ball onto the school building roof. These balls were made of a very hard rubber with spectacular bouncing ability. One of the boys had climbed up to retrieve it, he threw it hard onto the blacktop below and it went out in a great arc towards the backfield, right towards me. The other kids began yelling at me to run and run I did, not knowing why though, and I ran right into that damn ball, it hit the top of my head with such force that it drove my head into the ground where I received a split lip, bleeding nose and two eyes already turning black. This seemed to be very humorous to the whole damn school. Like I said, I did not much like school.

Never did too well in school, not because I was not smart enough, you see, I stuttered badly. I failed grade one because of this. While In grade one, they sent me to a place in Vancouver to check me out. They thought I might have developmental issues. They ran a series of tests that showed my IQ was above normal.

My stuttering was so bad that the teachers would make fun of me and all the kids would laugh at me. The following year I was tested again with the same results. Yet all through school I did badly. When I was talking to teachers, my stuttering was really bad and you could tell they just wanted to slap me to make it stop. This just made me stutter worse. At home where no one could see me, I would stand in front of a mirror and practice talking without shuttering, I found that by tapping my fingers on my leg and pulling at the material of my pants, I could control the problem. By the end of grade school, I had my stuttering under control and no longer needed to use my finger-tapping. My grades had improved as well. These incidents with teachers did create a problem with a dislike of authority though.

After moving up to junior high, and grade 8, I was in academics but during my first month, I argued with a French class teacher about talking in class. He threw a book at me, with it hitting me in the head. I first thought about his actions and what a dick he was. I then picked up that book and threw it back at him, hitting him in the head as well. This teacher dragged me down the hall and into the office by the scruff of my neck screaming at me, he was brutal, but seeing that book hit him in the head made it all very much worth it. The principal gave me 2 choices, move to the vocational department of the school or leave. So I did a stint as a student in vocational. I learned the basics of carpentry, auto shop and welding skills during this period. These skills were the best schooling I got. I would put them to use many times over the years.

I had one teacher who wanted to see me succeed, but I did not listen to him, his name was Bill Mountain, and he only had one eye, I remember how, when he was talking with you, he would pull it out to polish it. He saw something in me that was not visible to me at the time, I regret not listening to him. I was in the occupational until I had another altercation with a teacher, with the outcome being the teacher needing to get stitched up. They kicked me out of school. At least I was in paradise.

A message from Bud

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