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 Pat, and his wife was Hazel. Pat was the Gatekeeper to the North Island.
Pat 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. This was crucial to how good the fishing was, as 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 up rocks 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 through determination and the momentum of high speed. I sure miss those days of such grand angling crusades with my dad. Sometimes, he was the best dad ever.
One day, Dad bought my brother Howard and me new rods and reels, which 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 we 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 dashboard. 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 Lake.
Up until the 50s, this lake was being used as a booming ground; there were still 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 various 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. A friend’s dad used to run the dump out on the wharf back in the day, so on occasion, we got to hear stories about his job.
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 began, although my older brother Joe worked on one of the last in operation, out in the Port Renfrew area.
Back in the early ’60s, when we met Pat, he was the gatekeeper up at the upper Campbell Lake trestle. If you were travelling on this road between 6 am and 6 pm, you had to get a pass, and it was Pat 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 60s, you either took the logging road that went through the Gold River area 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 impassable; 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 is now 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 the 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 close-up 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 a inital atack crew lead for many years. It truly was a magnificent job.
After we finally arrived in Port Alice, we were hustled into the lobby, where we got to watch Neil Armstrong walk on the moon. The Delta Hotel manager had set up a TV, and everyone gathered around to watch this amazing event. It was July 24th, 1969. All in all. Quite a day for a young man.
Pat would stay in the gatehouse located close to the trestle from 6 am to 6 pm, then head home. He had an old truck that he used to go back and forth with. This was a real 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 to 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, Pat, 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. It was always late when we left Pat and Hazel’s place to head home. I would try to stay awake to see the nighttime wildlife, but hardly ever did.
Pat’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 Pats’ cabin to do some hunting and fishing. This cabin was quite old; it had been built when Pat was a young man. It was like two cabins; there were 2 sections with a deck that was covered by a roof between them. One side was where Pat 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, Howard, went hunting, leaving me alone at the cabin. I was given very specific orders from Dad not to 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 it was stuck in one position, and all I could do was go 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 Pat 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, and later my brother told me that Dad had been very worried about me being out in that boat. He also told me that he, my older brother, was impressed that I had figured out how to get the boat back, which helped cheer me up. I was 10 years old.