Points of Interest by Elwood Clum

Points of Interest Elwood A. Clum

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Copyright © 1976 by Elwood Clum Cover Design: Kevin Watt Typography by Sudden Publishing All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval systems, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. For information visit www.suddenpublishing.com.

ISBN: 978-0-9867277-0-2 Proudly printed in Canada February 2011

S

o until morning we searched for gold in our dreams, somehow it was easier and less complicated that way ...

Elwood A. Clum

Part One We Were Seventy Years Late

Preface

The following story is an account of five people who made a trip to the Klondike gold fields during the summer of 1968. In the early part of 1974, the author has attempted to set down on paper that which he feels may be of interest to those who have not been to this historic place.

The author does not profess to be a writer, raconteur or anything of that sort. Also, the Klondike, and the Yukon country in general, has been written about for decades by some of our best-known historians and novelists. However, most of these stories have to do with days long gone.

What are the Klondike and Bonanza Creek like in these days? How are the roads and Dawson itself? In these present times when gold is such a high price, perhaps many people will become interested in this northern country.

When I first decided to write something about this trip, one big problem presented itself. That, of course, was grammar.

Working at logging and mining since I was 14 years old, one can imagine correct grammar and perfect diction did not figure very big in my scheme of things. So, what led me to believe I could write anything? Well, several things.

First, in many years of being around prospectors, I have listened to some of the most interesting tales that could be imagined, but their manner of delivery would have driven a student of the English language out of his mind.

On the other hand, writers and speakers can perform beyond their audience and defeat the purpose. I’m sure we have all heard of the elderly rancher who went to his first political meeting. When he returned he was asked what he thought of the main speaker.

“Well,” he replied, “I don’t know rightly what he said but he sure used up a fine mess of words.”

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Maybe the vocabulary used in this writing is somewhat limited. But again, why try to use words that merely get in the way? I point out the story of Creation was written in a few simple words which we haven’t felt the need to improve for thousands of years.

It is also important to note my frequent use of the pronoun “we”. I make no apology for this as the entire trip was made on a “we” basis. There was no leader or person in charge.

We made the trip, we helped each other and, finally, we look back on this event as an experience shared together. Why try to describe it any other way?

So, in closing this preface, I would say this to the reader.

If you see an extra adjective, a misplaced preposition or a noun that has escaped entirely, please, pay it no mind. After all, who am I to try and put the critics out of business?

Elwood A. Clum 1913 - 1979

Introduction

It has been over three quarters of a century since the news of the Klondike gold strike burst upon the world. Some say there will never be another single event involving so much treasure and adventure.

In the extreme case, it would be possible to make another gold discovery of equal proportions. However, the circumstances, conditions and methods of travel will never be the same. Today, a gold strike would not be a world event as it was in the late 1890s and modern techniques would make the elements that were engines of hardship, adventure and triumph, unneccesary.

At the mouth of Bonanza Creek in the Yukon Territory, there is a sign that says the area yielded $250 million in gold. At $20 an ounce, that’s about 500 tonnes.

The value of gold tends to be overestimated. The average person having little to do with gold, except in jewelry, has no idea of the actual value of any given amount of placer gold— gold freshly mined from gravel.

Many years ago, when my wife Cecilia and I were placering for river gold, we kept a few small nuggets and some coarse flakes in a small vial. The small amount was worth about $22.50.

The vial was a keepsake for years. We used to ask people to estimate the value of the gold inside. I can’t remember a single instance when the value was underestimated. Instead, people guessed up to $200.

I suspect the adventure and romance often connected with this precious metal makes it seem much more valuable than it really is.

My knowledge of the Klondike came at a very early age.

In 1898, my father was working as a building custodian when

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the northern gold strike became big news. One of the tenants in his building was very interested in the reports coming out of the Yukon.

The gentleman was of an age that prohibits rushing off to the remote corners of the continent, but he was wealthy. He offered my father the necessary funds to take part in the rush to Dawson on two conditions. One, that my father divide the profits fifty-fifty and, two, that he send reports on his progress whenever possible. The later condition was less from a stand point of honesty as it was a way of making the elderly chap part of the adventure.

I remember my father saying this probably would have been one of the few times anyone went to a gold rush by proxy.

Having what he thought was a good job, Dad refused the opportunity to go to the Klondike.

In later years, my father regretted his decision. He said we often fail to realize the chances fate has in store for us because they are so commonplace. After all, who in 1898 could have foreseen that the words “Dawson” and “the Klondike” would be world famous?

My experience at gold panning, or placer mining, began in the summer of 1932. Dad had passed on in 1930 and I was working at a logging camp near Salmo, British Columbia. In the fall of 1931, I was hurt in a logging accident and sent to the hospital in Nelson for treatment and a long period of recovery.

I was released in the spring of 1932 and stayed in Nelson.

I went to live with the McLean family who were kind enough to offer lodging until I could get stronger and get started on some sort of future for myself. I met the McLeans when Harold, the father, was the Caterpillar operator at a camp where I worked a couple of years before.

1932 was the high point of the Great Depression, or maybe it was the low point—depending mostly on how you were getting along. There were few jobs and people who were looking spent a lot of time around the mines. That summer was 42 years ago, but I can recall many things we did and places we visited.

Over the years, I’ve noticed many times a tendency for people to glorify the past, sometimes beyond all reason.

Elwood A. Clum

Personally, I’ve never felt the past was all that good. There wasn’t anything good about huge hospital bills and no employment insurance.

Most people take the good with the bad. Rare is the day, month or year that there’s nothing to be happy or grateful for.

Like the beauty that is the eye of the beholder, we must be in a respective mood to appreciate our lot in life. Take the following incident as an indication of those days in the early 1930s.

One day two young men in the pursuit of trying to make ends meet, saw a large market garden patch of lettuce. Taking the broad view that a few heads wouldn’t be missed, they came back the following night. Arriving home with their booty, one of the culprits gave the bag containing the lettuce to his young wife. When she opened it, she shrieked with laughter. What these two amateur gardeners had mistaken for lettuce were really poppy plants. I can vouch for this story because, like the old phrase goes “I was there”. (In thinking of this incident it occurs to me that anyone growing a large number of poppy plants now would be subject to speculation.)

In 1932, I met Cecil Crossley, a local assayer and metallurgist. At the time, Mr. Crossley was operating a provincial assay office in Nelson. During the fall of 1932, I worked for the Crossleys at their home and came to know them quite well. The following year I obtained employment at a placering operation on Rover Creek a few miles from Nelson. Mr. Crossley was in charge of the plan for development and got me the job. As an indication of those times, I went to work with the understanding that if the proposition turned out to profitable I would get wages. Otherwise, I would only get my keep while I worked.

This was a common arrangement in those days and satisfactory to all concerned. Imagine anyone trying to employ people on that basis today!

We worked on Rover Creek for the most part of the fall of 1932. When the first cleanup came, the results were very meager. I recall getting five or ten dollars. This was expected as I had not seen much evidence of gold since we had started.

I would have drifted on to somewhere sooner, but I had another and far more important reason for staying. During the

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past year I had met and become interested in Mr. Crossley’s eldest daughter, Cecilia. It has often been shown that all treasure need not be golden or even of monetary value. When I look back over the 36 years of being married to Cecilia, I would be among the foremost in agreeing with this sentiment.

George Hyde was our overseer on the Rover Creek project. I didn’t know much about the details of the operation or the people connected with it. I was only there as a workman so it wasn’t my business. This is only mentioned because of a strange coincidence that occurred 35 years later that I’ll get to later in this story.

Cecilia and I married in 1937. The following year we moved from Nelson to the Pend d’Oreille River country. I started work as a blacksmith for the Waneta Gold Mines, but the employment was short. The company soon ran out of funds and closed down the mine.

I had been in this area a couple of years before and saw some old timers placering for gold on the banks of the Pend d’Oreille River. Rather than move back to Nelson, we decided to try placering on the river banks.

We built a cabin and worked the gravel deposits for two years. A conservative estimate of our income would be about $10 a week during the placer season—from high-water around July 1 until just before the freeze up around Christmas.

I‘ve never heard of anyone working frozen ground in this part of the country.

Our income was very small when spread over the whole year, yet for all of that we had plenty to live on and time to enjoy what little we had. Somehow, this latter condition is more important than we sometimes realize. During those hard times, people didn‘t get much gold, but they had time to visit and talk to each other. I remember an old timer who often came down to our diggings to ask if I was hiring any men that day. After a chuckle, we’d sit down and have a chat. Another elderly chap used to call at the house and tell us about what he had obviously been thinking about as he walked along. Sometimes it took a little while to get the drift of his story, but we had lots of time.

The great Winston Churchill might have put it better—never was so little enjoyed so much by so few.

Elwood A. Clum

In the summer of 1941, we moved to the gold mining area of Sheep Creek near Salmo, British Columbia. Cecilia was expecting a little one so it was better to be close to medical services as well as opportunities for increased income. From Sheep Creek we moved to the coast of Vancouver. The gold mines, considered a non-essential industry, were closing down and the shipyards were becoming the big source of employment.

In October of 1941 Cecilia and I were presented with a baby girl. Even after 32 years I can still remember how we felt being told she would not be with us very long. We could not even bring her home from the hospital. In just a few months, we laid our firstborn to rest.

I do not recall saying much about it at that time, but I’m sure Cecilia and I shared the same thoughts during this troublesome time—how our cozy little cabin and the happy carefree times on the Pend d’Oreille seemed so very far away.

In 1942 we returned to the Nelson district where over the next 10 years our children were born. George was born in 1944, Arthur arrived in 1945 and Vayla joined us on a nice cool January morning in 1947. Our family was completed in 1952 when Ben greeted the world, joined by his twin sister, Rosemarie, just 20 minutes later.

In 1953 we purchased a small place on the West Arm of Kootenay Lake opposite Nelson. We lived there for 16 years, leaving in 1969. I consider these 16 years the happiest of our lives. Certainly mine, at least. The children grew up with boats and water games. They had mountains to climb and other outdoor pastimes. We were living next to a city, but weren’t part of it.

However, sooner or later all things must change. So when our children began making longer trips and talking about other places, we knew that the old order must make way for the new.

In 1966, Vayla and John Tulloch, her friend from school days, married. During 1967 Vayla and John presented us with our first grandchild, Melanie. It seems such a short time ago, yet last fall Melanie started school in Quesnel, British Columbia where the Tulloch family live. In 1969, Melanie’s brother

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Christopher was born and made a welcome addition to this happy little family.

January 1968 was the first time we discussed the possibility of going to the Klondike. Sometime before that I had been talking to a mining promoter about Northern BC. The fellow was interested in the country around McLeod Lake on the Hart Highway. While he had been running a survey line through the Nation River area, he found some good-looking placer ground.

That is to say the samples of gravel he panned out yielded some worthwhile colours. However, this had been many years before and he never returned to do anymore investigating.

I mentioned this to our young people and we began to kick the idea around. Arthur wanted to visit a friend at Grand Prairie, Alberta. Rosie also had plans to do some visiting at Burns Lake about 150 miles west of Prince George. In addition to this, none of us had ever seen the Alaska Highway.

We had the perfect setup for this kind of trip—five young people hungry for adventure and one fairly elderly fellow looking for an excuse to be a kid again. It wasn’t long before we decided Dawson City and the Klondike were a must-see. In fact, at one time we considered going clear to Fairbanks, Alaska.

During the spring and early summer of 1968, the planning went on. It’s amusing to reflect on what one encounters when on a quest for information about something you know very little about. For instance, from the amount of supplies and equipment we were advised to take along, one would think we were crossing the Sahara Desert—hand tools, spare parts, extra tires, 15 gallons of extra fuel, a few quarts of oil—just in case.

Emphasis was always placed on the need for insect repellent.

According to our advisors, the mosquito was second only to the timber wolf in making life miserable for the tourists. This mosquito plague turned out to be exaggerated. The only time we had any mosquito problems was at Dawson Creek, British Columbia. That was probably our own fault as we camped near a creek where the ground was damp. Of course, maybe the time of year had something to do with it. As for the extra 15 gallons of gasoline we took—well, it just went along for the ride because we never used any of it.

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Most of our concerns for trouble with our transportation was eliminated by John driving a late model car. To take a vehicle in poor shape on such a long trip would be to invite disaster.

As it turned out, we only had two flat tires on the whole trip of more than 4,000 miles and no other car troubles despite half the trip being made over gravel roads. I’m sure many of us elderly people have forgotten how tiresome the constant drumming of gravel and small stones can get. After a couple of days this sort of noise can get highly unnecessary. Just shows how thousands of miles of pavement has spoiled us.

Our date for departure was set for July 14, 1968. The overall plan was something like this: Rosie would accompany us as far as Prince George where she would meet Sheila Geunter and together these two would take the bus west from Prince George to Burns Lake. Arthur would go with us to the Klondike and on our way back he would leave us at Dawson Creek. From Dawson Creek he would go southeast to Grand Prairie, Alberta.

We would then drive on to Prince George where Rosie would rejoin us bringing Sheila to visit for a few days at our home in Nelson.

I would be less than honest if I said I didn’t have second thoughts about a trip like this. As a matter of fact, it was much worse than that. During the planning of this holiday, I often wondered just what trick of fate had caused me to become involved. In fact, speculating on what might or could happen, got positively unnerving. Yet, to try and cancel such a holiday would be unthinkable.

My position as father and father-in-law was heavy with responsibility. At the same time I knew that if some accident happened, these young people would be the last to hold me responsible. However, as every older person knows, it’s what we must blame ourselves for that really matters. Happily though, nothing occurred to mar our enjoyment throughout the entire trip. I had only one twinge of fear or maybe uneasiness which I will explain later.

On the evening of July 13, 1968 we had a party for John and Melanie’s birthdays. This was Saturday, so we sang and told stories and enjoyed ourselves until a late hour. The next

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morning, John, Vayla and the baby were over to pick us up and the “Trail of ‘68”, as we called it, would get underway. Vayla snapped our picture as the six of us stood by the car. After a round of goodbyes to those who were staying behind, we were off on our trip we had planned since the previous winter. Our record of the trip shows we started at 7:03 a.m. on July 14. From now on we will refer to this record book as “the Log” even though we were strictly dry land sailors. It’s easier that way.

Day One

July 14, 1968—We drove from Nelson to Castlegar and then went over the Blueberry-Paulson cutoff to Cascade and Grand Forks. Castlegar is about 25 miles from Nelson.

The Kootenay River joins the much larger Columbia River at Castlegar. Also, this is where the Columbia flows out of the Arrow Lakes to resume its course south. The High Arrow Dam, for flood control, is at Robson, a short way upstream from where the highway crosses the Columbia at Castlegar. In a way, the Columbia and Kootenay Rivers are rather opposites.

While the large Columbia River flows in a sort of loop north, the Kootenay runs south into the United States before returning north to Canada. At one place in the Windermere District, the Kootenay River flows within a short distance of Columbia Lake which is the source of the Columbia River. In fact, back in the late part of the last century, an English engineer by the name of Baillie-Grohman constructed a water way for boats between the Kootenay River and Columbia Lake. This is why the East Kootenay village of Canal Flats is so named. However, only a few trips were made across this passage before the coming of the railroad made much of this water travel impractical.

The Log shows we ran over a small possum or some such kind of animal. Of course we regretted the incident but it couldn’t be helped as John managed to miss it with the car but the trailer did the damage. I remember feeling rather odd about this misfortune. While I have never permitted myself to become concerned with superstitious beliefs, I felt a kind of uneasiness for a few moments. I’ve often thought that maybe we do still have a trace of that ancient type of ‘thing’ that education and civilization hasn’t quite stamped out.

In a short while we were over the summit and going through the country near the old city of Cascade. Cascade City

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had been the landing place for much of the supplies that were shipped from the United States to the north. This, plus the local land sales boom, transformed the town of some 1,000 people into a very active settlement. All of this took place about 1898.

The Canadian Pacific Railway also gave notice of their intentions to build a smelter to serve the boundary mining industry. As it turned out, the CPR bought the property of Augustus Heinze at Trail Creek Landing and Cascade City was doomed. Today, all the tourist sees as he passes by is a motel or two and a few houses. Christina Lake nearby has become quite well known as a summer camping area and a few people from district cities and towns have summer homes along the quiet shores.

From Cascade, the highway goes along the railroad to Grand Forks. I had been by that way many times during the past 20 years. Each time I pass along this way I find myself sort of reliving the past in nostalgic reflection.

Back in 1931, when I was 18, I was laid off and went to Nelson to see if I could find work. There were no jobs so I decided to do a little travelling. I had often talked to other fellows who had rode “the freight”. It seemed like a lot of fun and adventure, so I hopped on a freight train out of Nelson and was on my way to the Coast or wherever.

There were about 50 of us bums on this freight train. I include myself because I was now a knight of the open road. We pulled into Grand Forks in the late evening. At once, many of the other fellows disembarked and started knocking on residents’ doors for handouts. I had a little money, so I sneaked into a café and bought a meal. Not that I was any better than those other chaps, I just didn’t have the courage to ask a housewife for food. This bumming business might sound good in a song, but in reality, it’s not funny.

That night I slept under an old building in West Grand Forks and the next day I caught a train back to Nelson. Even the trip back wasn’t very pleasant and could have been fatal. About seven or eight of us got on a passenger engine ride to Nelson. We were riding on the tender and coal car. It sounds unbelievable now, but that’s exactly how we got back to Nelson. The train

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stopped at a little station just before arriving at Nelson. There we were told that the B.C. police were searching the railroad yards. There had been a shooting near Nelson. We were advised to jump off the train before entering the yard. I hate to think how I carried out this suggestion. When I saw the yard lights, I just jumped. I doubt anyone could do this when the train was standing still, never mind a train making fair speed.

I picked myself up, skirted around the yards and station and limped up town. I rented a cheap bed for a few days then found job cutting cordwood and sawing logs until I got hurt.

Thus ended the brief career of Hobo Clum, the railroad bum.

Somehow the romance, freedom and adventure had faded away in just two long days.

Nearly 20 years later, I had another experience along this same part of the country. I was travelling with a mining man just after New Years. We were riding in a Jeep and the road was icy. About half way between Cascade and Grand Forks we stopped to pick up a couple of woodcutters. They loaded the tools there were carrying—axes, saws, hammers—into the Jeep, then climbed in and we resumed our way to Grand Forks. We had not gone more than a mile when the Jeep suddenly spun in the road and came to a stop on the edge of a steep drop into the Kettle River. I would have jumped out to give the driver a chance for himself, but I just couldn’t. An hour or so before, I had wrapped my feet and legs in a heavy blanket to keep them warmer.

We eventually got out and looked down in the river without saying much. Suddenly, our passengers piled out and unloaded their tools. A telephone repair crew came along and helped to put the Jeep back on the road. No harm was done and we told our woodcutters to get back in.

No way!

I wouldn’t repeat what they said but it was to the effect that nearly having met their Maker once, they weren’t prepared to repeat the experiment. They were not really to be blamed.

After all, the prospect of being thrown into an ice-coated river in January is not a sedative. To this day, when I travel along this part of the valley, I become somewhat apprehensive.

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Returning to the Log, I see we arrived in Grand Forks at 8:33 a.m. about one and a half hours travel time from Nelson.

Years ago, much more time would be needed to travel over the old Cascade route between Rossland and Grand Forks.

When first settled, Grand Forks was called Grand Prairie. Why anybody would consider this prairie country isn’t obvious. I suppose, after making their way through the mountains most any flat area looked like prairie country. By the time it was incorporated in 1897, the name had been changed to Grand Forks. Likely because the Grandby River joins the larger Kettle River at this place.

In the early 20th century a smelter was built at Grand Forks to treat the ore from the district mines. The Grandby Company’s mine at Phoenix, a few miles west, was the principle shipper to this smelter. Even a few years ago, the forest and vegetation had still not fully recovered from the effects of the operation. As is generally known, the fumes and smoke from these smelter furnaces will completely destroy any green growth over a period of years. As an example of this, when I first visited Trail in the late 20s, the whole valley was a disaster area as far as green vegetation was concerned. Since then, the smelter operators have been using the smoke for chemical products and now, being relieved of the poisonous fumes, nature is returning the green blanket to the hillsides at Trail.

The mining and smelting industry closed down around Grand Forks at the end of The Great War about 1919.

In the ordinary way of these things, Grand Forks would have taken its place among the deserted and crumbling ghost towns. However, being a junction at the forks of a large river and aided by the railroad trade and a number of people who took up the land, this little city never passed on.

We drove through the streets and out in the western residential section and I remember looking up at the mountains flanking each side of the Grandby River. If we were travelling by railroad we would have seen the Volcanic Mountains or, to be more specific, the dream of Volcanic Brown.

Brown was a prospector and a sort of character. When he saw this iron-capped mountain, he had visions of becoming

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rich beyond measure. One of his boasts was that he would make enough money to pay off the United State’s national debt. Just how he became responsible for this huge undertaking was never explained. Even in those uncomplicated times, not everything was made perfectly clear.

Leaving the Kettle River, the highway goes north up July Creek. Near this creek we saw a few two-storey, rather square, brick buildings. Maybe they are gone now but a few years ago I read where some effort was going to be made to restore these dwellings.

The buildings themselves were nothing exceptional, but the people who built them certainly were. They came from Russia to Canada in 1899. After settling in eastern and central Canada for a few years, some of them came to Grand Forks in 1909 and 1910. These Russian immigrants were known as the Doukhobors.

The Doukhobor people were non-violent; that is, in the beginning. Their religion was pacific nature and they didn’t believe in taking life of either man or beast and were vegetarians.

Their ability to raise crops was exceptional. For the most part, their religion or faith seemed to be merely a fabric to weave a kind of passive social anarchy. The Doukhobor leaders often professed friendship and cooperation with the government and police, but it was a farce. They protested any payment of land or school tax and their children were not encouraged to attend public schools for fear of being contaminated by the Canadian way of life.

Their first leader was killed in a railway passenger car explosion near Farron, BC in 1924. The crime was never solved.

Several other people also lost their lives in the same explosion.

The leader had been known as Peter (The Lordly) Verigin. After a few years, another leader came over from Russia, but his conduct lead to his death before he could be deported.

By the 1930s and 1940s, the Doukhobor people had split into two sects. The larger group was referred to as the “Orthodox Doukhobors” in Canada while the splinter portion was “The Sons of Freedom”. The orthodox group adapted, for the most part, to the Canadian way of life. But The Sons

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of Freedom or “Freedomites” turned to rebellion against the government and even the other Doukhobors groups. Hundreds of Freedomites were jailed at various times and three or four young Freedomites lost their lives by the premature explosion of homemade bombs.

In retrospect, these people were doomed to a hard and spare life. Changing times and disunity was their downfall. Even now there’s a slight ripple of Doukhobor protest that mars the serenity of life around Grand Forks and the nearby Kootenay district. These instances are fast fading into the lengthening shadows of history. Soon all that will remain of this troubled band of immigrants will be the ruins of their brick community houses and the tomb of Peter the Lordly.

Today we see and hear about many of our young people becoming vegetarians and living in community groups as if the idea is new. We can only hope that they find more happiness than the Doukhobors.

As the highway follows the course of July Creek, we headed for Eholt on the summit. A few years ago during the winter of 1947/48 my family and I lived in a road-side house along this highway near the upper end of July Creek. We had moved from Jewel Lake above Eholt where we had been cutting timber during the previous summer. One evening while walking home, I was offered a lift by a passing motorist. After getting in, I recognized the driver as the local undertaker from Grand Forks. Yes, I was riding in the vehicle belonging to his business.

I got off at our place, went into the house and Cecilia asked how I was. I replied that I was not at all bad considering I had come home in a hearse. I seem to recall this attempt at levity did not go to well with Cecilia.

We left July Creek and within a few miles came to Eholt on the way to Greenwood. Along the old town on the west side there’s a meadow with the remains of two or three frame buildings. Many years before on a sultry August afternoon, I shod a team of horses in those buildings. Although the team of horses had been shod many times and gave me excellent cooperation, the work left me completely exhausted. All things considered, we had a good summer that year and I always think of it when going by this way.

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At one time Eholt was quite a place for the railroad people. When the mining town of Phoenix was going full capacity, the CPR built a line into the mining centre to ship the ore out of the smelters.

Phoenix is situated south of Eholt at a much higher elevation. In its day, this town was the highest incorporated community in Canada. However, about 1920 all of this activity and prosperity came to an end. The price of copper dropped and Phoenix died. When I was at the old town site about four years ago, there seemed to be some reactivation going on. In some vague way, I was reminded of the bird of mythology from which this ghost town took its name. Would the Phoenix rise again from its own ashes?

As I walked down the path from the lookout point, I passed a large war memorial dedicated to the fallen locals of World War One. Unlike other memorials across the land, there were no names of World War Two soldiers on this stone because there were none. The memorial seemed so dignified and peaceful, yet so alone.

As we continued our way, we came to the old town of Greenwood. It is a rather strange fact, but some places like Greenwood survive without having much obvious support.

A bit of this and dash of that plus a lot of faith seems to do what amounts to the impossible. In the case of Greenwood, small logging operations took over from the mines. At the 1947 Labour Day celebrations, I was amazed at the amount of people that attended the sports and outdoor games in Greenwood.

Greenwood still has a few government offices and other services which add to the stability of the economy. The Court House is a very old building where the Supreme Court of Canada once sat.

At the beginning of this century, a smelter was built in Greenwood. Traces of this and another smelter three miles away at Boundry Falls are still evident. All of these developments were brought in within a few years of each other. We can only marvel at the optimism that prevailed at this time. The country could use some of it today.

Questions have often been asked about these bygone days. Are the mines all worked out? If not, why have the smaller

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operations been abandoned in favour of the larger mineral deposits? Having been around mining people for a number of years, I would say at least two reasons exist for this obvious change. In the beginning it would seem that the period of time between 1875 and 1925 was the hayday of mining in southern BC. I mean that those were the days that investors got involved both for monetary profit and personal reasons. In those days, it was said in England that anyone who owned or had a share in a BC gold mine was quite somebody, so to speak. In short, investors were far more involved perhaps because they felt more of a personal adventure. The second reason would be that mining techniques today do not lend themselves very well to the small mine. Although the values in a large operation are usually much lower, the vast amount of material processed far more than makes up for the lower value. So the small showing or mine has been left to the prospector or very small operator both who seem to have numbered days in the industry.

After passing through the area of hard rock mining, we went on to Midway and Rock Creek. Between Midway and Rock Creek we rejoined the Kettle River that we left in Grand Forks. After crossing the river we arrived at Rock Creek.

Rock Creek had a short time of renown in 1860. Most of the small creeks around this area carry placer gold of various values per gravel cubic yard. Large nuggets were claimed to have been recovered on both Rock Creek and its main tributary, McKinny Creek. However, this 1860 interest only lasted two or three years and after that, activity on these creeks was sporadic.

In mentioning McKinny Creek, there is a story of buried gold bars that I understand still lures treasure hunters every so often.

In view of the present high price of gold, this story may be of interest.

In 1896, McKinny Creek was the scene of a hard rock mine and mill that shipped crude gold bars to the US two or three times a month. In the latter part of the summer of that year, one of the shipments was robbed while en route to the railroad station at Midway. The man in charge of the gold bars that where stolen was one of the owners of the mine. After a few days, an unsigned letter was received at the mine office.

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This letter suggested that an employee of the mine, Matthew Roderick, should be questioned about possible knowledge of the robbery. However, it was quickly learned that Roderick had left the mine and disappeared. He was finally located across the border in Washington State. The American police were asked to keep Roderick under observation and report his moves to the Canadian authorities. A couple of months later a report came from the US that Roderick had obtained a horse and was about to cross the border near the vicinity of Camp McKinny. It was obviously considered that Roderick had committed the robbery and was returning to recover the stolen gold bars which he had doubtless hidden by burying. Arrangements were made by the BC police to keep the suspected bandit under close observation until, it was hoped, he would pick up the gold.

Roderick hadn’t been arrested because no actual evidence connected him to the crime. Also, if the bandit was arrested and even convicted, he could still refuse to divulge the hiding place of the gold: two brickes with a combined value of about $10,000.

One night Roderick was spotted travelling on horseback by local police posted at a lookout near the road to the mine.

He was later shot in the chest and killed instantly by one of two men who ambushed him. The man who shot Roderick proved to be the mine manager who, with a companion, was waiting for Roderick to come along. During the investigation that followed, the mine manager said he had planned to take Roderick into custody and question him. He said he shot Roderick out of self defence. According to the reports, nothing more was done to investigate the shooting.

Over the years, I’ve read several accounts of the shooting. The stories are similar, except for slight variations which is expected. Three or four questions always seem to be suggested in the accounts. One, why did the mine official wish to take Roderick into custody on his own responsibility? He would have had to make a citizens’ arrest. Also, at this time the suspected man was not sought by the police, he was merely under observation. At $16 per ounce, the $10,000 pair of gold bars would only weigh 50 pounds. Why then, did Roderick run the

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risk of attracting attention by bringing a horse? Would Roderick actually plan to recover the stolen shipment, place the bars in his saddle bags and calmly ride of out of the country? Such a bold method would seem unlikely. Also, why did Roderick not take his loot with him when he left the first time? Apparently, he did not leave the mine until a few days after the robbery.

What if a robbery involving a holdup really did take place. Was Roderick returning for another reason? Perhaps he returned to demand his share for services carried out.

In the usual way of these incidents, it would have been forgotten long ago, but hopeful treasure seekers have spent their leisure time looking for the lost gold of Camp McKinny.

However, if this robbery was an inside job, then the treasure might not be buried at all. If, on the other hand, it is buried in the area of McKinny Creek, the value of those two gold bars is about $75,000. And even if one doesn’t find the treasure, walking out in the fresh air and getting better acquainted with nature is not a bad way to spend a holiday.

From Rock Creek the highway goes up and over Anarchist Mountain. This is a side-hill ranching area which has been ranched for some years. Across the valley to the south we saw more ranches high up in the small creek regions.

We passed through Bridesville, a little community just off the main highway. Before we started the trip at Nelson, we wondered if Bridesville was on any railroad line. It is not.

Going over the top of Anarchist Mountain, the highway literally plunges down the other side to Osoyoos Lake. We arrive at the town of Osoyoos at 10:23 a.m.

This vicinity has a very high temperature in the summer.

I’m not sure, but Osoyoos could be the hottest place in Canada.

There are reports of some readings being taken as high as 120 degrees celsius. Although other places in Canada are further south, this area seems to be the north end of a desert coming up from Washington. The landscape is very desert-like in appearance.

Quite a bit of fruit is grown around this part of the Okanagan. It has always been my personal view that this fruit, grown in this dry arid country, lacks considerably in the way of

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flavour. Warm climate doesn’t always signify that everything can be produced there. I’m sure my personal views will have little effect on the progress of this pretty little town by the lake.

We left Osoyoos and proceeded over the Richter Pass to Princeton. Along the way we passed through Cawston and Keremeos. In the early days, small gold placering operations were worked along the Similkameen River. At one time a railroad ran up to the Keromeos district from the south, probably the Great Northern. We saw remnant buildings of old hard rock mines at Hedley before entering Princeton. At one time Princeton was known as Vermillion Forks. Just what prompted this name, I have no idea. Princeton is situated near a small but diversified part of the district—at least in earlier times. A few miles south is Copper Mountain. The mine at Copper Mountain produced a great deal of wealth over many years. One of the first men involved in staking the original claims was Volcanic Brown.

According to history, this old prospector did rather well out of his share of the Copper Mountain claims. Some writers say he was last seen prospecting around this area. Some say that’s not true. Volcanic Brown was last known to be travelling to the Pitt Lake region near Vancouver. It has always been assumed that he was seeking the lost mine of Slumack.

The Slumack legend was built up from the supposed circumstances of Slumack, a renegade Indian, who was thought to have a very valuable gold deposit from which he brought out sackfuls of nuggets whenever he wished. Unfortunately for Slumack, his mining career was cut somewhat short by being hanged for murder. This all took place a long time ago; so it’s impossible to say what really happened.

To the west of Princeton is the Tulameen River Valley.

This valley had coal deposits, gold placer diggings and even rare platinum showings. In fact, the Tulameen Country and one place in Russia are the only places that this metal has been recovered in such a fashion. This may well have changed in more modern times. There was a railroad running through this country when the coal mines were operating. I rode on it to Vancouver when I was a young man.

We stopped for lunch at Princeton at 11:49 a.m. Up until then we had not accomplished much in travelling north.

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Princeton is actually closer to the southern border of BC than Nelson. However, upon leaving Princeton, we turned north and made that our general direction for the next 2,000 miles. John drove this distance in slightly over four days.

The next small roadside settlement had the rather poetic sounding name of Aspen Grove. Although this place is a nice looking spot, it has a story which I think may be of general interest.

About 1901, a tall, quiet gentle type of fellow came into the Aspen Grove locality and took up a small ranch. Very soon this newcomer become very popular and well-liked among the local residents. His name was George Edwards and he was a very good old-time fiddler, dancer and even taught Sunday School. Edwards could always be counted on to help a worthy cause. There seemed to be no end to his virtues.

In reality, George Edwards was an American by the name of Bill Miner. Miner was a well-known bandit and even added train robbery to his long list of social sins. Some stories say he was a wanted man, others don’t seem to agree. At any rate, he lived a model and blameless life. Perhaps the old call of adventure became too much or maybe he thought he would have one final triumph. After making plans with two close friends, they decided to hold up the CPR passenger train at Ducks, a few miles east of Kamloops. On a bright night in May 1906, they stopped the train as planned. They had got a tip-off that a gold shipment from some of the mines would be in the express car. But, from there on, the whole operation went like an episode from the “Keystone Kops”.

The bandits cut the engine and the express car loose from the train and ran it up the tracks to where their partner was waiting with horses. Only then did they discover that this was the wrong car. It was too late to go back for the real express car with the gold shipment and other money in it. By this time, two of the horses had broken loose and disappeared. So the three luckless bandits had to try and make their getaway with one horse. I suppose that even train robbers have those kinds of days.

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Needless to say, with transportation like this, these fellows were soon caught and jailed. Bill Miner received a life sentence, but his stay in BC was short. The following year he escaped and made his way back south. His somewhat informal leaving touched off a political “brew-how� that reached all the way to Ottawa. Also, a lot of his friends around the Nicola Valley began referring to him as the Robin Hood of the West, as he never robbed the poor. I would venture to say that even the original Robin Hood found that robbing the poor was a very impractical business.

Canadian trains have been robbed since, but I believe that Bill Miner was the first and only man to ever use a western movie traditional way of doing it, even if he did mess up the script a little. Another thing, when Miner held up the train at Ducks he was 60 years old. Truly, the age of discretion visits some of us rather late, if at all.

As we left Aspen Grove, we turned toward Merritt in the Nicola Valley which we reached at 1:25 p.m.

The Nicola Valley district is dry and suitable for cattle raising. In later trips around these parts, I remember seeing quite a few small graveyards, also, many old used car dumps.

All in all, it would seem to be a hard country on both men and machinery. Being a green mountain man, I was not unduly impressed by this humid area. Let me add, anyone who has spent their life or even a few years in this country probably thinks much different and rightly so. I might mention one of the stories that forms a part of this local history.

About 1820, Donald McLean (or MacLean) came out to these parts working for the Hudson Bay Company. Almost at once, McLean established himself as a rough and violent man.

In the course of many years, his native wives presented him with many children. History is a little sketchy of this but it appears that three of these offspring were Allan, Charlie and Archie.

During 1879 Allan and Charlie were in their 20s and Archie was just 15. These three young men or two men and one boy, capped off a couple of years of trouble by killing Johnny Uasher of the Provincial Police. At once a posse was formed at Kamloops and the hunt was on for what came to known as

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“The Wild McLeans”. The three McLeans and one other young fellow were cornered and captured near Douglas Lake. Oddly enough, 25 years later, Bill Miner whom we have just described, was taken into custody near this same lake.

The McLeans were taken to the coast and tried in court, convicted and hanged for the murder of the policeman. Archie McLean has been credited with killing Uasher when he was 15 years old. Yet, the same Archie McLean is quite clearly referred to as being the only 15-year-old to ever pay the supreme penalty.

Many years later there seemed to be a strange footnote to this tragic story. In the early part of this century, George McLean, son of outlaw Allan McLean, arrived in Kamloops one day to be greeted and welcomed by the townspeople in joyous celebration. It seems he was being honoured for killing 19 people all by himself. There is an old saying that circumstances alter cases. I would imagine that such a case was this. While the earlier McLeans had committed their crime in the Nicola Country, George McLean had performed his duty at Vimy Ridge.

It would be a great mistake to leave an impression with the people elsewhere that this area is a place of violence and infamy. By no means! These were two incidents, and even they were 25 years apart. I am sure that it would require several volumes to record all of the deeds and acts of kindness, self sacrifice and good fellowship that has taken place in the Nicola and Kamloops country. But, in the usual way of human or social development, we do not place much importance on such things in a historical way. Perhaps it was all summed up by William Shakespeare hundreds of years ago when he said, “The Evil that man does lives after him while the good is oft interred with his bones”.

On to Spences Bridge where we arrived at 2:17 p.m. to cross the Thompson River and join the Great North Road. I use the term Great North Road because that is what it was known as when first built. In modern times this passage northwards has been greatly developed and changed to the Cariboo Highway.

In the beginning, it was obvious that a better way was necessary to speed up traffic to the gold fields at Barkerville. The original

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route had been by way of Harrison, Lillooet, Anderson and Seton lakes. This was a long, hard trail with many portages. So a road was surveyed and built from Yale on the Fraser River to Barkerville in the Cariboo district. Everyone, from Royal Army Engineers to prospectors, helped bring the road north. Going through the Fraser Canyon seemed to be the biggest problem as it still is today.

After the road was put through (rough as it was), packing started with just about everything imaginable. For instance, this was probably about the only time that camels were used in Canada for this purpose. However, these beasts were not a success. Because oxen, mules and horses would go into panic at the sight or smell of camels, they were soon turned loose and abandoned. As late as 1902, one or two of these “ships of the desert” were still sighted around Kamloops. The road was first opened and used in the early 1860s.

We made good time along this highway and arrived at Cache Creek at 2:50 p.m. Further on, Clinton came into view at 3:20 p.m. Near Clinton is a small creek called Scotty Creek. There is a rather unusual tale about placer mining on this stream.

One old man seemed to be getting gold, but no one else could find any. This old chap was very secretive about his digging and would allow no witnesses to any of his cleanups.

Finally, the police became curious about this situation and examined one of the old fellow’s gold shipments. This shipment proved to contain several different shades of gold.

Placer gold often differs slightly from being mined in different places. This is caused in part by the slightly different amounts of metal that the gold contains. Of course, placer gold as taken from the gravel is not pure. In other words, gold from various places has various impurities which tend to alter its appearance which can be detected on close inspection by an experienced person.

The old chap was arrested and convicted of being the bandit that had held up the local stage and made off with a fairly large shipment of gold. He was given five years in prison at the coast but escaped in two years. In fact, it would seem that in those turn-of-the-century times, the prison at the coast was merely a temporary sort of lodging place until a prisoner could

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think of a more suitable place to go. It was a rather unusual story, as we said. How often does a placer miner take along his own gold? Or maybe in this instance, someone else’s!

The next place we passed was 100 Mile House at 4:15 p.m., then Lac La Hache at 4:48 p.m. and into the larger town of Williams Lake at 5:30 p.m.

According to the long-time residents in the Cariboo country, little change has taken place over the years except that of normal build up. The biggest event around those parts was the large realty complex of Block Brothers at 108 Mile just a few miles north from 100 Mile House. Having its own airport and many other conveniences, the complex is large, beautiful and very expensive. You can’t even buy land there and really call it your own with the many regulations and conditions of sale.

Williams Lake is sort of ranchers’ headquarters and in recent years has grown because of the forestry industry. We ate a meal there and looked the town over. Arthur was the only one of us that had been there before. As I think of it now, it all turned out rather strangely as far as Williams Lake was concerned.

When we made this trip, no one in our party had any idea of ever seeing it again except on our return trip home. Yet, within a year, John, Vayla and Melanie as well as Cecilia, Ben, Rosemarie and myself would all move there to live.

After calling at the home of some friends, we once more turned the car northward. We were tired and decided that at the first suitable campground we would pull over for the night. Kitsul’s Camp looked inviting, so we drove in, made the arrangements and parked the car and trailer for the night. We had travelled 528 miles that day.

After a late snack we sat around and sang a few songs accompanied by George with his guitar. The day had been a long one and gentle Morpheus was rapidly taking over. What better way to end the day than to borrow a line from the diary of Samuel Pepps: “And so to bed”.

Day Two

July 15, 1968—It was raining at Kitsul’s Camp when we arose at 7:30 a.m. After a breakfast of bacon and eggs, we struck camp and left at 8:25 a.m. The highway from our camping place to Quesnel was very good and the clock showed 9:25 a.m. when we went through town. Again as I write this in early 1974, I cannot help but notice how unusual fate is sometimes. Last year, Cecilia and I spent a very nice holiday with Vayla and John and their family in Quesnel. John is now with the Quesnel branch of Finning Tractor Ltd. This town or little city was first settled in the gold rush days of Barkerville. I believe Quesnel was the name of one of Simon Fraser’s voyagers. In those days the name was spelled Quesnelle. Just north of the city is where the Wells and Barkerville road turns off from the main highway.

At 10:45 a.m. we drove into Prince George. Prince George is the largest of the interior cities. People in the southern part of BC are inclined to think Prince George is way up north.

Actually, it is more to the center of the province. Lumber and pulp mill products form a large part of the industries around here. Also, Prince George is the supply base for a very wide and rapidly developing area. This area extends east and west as well as north. In fact, the volume of goods and raw materials coming from this area is so great that a shortage of railroad cars has been a problem for sometime. In the vicinity of Prince George is where the Fraser River turns to flow south.

We met Sheila Geunter in Prince George and Rosie left us to go to Sheila’s home at Burns Lake. John met some friends and we had dinner at the Simon Fraser Hotel. After that, the five us, George, Arthur, John, Ben and myself left for our next over-night stop at Dawson Creek.

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As I recall, the road from Prince George to Dawson Creek was very good. Maybe not quite as much room as the mountain regions but still quite good. We stopped for a snack at Halfway Lodge in Pine Pass at 3 p.m. By 4:32 p.m. we were passing through Chetwynd. At 5:15 p.m. the road ran straight for 12 and a half miles which is unusual in most of interior BC.

At 6 p.m. we checked in at Paulson’s Campground in Dawson Creek. The log book showed 386 miles since we left Kitsul’s Campground. As many people know, Dawson Creek is nearly on the eastern border of BC. Mile 0 of the Alaska Highway is also in Dawson Creek.

Once again, as I write this, I reflect on the vagaries of life.

Ben now lives and works in Dawson Creek. He is with Interior Brokers Ltd. As it turned out, this trip seemed to be a preview of the country for both John and Ben.

Both Dawson Creek and Prince George are linked on the coast by the Pacific Great Eastern Railway. This rail line is now called the British Columbia Railway. In the last few years, this rail line has been extended north from Dawson Creek to Fort St. John and then on to Fort Nelson. There is also a railroad running into Dawson Creek from the Alberta side.

The country around this city is quite nice. While it is not really wood land, it couldn’t be called prairie country, either.

I have passed through Dawson Creek several times and have always been impressed by their bus station. The size of a town has nothing to do with the quality of its bus station. I have seen bus stations in large cities that were a public disgrace. Without a doubt, Dawson Creek has the finest bus terminal I have ever seen.

The Alaska Highway beckoned us for day three. I read one time where one of the workmen on this huge project described the country through which he worked as, “just miles and miles of more miles and miles”.

Day Three

July 16, 1968—The third morning of our trip found us at Mile 0 of the Alaska or Alcan Highway. The Americans didn’t start building the road to Alaska right from the center of Dawson Creek. Ranchers and other settlers were living even beyond Fort St. John which is about 47 miles northwest of Mile 0. The highway would never have been built except for the Second World War. Certainly, the political groups that would have been dealing over this type of undertaking would have never resolved anything on a peace-time basis, at least not in this century. But, as can easily be seen, the US needed a back door to Alaska and this highway was the answer.

We crossed the Peace River a short time after leaving Dawson Creek. West of the highway on the Peace River near Hudson Hope is where the large W.A.C. Bennett power dam is built. When this project was first planned and then carried out, the BC opposition block made a huge outcry about wild and wanton spending of public money on such a remote and impractical venture. Today, to even suggest that we could do without the Peace River Dam would be unthinkable. How fortunate that we have men of vision in our midst.

Having departed from Dawson Creek at 8:50 a.m., we arrived in Fort St. John at 9:55 a.m. The pavement ends at Mile 83.6, but this was 1968. Perhaps the surfaced road goes much further now. Along this part of the country there are signs of oil and gas wells. The odor of burning natural gas is in the air.

The little settlement of Wonowon was next at Mile 101.

The Baton and Buckinghorse rivers after that. After crossing these two rivers we pulled into Mile 200 and Trutch Mountain for lunch at 1:10 p.m. I recall going into the eating place there and one of the boys selected a record on the jukebox. However,

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he punched the wrong key so instead of dance or country music, we sat and listened to the Lord’s Prayer. But, no problem! What’s wrong with being devout once in a while?

In the next 50 miles we crossed the Beaver, Bougie, Adsetl, Martin and Prophet rivers. The town of Prophet River came up at 2:52 p.m. Somewhere around here we stopped on a rise in the highway and got out to stretch our legs and smoke.

Looking toward the west we could see for at least 150 miles. The entire Fraser Valley would be small compared to this. Streams could be seen and countless square miles of green forest as well as grazing land. The “cold north” is always given as a reason why this land wasn’t put to use. Yet, my father lived and worked in the Dakotas where the temperature fell to nearly 60 below zero on open country. The nation just doesn’t seem to be in the mood for this sort of pioneering, simple as that!

Next came Parker Creek and then Big Beaver Creek. We passed an oil refinery or some sort of plant at Mile 285. After crossing the Muskwa River, we came into Fort Nelson at 4:12 p.m., Mile 299. Leaving Fort Nelson after having a snack, the highway crossed five more creeks during the next hundred miles.

When I was travelling around the Cariboo district, I sometimes wished some of the northern BC water was down there. The rivers that we crossed after leaving Fort Nelson were Raspberry Creek, Klado River, Steamboat Creek and the Tetsa River, twice.

We crossed the highest part of the Alaska Highway at Summit Lake. Time was 6:55 p.m. and the elevation was posted at 4,250 feet at Mile 392. During the next 50 miles we crossed eight more creeks and rivers. What a place for water! The bridges that we crossed were over—113 Creek. 115 Creek, McDonald Creek and Stringer Creek. Then Racing River, 150 Creek, Toad River and finally Peterson Creek. In stating that we crossed bridges over these last waterways doesn’t mean that the other creeks and rivers didn’t have bridges. I merely used different words as frankly, I’m getting a little tired of writing about crossing creeks and rivers. Also, the reader is probably getting bored with reading about it. So it’s anything for a change.

After Peterson Creek we stopped at the Village Campground for the night. I think we were more tired than

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we had been for the last two nights. After a light supper, some of us walked around for a few minutes and then put up the tent and turned in. Perhaps the long ride on the gravel road had been tiring. The dust problem was quite bad. As John said, “When you drive past one of those big trucks you just hope for three or four seconds you’re still on the road.” We noticed signs every few miles—HEADLIGHTS ON AT ALL TIMES. Nothing unfortunate happened and the coming darkness found us seeking that sleepy solace that only nature seems to understand.

Day Four

July 17, 1968—After staying at the Village Campground overnight, we struck the tent and moved on at 7:20 a.m. There was no breakfast prepared as we all agreed to eat at the nearest stopping place. We were taking up too much time getting our own breakfast. So, it was on toward the Yukon. Muncho Lake, Trout River, Lower Liard and Smith Rivers came up, one after the other. We stopped at the Fireside Inn near Coal River to finally eat breakfast between 9 and 10 a.m. A little late for breakfast, some of us began to wonder if this breakfast on the road was such a good idea after all. We had a good meal and that was the important part. Very good service and all of that.

Up until now, on this Alaska road part of the trip we seem to have been mostly concerned with eating and crossing various waterways. I really think the people in this part of the country should have mention, too.

Some years ago, I read in a national magazine that the Alaska Highway was like a very long home-town main street.

By the way, that was the name of the article—”The Longest Main Street in the World”. According to the author, the business people on the Highway were most friendly and neighbourly both among themselves and to the travelling public. This may very well be the case but I personally did not get this impression.

Generally speaking, those with whom we dealt were usually judged by their treatment of our needs and desires. In short, the more we were in need and the more help we got, the greater and better people seem to be. Whether we realize it or not, that’s about the way it is. We were travelling on a well-planned schedule with good transportation and ample funds to take care of any reasonable need. Therefore, there was no occasion to test the utmost in anyone. Also, we did not experience the slightest

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instance of dishonesty through anybody we dealt with during the whole trip. But there were two or three incidents that we viewed with amusement. At one place a younger gas pump attendant filled up our tank, carefully cleaned the windshield and made the change without speaking one word beyond a grunt. Maybe he was the strong silent type although he didn’t look any too robust.

As most parents know, any family that is out like this on a trip, the young people spend a lot of time in planning for the next meal. Such was the case with the boys. Of course, I must admit to giving good account of myself when it comes to putting the hotburgers and hamdogs into permanent storage. It was no surprise to me when we stopped to lunch that each of the boys gave different orders. The poor waitress! She looked as if she were being made the butt of some practical joke or the victim of a conspiracy. I don’t think the young people realized this and I do not recall ever having mentioned it. There is one problem that the Alaska Highway business people do not have.

That is, nobody stops and asks if there isn’t a better and closer way to get there. No way! When you are on this road, you are either coming or going, that’s it.

We left the Fireside Inn at 10 a.m. and by 10:42 a.m. we were at the Yukon border. Land of the Midnight Sun and all of that. Hyland River and Lower Post showed up next and then Watson Lake with the time being 12 p.m.. We were over 600 miles from Mile 0. Watson Lake is a supply center for that district as planes can land there. I’m sure that most travelers have seen the many sign posts in the town. The story goes that when the road was being built, a lonely American soldier put up a sign showing how far it was back to his home town. The idea caught on and now there are hundreds of signs posted by tourists. Castlegar was the closest to Nelson we could find. We didn’t know about this and had no chance to make a sign of our own. From Watson Lake it was back to crossing creeks and rivers again. They were Upper Liard River, Little Rancheria, Big Creek, Lower Rancheria River and Spencer Creek. We stopped at the Rancheria Café but couldn’t get served as they were waiting for an excursion bus to pull in and would be filled up.

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This stop was at 2 p.m. After passing Seagull Creek, we had lunch at 3:08 p.m.

We had also crossed Young Creek, Upper Rancheria River and Swift River. Next, Partridge and Smart Creeks went by as we crossed the Marley River at 3:54 p.m. The car radio was mostly silent, but started picking up the first programs from Whitehorse. At 4:40 p.m., Yukon Standard time (one hour ahead), we crossed the Nisutlin Bridge—the longest bridge on the Alaska Highway. Teslin was the next place. It may be difficult to believe, but a cattle drive of 200 cattle came to an end on Teslin Lake in the gold rush days. However, we will discuss that when we pass here on our return trip.

After Johnson’s Crossing and Savanga Lake, we pulled in for gasoline and an oil check at Jake’s Corners. The attendant who came out to serve the car looked like he had been digging his basement and the job hadn’t gone too well. I casually asked how everything was going and he replied that a man had to make a living.

Judas Creek was next. At Mile 876 John records the first crack in the windshield. We passed McKlintock and at 6:28 p.m. saw the Yukon River for the first time. At last we were getting somewhere. Of course to me, the Yukon River was flowing the wrong way as I am accustomed to seeing most large rivers running south. A few minutes later, the tracks of the Yukon and White Pass Railroad crossed the highway and at 6:50 p.m. we arrived in Whitehorse. At that point, our trip on the Alaska Highway was 918 miles. We checked in at the Robert Service Campsite and made our overnight camp. Cooking and eating a meal took some time and then we drove around town again.

There was, of course, no shortage of daylight. We have some pictures that were taken at 11 p.m.

When I was young I often thought that the Yukon must be a very large area. Actually, it is not. I wonder how many people realize that of the total population of the Yukon, over half live right in the city of Whitehorse. The situation is due partly to the fact that the armed forces have or had a military base here just above the old part of the city. Also, I would imagine that tourism does quite a lot for the economy. We went over to the

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river shore and saw two old river boats that had seen service between here and Dawson. An old building near there posted as the reconstruction of the cabin of Sam McGee. This was, of course, a local joke meant for the tourists. As Robert Service was to state long after he left the Yukon, the poem The Cremation of Sam McGee was not patterned after anyone.

Sunshine or not, we were tired and turned back to our camp and prepared to pack it in for the night. I remember that I took our gold pan down to the river bank and panned a couple of pans of gravel and sand. I didn’t get any gold specks nor did I expect any. I really don’t know why I bothered. Just a strange whim I guess. As we climbed into the sleeping bags and faded off into slumber, I would be willing to bet that most of us had the same thought—tomorrow, the Klondike!

Day Five

July 18, 1968—We rose, packed up the camp gear and went up town for breakfast. The day was starting out to be cool and sunny. At the Taku Hotel, after a good meal, we took off on the last leg of our trip of the Klondike. From Fort Nelson our route had been sort of Northwest. From now on the Dawson highway turned north—directly north. Still very dusty, as had been the case for the last couple of days. One rather odd thing about this northern part of B.C. and Yukon, little squalls of rain seem to come out of nowhere and only last for two or three minutes. With a dust-covered vehicle to start with, these little showers make your car look as if it had received a coat of rich, fresh gravy. Not the most pleasant sight. Travelling along this Dawson highway in the early part of the morning on a nice day is surely all that the tourists can ask for. At 9:05 a.m., Lake Lebarge came into sight. We had been about one-half hour on the road as it was 8:30 a.m. when we had left Whitehorse. As many people know, Lake Lebarge is mentioned in the well-known Service poem The Cremation of Sam McGee. We will discuss this famous writer and frontier when we get to Dawson.

Fox Lake was next, then Carmacks at 10:45 a.m. Carmacks had then a population of 205 people. We stopped for gasoline at a service station and lunch counter. As I recollect, the waitress from the dining room came out to pump the gas. As this very nice young lady was dressed in white, John pumped the gas himself because our car was a dusty, dirty mess. The young lady came out with the change as we were washing the windshield. The further north we went, the less service we seemed to be getting.

One of the boys spoke up and said “maybe the service wasn’t so good, but the look of the station attendants had improved”. I could only agree.

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The Five Finger Rapids was next at 11:25 a.m. According to most of what you read about shipping on the Yukon River, the rapids gave a lot of trouble. Apparently, there was only one of these so-called fingers that was really suited for passage through. Next was the Pelly River at 12:15 a.m. some 168 miles from Whitehorse. We were making very good time along this highway although as an average I would say that the Dawson highway was not as good as the Alaska Highway.

A person would have to spend a winter in this Yukon country to really get the proper feel of the North. Riding along in the comfort of a modern car doesn’t have too much in common with the time-worn phrase “In the wind and snow of 60 below”.

I found it difficult to imagine that phrase in conjunction with travelling by horse-drawn sleigh (a full week was necessary to get from Whitehorse to Dawson). Today, the same distance in a car is only a short day’s drive. How those old-timers would stare if they could return and see it all now!

The Pelly River was next at 168 Mile and Stewart River came up at 1 p.m. Next, we stopped at McQuesten River for lunch. As we mounted the steps to go in and eat at this restaurant, we were greeted by a cheery, “Hello!” Aha, methinks, here is someone who has a happy outlook on this arrangement we call life. I was rather surprised to see a Mynah bird so far north.

These birds are about the size of a Robin and can be taught quite a number of words. There is one of these birds in Victoria where we live. This small bird’s whistle can be heard over the entire area of a floor of one of our big stores. We ate a hamburger at McQuesten where George tried to get some information about local fishing prospects. He struck out completely as no one seemed to know much about fishing. We also discovered a second crack in the windshield. I talked about this chipped windshield problem to a truck driver on our trip back. He said while car drivers often blame trucks for their windshield damage, such is rarely the case. This trucker pointed to our trailer as the main culprit. Apparently, gravel gets stuck in the trailer wheels and is thrown ahead and over the car. Therefore, the car runs into the bits of gravel thrown ahead by the trailer.

Not being an experienced car driver, I don’t feel qualified to comment on this. I merely pass it on.

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Gravel Lake and Flat Creek were next, then at 3:15 p.m. we got our first view of the Klondike River. Following the Klondike River for a few miles our trip was interrupted by our first flat tire. This is soon changed and it’s on down the river once more. After passing the mouth of Bonanza Creek, we cross the Klondike for the first time and drove into Dawson at 4:07 p.m.

We travelled over 2,000 miles with only two chips or cracks in the windshield and one flat tire. With more than half of this distance over gravel road, we really had nothing to complain about.

While driving around looking for a place to leave the car, one of the boys (I think it was Ben) pointed out that we should be in no hurry, being that already, “We were 70 years late.” When considering a title for this chronicle or travelogue I thought this phrase of Ben’s was as good as any I could think of.

Our first chore in Dawson was to locate Mr. Dalwyn Fry. Mr. Fry or Dal, as we called him, had worked with George and Arthur when all three were employed at the CPR railroad yards in Nelson. We found the local information bureau in Dawson and enquired about Dal. One of the bureau staff knew him and told us he was working for the Highway Department and usually came into town after 5 p.m. After looking around a bit, we met our friend on the street. Dal took us to his cabin where we stayed during our visit in Dawson. This young man did everything for our comfort for which we thank him very much.

That evening we all drove up to what they call the midnight dome. This is an open spot on the hill a few hundred feet above Dawson. I understand that every year the people of Dawson go up there on June 21 for a midnight get-together. It was also pointed out that even on that longest day of the year the sun goes down for about 40 minutes. So Dawson is not really in the area of the midnight sun. After we came down from the Dome, the four older boys dropped Ben and I off at the cabin and then went to have a little refreshment for old time’s sake. Although it was 11 p.m., the sun was still shining brightly. Somehow this seemed to be a strange time to be going to bed according to

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the daylight. However, the boys returned and we all turned in.

The next day Dal would have to work so we would spend the day looking over Dawson. Saturday would be Dal’s day off so we planned to go to Bonanza—the site of the gold strike. So tomorrow we would really see this city that man’s quest for gold built.

That night most of us would sleep in a bed. Cities of gold notwithstanding, first things come first.

Day Six

July 19, 1968—This morning Dal and I arose and had breakfast. While he went to work, I walked downtown. The other boys decided to catch a few more winks. The Fry cabin was about a half mile up the Klondike River from Dawson. The highway passed right by it. As I walked around the town I saw a few interesting sights. One old cabin was sort of built into the side of a hill with a small garden growing on the sod-covered roof. What spoiled the effect was the 220 power service running into the front wall. The old and the modern in one building.

A short distance further on a lady suddenly opened a back door and tossed out a small dog with orders to stay out there. As I walked along it occurred to me that man’s best friend seemed to have lost a lot of status in the north. By the time the boys arrived in town, I had given the scene a fairly good once-over.

We all found the Museum very interesting. There were many relics of bygone days, most having to do with gold mining.

There are also some open exhibits and outside displays. Three old railroad engines situated near the museum looked rather out of place considering there is no railroad into Dawson from outside and never was. I have the impression that these engines were used on tracks that ran from Dawson to some of the larger workings. I have read where the Federal Government spent a large amount of money to restore some parts of Dawson to retain the original gold rush appearance. Other than the Palace Grand Theatre, nothing else is very evident in the way of restoration.

I would think that any future plans along this line should include a new museum. The present museum is, or was in 1968, a large old frame building. What with the fire-fighting equipment usually available in a town of this size, they could

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lose this building and its valuable contents in about two hours.

In fact, fire was one of the chief dangers in the early days in hastily-built, closely-placed buildings.

During the afternoon we went up to the little cabin on Eighth Avenue where all of the tourists pay their respects to the Northland’s greatest poet. This cabin was where Robert W. Service wrote his second book of poetry, The Ballad of Chichako.

There, he also wrote, as far as I know, his only novel about the north—Trail of ‘98. Some writers have said that Service was only a backwoods rhymer, so to speak. I suppose this view was taken because he lacked a great formal education. Well, education or not, anyone who can take a time and place and spread it across the world for the last 60 years would seem to have something going for him. Moreover, that the proceeds of such writing could enable him to live for many years on the French Riviera also would indicate that he had gone a long way. I would venture to say that a great many of us would like to be such backwoods rhymers. As a novelist, Service seemed to be out of his field. This Trail of ‘98 is a 500-page book that never does quite get anywhere or resolve anything. Proving once again that a person is seldom in top form in more than one field. I believe that most people who have read the Service poems feel he was writing from his experience at the time of the gold rush.

This is probably a sort of compliment to the man rather than anything else. All the same this assumption is wrong. Instead, the first book that Service wrote, Songs of a Sourdough, was being read and recited in Dawson before Service ever arrived there. He arrived in Dawson from Whitehorse in 1909 or 1910.

Although gold was still being taken from the creeks and would be for many years, the heyday of the original rush of 1898 had long gone and even the echoes had faded away among the hills. Service once worked in a bank at Government and Fort streets in Victoria. When I think about this poet of the north, I marvel at how fate treats some of us. Consider, if you will, the other names connected with the golden era of Dawson. George Carmack, Big Alex MacDonald, Swiftwater Bill Gates, Joe Boyle and the Chichako Kid, to name only a few. Who remembers them now? Some died alone and in poverty while others lost

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their new-found wealth and returned to the hills to continue their everlasting quest. Others were simply engulfed by the tide of human events. Yet Robert Service was a man who didn’t seem to be interested in gold. The pen and paper seemed to be his tools and the recording in his own way of past events, his aim. Both of these things made money enough for the author to live in a place where most of us only dream of. As we looked at his little cabin in Dawson, I tried to calculate the distance it was from the south of France. I wonder, perhaps if Service didn’t also, except maybe in reverse. Around 1953 this Bard of the North was called to that land where we understand the trails are always easy and the water is always calm and there is plenty of treasure for all.

Later on that evening we went to the evening show of the Gaslight Follies at the Palace Grand Theatre. This is the restored theatre that I spoke about. The inside of the Palace Grand had been very well restored and seemed to be mostly in keeping with the era it was supposed to represent. The performance itself was quite good. The Service poem The Shooting of Dan McGrew was acted out and there were numerous other songs and skits taken from the bygone era. Also, at the beginning of the show, the audience was advised that no flash cameras could be used during the performance. However, after the show the cast would pose in the lobby for pictures and sign autographs.

We were to find out later in Bakerville how important this arrangement was to be.

Leaving the show, we went back to Dal’s home. I was tired and said that I would do a little reading before going to bed. Dal handed me a bundle of old papers that he said he found in a cabin while hunting near Nelson. At first I looked at a couple of the top ones of the bundle quite casually. Seeing a couple of old familiar names, I picked up interest in the matter.

They were papers about the business of a mining company I knew of.

At the beginning of this story it will be recalled that I did my first placer mining on Rover Creek near Nelson. I mentioned I knew little about the manager, Mr. George Hyde or the company itself. Well, here it all was in this bundle of old

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records that had been found in one of the old cabins on Rover Creek. It seemed rather unreal. Here I was sitting by the banks of the Klondike River reading about my first gold mining job 35 years ago. Incidentally, this was the first time that I knew Mr. Hyde was a Minister’s son. But I don’t doubt it as he was a real gentleman. The papers themselves were of no special interest.

If anything, they were of the melancholy type—mostly a record of unrealized hopes and unfulfilled expectations. When Dal learned that I knew the people mentioned in the papers, he gave them to me to take home. I took them home, showed them to Cecilia and then destroyed the whole bundle. For, after all, a record or memory of failure and disappointment is nothing to treasure.

So came the second evening in Dawson. We had seen most of all there was to see although I could write much more about Dawson, this has all been very ably done by writers far beyond my poor powers.

Once again, to go to bed with the sun still high in the northern sky somehow seemed as if “Old Sol” hadn’t got onto the same schedule he used in the Kootenays. With the sun acting like this, one can only speculate on what the moon was doing.

Day Seven

July 20, 1968—The boys, Dal (our Dawson host) and myself all arose early morning and made ready to go to the creek after breakfast. As we started out for Bonanza Creek, I thought how much easier it must be for us than it was for the pioneers years ago. Today there is a good road right up to the forks where Eldorado Creek joins Bonanza. So, no problems in travelling that way.

Perhaps, it would be worthwhile at this point to discuss the characteristics of gold itself for a brief moment. It would seem reasonable to suppose that gold was first valued because of the fact that in its native state it can be worked into shapes and objects more easily than the average metal. Moreover, gold is, without a doubt, more attractive and beautiful than most other substance. Although this latter can be greatly overstated.

For instance, when we read about gold nuggets sparkling in the sunlight, this is only the writer’s imagination. Gold does not reflect light rays to this extent. When we hear of someone seeing a vein of gold shining in the darkness of a cave, we can also forget it. Gold has no incandescent qualities. Iron pyrite, commonly known as “Fool’s Gold”, has often been mistaken for gold. However, these pyrites do reflect light rays so very little experience is required to tell the differences between pyrites and gold. To scratch a nugget with a pocket knife or wet it with a moist thumb was usually all that was needed. By the way, to scratch a nugget that belonged to someone else back in the early days was very likely to earn the scratchee a certain amount of unpopularity. As this was deemed to be casting doubt on the integrity of the owner.

Then, of course, we have the fact that gold has been part of religious ceremonies for thousands of years. Just why, I couldn’t say, really. Perhaps because gold is attractive and

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comparatively scarce that it was thought to be important. The Christian religion is no longer too preoccupied with golden trappings at their places of worship. However, as this metal seems to represent the monetary wealth of most countries of the world, I suppose most of the civilized world worships gold in some way or another.

We went on up Bonanza Creek until we came to the claim that is owned by Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Fry, Dal’s parents.

Dal made us acquainted with his mother and father and they showed us over their diggings. This ground had all been worked before but Mr. Fry used a bulldozer so he could handle much more yardage than those who had worked that ground before. I noticed that some ice was showing where the gravel had been dug away from the side of the hill. The ice is known as permafrost. Even in the summertime, the ground only thaws for a few feet on the surface. I understand that this is why some of the old buildings in Dawson were leaning at such precarious angles. This is caused by the heaving of the frozen ground underneath. I cannot recall exactly, but either before coming to or after leaving the Fry’s claim, we came to a partly sunken dredge. The dredge is about 3 ½ stories high and must weigh hundreds of tons. This type of dredge floats on the water and houses a digging chain of buckets and a complete gold recovery operation. The gravel, soil and rocks are dug up by the bucket chain and washed over a set of sluice boxes much the same as those set up on a land operation. This dredge can dig 30 feet deep. After the gravel has been washed, it flows down a long tail race or shoot that projects from the rear end of the dredge. I asked how all of this floated on a small creek.

First, the creek is dammed off and a small lake is formed.

The dredge is then assembled on this little lake. By a careful system of digging in front and dumping behind, the dredge, lake and all, are moved up the creek bed. I suppose that some other alteration would have to be made if they wanted to move downstream. Anyway, it all looked very interesting and I only wished I could have seen it working.

Finally, we arrive at the spot that we travelled over 2,000 miles to see. Discovery Claim! There is a monument placed where the strike was made that resulted in the Klondike Gold

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Rush. In the main, there seems to be three stories concerning the people credited with the discovery.

One goes that George Carmack found the first gold in the following manner. Carmack and two Indian friends, Skookum Jim and Tagish Charley met Robert Henderson when Hendersen was working a low-paying claim a few miles from Rabbit Creek (the former name of Bonanza Creek). Hendersen suggested to Carmack that it might be worthwhile to test Rabbit Creek on his way back to the Yukon. However, the two Indians overheard Henderson tell Carmack not to let the Indians stake any claims. Also, Hendersen asked to be notified at once if anything worthwhile was formed. Later, going down Rabbit Creek, Carmack and his Indian friends made camp and while doing some panning, Carmack made the strike.

Story number two coincides with the first account except that Skookum Jim found the first pan of nuggets that started the rush.

Story number three also agrees with stories one and two, but this version of the affair has Kate, Carmack’s Indian wife, as an added member of the party and it was she who found the first big pay while washing dishes in the gold pan. One thing seems to be certain—after 75 years, we will likely never learn the actual true details. Also, after the Carmack party had made the strike, the Indians would not go back and inform Henderson of their good fortune. I suppose they could not be blamed. Viewed in the light of today’s events, Henderson probably made the most expensive racist remark in all history.

Nor is the suggestion that the Klondike gold strike was made by a woman too unreasonable. When we were walking around the Discovery Claim, I noticed how nice and warm the sunshine was and how balmy the atmosphere seemed to be. So to picture three men taking a little nap while the wife cleaned up the cook ware is quite easy. The fact that she wouldn’t get credit for finding the gold would also be understandable, especially in those early times. How could any prospector that was worth his sourdough admit that he had been sleeping up a storm, while his wife made the best-known strike in the history of gold mining? Again, we can only say that we will never really know.

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It’s enough to say that after living it up for a while, Carmack, Skookum Jim and Tagish Charley finally left what to them was not entirely a happy world. And Kate died alone and in poverty in Carcross in the southern part of the Yukon. Before going back down Bonanza, we stopped at another place that was being worked by the Fry family.

At this second place there was a small cabin and we saw some prehistoric bones that looked like tusks from some prehistoric beast. One of these tusk-like remains was so large that it required two of the boys to lift it. Another example we saw was a piece of jaw bone containing a giant tooth held together with haywire. This was also prehistoric. I believe there is a much better tusk on display in a shop in Dawson, also discovered by the Fry family.

Mining companies still spend time and money every year in searching for hard rock gold veins around the Klondike country. No gold discovery of any sizeable proportion was ever made where somebody didn’t try to locate the “Mother Lode”. The term “Mother Lode” meaning the source of all of the loose placer gold. Very seldom does this idea “pan out” to use a slang mining phrase. To the inexperienced, it would seem quite logical for the surrounding hills to be the source of all of this gold. Glacial action accounts for the loose surface material of the earth being moved in some areas for hundreds of miles.

Usually, when the rocks and gravel appear to be well-rounded and worn, this has been done by such glacial or huge ice pack movement. Hence, the Yukon gold deposits could have travelled a long way as I noticed that the boulders and small stones were well-worn. In any such movement by water or ice, the gold would have a tendency to sink to the bottom or bedrock owing to its superior weight per cubic volume.

There is one other curious fact about this type of gold.

Contrary to the report of fantastic-sized gold nuggets being found, only a few, if any, gold veins have ever been reported as having any such comparative areas of solid gold. Yes, metallurgists state that gold particles such as placer gold do not amalgamate themselves. So, in plain words, where do all of these big nuggets come from? I have heard prospectors offer

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the explanation that all of these big nuggets come from a rock formation that was so high it has already been worn away to the present level. There must have been some answer to this unusual observation but I was not inclined to pursue it.

With that thought, we leave Bonanza and return to Dawson to spend our last night in this northern city that once was the source of great happiness or bitter disappointment depending on one’s fortunes.

Before leaving Dawson, we should give consideration to another group of men who contributed a great deal to the development of the north. Not by digging treasure, but by keeping law and order without which no community can long survive. It was the Mounted Police and their officers such as Steele and Constantine that this country owes such a debt.

Their word was law and it was respected. We might well ask why that this type of lawman is not so apparent today. No doubt there are men of equal ability in these days but they work far different conditions. As we have said before, in those early days where there was a job to do like this, certain men were chosen for this purpose. Usually they were men who had proved themselves in their chosen field. They were made aware of what was expected of them and then left to get on with the job. Today, however, a policeman must be careful lest he impose on somebody’s personal freedom. I often think that personal freedom for everyone is one of the great fallacies of our modern society. I know that many people will not agree with this viewpoint. Consider this: the majority of people use personal freedom for what purpose it was meant to serve. That is, the right to live and try and maintain a happy, useful and prosperous life for themselves and those near and dear to them.

On the other hand, there are those who regard freedom as an opportunity to commit crimes and force their will on other people. Therefore, to this latter group, freedom is only a kind of weapon. In my view, freedom is like membership in a club or lodge. Your membership is only good as long as you remain a qualified member in good standing. I only mention this to show how only a few men can maintain law and order in these faraway outposts when not burdened with legal hassles.

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After returning from Bonanza we had supper and then drove around Dawson before retiring for the night. This Saturday night was our third night in Dawson, but I still wasn’t accustomed to the bright evenings. People that have moved to Dawson say that this long day is a real problem with children. I believe it.

Day Eight

July 21, 1968—We made ready to leave Dawson for the homeward trip. The party got smaller as George decided to stay in Dawson for awhile to look over the country. So after saying our goodbyes all around and leaving our regards for Mr. and Mrs. Fry, the trailer was hooked up and off we went. It was a beautiful day and we made good time to Whitehorse arriving there in the afternoon. The only detour we made was going into Lake Lebarge. Some of us took photos with the lake in the background. This byroad to Lake Labarge was very narrow and had many sharp turns. On one of these curves was the only time during the entire trip that we came close to having an accident.

A large car travelling fast met us on the curve. John merely cut his car over to the extreme edge of the road side and there was no problem.

We were surprised to see that in Whitehorse, although it was Sunday, the stores were open with people shopping the same as any other day. Most likely it was felt that with the season up there being so short, the Sunday shopping was quite practical. No doubt it was, too.

In speaking of shopping in Whitehorse, I seem to recall that last year (1973) the city did a very unusual thing. Or at least the merchants did. As in most cities of any size, there are parking meters on the streets in Whitehorse. To aid the carowning shoppers, a group of local merchants hired a young lady to start her morning’s work by locating the meter checker.

After she found the meter checker, she would go on ahead of him and drop coins into the expired meters as well as leave a complimentary card on the car. At first, the civic officials were a little shook-up, but on examination, nothing could be found in the city bylaws that prohibits such a practice. I never did hear how it all turned out eventually.

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Having finished our last look at Whitehorse, we rejoined the Alaska Highway and drove on.

A few statistics on this international road might be of interest. In round figures, the distance from Dawson to Fairbanks, Alaska is 1,500 miles with about 1,200 miles being in Canada. Most of the construction was done by the United States Army. Although civilians of both countries were employed in various capacities.

In November 1942 at Kluane Lake, the two construction crews, one working from each end, met and the first loaded trucks went on their way to Fairbanks. So Alaska had its back door. The job had taken seven and a half months. This is not to say that the job or road was finished by any means. Much work had still to be done, but the main object had been accomplished.

A steady stream of trucks could now haul materials from the States to Alaska via an overland route. Thus, we can see what two nations can do when necessity arises. It is always sad to realize that it takes a war to bring this sort of cooperation to the fore.

Driving along in the evening, we finally arrived at Teslin Lake and spent the night. This northern lake always reminds me of one of the most unusual incidents connected with the Dawson gold rush. That is, if one can call the wanton waste of hundreds of animals, an incident.

On our way up, I said that a cattle drive had been attempted. Actually, there were two different bunches but they were of about the same size—around 200 beef cattle. A few miles west of Williams Lake, the Parks and Recreation Department have put up a plaque showing where one of these drives started.

The location of this marker would be about 1,000 miles from Teslin Lake were the drive ended. Imagine, if you can, anyone trying to drive 200 cattle 1,500 miles from the Williams Lake country to the Klondike! What would the cattle be like if and when one got there? After reaching Teslin Lake with crippled pack horses, starving men and cattle that were little more than barely mobile skeletons, another brilliant plan was worked out.

Two barges would be built, the cattle butchered and the beef floated down to Dawson via Teslin Lake and the Teslin and

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Yukon rivers. This arrangement didn’t get very far. The loaded barges started out, ran into a storm and both were smashed up.

Only a few pieces of the meat were saved for local consumption.

The other bunch of cattle were also butchered and got as far as the Yukon River where the barge was caught in the ice and its contents lost, also.

What makes some of us think that we are cowboys, explorers and sailors, all rolled into one? When in reality, all we excel in is incompetence. The horrible treatment given to the animals during this mad rush for gold is one of the black pages in this record. Every kind of animal that could carry or pull was tried. Even tiny burros from the south were used as pack animals in this muskeg country where their tiny feet rendered them almost useless.

Many people and writers in particular, are apt to put all inhuman behaviour down to what is called “gold fever�.

When we get to Barkerville we will examine this phenomenon a little closer.

Day Nine

July 22, 1968—Camp was struck fairly early on Monday morning at Teslin Lake. About a mile down the road we stopped for breakfast at a restaurant. The bacon and eggs that we ordered were served at once. Never have I seen this dish served so quickly. However, in a few minutes the mystery was solved.

A large excursion bus pulled up and the passengers got off and were served at once. This group was probably expected as the orders were served as if they had been prepared previously. But previous or not, we had a very nice meal which is one of the best ways I can think of to start off a day. As I recall, nothing very much happened that day and we hurried right along wanting to get to our next stop at Barkerville.

Monday night we camped at “The Homestead” a few miles north of Fort Nelson. In passing through this part of the country it may be worthwhile to mention the Nahanni River Valley. The Nahanni joins the Liard River about 300 miles north of Fort Nelson. This area is situated in the southwest corner of the Northwest Territories. A great deal has been written and spoken about a place on the Nahanni River called Headless Valley. Of course, about 95 per cent of these reports are pure speculation. I doubt that short of legend itself, there are many other places in Canada that so much has been written containing so little truth. Every reporter that has anything to do with this Headless Valley fantasy seems to depart entirely from the realm of common sense.

As late as 1947, a Vancouver newspaper sent a reporter into that district by plane. This same newspaper writer has become nationally known for his accounts of Canadian history.

The Headless Valley story or legend briefly is this.

Prospectors were found dead with no heads, hence the valley’s name. As usual, it was understood that these deaths has

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something to do with a lost mine of great value. Over a period of years, other men were found dead. Always with no heads.

Prehistoric monster, native people, wild, vicious wolves and finally the supernatural were all blamed at various times. In the late 60s or early 70s a small group of people lead by an Englishtitled gentleman made a trip through this part of the country from Fort Simpson to Fort Nelson. I suspect that this trip might have been made to somehow improve personal financial condition. I say this because I understand that on reaching Vancouver, His Lordship was what is commonly known as stony-broke.

There is one more unusual story about the Nahanni Valley. Somewhere in that region there is supposed to be a beautiful tropical valley made possible by underground heat.

In this northern Eden, huge lush tropical plants flourish all year round. In considering this, we might try to image how much heat it would take to replace a 60 degree below zero atmospheric temperature.

We set up camp and made ready to retire in the evening of the second day on the road home. As we were putting up the tent a rather amusing incident happened that could have been very serious for one of the nearby campers. This family were putting their children to bed in their van. We glanced over and saw the father standing on the roof of his van pulling a large sheet of black plastic over the roof and windows. This was to make the inside of the vehicle dark so the children could go to sleep easier. Suddenly, he lost his hold on the sheet and plunged backwards to the ground. Art, John and Ben ran over to help, but he was not hurt. Later on, he told us that he was returning from Alaska and going back to his home in Maine from where he had started the trip. Now this little family had really been travelling! So when he said that both he and his wife were tired, I could sympathize.

Day Ten

July 23, 1968—With the coming of morning, we arose, packed up and drove to Fort Nelson for our breakfast. Finishing our morning meal and getting underway again, Fort St. John was to be the next town of any size. I wonder how many people living in Fort St. John today were there in 1934 or near that time period. Such old timers would have seen one of the most fantastic expeditions that ever entered that part of the north.

The man in charge of this northern safari-type of organization was Charles E. Bedeaux. The following is the only partial list of his equipment. There were five Caterpillar tractors, 3 river boats, 1 hydroplane and all sorts of electrical gear. Over 100 half-wild pack ponies with a few cowboys all decked out as cowboys could be. Wireless set with operator and much more incidental equipment. Bedeaux was accompanied by his wife. Two motor cars were brought along for the personal pleasure of the Bedeaux party which included a French maid for Mrs. Bedeaux as well as a valet for Bedeaux himself. This highly unusual expedition left Fort St. John in the early part of the summer having arrived from Pouce Coupe further to the south. Forming up ranks as if attacking an enemy, the Bedeaux entourage took off into the northern landscape. It would seem that what was lacking in experience was compensated by enthusiasm. Unfortunately, this doesn’t always work out.

According to what we hear and read, the latter part of the summer found the principals of the Bedeaux expedition back in Hudson Hope near Fort St. John. Gone was the machinery, horses and, presumably, a certain amount of personal dignity.

However, promising to return for another try, the unfortunate people left that part of the country never to return. Some questions do remain. Why was such an unusual trip ever

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undertaken? Was the whole thing just a whim? Or behind it all was there some other object? Later on, during the Second World War, Bedeaux got into difficulties with the French government.

Finally, in 1943 he appeared in Florida, USA. The American immigration department arrested Bedeaux for passport violation. In February 1944, Bedeaux ended a strange career by committing suicide. After that, people in the north were given to much speculation about what that bizarre trip might mean.

I should have mentioned that Bedeaux had been a working man until he came into sudden wealth by way of an invention. Although he was considered to have possible connections with foreign governments and that this trip might have been some sort of under cover operation, I would doubt it very much. I would think that the whole episode was just what it appeared to be. A hastily thrown together adventure. Really, it isn’t so surprising? How many of us would indulge in such a flight of fancy, if we only had the necessary funds.

Leaving the Bedeaux incident to its place in the passing parade, we came to the end of our trip as far as the Alaska Highway is concerned. We arrived in Dawson Creek for lunch.

Here another change took place in our party. Arthur left us to take the train to meet a friend in Grande Prairie in Alberta. After having lunch together, Arthur went to the railroad station and Ben, John and myself headed southwest to Prince George. The road from Dawson Creek to Prince George is known as the Hart Highway. John Hart, for whom the road is named, was a former Premier of B.C. We made good time during the afternoon and pulled into Prince George about 7 p.m. By this time the car was a very dirty mess as hundreds of miles of gravel road took their toll. Also, after travelling 2,000 miles over a gravel road, the relief of reaching the pavement again was better imagined than described. Somehow, it is like reaching calm after a storm.

As we were all tired and sleeping outdoors had lost a little of its flavour, a motel room seemed to be the vote of all three of us. When we were settled in, we telephoned Rosie at Burns Lake. Rosie said that she was bringing Sheila. They would arrive in Prince George the next morning. After the evening meal, John washed the car and we called it a day.

Day Eleven

July 24, 1968—Up early, we met Rosie and her friend, Sheila. After having a good breakfast, we were once more on the road south to Quesnel and then to Barkerville, our last stop before going home.

Having a good run to Quesnel, we turned from the main highway and drove about 50 or 60 miles to Wells and Barkerville. At this time, the last half of the Barkerville road was just a country road. To make matters worse, logging trucks were hauling timber out of that region to Quesnel. We came across one accident scene, as I recall. However, none of this seemed to be any problem for John so on we went. Just before coming to Barkerville, we passed the more recent town of Wells.

Wells was established mainly because of the two hard rock mines nearby. These two mines were the Cariboo Gold Quartz and the Island Mountain. It might be assumed that the placer gold at Barkerville and nearby diggings come mostly from these mines. If such was the case, then only a small amount of this gold originated in this way. In short, at no time did any ore from these sources resemble the nuggets recovered from any of the placer workings. On the right side of the road on approaching Wells, we saw Jack-of-Clubs Lake. This mountain lake seems very clean or did at that time. Finally about three miles further along the old mining town of Barkerville came into sight.

Somewhat like a number of those old mining towns, it was built in a narrow creek bottom or valley with a steep hill on either side. Of course we must realize that in those days, people were seeking gold, not real estate.

I understand that William Dietz is the person that first found gold near what was later Barkerville, hence the name

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Williams Creek. Williams Creek is not very long but was one of the richest diggings of that time. Soon after this strike was made known, the rush to the Cariboo was on. Once again, history records that both men and animals paid the price of this epidemic called “gold fever”. When I say “once again” I refer to the California gold rush. For while the California gold stampede was about 10 or 12 years old, the Klondike wouldn’t be struck for another 35 years or so. In passing this point in history we might well ask—what actually is “gold fever”? I have always thought of it as something like the following.

The “gold fever” does not affect the average person. In fact, the only people that are apt to be influences by tales of gold are those already possessing a virus called greed. These same people would use the same tactics to pursue anything that promised quick fortune. The popular belief that gold causes good men to commit crimes and decent people to resort to violence and cruelty is a fable that is perhaps a hundred years old. The next time you see someone showing a nice piece of gold ornament or jewelry, notice how many onlookers will comment on the beauty and nice appearance of the article in question.

Also, notice there will be one or two of the group that is only interested in value alone.

Barkerville produced about $35 million worth of gold.

In both the Klondike and Cariboo gold fields, the method of mining called for the sinking or digging of shafts or holes. I’m sure the average person has no idea of what labour or danger is encountered in doing such work. We read where it is stated so casually that a 40-, 50-, or even 80-foot hole was dug, while at the same time pumping out water from the creek bottom. Where the ground is loose, the hole was supported by timber. When such a hole or as the miners call it, a shaft, is excavated down to about 60 or 70 feet in depth, a rather curious phenomena takes place. Anyone standing at the bottom can look up and see the stars shining although it could be the middle of a perfectly clear day. I have seen this myself and the effect is quite startling. It would seem as if the deep, narrow shaft has the action of some sort of telescope. The reason for these shafts is to get down to bedrock, that is, solid rock where the gold, if any, is usually

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found. William Barker dug such a shaft and to all accounts did very well during the first years on Williams Creek. I believe the town Barkerville was named after him because the town site was near his claim.

There were other creeks in the same vicinity that also yielded good pay. Lightening Creek, Keithley and Antler Creeks also, to name a few.

The BC Parks Board have done good work in what has been done to restore the old town of Bakerville. Also, the regulations pertaining to this project are very well observed.

Nothing beyond a small souvenir and candy shop is permitted on the street. However, when we made a return visit last year, I noticed a food and soft drink stand had been added. It is to be hoped that this selling business doesn’t get out of hand. As nothing is so annoying as listening to a frantic sales spiel when one is trying to enjoy the view as well as the general atmosphere of that which you came to see. There is also a place where gold could be panned for a small fee.

In speaking of restoration, I would think that Barkerville was the ideal town for such a purpose—being built on a flat and very compact site. Moreover, there were not really expensive buildings to rebuild or move. On the other hand, Dawson had many ornate, large buildings that were in very poor shape.

Also, Dawson’s buildings are spread over an area several times larger than Barkerville. To walk slowly up the street in this old town is a kind of experience that seems to be entirely unto itself.

You cannot help but find yourself speculating on how it must have been over a century ago. In those days people came there for one or two purposes only. Either to seek gold themselves or to trade in goods. The former, of course, was parent to the latter. Again, like Dawson, after the first rush, large companies established permanent operations which was carried on for years. In that period known as the “Hungry 30s” quite a few people did panning and sluicing on some of the creeks around Barkerville. Much the same as Cecilia and I did back on the Pend d’Oreille in the Kootenay country.

On this trip to Barkerville we took in the frontier type show at what was called the “Theatre Royal”. Compared to the

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Gaslight Follies in Dawson, this Barkerville show left a great deal to be desired. I’m sure that nobody expects a professional level of performance from any of these people. They did what they could with the material given them. The benches were so uncomfortable that I’m sure even those tough old timers would have cringed at the thought of spending two hours on them.

As the audience was free to take pictures during the show, the continual popping of flashbulbs was another doubtful attraction.

After seeing such a nice quite theatre, such as the Palace Grand, this Barkerville offering was a disagreeable shock.

Perhaps a little more observation about the pioneers of this area would be interesting. William Barker or Billy Barker was not the first person to discover gold in this area as many people think. There is, indeed, some doubt as to just who could claim this honour. We have shown that William Dietz may have been the one, but this is not certain. Much like the Klondike country, prospectors had been getting small amounts of placer gold over a large area around what was later established as Barkerville. While Barker is reported to have made a large amount of money, he was not the biggest gold baron by any means.

John R. Cameron likely had this distinction. It was said that when Cameron finally pulled out of the Cariboo he had several pack horses to pack his gold. At any rate, it seems certain that Cariboo Cameron, as he came to be known, had a great deal of wealth when he left. Many of these old timers worked during the placer season in Barkerville but spent the winters in Victoria. Yet, I suppose that these would be numbered among the favored few. Certainly, it is reasonable to suppose that the greater majority returned to the Coast, empty-handed and disappointed. Did I say they returned empty handed? Well, perhaps that was the case, but another point is also true.

These gold seekers had shared an experience that couldn’t be lost or taken from them. Maybe this had no monetary value, yet, who can put a price on memories?

When I was in Barkerville last year I went to look over the cemetery on the hillside just above the town. This graveyard is over a century old as the first ones were laid to rest here about

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1863. As I looked down at the parking place below the cemetery, I noticed many American cars. These tourists from the United States were taking photos. A few fleeting thoughts crossed my mind. How many of these visitors realized that when this Memorial park, as it is now, was first used, Abraham Lincoln was president of their country. Also, their country was engaged in a vicious civil war that would make the Watergate problem look like a mild coffee-break discussion.

There is a strange, sad note about how this last resting place for the early pioneers of Barkerville came to be established at this particular place. History records that when Cariboo Cameron lost one of his workmen, Cameron donated a part of his claim to be used as a cemetery. This was about 1862. As I mentioned before, Cameron amassed a huge amount of wealth and left the Cariboo about 1863 or 1864 to return to his home and start a business. However, good fortune seemed to fail him and about 25 years later found him returning to the Cariboo to try to recoup his losses. Arriving in Barkerville in 1888, Cameron fell ill and died suddenly. So the final act in this bit of drama was that after winning and losing a huge fortune as well as travelling the world over, Cameron was laid to rest in the very place that he had donated so many years before. Just another instance of an unpredictable fate.

Billy Barker was another pioneer who gained a large amount of wealth only to end in his last years in Victoria in poverty and illness. Barker was buried in Victoria about 1894.

As I walked down the hill to the car from the last resting place of these people of bygone years, rather odd impressions crossed my mind. In those early days many men had come to these goldfields to seek their fortune. All but a few had hurried on to new strikes or other richer areas. Some of those here that were in final repose had come from halfway around the world. What a strange way to keep their appointment with destiny. Today, a hundred years later, they have become part of the local scene.

Perhaps this then lends to them a measure of immortality which would not have happened anywhere else on Earth.

Returning to our trip, we leave Barkerville in the late afternoon and head back for Quesnel to join the main highway

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heading south. Between the 1968 trip and the trip we made last year, the road to Wells and Barkerville had been greatly improved. At this rate of progress, in a few years this road should develop into a good highway. I sincerely hope that this type of improvement continues because a trip to those two mining towns is well worth the time and money spent.

We ate supper at a roadside diner near Quesnel and then drove south towards Williams Lake. In leaving Quesnel, the road goes across a bridge and up what is locally known as Dragon Heights. Near the highway the old Grandview Ranch was taken up by the Holden family during the early 20s. A brief review of this unusual case might be of passing interest.

After taking up or purchasing the small ranch, the Holden family engaged a hired man. The man’s name was Clark and very little was known about him. There were now four people on the Holden’s Grandview Ranch. Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Holden, a stepson, Stanley, about 14 years old and Clark, the hired hand. All seemed to go well until one day when Clark came into Quesnel to get some advice from the police. From what Clark told the police, the Holdens had left to attend the funeral of a relative in Spokane, Washington. They had been away for a considerable length of time without any word or message from them. Other than his unpaid wages, Clark was concerned about a $1,000 loan that he had made to his employers. Displaying a promissory note signed by the Holdens, Clark asked the police what he should do. Clark was advised to take his problem to a lawyer.

This was in the late part of the year and Christmas was at hand. During the festive season, Clark gave away two or three expensive pieces of jewelry to some of his friends. One of these items that the hired man had given away was a ring with the initials A.G. This whole situation took a more serious turn when the fact was brought out that Mrs. Arthur Holden had once been Ada Godfrey.

Clark was arrested and tried for theft for which he received two years in prison. On being released, he was jailed again and brought to trial for forgery. By this time, the promissory note held by Clark was found to be forged. Clark returned to prison for 10 more years.

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In the meantime, while Clark was in prison, the police had searched and practically dug up the entire ranch in their effort to locate the missing family or their bodies. There was another curious angle to this affair.

Nobody had died in Washington by the name of Holden nor did the family have any relatives anywhere in that area or part of the country. Moreover, when the Grandview Ranch was searched, not one personal item could be found that belonged to the couple or their son. Only one plate from a set of dentures was found and even that could not definitely be traced to the missing people. So there the matter rests. Clark served his sentence and disappeared. Did this ranch hand do what far better educated men have failed at? That is, commit the perfect crime. If he did, how did he manage to conceal or completely destroy three people? Perhaps only the wind and trees know for sure.

The evening was still young as we left Quesnel behind and headed for the southern parts. I recall the trip quite well.

Rosie and Sheila had dozed off in the back seat while John, Ben and myself passed the miles by singing and beating time to our songs. I think that “Sweet Adeline” and “Down by the Old Mill Stream” took most of the punishment. After a while, the girls woke up and wanted to know if they had missed a couple of refreshment stops. We were just singing because everything seemed to be going so well. After all, does anyone need a better reason to be happy?

The drive from Quesnel to Williams Lake was very pleasant, as most of the scenery was green hills. However, south of Williams Lake the landscape seems to be quite dry and makes for a rather lifeless-looking countryside. Just south of Williams Lake is the Sugarcane Indian Reservation. I’ve often wondered how such an unlikely name came to be chosen. In years gone by, the Catholic Church had a school and operated a sort of combination farm and ranch on the reservation. In recent years, the Church has ceased their interest in this project.

Unfortunately, like many other projects involving natives, when the outside interest is removed, the whole scheme fades away.

When we lived in Williams Lake the Sugarcane Reservation was used mainly to live at between weekends at Williams Lake.

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The land at Sugarcane is the best in that part of the country. It’s rather ironic, but if anybody tried to get possession of this reservation land for some practical use, the resulting hassle would be heard from Victoria to Ottawa. So, no one, including the natives themselves, ever seem to put this type of land to anybody’s benefit.

What might be classed as the “Indian problem” has been with us for a long time. Some of us are inclined to blame the situation on various reasons. Liquor, lack of education, laziness, as well as no appreciation of the better way of life, all come in for their share of the blame. Then we have the age-old cry of “white man take Indian land” to sort of overshadow the whole thing. In this, I suppose that we have something like the six blind men that were describing an elephant. “Though each were partly right, all were in the wrong.” Once every so often we hear or read of the grand, care-free life the natives had before the white man came. We seem to be given to believe that before the white man’s era, the natives did nothing but weave baskets, go hunting and everything else that makes for a happy, healthy and joyous existence. Too bad that such wasn’t a fact. In reality, the natives fought each other, stole one another’s property and even tortured their victims or prisoners. In short, they behaved very much like their white brother. So, in leaving this Indian question, I think we might sum up the whole situation thusly; the world is always changing and being less than it is, man must change with it. Or to put it another way. Why continue to use your own narrow and rough pathway when you can travel on a better road merely joining those who are obviously having a better trip?

As we travel on down the Cariboo Highway, a comparison to our own Kootenay country seems to take up our attention. The hills were low and the country open for foot and horseback travel. This makes for good cattle-raising conditions. I use the word conditions because that is about what would describe this area. Yes, I still feel that more water would be of great benefit. More moisture would control this dry, arid landscape that becomes so tiresome, mile after mile. Yet, an abundance of water would likely result in rank growth, thereby destroying the open rangeland.

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When we get to Clinton, evening is setting in and we decide that maybe Cache Creek will be our stopping place for the night. Cache Creek is where the highway divides and one road goes east to Kamloops. Again, I pause and consider the little unexpected twists of life’s pathway. Just a couple of weeks ago, Cecilia paid Rosie and her husband Gene, a visit in Kamloops where they live.

We put up at, what I believe is or was called Teepee Town across the creek from the bus depot at Cache Creek. We must have eaten something but I just can’t remember where. Before retiring, John noticed that another of the tires had gone flat— the second flat during the whole trip. Flat tires or not, we were tired and so felt it was time to turn in for the night. Although tomorrow would be our last day on this trip and we enjoyed each day to the fullest, there was still something about home that was exciting. Very wise was the poet who wrote, “When footsteps homeward he has turned”.

Day Twelve

July 25, 1968—Up quite early. The boys changed the wheel and we went over to a café for breakfast. John took the punctured tire to a service station to be fixed and then joined us after breakfast. Finishing the meal and picking up the tire, we were soon on our way south. We kept on the Cariboo Highway or North Road until coming to Spences Bridge where we turned off and went back through the Nicola Country. Going on to Merritt, John stopped for a few minutes to say “hello” to some of his friends that had lived in Nelson. Our next stop was Princeton where eating time came around again. After leaving Princeton, we bought some fruit in Osoyoos and then back up over Anarchist Mountain. Passing Rock Creek and Greenwood the next and last stop was Grand Forks. Getting Vayla on the phone, we told her that the wanderers would be soon returning home. Maybe a better translation would be “expect us for supper.”

So back in the car at Grand Forks and over the last summit between us and our homes in Nelson. As I recall now, we were tired and nearing the end of our journey and we seemed to let that quiet atmosphere steal over us. Perhaps now would be a good time to sum up or pause for a few minutes reflection on that which we had seen during the last few days.

First, where gold is concerned, we saw what is very likely the most famous place in the world. Yet, oddly enough, a person’s enjoyment of the Klondike scene would be largely governed by their imagination because it all seems to be in retrospect.

I enjoyed the Saturday spent on Bonanza Creek very much because I had placer mined for gold myself and could, at least in some small capacity, identify with what had been done. It has been said that gold as an entire industry has never paid for

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itself. By that, I mean the recovery of gold has never paid for the time and equipment used in the process. I don’t doubt that for a moment. True, there have been some well-paying gold mines.

But for every profitable source of gold, there has been dozens of miners that returned with little or nothing.

Then, of course, there are the people themselves that become involved. As I mentioned in the introduction to this story, I have talked with quite a number of prospectors and mining men about gold and the way in which it touches these people’s lives. As I think of it now, one question always remains a sort of uncertainty. Which is the better deal? To have won and then lost a fortune? Or to have never been wealthy at all?

We are thinking, of course, of prospectors like Billy Barker, Big Alex McDonald and a host of others. To put the whole thing into plain words I suppose it is mostly a matter of personal viewpoint. Could the average person accept fortune and then misfortune all in a philosophical way? Again, I would say that other factors, such as age and health would make considerable difference. Anyway, no matter, like Caesar of old; they came, they saw and I suppose a few of them did conquer.

So with this borrowed expression, we leave gold and those who sought it to rest in the place and manner that history has provided for them.

I would not wish to close this narrative without a word or two about the good relationship that existed among us during the whole trip. This kind of situation always brings up what is generally known as the generation gap. It’s quite often amusing to read and hear the many problems that people have in trying to understand their children. Moreover, the lengths that such foolishness is often carried leaves one rather stunned.

Why do many parents and children have a void or gap across which neither side can bridge? Are we educating our children too quickly? Have the older generation forgotten what it’s like to be young?

We actually read about the advice that tells us to always be a pal to our children. That is, do everything that they do no matter how ridiculous it may look. I have but one observation for this. Can you think of any young boy or girl that needs a

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35- to 50-year-old pal? Maybe a bit of advice or guidance once in a while but that’s about the extent of it. I only mention this to show that, young and old alike can enjoy the same things if they try. Although I was the father of the four of these young people, I viewed the events of this trip from my own angle and took much pleasure in seeing how they enjoyed the same things from theirs. By this, I mean that I was not heavy with sage advice or fatherly instruction. Perhaps it is a little beside the point, but whenever I am privileged to be present at a marriage ceremony involving young people, I always have the same impression.

Not only is this a joining of two lives but we are also seeing the world being passed along to the rising generation. However, that may be, travelling with young people is most enjoyable and I recommend it highly.

By the way, I have often read or been told of trips that people have made where most conditions were discussed especially the financial part. Now, much as we may dislike to mention money, you don’t go far or in very much comfort without it. So maybe the following might be of interest. According to our records, we travelled 4,550 miles. The car seemed to average 16 miles per gallon of gasoline. Overall, the total car expense ran to around $175. That figure would be less than $40 each for the five of us. Only being curious about the car expense, we did not keep any account of personal cost. Each of us sort of took our turn in paying for meals and whatever lodging we used. Just as a guess I would that $600 would cover the entire expenditure for the whole trip. However, this figure would not cover the repairs to the windshield nor the obvious wear to the tires. For after more than 2,200 miles of gravel road this tire damage was quite evident.

Meanwhile, having passed over the Blueberry-Paulson summit, we drove through Castlegar and in another half hour or so, arrived at John and Vayla’s home in Nelson. I’m sure we looked the part of weary travelers. Of course, John had perfectly good reason for being tired as he had just driven between 4,000 and 5,000 miles. Although George and Arthur both had drivers’ licences, it was felt that owing to a possible accident involving insurance problems, one driver should do all the driving.

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Happily, no accident occurred and I know that the rest of the young people on this trip join me in saying thanks to John for a job well done.

Vayla and Cecilia had a good supper for us and later on in the evening, we all got into the car and went over to our home on the North Shore.

There is little more to say about the Trail of ’68. Later in the evening, I remember going out and sitting on our front porch over-looking the lake as well as the town on the opposite side. Somehow, it seemed to have been such a short time since this trip had only been in the planning stage. I had realized a dream or desire or whatever one wishes to call it that had been with me for more than half a lifetime.

Today I could not even have considered such an undertaking. So, friend, if you have a place to visit or a thing undone, do it now. Like that philosophy written a long time ago, “It could be later than you think”.

Thus having finished this story, we take our leave. As for you, gentle reader, if you have found something of interest in all of this, I’m pleased. What is more important if anything here had helped to recapture some of your own happy memories, we are further rewarded. Meanwhile, good travelling. It’s been good to have had you aboard!

Part Two Journey Into Yesterday

Preface

The following story is an account of a trip my youngest son, Benjamin, and I made to Northern California in the spring of 1976. Our main interest was to see the scene of the California Gold Rush of 1849.

From the time I was a young man, I have always been interested and fascinated by the stories and adventures of those who prospected for placer gold. During the summer of 1968, with my three sons and son-in-law, I made a trip to the Klondike gold fields. On the way back home, we stopped at Barkerville which is the site of the Cariboo Gold Rush of the early 1960s. So it remained for a visit to Northern California to complete the checkout of North America’s three major gold strikes.

The finding of gold for ourselves was never part of our plan. We merely wished to see these historic places from the standpoint of a tourist. I think most of us have had at sometime in our lives a golden dream of some kind. Mine was to see the three most famous spots where those hopefuls of long ago had either won or lost of their chance of attaining fame and fortune.

In each of the three gold strike locations, there was at least, to me, one very evident similarity. Although man in his quest for treasure had pretty well torn up the country, nature had done a very good job in trying to nullify the damage. While we certainly did not see all of the gold rush area in California, much of what we did see had returned to green pastures.

In writing of our trip to California and home again, I intend to go into detail concerning what we saw and experienced along the way. For this was a pleasure trip and we had ample time to enjoy it. Perhaps an old adage might cover this better than I can explain it: “Why go into the garden if you haven’t time to smell the roses?”

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I am very pleased to say that seeing the site of the “Fortyniners” gold stampede was not my only pleasure and satisfaction.

As we returned via highways running through the eastern parts of Oregon and Washington, I was able to visit the places where I lived as a boy. To be remembered by old schoolmates after more than half a century is something to be reflected upon. Also, to again travel along the same country roads that you knew as a small boy can be thrilling. And finally, to return home after such a trip without accident or other misfortune is, in itself, further reason for a large measure of satisfaction.

As I mentioned earlier, we made a trip to the Klondike country during 1968. Sometime after his excursion into the north, I wrote an account of our travels mostly to serve as a sort of family record. This account of our California jaunt is for much of the same purpose. I suppose that reading of one’s travels years after is something like looking at old photos of bygone scenes. Several people outside our family read the account of our northern trip and some commented they felt like they were in the car with us as we went. Let me say I feel these readers are most generous in saying this as I am not any sort of professional writer. But, as I have said in other writings, if in reading the following account, the reader finds anything of interest or is reminded of some of their own experiences, I shall feel that the effort has been worthwhile.

Therefore, let us, without further delay, embark on our Journey Into Yesterday.

Elwood A. Clum 1913 - 1979 Note: Instead of the usual chapter form I shall write this account on a daily basis starting with when we departed from Victoria on April 4, 1976. Thus, we might consider that each chapter ends when at the end of the day nature puts us into that suspended state called sleep.

Day One

April 4, 1976—Taking our leave of Mother and George, Ben and I got into the car after George snapped our picture.

Driving down the street I recall Ben had observed we were “heading up and moving out”. This remark referred to a television program series that our family had seen back in Nelson years ago. Right at the moment the title of this show escapes me. Arriving in downtown Victoria, we had a little delay in getting to the Black Ball Ferry dock owing to street reconstruction. Many cities have this problem and Victoria is certainly no exception. As a large number of people from other parts of Canada come to Victoria to retire, I have heard this rather tongue-in-cheek explanation given for what is an almost yearround street and sidewalk disruption. It seems that after people who were in the earth-moving and construction business retire in Victoria, they often get elected to administrative positions in our municipal government, thus enabling them to carry on their life’s work, so to speak.

However, we did find our way to the US ferry landing and in due time boarded the Coho which was to take us across the Strait of Juan de Fuca to the American city of Port Angeles.

This crossing is about 17 miles between ports and while the ride and view are both enjoyable, it does seem to take a long time to cross the Strait. The Coho is built along the lines of a regular steamer and does not resemble the water craft used by the B.C. Ferry Service on the Vancouver-to-Victoria run.

We left Victoria about 9:30 a.m. and the crossing was calm and the weather was good. Driving off of the Coho about 11:30 a.m., we checked into the U.S. Customs or, that is, we stopped where the signs indicated we should. Very soon one of the customs officers came over to the car. Looking at this chap

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I was quite amused to realize how closely he resembled the Hollywood actor George Kennedy. The officer asked us a few questions regarding our travel plans and the proposed length of our stay. Also, if we were leaving anything in the States. Ben replied that we were taking a two or three week trip around the North Western United States and money would be about all we would be leaving in our wake. On being told that I was from Victoria, the officer inquired if I had brought over any plants or fresh flowers. From his expression I gathered that Victorians were somehow noted for this florist activity. However, on being told that we had no plants or shrubs and no firearms, the prototype of actor Kennedy waved us past the customs station.

Following the main traffic stream for a few minutes we soon noticed the highway was turning east instead of west.

Finding a place to turn around, we were soon headed back to the main section of Port Angeles.

Locating the western end of Highway 101 was no problem and we soon were on the way west. Our plans called for travelling on Highway 101 west and then south. This route would take us across the Olympic Peninsula until we came to the open sea at Ruby Beach. From there we would continue south on Highway 101 through the states of Washington, Oregon and the northern part of California.

The population of Port Angeles numbers about 16,000.

Although we only saw it from the car, the countryside, as well as the city itself seemed to be very pleasant and is very likely a nice place to live. Listening to the radio station in Victoria, I often hear people phoning in from Port Angeles to request their favourite music.

Continuing on our way, the next stop was at a side road where a sign advertised the largest western red cedar tree that was ever known. Driving a short distance along this byroad we soon came to a parking place where we left the car and walked a short distance to the tree. Ben got two or three good photos, but my camera seemed to be affected by the lack of light due to the heavy forest growth. As for the tree itself, I was of divided opinion as to its being a large tree in the true sense.

The circumference of this tree at eye level was indeed huge

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and from that angle it probably was something of a record.

Yet, overall, this had the appearance of a large number of roots spread over a large area having formed into a main growth that resembled a huge stump. In other words, any tree with that much circumference at its base should have been hundreds of feet in height, but a large stump is about all the tree amounted to. So after looking at this forest attraction and going for a short walk further on, we returned to the car and drove back to the highway.

Our next stop was at Crescent Lake a few miles further on. This is a pretty little lake by the side of the highway and is set off by very beautiful mountain scenery. Again more photos, after which we continued on our way.

Our next stop was at Forks which is a small country town. Not wishing to have a heavy meal, we each ordered a deluxe hamburger. While this overgrown sandwich was very good, it must have contained most of the spices known to the culinary art.

Turning south we drove a few miles to Ruby Beach and the open coast. Although our trip through the Olympic Peninsula had been most relaxing and enjoyable, this open ocean view was something new. Ben had been to a seaside resort in Mexico, but I had never seen the open ocean. The open sea cannot be seen from downtown Victoria.

Leaving Ruby Beach, we travelled south with the ocean nearly always in view. Later on in the afternoon, we came to the more heavily populated area around Grey’s Harbour country.

Hoquiam and Aberdeen are two larger towns around these parts which seem to have logging as one of their major industries. As a young man, I can recall reading stories about great loggers from Grey’s Harbour. We passed the Grey’s Harbour country late in the afternoon and as the evening came on, we came to the long bridge over the Columbia River. Crossing the river, the highway passes the city of Astoria in the state of Oregon.

Astoria is one of the oldest cities on the northwestern coast, first established as a trading post about 1811. The name Astoria is derived from the John Jacob Astor family who were a wealthy family from the eastern states. The population

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of Astoria is between 10,000 and 11,000. By the time we had crossed the Columbia River, evening had fallen and we began to look for a handy roadside motel.

Continuing on to Gearheart about 12 miles past Astoria, we came to Bud’s Motel and decided this would be as good a place as any to spend the night. Checking into Bud’s Motel we got settled and inquired about nearby eating facilities. The nearest restaurant was down the road a short way and bore the rather nautical title of Captain Morgan’s. This dining place was very impressive with soft music and pseudo candlelight. To drop a table fork here would be the faux-pas supreme. After checking the menu, I felt Captain Morgan’s was well-named as the prices bordered on piracy. However, we had a very nice supper with only one complaint. It seemed that once again the food was good but spicy. While returning to our room I mentioned to Ben that as far as I was concerned we were not men for all seasonings as the saying goes.

Ben phoned Mother and George in Victoria to let them know how far we had travelled on our first day. Assured that all was well at home, we turned in for the night. All in all, it had been a most enjoyable day.

Day Two

April 5, 1976—Up about 8:30 a.m. and drove to Seaside where we saw the monument that commemorates the western end of the Lewis and Clark Expedition and what came to be known as the Oregon Trail.

Lewis and Clark arrived in about 1806. American history generally regards the Lewis and Clark Expedition as being the first to cross the continent by land. This is incorrect as Alexander McKenzie crossed the continent further north in 1763. To be exact on this crossing affair, one could point out that the Spanish explorers probably crossed this continent in Mexico long before either of the above-mentioned expeditions took place.

Part of the Lewis and Clark monument is the restoration of a crude salt-making oven built by members of the expedition for the purpose of extracting salt from the sea water. According to one or two accounts, without the voluntary services of a young Indian woman who acted as a guide, the Lewis and Clark Expedition might never have reached the Coast. They were very short of provisions and general health and morale was not good. Be that as it may, this expedition did much to open up the west in years to come.

Leaving Seaside, we drove down to Wheeler where we stopped for breakfast. This Wheeler restaurant was more of the conventional type and served a good meal. Our next stop was at Tillamook. The small city of Tillamook has a population of about 4,000. Apparently the area around Tillamook Bay, adjacent to the city, is quite a well-known dairy farming country. Tillamook has a cheese factory which Ben took photos of. We took pictures of each other posing by the large sign on the highway which advertised this local product. Naturally, we did not pass up the opportunity to instruct each other to smile and say “cheese”.

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While sitting in the car addressing postcards, a police officer came along the street. Dressed in western garb including black hat and a low slung six gun, he appeared ready to quell any and all riots or other violent illegal acts. However, Ben and I agreed that this Wyatt Earp image was somewhat diminished by the pad and pencil that he was carrying. At least this chap was equipped to deal with parking violators in no uncertain terms. Posting our cards, we continued south.

At intervals during the afternoon we stopped and took pictures of the coast. Pie and coffee about 2:00 p.m. took some time and we stopped to photograph a place called Cook’s Chasm. This is the place where Captain James Cook left to keep his unfortunate rendezvous with death in 1779. He was killed during a skirmish on the Hawaiian Islands. The highway bridges this deep ravine and waves crash into the rocky shore so a spume of frothy mist rises into the air. It seemed rather odd that this little place would be chosen for any sort of anchorage owing to the rough and turbulent appearance of the water. But not being a seafaring man, there may have been advantages I did not appreciate.

During 1978, according to plans now being made in Victoria, the bicentennial of Captain Cook’s landing on the west coast of Vancouver Island will be celebrated. Last year (1975) a statue of Captain Cook was placed on one of Victoria’s main streets near the Inner Harbour. It might be observed that all of this sudden interest in a man that had very little to do with Vancouver Island or even the whole British Columbia Coast does seem to be a little out of proportion. For example, George Vancouver, who was one of Cook’s officers, eventually became captain in charge of his ship when it sailed around Vancouver Island and explored the Georgia Straits as well as part of the mainland coastline. Granted, a statue of Captain Vancouver does adorn the Legislative Buildings, yet no day or special event has ever been set aside in his honour.

We could mention another of Cook’s officers that became somewhat of a celebrity in British marine history. Like Captain Vancouver who became well known after sailing with Cook, a junior officer by the name of William Bligh also achieved a

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measure of fame. Although Bligh became a captain after serving with Captain Cook, his claim to fame came about almost by accident. Being the victim of a mutiny while in charge of the ship known as HMS Bounty in 1789, Captain Bligh and more than a dozen of his men were cast out to sea in a small open boat. Having only a small amount of provisions, Bligh made a six-week, 3,600 mile voyage in this small open craft only losing one or two of his men. So although Captain Bligh was not recorded as a great explorer, it would seem that he possessed a rather remarkable talent for survival.

Last year, I noticed in our local newspaper that the original log book kept by Captain Bligh during his open boat voyage was offered for auction sale in London, England. His descendants had been in possession of this book and finally decided to sell it. The book was described as being about four inches by six inches and very neatly written. It is said that Captain Bligh listed the names of the 25 mutineers with Fletcher Christian in first place. The date was noted as April 28, 1789.

Travelling on to Coos Bay we stopped and had supper.

Proceeding further south we began to look for a motel. During the later part of the afternoon rainfall was sporadic, but as darkness fell, the downpour seemed quite steady. At one place on the highway a car was turned over at the roadside. Ben stopped and got out, but came back and said the situation had been dealt with, so we continued on.

For some reason the motels seemed to be few and far along that particular section of the Oregon Coast. Finally, a motel came into view and Ben stopped to check possible vacancies.

We got a two-room suite in what proved to be the West Blanco Motel in the town of Port Orford.

Before going to bed, Ben again telephoned Mother.

Again, we had a very full day and bed seemed most inviting.

We travelled about 300 miles and the Oregon-California border was a mere 70 miles further south.

Day Three

April 6, 1976—We arose around 7:30 a.m. and drove to the southern end of Port Orford where there was a small historical park known as Battle Rock. This Battle Rock is a large bump of rock sticking out of the water a short distance from the shoreline. In the early pioneer days during the month of June 1851, a bunch of war-like Indians trapped several white men on this rock and a short battle took place. According to information posted on the highway near Battle Rock, the men made their escape a few days after being attacked.

The next stop was at Gold Beach where the Rogue River flows into the ocean. This is a very pretty spot so we pulled in and had breakfast. I understand Gold Beach is so named because mining and digging for free placer gold had been going on around that vicinity for many years. Most likely this gold-bearing gravel comes down the Rogue River from the mountains. Every so often this river is used as a setting for movies and television shows. Judging by these films, this is a very picturesque river in some locations.

Finishing our breakfast, Ben went across the street to buy some film and I went over to the restaurant parking lot where I found a penny—a sign of good luck.

Starting off down the highway once more, we were soon at the Oregon-California border. We stopped and took photos of each other at the border signs.

I think it is safe to say many Canadians who have never been to California are inclined to regard that state as having nothing by balmy weather, large beautiful beaches, oranges and movie stars. In reverse, Americans strange to Canada often think that this country is populated with Eskimos living in igloos and Indians lurking in large unexplored regions. Of

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course, during the last couple of decades, television had done much to supply the real facts concerning many parts of the world. From what I could see, northern California is not that different from southern British Columbia.

We left the California-Oregon border area and our next stop was at a park called the Trees of Mystery near Klamath, California. This Trees of Mystery attraction seemed to be based mostly on the Paul Bunyan legend. Paul Bunyan was a legendary logger of legendary size. In this modern age, the great Paul would be described as falling and cutting up giant trees by using karate chops.

Ben and I bought tickets and took a footpath tour around the mountainside. On this jaunt we saw the cathedral of trees with an open-air pulpit underneath. Couples have actually been married there. Also, along the path were wooden carvings of figures having to do with the Bunyan theme. These wooden statues were a large bear, giant mosquito, Paul’s lady friend, a tired logger and so on. During a part of this tour, music played as we walked among the trees. We went through several gates on this trail and Ben soon noticed that the opening and closing of these gates had the effect of turning the music off and on. I recall that one of the pieces of music played was Trees a song created by turning the famous poem of Joyce Kylmer into music.

Returning from this woods tour we took a few pictures of the large statue of Paul Bunyan as well as that of his famous ox, Babe. The Trees of Mystery were a few malformed growths that were trees growing upon trees. Perhaps it’s the many years I spent logging and mining that made these odd tree growths less special. While it is to be admitted that what I have seen in my travels through many miles of forests has been on a small scale, I saw many things just as unusual. Yet, let me not create the impression that I did not enjoy or appreciate this short stopover. Indeed I did and the music as well as the Paul Bunyan atmosphere certainly added to the scene.

Leaving the Trees of Mystery park, the next stop was Orick, California where we had lunch and mailed more postcards. Continuing our journey south, still on highway 101,

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we came to a parallel side road called the Avenue of Giants. The name referred to a growth of very large trees that lined both sides of the road. Known as the “Redwood Trees”, one was 365 feet tall making it the world’s tallest living thing. Ben took some good photos, but again my camera betrayed me owing to lack of light.

Back on the freeway again we drove along until we got to the Tree House—a tree big enough for a couple of rooms to be carved in it. A rather unbelievable suggestion but perfectly true. Proceeding further, we came to the Chandelier Tree. This Chandelier Tree is a short distance from the highway and has a one-lane road running through the middle of the trunk. Tickets were sold to view and photograph this strange sight. Ben parked the car in the middle of the tree and there was still room for him to open the door and step out onto the road. I seem to recall that one of us remarked that this was probably one of the few times that anyone had ran into the middle of a large tree without damage to their vehicle.

We thought the road would return us to the highway, so Ben merely kept on driving. We were a little surprised when the young lady that had sold us our tickets suddenly pulled along side in her car and told us we were going the wrong way.

Having a whole hay field to turn around in made it very easy to carry out her instructions. I was pleased to note that instead of being annoyed, this young lady seemed quite amused by the incident and waved us a very cordial goodbye as we left.

We returned to the highway and went on to Laytonville where we stopped and enjoyed a very nice supper. Returning to the highway, Ben drove a few more miles to Willits and there we put up for the night at the Pine Cone Motel.

Willits is a small place of about 3,000 population. The altitude is about 1,400 feet above sea level. I have not given the altitude of any place that we stayed heretofore because they were all at sea level or very nearly so.

Ben placed the usual evening call to the folks in Victoria and we turn in for the night. Altogether, another very rewarding day as the weather cleared up enabling us to enjoy the frequent

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stops much more. A check of the car reveals that we had travelled 350 miles and though tired, we were very satisfied with the general progress.

Day Four

April 7, 1976—We arose fairly early, left Willits and travelled south to Calpella where we left Highway 101 to go east on Highway 20. Feeling the need of breakfast, we had a good meal at Upper Lake and started out at 9:40 a.m. Still travelling east, the highway bordered the shore of Clear Lake for a few miles. Going another short distance we came to the junction of Highway 20 and 16 and then turned south on 16 which headed more directly to Sacramento.

Since leaving Willits the landscape had been what might be called a sort of this-and-that scenery—some timbered areas, also lake-side views and semi-desert patches. Small hills made the road a rather winding proposition. The countryside seemed rather dry and arid and there were places along the road where no dwellings or other evidence of habitation existed.

However, driving south on Highway 16 we soon came to the Sacramento Valley. We stopped at Rumsey and took photos of the fruit lands that were on each side of highway. This part of the country reminded us somewhat of the Okanagan Valley in southern British Columbia. The one difference would be that the Sacramento Valley is much broader. Wile we saw many acres of fruit trees, I do not know if oranges grow this far north. To be frank, I wouldn’t have recognized an orange tree if I saw one. Therefore, some of the orchards may very well have been orange groves. When we stopped at Rumsey, the time was about 11:40 a.m.

A few miles past Rumsey we turned east and joined Interstate 5—a freeway into Sacramento that runs through the central part of California from north to south. Although we were arriving in Sacramento during the middle of the week, the traffic was still quite heavy. Just what the volume of traffic

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would be at the weekend would probably be something to behold. We drove into the city and were fortunate enough to find an off-street parking place.

Leaving the car, Ben and I walked three or four blocks to the State Capital Building. The building was under general repair and reconstruction. It was built during the 1860s which probably explains the need for repair. Except for a short time after been granted statehood in 1850, Sacramento had been the California state capital. When we entered this building, the whole scene was pretty well in disarray.

Going into the main corridor of the building, we met a security guard and inquired about the location of Sutter’s Fort.

This chap advised us to contact the office of the State Police as they would have better information and perhaps could give us a city map.

After a short search we located the office of the State Police, where once again we were treated to another westerntype drama. As we stood at the reception counter, one of the troopers came over from his desk to talk to us. As he approached the counter I noted he adjusted his hat at just the right angle, gave his gun belt and holster a western-style hitch and inquired as to the nature of our visit. If either Ben or myself had suddenly reached for a packet of cigarettes we could have been in trouble.

When I see a police officer wearing both hat and weapon while seated at an office desk, I get the feeling the whole thing is for the tourists. Anyway, the policeman gave us a folder showing the position of Sutter’s Fort which was about 18 or 20 blocks ʺthatawayʺ according to this agent of law and order.

Returning to the car, Ben got onto the right street and we soon reached Sutter’s Fort and purchased tickets at the gate.

Captain John Sutter was Swiss by nationality and came to the California country a few years before the gold rush.

About 1839, Sutter was granted 50,000 acres of land around what would later become Sacramento. He established Fort Sutter and began the business of trading and developing nearby land for raising crops.

Today Fort Sutter has been restored for tourism purposes and we took a few photographs as we visited the attractions.

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There was one thing I had not seen before. When we bought our tickets, the ticket vendor handed us each a listening gadget that was to be put to our ear whenever we came to an exhibit.

Each of these exhibits were numbered and this electrical instrument would pick up a recorded voice that explained the history and particulars of what the subject was all about. In other words, this listening device made it quite unnecessary to have any tour guides.

Going back to the city center after having finished our visit at Fort Sutter, Ben began to look for a route that would connect with Interstate Highway going east to Auburn some 35 or 40 miles from Sacramento. Although he didn’t have too much trouble getting on the designated highway, I couldn’t help feeling that traffic-wise, big cities are something like jails: easy to get into, but getting out is often a far more serious matter.

We arrived at Auburn in under one hour and again turned south on Highway 49. Highway 49 is another north-to-south road that connects Interstate 80 with Interstate 50. Interstate 50 is another east-to-west highway that parallels Interstate 80 in a general sort of way. Perhaps a more simplified explanation would be to say that both highways 80 and 50 leave Sacramento, but Highway 80 goes over the mountain range and passes to the north of Lake Tahoe, while Highway 50 runs directly east to the south of the same lake. I know all of this appears quite confusing but if the reader has a California road map they can trace these routes by comparing the highway numbers.

After turning onto Highway 49, Ben drove about 20 miles and we came to the small wayside settlement of Coloma.

Parking the car by the roadside, we got out and looked around for this place was, after all, the main object of the whole trip.

Oddly enough, when I come to think about it, I could not recall having seen any pictures of this historic place. I probably did see some though many years ago and had forgotten about them. As the time of day was well into the late afternoon, the light for picture-taking was far from ideal. Moreover, we wanted to have a couple hours to look over the countryside, so we bought a few postcards from a small souvenir shop and after contacting Victoria by telephone and talking to George, we

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drove on to Placerville about eight miles away. We decided to return to Coloma the next day.

Pulling into Placerville we put up at the Broadway Motel where the two-room suite was very comfortable. Rain was starting to fall rather heavily as we walked a block or so over to Chuck’s Pancake House for our evening meal. Returning to the motel, we made ourselves comfortable and had a long discussion until bedtime.

So ended another day of travel and sightseeing. Once again all went well and we hoped the rain would grant us a respite the next day.

Day Five

April 8, 1976—We arose about 8:00 a.m. and noted the rain. We made a slight change in our plans for the day. Earlier on, our plans had included a trip to the small settlement of Angel’s Camp after our visit to Coloma was finished. But as it was raining, we decided to go to Angel’s Camp and return by noon with the hope of better weather for a possible afternoon return trip to Coloma. Angel’s Camp was about 60 miles south of Placerville on Highway 49.

The side excursion to Angel’s Camp was my idea and desire for one reason. Over a century ago, the famous American humourist and satirist, Samuel Clemens, alias Mark Twain, had been a reporter for a newspaper in this gold-mining district.

As such, Twain had written a short story that had been printed in eastern papers and proved to be the stepping-stone that launched him on his great career. I imagine that most of us have, at one time or another, read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Innocents Abroad, Life on the Mississippi and many more books by Mark Twain. In a small park in Angel’s Camp there is a statue of Mark Twain that I also wished to see.

So off we went from Placerville south on our way to Angel’s Camp. The highway was much the same as from Auburn to Placerville, winding but not altogether unpleasant.

In fact, Ben drew my attention how he was spinning the steering wheel although we were not travelling faster than about 35 mph. There seemed to be more small ranches than we had seen before. Stopping at Drytown, we had breakfast at the Old Well Inn. Finishing our meal we went on to Angel’s Camp.

At Angel’s Camp we visited a small museum where we saw and read a rather concise bit of philosophy by writer Twain, “A man should conduct his life so that even the undertaker is

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sorry to see him depart.” Taking a couple of photos we drove to the city park I mentioned earlier. This park, I must say, was not very large nor was it very well kept. Sort of tucked away in a corner was the statue that was erected in honour of the writer that had once worked around this place and who had gone on to leave such a mark on the literary world. Somehow, at least to me, it seemed sort of our place. By that, I mean that this tribute was not in any prominent place or, for that matter, even by the roadside for all to see.

After taking more pictures we started back to Placerville.

A few miles from Angel’s Camp on our way in we had noticed a large billboard that advertised a jumping frog contest to be held during the coming month of May. So, on our way back, we stopped and photographed it.

The first story Mark Twain wrote which gained national recognition was entitled The Jump Frog of Calavaras County. So, it appears that the people of Angel’s Camp and Calavaras County still have a two or three day celebration which is held every year and the frog-jumping contest is among the events. I have read the original jumping frog story and have often wondered why so much notice was taken of it. The entire theme seems to be that fact that one owner of a jumping frog had taken advantage of his opponent by pouring buckshot (small lead balls) into his frog, thereby limiting its leaping capacity. However, let us not become too critical because all careers both great and small have to start somewhere.

On our return to Placerville a little past noon the rain eased off, so after having a cup of coffee at the Motel, we went to Coloma for the remainder of the afternoon. While Coloma is only a small place—just a widening of the highway—we spent a couple of hours there. We photograph Sutter’s Mill, Marshall’s Monument, the State Museum and a restored church that was built in 1858. Many books have been written about almost every angle or facet of the California Gold Rush of 1849 and I certainly am not going to attempt to add on to this vast quantity of literature of both fact and fiction. However, I do feel that a very brief sketch of how gold came to be discovered at Coloma would be worth repeating.

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As previously stated, Captain John Sutter was a Swiss trader and developer. Sutter was granted about 50,000 acres of land around Sacramento. I failed to mention this land grant was made by the Mexican government who in 1839 held jurisdiction over what would eventually become California.

During the early part of 1847, Captain Sutter sent James W. Marshall up the American River to establish a sawmill at the place which is now called Coloma. Here, Marhsall and several hired men started to construct a water-powered sawmill.

There’s seems to be two alternatives to describe the arrangement between Sutter and Marshall. Some stories state that Marshall was merely Sutter’s employee while other sources hold that Marshall was a partner in this venture.

Getting supplies and equipment was not a very speedy business in those days and it seems to have taken most of the summer and fall to get much done. The record shows that on the morning of January 24, 1848, Marshall was checking the digging of a ditch when he saw the first pieces of gold in the gravel. After making sure that what he had seen was really gold, Marhsall said very little to anyone before he made a quick trip to Fort Sutter to confer with Captain Sutter about what should be done. Neither Sutter nor Marshall knew anything about gold-mining, so they decided to keep the whole thing a secret at least until the sawmill and potential lumber project could be brought into production. What a hope! Personally, I would say that especially in those days, trying to keep a gold strike secret is like trying to conceal an earthquake.

The news got out and the rush was on. Of course, it took time for the message to reach the Eastern states and then the world in general in 1849. That is the reason for the famous gold rush participants being known as the Forty-niners. The same situation occurred over 40 years later in the Yukon. The Klondike strike that started the “Trail of ‘98” gold rush was actually made during 1896.

However, to return to Coloma and our trip. The weather had improved which added greatly to our enjoyment. Sutter’s Mill had been restored but I understand that the original timbers were recovered or dug up in 1947 and are in an enclosed shed

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nearby. A statue of James W. Marshall has been placed over his grave on the hillside.

Sutter seems to have been a man of excellent reputation both as a friend and in business. Unfortunately, Sutter was not able to cope with some of his problems which included wholesale stealing of his trade goods and livestock and desertion by his employees. Also, when the Americans won the MexicanAmerican War and California became a state, Sutter’s land titles were declared invalid and his land was confiscated. He died a few years later a poor man.

Marshall does not seem to have profited much more concerning his part in the gold rush. There are three or four stories about this man’s fate. Some say he was eccentric while others do not. It seems that one time Marshall tried to have every gold miner pay him a tax as the original discoverer of the gold fields. Of course, this idea was greeted with scorn and hilarity. Then again, perhaps the whole thing was the figment of some writer’s imagination.

Marshall lived out his life in a very average way; such as, more prospecting and finally growing grapes. When he finally died at Kelsey, his body was returned to Coloma for burial on the hillside where his statue points with outstretched arm to Sutter’s Mill. As this will be the only chapter on the California gold rush, there is another unusual incident I’d like to add.

During the California gold rush years, many Orientals came to the country. These people did whatever they could do to earn a living. Historians generally agree that these Chinese people were not very well treated so they were soon degraded to what was called menial jobs—cooks, laundry cleaners and so on. One Chinaman had started a small restaurant in San Francisco. One evening after closing hours some miners came to the door and demanded food. The proprietor thought it best to humour them lest they do him mischief. He seated his unwelcome customers at a table and went back to the kitchen where he prepared a large platter of food. After the miners had eaten his food they were high in their praise and wanted to know the name of such a delicious repast so that they could recommend this dish to their friends. As the proprietor had

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merely used a large supply of leftovers all mixed together, he replied the food was “chop suey” which is the Chinese term for what we call “this and that”. It would be highly speculative but I would have no doubt that if the combined value of this culinary invention produced since the 1850s were known, such a figure would compare very well with the gold recovered in California. At least one fact seems rather odd. If they do have chop suey in China, it is an imported art.

So again, it’s back to Placerville where we had supper and retired. It was probably one of our most rewarding days.

Day Six

April 9, 1976—This morning we prepared to leave Placerville for Lake Tahoe.

Placerville has a population of about 5,000 and an altitude of about 1860 feet above sea level. When this city was first settled, it was known as Old Dry Diggins and then, owing to a number of hangings, it became Hangtown. Later, better sense prevailed and the name was changed to Placerville.

During the gold-mining era in Placerville, a young man set up a shop and did a good business making wheelbarrows for the miners. After a few years this chap sold out in Placerville and moved to the eastern states where he went into the manufacture of larger vehicles. His name was John Studebaker.

Similarly, a butcher opened a small meat shop in Placerville during the gold-mining period and from there he went on to build one of the largest meat processing and packing plants in the United States and perhaps the world. His name was Louis Armour. It is often strange to consider from what small and humble beginnings some large and impressive organizations have emerged.

Starting from Placerville, we drove east on Highway 50 toward Lake Tahoe about 60 miles away. As the highway gained altitude, we saw snow after a few miles. Passing over the Sierra Nevada Mountains at Echo Summit, we stopped when Lake Tahoe could be seen in the distance. The altitude was over 7,000 feet above sea level and walking around snapping pictures became a breathtaking chore. Ben asked how I was and then motioned to the car saying we should seek lower country without delay. I could appreciate his concern as I had heart trouble for the last few years.

Arriving at South Lake Tahoe, we had breakfast and then drove north along the west shore of this very beautiful

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mountain lake. Having left Highway 50, we were on Highway 89 which took us north to Interstate Highway 80. You might recall we left this highway when we turned off at Auburn to go to Coloma.

Riding along the mountain road looking down at Lake Tahoe is a most pleasant experience and we stopped three or four times to take photos. On one of these stops, I had a slight misfortune. At one parking place, I did not notice one of my cameras was missing and we resumed the trip. A few miles further on I realized the loss, but when we drove back to the place, the camera was gone.

Travelling north, Highway 89 joined the larger Interstate 80 near the Donner Memorial. Donner Memorial State Park encompasses Donner Lake, Donner Pass, a museum and a large 22-foot-tall monument to the Donner Party. After photographing all of this, we drove to the lake where along the highway new homes were being built.

To get a good picture of the lake, Ben suggested we drive up into the pass. This idea turned out well, because not only could Donner Lake be seen, but also the railway snow sheds almost completely covered with snow.

Naturally, this snow combined with about 7,000 feet of altitude made for a rather cool temperature. Although it was a bright and sunny day, we did not spend much time up there.

Our plan was to go around the north end of Lake Tahoe and down to Carson City, the Nevada State capital. However, before going further, I would like to give a little detail regarding what I have referred to as the Donner Party.

While the Donner story is, in essence, a stark tragedy, it is a part of the history of this region. Also, the reader may be able to form a little clearer picture of what this part of the country is really like.

During early April 1846, the family and relatives of George Tamsen Donner formed a wagon trail to travel west to California. This train or overland expedition started from the Mississippi River and gradually made its way to Salt Lake City.

This travelling group was very popular and was joined during the summer by other travelers having the same destination in

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mind. However, as the autumn season approached, this group was repeatedly advised by more experienced frontiersmen to speed up their pace so to cross the Sierra Nevada Mountains before heavy snowfall.

The Donner Party, as it was now called, numbered about 90 people as it prepared to cross the mountain range.

Unfortunately, no group of travelers of that day was ever so illprepared to attempt such a difficult task. Out of these 90 people there were only about 30 able-bodied men and not all of these were experienced in dealing with such terrain. Considering that several of the women had small babies, the situation was deadly serious.

Seeking to reduce the travel distance, the Donner Party made a fatal error in leaving the Oregon Trail which, by now, was the accepted way of reaching the west coast. Taking the advice of a person who had written a short travel book on this subject, the Donner Party decided to go straight over the mountains to Sutter’s Fort. By the time the lake was reached, snow had blocked any further travel.

When Ben and I looked down at Donner Lake from the pass, the thought of anyone even thinking about taking a wagon train over that route without a road staggered the imagination. I have read several stories about this ill-fated trip and to actually see the area itself was to appreciate the problem even more.

About half of the 90 people that made the wagon train died at or in the vicinity of Donner Lake.

There was also one other unfortunate circumstance.

When rescuers arrived in the early spring, it was found that cannibalism had been committed on some of the deceased.

When Ben and I were looking around Donner Park, we saw a large rock sitting among the trees. One side of the rock was flat. According to the Donner story, a cabin had been built against the flat side forming one end of the cabin. Cooking fires were set against the rock to preserve heat.

Years ago, a brass plate was fastened to the rock which contained the names of the 90 people in the Donner party. These names were in two separate lots showing the people who survived

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the ordeal and those who did not. When we were reading these names, I can remember hearing the roar of the traffic on Interstate 80 several hundred feet away. It seemed ironic that people had starved to death in this place at one time.

The Donner Party had nothing to do with the gold rush.

In fact, when these unfortunate travellers were trapped in the pass, James Marshall had not yet begun to build his saw mill.

Incidentally, the base of the Donner monument is 22 feet high which is supposed to have been the depth of the snow during that winter of 1846-47. So with this observation we left Donner Park and drove the short distance to Truckee where we had lunch.

From Truckee we went on Highway 267 a few miles southeast to where the highway goes along the north shore of Lake Tahoe. We crossed the California-Nevada border and changed to Highway 28 which ran along the eastern side of Lake Tahoe. Along this stretch of road we passed a place where the television series called “Bonanza” was made or at least some of the series was filmed. However, it didn’t appear to be all that impressive so we didn’t linger. Once again, we came to Highway 50 and took that route into Carson City. We had gone nearly ¾ of the way around Lake Tahoe but I would say that the Eastern shore is not nearly so attractive as the side on the west.

Carson City is not nearly as interesting as some of the other places. We took a couple of photos of the Capital Building and after a bit of driving around, headed north on Highway 395 for Reno. Stopping at the Miracle Motel just outside of Reno, we put up for the night. At this particular place our good fortune in finding a nearby restaurant and telephone seemed to momentarily desert us.

Darkness had set in by the time we settled ourselves in the motel. Before it got too late, Ben went to make the customary nightly phone call to Mother. A few minutes later he returned rather annoyed. Not only did he fail to locate a telephone, but in the darkness a dog had rushed out and bit his ankle. I suppose we could observe that Ben was not the first person to have the bite put on him in Reno. As we were not famished and could phone Mom in the morning, we decided to pack it in for the night.

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Thus ended the sixth day of our trip and the next day we would explore what is advertised as ‘The Biggest Little City in the World” Reno, Nevada.

Day Seven

April 10, 1976—We arose about 8:00 a.m. and after taking a photo of the Miracle Motel, we drove into Reno. As neither of us had the funds or even the desire for gambling, we spent little time in this famous city. A fairly large city is no novelty to me as I live in one. Also, Ben was not too keen on contending with city traffic any more than he was obliged to.

So after driving around a bit and taking three or four pictures each, we headed out on Interstate 80 going northeast. In a few minutes a road side eating place came into view and we pulled in and had breakfast. Ben phoned home to assure everyone that all was well.

After breakfast, about 30 miles from Reno we stopped and photographed the Truckee River. Leaving Truckee country, the town of Lovelock was the next break where we had a soft drink. I might add that at both Clark and Lovelock I played the slot machines where my effort merely aided the local economy.

The small city of Winnemucca about 70 miles north became our next rendezvous with pie and coffee. Soon we were nearing the Nevada-Oregon border. Perhaps we should pause and discuss a little of the history of this state.

Carson City, the Nevada capital has about 15,000 people and Reno has a little over 70,000. Both theses cities have the same altitude around the 4500-foot level. Lovelock has a population of about 1,500 and I would suppose that Winnemucca has about the same. The state of Nevada has long been unique in its laws regarding gambling, cabaret and night-club life. Gambling and such activities are conducted on a 24-hour basis. So, to anyone preoccupied with the roll of dice, the turn of a card or the spin of a roulette wheel, Nevada would seem to be their haven. In a very large way, these practices are responsible for much of this

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state’s economy as travelers, and wealthy ones in particular, bring much of their wealth with them. There is also one other attraction that Nevada offers. For many years anyone wishing to get a divorce has only to spend six weeks residence in Nevada and their divorce is very nearly an automatic result. In fact, the phrase “going to Reno” has come to mean that a divorce is in the offing. Perhaps I should modify this statement somewhat as in the last few years more people have been going to Reno just for a holiday. But many years ago when I was young such holidays were not so common especially among working people with limited income.

It has always seemed unusual to me that during the last 50 or 60 years, no other state has ever adopted similar laws with which to aid their financial economy. I recall a few months ago, Atlantic City in the state of New Jersey will try for open gambling laws such as those enjoyed by Reno and Las Vegas.

Atlantic City is on the eastern coast of the United States and is well-known for being a holiday and resort area. This city is also famous for having a “boardwalk”.

At Winnemucca Interstate 80 turns east and we change to Highway 95 on our way to the Oregon border almost due north. I might observe that the countryside has for some time been the sand and sage brush so often featured in countless western stories. While this type of scenery is not unpleasant, it does not keep the viewer on the edge of his seat.

We arrive at the Nevada-Oregon border which passes through the town of McDermitt. The country around McDermitt is quite dry and desert-like much that same as we have been traveling through for most of the day. Leaving McDermitt we enter the eastern part of Oregon still on Highway 95. However, again evening seems to have caught up with us so when we pull into the village of Jordan Valley, Ben stops at the Sahara Motel where he rents a room. After the usual chore of getting settled, a restaurant is next in the scheme of things. The Chuck Wagon Café was nearby so we ate there.

During our entire trip this was one of the few places where the food left something to be desired. Perhaps the staff had a bad day. Then again, maybe the wagon had run over the chuck. Who can say?

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Our day spent driving over the Nevada desert had been interesting and enjoyable. Perhaps this was due to the abrupt change from large cities and snow capped mountain passes. I can remember Ben saying that on some of those long, perfectly straight stretches of highway, it would be quite possible for the driver to start to doze at the wheel. I doubt that this would happen very often on some of our British Columbian roads.

Returning to the motel, we made ourselves comfortable after we had phoned Victoria with our progress report. So comes the ending of another day on our trip.

Day Eight

April 11, 1976—We started by taking the usual photo of the motel and then continued north. For the first 20 miles or so Highway 95 ran parallel to the Oregon-Idaho border which is a couple of miles to the east. The country around Jordan Valley had in places unusual lava formations. I took a photograph of this phenomena as I understand that nearby Jordan Crater is one of the most recent volcanic action places in the entire United States. That is, I should say in the continental United State. Also, Jordan Valley has a settlement of the Basque from Europe; the exact location being around the border area between France and Spain. Around the Jordan Valley community, sheep and cattle ranches are operated wherever the water supply permits.

Crossing the Oregon-Idaho border a few miles from Jordan Valley, we drove on to Homedale. At Homedale we had breakfast and took turns photographing each other at a large sign that mentioned potatoes. Idaho is known throughout the U.S. as the “Potato State”. The countryside got a bit more green as we continued north.

Pulling into Council, Idaho we have a light lunch about 1:00 p.m. On our way we had taken a roadside picture of a billboard commemorating the pioneer site of the Hudson’s Bay Company’s trading post at what was once called Fort Boise. The original site of Fort Boise was on the Snake River some little distance from the highway.

After leaving Council, we went on to Riggins where snow again became evident on the nearby fields and hills.

Passing through Riggins, our next stop was at another roadside sign. This sign informed us we were at the 45th Parallel which is exactly halfway between the Equator and the North Pole.

Unfortunately, when these pictures were developed later on, it

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turned out that my photo of Ben was nearly ruined owing to my thumb overshadowing part of the camera lens.

Still traveling north on Highway 95, we came to Grangeville where our supply of film was replenished. During the last while, the country had become much more adapted to ranching or farming and there was a great deal of evidence of this. From Grangeville we went on to Lewiston after going over a few miles of road that had no surface except ordinary gravel.

We were not unduly impressed with this type of highway after traveling hundreds of miles over concrete or blacktop. Just shows how all of these things get taken for granted.

Arriving in Lewiston, we put up at the Evergreen Motel.

For supper we went to a place close by called George’s. After seeing a number of people waiting to get in, we decided to go somewhere else. We went uptown and ate at Sambo’s.

Returning to our lodgings, Ben found a public telephone booth for the nightly report to Victoria. This had been a long day, but quite an interesting one. Perhaps not as eventful as some of the other days, but can’t expect a first-class show day after day. Here, I will comment on one or two events that took place in this state in the early times.

Apparently, during the latter part of the last century quite a serious situation arose between the Indians and white settlers. Several skirmishes were fought and bitter feeling continued for years. Most of the trouble seemed to be caused by the destruction of a portion of the native diet. This part of their food was known as the camas root. In fact, some of the country we passed through was called “Camas Prairie”. According to the records, this camas root harvest would be something like harvesting corn or potatoes in the fall. In other words, this was a very important food as far as the Indians were concerned.

Therefore, when the white settlers’ pigs and plows began to destroy the camas root beds, trouble began to brew. However, it seemed to be the same old story. With superior weapons and ever-increasing numbers, the white settlers prevailed. Also, another race of people seems to have gotten into the Idaho scene in those early days. Old Fort Boise was situated on the Snake River near where this river joins the Owyhee River. This Owyhee

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River flows from a lake of the same name and in addition to this, there is also a mountain range called the Owyhee. All of this Owyhee business came about because a few settlers or pioneers who were brought over from the Hawaiian Islands.

Referring again to the last century, gold was discovered in Idaho which helped greatly to bring in more settlers and develop the country. I was rather amused to read in one tourist guide book that the gold recovered in Idaho amounted to $200 billion. This statement is either a misquote or complete nonsense. As a matter of fact, the entire North American continent never produced anywhere near that amount. Moving up to modern times, we could mention Hell’s Canyon on the Snake River where I believe a character known as Evel Knievel made headlines of a sort a few years ago. We did not see Hell’s Canyon, but it is not far from where the imaginary 45th Parallel would cross the Snake River.

So, dear reader, that’s about it for the state of Idaho as we sought solace in the arms of Morpheus.

Day Nine

April 12, 1976—Awoke this morning to rain. After getting in the car, Ben decided he better get gas at the adjacent service station. I got a picture of Ben getting the car serviced and the Evergreen Motel in a single snap.

This gassing-up chore reminds me of the old turn that business events have taken over the last few years. Both Ben and myself had purchased an adequate supply of American money before starting this trip. At this particular time (early 1976) the rate of exchange was about par. In fact, I think the Canadian money was something like 1% on the plus side. However, several times I passed over some Canadian paper money in payment for small purchases. Almost without exception, this money was either refused or at least looked on with disfavour. The usual excuse was given that while the clerks themselves did not object to the foreign money, their various managements frowned on it. Years ago when I went on short trips to the States, the rate of exchange was as much as six or seven percent in favour of American money. Although during these times long ago I met many American merchants who stated that they were not quite sure what the actual exchange rate was, so they would have to guess at it. I always thought it rather ironic that not once did any of these tradesmen I dealt with under-guess the exchange difference.

However, Ben had no such problems as this when he purchased gasoline or other car service. It seemed to me that his credit card was sort of “open sesame� to any and all service stations. These service attendants, young and old, male or female, all accepted this form of payment without question.

So, in brief, this was a situation where a plastic card, signed by the owner, was of greater value and convenience than the

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national monetary system. One day I asked Ben what he would do if his card was refused. He merely smiled and said that he would pay cash and obtain the name and address plus a photo of that particular place of business. This information would be sent to the proper people in the oil-selling industry which should discourage any repeat of such discourtesy. I realize that a little extra space has been used for this credit card and money subject. Yet, I feel anyone traveling in the United States should get enough money changed before they cross the border. I do not imply that everyone in our neighbouring country is going to be dishonest. But, on the other hand, to have the money from your own country regarded with a jaundiced eye does not add to the pleasure of the trip.

Near Lewiston there was a smaller town called Clarkston and obviously both of these places were named after the Lewis and Clark expedition that was mentioned earlier on.

We left Lewiston and changed to Highway 195 where the highway crosses the Idaho-Washington border. Stopping at Uniontown, we had breakfast. While awaiting the preparation of our meal, I overheard a small group of young working men discussing somebody named Elwood. I was rather amused as I do not hear my name very often as applied to someone else.

Incidentally, east of Uniontown is another deep part of the Snake River canyon and it is possible this is the place where Evel Knievel did his thing.

Leaving Uniontown, we continued on to Pullman and then Colfax, Washington. Our next large city was Spokane, Washington. Even though I was born in Spokane and have visited there quite often, Spokane never impressed me very much. I have long been of the opinion that this city could have invested much more in greater sanitation and more orderly traffic.

So, once, again, we shunned a large city and still traveling on Highway 195, we arrived in Newport about 40 miles from Spokane. It was around 1:30 p.m. when we put up at the Newport Motel. After having a short rest we returned to the car and set out on Highway 31 for the small towns of Usk and Cusick where I lived as a young lad. The highway has, of

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course, been improved during the last 50 years. Although this was no surprise to me as I had been over this Highway 31 when I visited Spokane during the many years I spent in Nelson, B.C. However, I had never stopped at either Usk or Cusick as there never seemed to be time when we were passing this way.

Ben and I were prepared to spend a little time so I could revisit my old haunts.

Usk and Cusick are both near the bank of the Pend Oreille River about two or three miles apart. Turning off the highway at Usk, we drove to Cusick on the old road. I can still remember driving along this road with my father and mother in a wagon pulled by Babe and Nig, our two horses. My little brother would be stashed away in a well-padded basket, so to spare him the bumps and jolts common to this mode of transportation. Later on, he would be able to take more of an active past in these trips to town. When we got to Cusick I took a photo of a school that I never attended but rather dimly recall during our trips to town from the ranch.

Departing from Cusick, we continued on Highway 31 as I wanted to see the country around what used to be the small village of Ruby where I lived and went to school just prior to coming to Canada. When we arrived in this vicinity, there was no sign of what I had previously known. I might mention that Ben and I, in planning this trip, had resolved not to get involved in a lot of personal visiting. If this seems strange, allow me to explain. I am sure that most of us realize how much time can be spent in visiting along the way. While, for the most part, these personal contacts are most enjoyable, they do take up much time. So as neither of us wanted to be away from home for too long, hence the non-visiting idea. We had passed the place where Ruby had been when a sign indicated that Roy Conner lived nearby. Ben knew that this was one of my old schoolmates so he inquired if I wished to make a call. I nodded and he backed up the car and turned into the side road and we were soon at the Conner house. Roy must have seen us approaching because he came out to meet us at the bottom of a small ramp that he used instead of the front steps. I was sorry to note that my old friend was somewhat crippled. I asked Roy how he was and

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told him that I was an old friend. I said this because I had lived with the Conner family for over a year during the time I went to school with Roy. When I told him who I was he could scarcely believe it. Perhaps when we consider that our last meeting had been 52 years ago, his failure to recognize me does not appear so unusual. To be quite fair, I probably wouldn’t have known Roy either, if I had met him anywhere away from his home. In short, when I left for Canada I had been 11 years of age and that was the last time we had seen each other.

We all went into the house and talked about old times which is just about what anybody would have done. During this visit, I asked about the old log house where we have both lived long ago. To my surprise, Roy said that it was much the same as it had always been and he was renting it out. Before leaving, Ben drove us up to the place and I took photos of the house and yard where I had lived and played over half a century ago. The Ruby school had long since been demolished and the schoolyard was now a young forest. Saying goodbye to Roy and his wife, Ben and I started back to Newport. Passing the place where Ruby had been, I thought briefly of some of the people who had lived there.

The settlement of Ruby had generally centered around the railroad station, post office and general store. The general store containing the post office was operated by the Estlick family.

I can still recall, quite vividly, how Roy and I often went into their store for Hershey chocolate bars. There was Grandpa and Grandma Estlick and their son, Murwood and his wife, Blanche.

Murwood and Blanche had a daughter, Doris, who went to the same school as Roy and I. It was in Ruby that I first met Mrs. Olive Fredrickson who later moved to Canada and became the author of the one-time best-seller Silence of the North.

However, enough of living in the past, and so we returned to Newport. Supper was next on the schedule and so we went over to the Ponderosa Café where the food was fairly good. The Connor’s wanted us to stay for supper, but we wanted to avoid that late evening driving. This was a precaution that we both felt was well worthwhile. After phoning Mom and George the peace and quietness of our motel room seemed very welcome.

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It was only natural for us to fall into conversation about bygone years which I fear Ben did most of the listening.

The following night we would be back in Canada, but not before I had seen another old familiar scene and had contacted another old friend.

However, for the moment it was the comfort of our beds and the gentle departure from reality until morning.

Day Ten

April 13, 1976—In the morning, it was raining quite hard when we arose about 8:15 a.m. We had breakfast at the nearby drive-in restaurant and then went over to the Court House. The reason for going to the Court House was to try and get some information on the whereabouts of my Uncle Bill’s last resting place. Uncle Bill had been with us when my father and I went to Canada. However, he spent about a year in Canada and then returned to the vicinity of Usk and Cusick. I believe he passed on in 1960 at more than 90 years of age.

Receiving little or no information at the Newport Court House, we drove back up to Usk and Cusick. I took a photo of Usk and then we went on to Cusick. The Cusick City Hall proved to be a very small building that probably held meetings about once a week. At least that is what the information posted on the locked door indicated. As I wished to try and get in touch with someone who might have known my uncle, we decided that the local post office would be worth checking.

The postmistress had only been there for the last few years, so she wasn’t quite sure about the old timers in the district.

She was helpful and began to supply a few names of some of the local residents. The first three or four meant nothing to be, but when the name of Chase was mentioned, I suspected we had struck pay dirt.

When I had first started school in the Calispell Valley country school near Cusick, Thelma Warren had been one of my older schoolmates. Later on I heard she married Ralph Chase, a local truck driver who I also knew. After obtaining directions, Ben drove around until we located the Chase home.

I knocked on the door and when a little short lady opened it, I inquired if this was the Chase residence as I was looking for

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Thelma Chase. She replied that she had never heard of such a person but she urged us to come in anyway. For a moment I was confused as the operator of a service station just across the street had personally pointed out this house as being the home of the Chase’s. I would not have known Thelma as she was now about 70 years old. When I had last seen her, she was 15 or 16 years of age.

Anyway, our hostess suddenly admitted she was Mrs. Chase and inquired as to the purpose of the visit. I stated that I had once gone to school with her and her disbelief was quite evident. However, when I spoke of the Calispell school and gave my name she seemed to have a total recall. In fact, she said my name had been mentioned in a conversation just a short while before. Thelma had known my uncle for many years but, unfortunately, did not know where he had been buried.

After visiting for a short while, we took our leave and drove out to the Calispell Valley. When Thelma was young she excelled in horseback riding and I had good cause to remember this. When I was seven years old and in Grade 1, our little country school gave a picnic on the last day of the term. The site of this gathering was something like a ½ mile distance from the school.

Thelma and I were the last ones to leave and she offered to take me on her horse. So after getting me seated behind the saddle she proceeded to tear down the road to the picnic grounds at a full gallop. What a panic! This nerve-shattering experience dampened my ambition to become a cowboy. I thought of many such childhood episodes as we drove along the road that I had not travelled in 50 years.

The Calispell Valley is only 10 or 12 miles from either Usk or Cusick, so we were soon out in the vicinity of where I once lived. This valley is rather circular, being perhaps three or four miles across. People also lived along the various roads that went up into the adjoining hills. When I lived here as a small boy, our family often went on fishing trips into and among these hills. Then, to me, they seemed to be mountains of great size and one of these trips was quite an adventure. But now, viewing these same mountains, I realize they are really not so big and it was I who was small.

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I found it rather surprising to note that other than the forest growth and better roads, this part of the country had changed but little. Small ranches still dotted the perimeter of the valley much as they had long ago. We stopped at one farmyard where the man working there said he knew my uncle. From another chap further on, I got the location of Edna Pease which was the same name as one of my schoolmates at the Calispell school.

Incidentally, I couldn’t decide on the location of where this old school had been owing to slight changes in the road and tree growth. Neither could I recognize the exact place where we had lived. The road was not very good along some of the way being sort of sunken cobblestone surface. I suppose this was in preparation for eventual hard surfacing.

I finally contacted Edna Pease only to find that Pease was her married name so she was not my former schoolmate.

However, Mrs. Pease had known Uncle Bill and she said she wasn’t sure just where he had been laid away. So after taking a few photos of the valley, we headed back for Usk. Before leaving this scene having to do with an early part of my youth, I’m sure the reader won’t mind if I record a comment or two.

As a general feeling, I cannot say I had very much of a nostalgic feeling for the physical part of this country. That is, I did not yearn to return or experience regret at leaving. But I must confess that while making this short visit and driving through these old farms and ranches, one thought did keep returning. It was here I had been a part of a family having a mother and a brother as well as a father. Many incidents, both happy and unhappy, occurred to me. I recalled often during the last 50 years, how father and mother and my brother and I would travel into Usk or Cusick to do shopping and then return home by evening. We would have supper on the way home usually eating cheese and sliced meat with crackers and butter and washing these down with lemonade. As I have said, these and other recollections often occupied my thoughts in years gone by. So, as we drove along there was, I suppose, a kind of personal nostalgia. At any rate, one great change did become most apparent. While it used to require at least three hours to get into Usk from the vicinity of our place via horses

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and wagon, Ben made the same trip in about 12 to 15 minutes.

Once more on the highway, we returned to Newport.

After eating a meal and sending some postcards we decided to check the Newport Cemetery before going on our way. Ben told me afterwards that he had gone into a small store to buy some film. As the clerk was handing him his purchase and change, he asked her where the graveyard was located. He said the lady gave him the requested information after she had recovered from her surprise. Going over to the cemetery, we looked around and before long Ben found his great uncle’s last resting place. We were both satisfied that we had been able to carry out this part of our plan. There was another thing that gave me mixed feelings.

During our search of this cemetery, I came upon another burial plot. The five people resting there was the Estlick family I mentioned a little earlier on. There was likely nothing tragic in this scene as even the youngest member, Doris, would have been nearly 70 years old. It just seemed strange that after so many years, fate or chance would bring about such a rendezvous between old friends. I do not consider that there is anything really morbid about this kind of thing; rather, it is just part of life that we aren’t able to plan for. For instance, when my brother was nearly three years old, I left him and my father at Usk. We were all three on the local passenger train that was heading for Newport from where we had boarded it at Ruby. My father and brother were going on to Newport while I was to visit a friend at Usk. This was after we had moved from the Calispell Valley to Ruby. As I left the train, my brother waved his hand and called a smiling goodbye. Through another strange turn of events, I never saw my brother again. Yet, as far as I know, he is still living. So, as has been quoted long ago; though we would attempt to rough hew our lives, we seem to live in the shadow of preordained destiny.

We left Newport about 3:00 p.m. on our way through Idaho to the Canadian border. Perhaps I should have noted that Newport is situated right beside the Idaho state line. In fact, Oldtown, an eastern suburb of Newport, is in Idaho. For many years gambling by slot machines was legal in Oldtown, but not

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in the main city of Newport itself. Maybe for all I know, this condition still exists.

From Newport we travelled east on Highway 200 through the city of Priest River until we came to Sandpoint, Idaho. The city of Sandpoint is near where the Pend Oreille Lake empties into the river of the same name. Here we join Highway 95 again which takes us north to Bonner’s Ferry on the Kootenay River.

Most of the country along this route is similar to what we had seen on our way up to Newport. That is, some green areas, some semi-desert regions and low mountains. However, another 30 miles or so nearly due north, we arrived at the AmericanCanadian border. It was about 5:00 p.m. As we did not make any purchases in the United States there was no problem at the Canadian Customs Office. Ben had hoped to meet a friend at this point of entry, who had been transferred from the Prince George inland customs headquarters. I should have said before that Ben operates a custom brokerage business in Dawson Creek, B.C. So, in his everyday work, he had contact with many of the Canadian customs people. However, this friend was not on duty, so Ben left a greeting note and we departed for Cranbrook, B.C.

Driving from the border to Cranbrook, the countryside became more mountainous and somewhat colder. I noticed that Moyie Lake was frozen over when we passed that way.

Sometime after 6:00 p.m. Cranbrook came into view and we put up at the Sands Motel. After having a good wash and a short rest, we ate supper at the Sandman restaurant. Ben made his usual nightly phone call to Mother and we retired to the comfort of our lodgings for the rest of the evening. Personally, I had enjoyed a very active and long day. Ben had spent considerable time at the wheel so he was ready for a little relaxation himself.

Making ourselves comfortable, we soon got into one of our long conversations.

Later, after we had retired to our beds for the night, I found that sleep didn’t come so easy. Perhaps some of the scenes of the day were still with me. One thing was of some satisfaction and that was the fact of being back in Canada.

Although Ben had provided extra insurance for both of us, one does hear of those odd and confusing situations that

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do sometimes occur in foreign countries. While we may not generally regard the American country as being foreign, owing to a common language, but legally it is exactly that. Let me not give the wrong impression. I am sure that Ben, my travelling companion, will agree when I say we fully enjoyed the 10 days spent in the United States. There was little or nothing to find fault with. What with good roads and food and lodging at a reasonable price, we couldn’t very well expect anything more.

Also, while we did experience some rainy weather, such did not spoil very much of our trip. In any case, the weather is not the responsibility of any particular part or whole of the country. So with a few thoughts of this nature running through my mind, sleep finally wove its magic spell.

Day Eleven

April 14, 1976—We were up by 8:00 a.m. and after taking the usual picture of the previous night’s lodging place (in this instance) the Sands Motel, we had breakfast at the Sandman restaurant. As the reader has probably noticed our usual habit is to travel awhile before having the morning meal. Ben said he always liked to travel that way—the breakfast delay seemed to sharpen his appetite. Actually, after a couple of mornings, I became inclined to agree with this theory. However, we suspected the eating places may be few and far between.

Fort Steele is situated on the bank of the Kootenay River, some 15 miles northeast of Cranbrook. During the last few years, this historic place has been restored to resemble the original trading and police post which was there more than a century ago. The first settlement at this place was known as Galbraith’s Ferry, a trading post of the mid-1860s. During that era, gold strikes had been made on nearby Wildhorse Creek and miners had come in from the west and south over various trails to participate. I believe that Galbraith’s Ferry, later Fort Steele, was the eastern end of the historic Dewdney Trail.

In 1887 the Northwest Mounted Police sent a detachment under the leadership of Officer Samuel Steele to British Columbia to handle the law enforcement problems of the area. These problems were brought about mostly by the influx of settlers who came into the west via the recently completed Canadian Pacific Railway. Native people were rather upset by this invasion of their hunting and fishing lands. About mid-summer 1887, Steele, his men and a full outfit including horses detrained at Golden and made their way south along the Columbia and Kootenay Rivers to the settlement of Galbraith’s Ferry. Choosing this site as a suitable place for his headquarters, Steele proceeded to establish

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a police barracks. This force numbered about 75 personnel and seems to have been very successful in bringing law and order to this region. So, thus, we would seem to have the brief sketch of how this pioneer outpost came into being.

When we arrived at Fort Steele on April 14, the weather was so cold I can remember saying to Ben that maybe the whole thing should have been returned to the natives. But, weather to the contrary, Fort Steele is quite an interesting place. One would realize very soon that this was the ideal location to build such a facility, being both level and open country. We took photos of most of the buildings and roadways. As I had my picture taken standing beside the Fort Steele monument, I was holding a large cat that seemed about ready to present the world with more of the same. We saw horses and I believe a cow or two in reconstruction corrals.

One aspect of the attempt to preserve this bit of history was, at least to me, the overabundance of new construction.

Perhaps I should not be critical, but the new buildings spoiled the historical or heritage of the overall picture. However, very likely the older buildings had been mostly destroyed before restoration was decided upon. Again, we were there before the place was open for the tourists, so no shows or similar attractions were open.

All the same, our trip to Fort Steel was worthwhile and the photos which we obtained were very pleasant to look at.

I wonder what Sam Steele would say if he could turn to his namesake and see all of those tourists. Incidentally, Steele only stayed at this place about one year, returning to take over a more important position on the Alberta side of the Rockies.

The career of this pioneering police officer would seem to have reached its peak when, in 1898, he was sent to the Yukon to head the Northwest Mounted Police during their policing of the Klondike Gold Rush. Many historic accounts recorded the fact that time and again, the understanding, tact and firm resolve of this policeman saved many lives and much hardship among the people whom he was charged with looking after.

We left Fort Steele and took a final photo of the general scene from across the Kootenay River bridge. Returning to Cranbrook, we set out for the city of Creston.

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Retracing our route, we drove back south on Highway 95 until we came to the small village of Yahk, which is not far from the international border where we had crossed into Canada the previous day. Turning west on another highway at Yahk, we drove through two or three more small wayside towns and then reached Creston and the valley of the Kootenay River.

The Creston Valley I mentioned is, in reality, the Kootenay Flats. There are many thousands of very fertile acres on which farmers have grown lush crops of vegetables, grains and fruit. The main reason for this excellent crop-producing land is silt from the Kootenay River. During the early times when floodwaters occurred, the Kootenay River would back up or flood all over the lowland floor of the Kootenay Flats. Over eons of time, this river action deposited a thick layer of good fine soil over a large area near what is now Creston.

In the early part of the 20th century, dikes were built along the river banks and a great deal of this flat land was drained and reclaimed for the farming activities previously noted. Two different episodes regarding this land reclamation might be of some interest.

In 1882, W. A. Baillie-Grohman, an English adventurer and world traveller, first conceived the idea of draining the Kootenay Flats to be reclaimed for agricultural purposes. The record shows the British Columbia government granted BaillieGrohman a land concession amounting to nearly 50,000 acres covering a large amount of the Kootenay Flats. Moreover, the same agreement contained a clause permitting the digging of a canal from the Kootenay River to Columbia Lake. Perhaps I should point out that Columbia Lake is where the Columbia River rises. Baillie-Grohman’s plans called for a large portion of the Kootenay River to be diverted into the Columbia River during the floodwater season. Unfortunately for BaillieGrohman, the federal government got into the act and after he had actually built this waterway, he was prevented from using it as intended. Being that this canal was so near the upper end of the Kootenay River, one wonders where the scheme would have been practical. After spending what has been quoted as $750 million, the project was abandoned.

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The only memorial to Baillie-Grohman that I know of is the naming of Grohman Creek, a small tributary of the Kootenay River near Nelson, B.C.

The second incident involving the Creston or Kootenay Flats area happened in the early years of the 20th century and at the time it occurred, a most serious view was taken of it. Time mellows such things and I think we can now regard the situation, in retrospect, as it were, to be on the lighter side. As previously mentioned, years after the Baillie-Grohman project failed, other interests provided the means to build dikes and thereby reclaim most of the land in question. However, at one particular time owing to unusually high water, some of the dikes failed and a number of farmers lost a large amount of their crops as well as damage to homes, buildings, etc.

According to the record, it was possible in those days to apply to the governing powers for compensation or redress under the “Act of God” law. In short, anyone could apply for financial assistance from the government provided that proof could be supplied that such a loss was not the result of any manmade circumstance. Today, the matter is dealt with largely by declaring the troubled scene a “disaster area” which qualifies it for public funds.

After suffering various losses, those pioneer farmers applied for this “Act of God” status which would qualify them to receive aid as has been described. The government appointed a hydro engineer to go to Creston from his home in Nelson to report and make an estimate of the damage so the matter could be settled. According to the old time story, this engineer made a very thorough investigation of the whole area. Most of the people who suffered loss felt that such detailed examination could only be to their mutual benefit. Imagine the shock and indignation that arose when the government rejected the claims of these farmers owing to this report. It seems that this engineer advised that no payment be made as his examination had clearly shown that the “Almighty” had not been responsible for this disaster. The reason seemed simple. The farmers had changed the landscape thereby inviting such a misfortune. If the people had not interfered with the natural course of the river, no disaster

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would have occurred. Employing this very broad viewpoint, I suppose we could not really argue with or dispute his logic. But according to the old timers, the author of this report was most unpopular for a number of years afterwards.

We passed through Creston and stopped at the small roadside parking place that overlooks part of this valley near Wynndel, a small town a few miles northwest of Creston. Taking a couple of photos, we resumed our trip. A little later the south end of Kootenay lake came into sight.

For the next 40 miles or so we travelled north along the eastern shore of Kootenay Lake. Somewhere along this route we stopped for lunch. Our next pause was at what is locally known as the Glass House. This tourist attraction consists of a house constructed of fairly large bottles. It wasn’t open when we were there as we didn’t go inside, although there were people living there. Just as Ben was about to snap a photo of me standing by the entrance, another cat came by so we included the day’s second cat in our picture taking. In leaving this bottle house, I would bring to notice the fact that all or at least most of these bottles had been containers for embalming fluid. Perhaps we could suggest that between glass and embalming fluid, this type of building should age very slowly, if at all.

Another few miles brought us to the Kootenay Lake ferry landing where we took the ferry across to the western shore. However, we had some time to wait for the ferry so Ben drove back to the side road that goes to Riondel, several miles up the eastern side of the lake.

Riondel is at the site of the old Bluebell Mine. The mine has been closed down for some years but its early history is rather noteworthy. It was recorded that the natives used the lead ore from this place to make lead bullets or balls for their muskets. Later on, this mine was the scene and cause for one of the first murders committed in southeastern British Columbia.

History also records that one of the first investors in this Bluebell Mine was a Senator Hearst from California. This member of the Hearst family was the father of William Randolph Hearst, famous journalist and publisher. Incidentally, this Hearst family involvement in the Bluebell Mine took place well over a century

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ago. In fact, this mine is one of the oldest, if not the oldest, mining property in the province. I refer, of course, to ledgemining, not placer mining. Ben took a photo of the highway sign indicating the Riondel road and we drove back to board the ferry.

Compared to the coastal type of ferry, this craft seemed very small and as the crossing took slightly more than ½ an hour, we remained in the car. For quite a few years this ferry route has been known as the longest free ferry ride on the North American continent. Considering the rates charged by the coastal ferry systems, I imagine the present provincial government regards this largesse by the public purse as something out of the dark ages. This must be especially evident when, by taking another route from Creston via Salmo and then north into Nelson, the motorist can save time and only drive several miles further. Be that as it may, the ferry landed us at Balfour and we soon covered the 20 or so miles to Nelson.

The last part of Highway 3A from the ferry landing at Balfour to Nelson goes along the shore of the west arm of Kootenay Lake. Many travel maps do not show this as being part of Kootenay Lake. Instead, this West Arm, as it is called locally, seems to be regarded as just a wide part of the river. As there is a very obvious water current here, I suppose this wide river concept is not too unreasonable.

Travelling down this part of the lake or river, both Ben and I were in very familiar surroundings. For many years I worked for the residents who lived along this stretch of country. Just before we entered Nelson, the highway crossed the west arm of the lake via the Nelson Bridge that was built about 1954.

Driving downtown we decided to put up at the Viking Motel. After engaging a room we went uptown for supper at the Shamrock Grill. After finishing our meal which was very good, we made the usual call to the folks in Victoria before deciding to visit some of our relatives for the evening. We spent the evening visiting Dave and Isabella Johnson who are my brother- and sister-in-law and, of course, Ben’s aunt and

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uncle. They were glad to see us and our evening seemed to pass very quickly. Returning to the motel from the Johnson home was the end of the day for us. Again, I would say that our day had been well spent. But for the moment, we would seek that which refreshes the body and renews the spirit—a good sleep.

Day Twelve

April 15, 1976—We had breakfast this morning at the Hume Hotel after driving uptown from our motel. The Hume is generally considered to be Nelson’s best hotel. Finishing our meal, we visited the old home on the lake shore opposite the city. Driving down to the end of the road at what we used to call Burn’s Point, Ben turned around and came back to the side road that went down to our former house. Since we had sold the place, nothing much had changed except the neighbours’ house had burned down and was being rebuilt. Going down the long flight of steps to the house seemed so natural I had to remind myself we no longer owned this place.

During the fall season of 1952, we moved to this area to look after a place for five months. In exchange for keeping the roof free of snow and caring for the house in general we obtained free rent for the winter. After the five-month period passed, we moved to the adjoining place and rented it for the following year. During that year Mother and I bought some land and a small cottage on the lake shore. Eventually, the cottage burned down and we replaced it with a much larger house. Later on, we were able to purchase the first house that we had spent the five months in.

When we got down to the house there was a large dog tethered outside who proved to be very friendly. Again we took pictures before going back up to the car. I should explain that the topography around this place is quite steep and the highway runs along the mountainside a few hundred feet above the lakeshore. From our former house up to the garage we built quite a number of wooden steps. Again I recall receiving Ben’s advice against rushing up these steps as I had been accustomed to doing for many years past. Just before reaching the garage, I noted one slight change I regretted seeing.

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When we first moved down to the small cottage in 1954, I noticed the beginning of a small ant hill at the side of the trail.

We all agreed that it would be left alone and many of our friends were encouraged not to bother with it. At the first I would say that this colony of ants and their home or hill could have been put into a gallon size container. When we sold and left in 1969 which was 15 years later, I doubt that a huge washtub could have accommodated this insect settlement. However, when Ben and I passed by this spot the anthill had been burned and then scraped away. My theory had been that it would be better to have one large concentration of this natural species than to contend with numerous smaller ones. Also, I was always intrigued by their steady process over the years. Observing these insects working so closely together for a common purpose seemed to indicate the human race still has something to learn.

Arriving at the garage, we encountered another large dog, but he or she seemed to be just as docile as the one down at the house. Going back up to the highway, we drive a short distance and then stop to visit an old friend, Dick Spurway.

Dick was not home and we later learned he was in the hospital.

We took a photo of a small boat that I sold to Dick Spurway years ago.

Returning to Nelson, we drove up to the home of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Griko. Of course, this is a formal way of putting it as to us they are like the Johnson’s, brother-in-law and sisterin-law and Uncle Henry and Auntie Teddy to Ben. We were pleased to see them and Granny Crossley as well. Mrs. Crossley is my mother-in-law and Ben’s grandmother. Being 85 years of age and having eight married children, it can easily be realized that she has many grandchildren as well as great grandchildren.

While visiting the Griko family, another brother-in-law, Ray Talbot and his son Michael dropped in to pay a short visit. Ray and Michael are uncle and cousin to Ben.

Auntie Teddy invited us to have dinner with them and it was a very enjoyable meal. Also, the opportunity to converse with old friends made the time pass too quickly. Before leaving, I snapped a picture of Henry and Teddy with Granny Crossley and Ben and his car in the foreground.

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On our way back downtown we had one more place to pay a brief visit. We made a very definite effort to locate my uncle’s last resting place and it seemed only right to do the same for my father. So we drove to the Nelson cemetery for this purpose. Ben stopped and inquired of one of the caretakers if he had any idea where my father’s plot might be. This groundsman had no information but referred us to another employee working a short distance away. When I approached this second employee we recognized each other as old friends and he was able to point out my father’s burial place after consulting some plans of that particular part of the cemetery. I had not seen Ralph Wilson for many years but had generally understood that he had worked in the cemetery for years. In any case, we were very fortunate to have met him as few other people would have gone to the extent that he did to help us. Most employees would have referred us to some sort of bureaucracy and gone on with whatever they were doing.

After chatting with Ralph for a brief time, we thanked him and returned to the motel where I stayed to rest awhile.

In the meantime, Ben drove around town to visit. He returned before supper and we went to the Pancake House across the bridge. Finishing our meal, we went back to our lodgings where we decided to go over a few blocks and visit the McLean family.

On our way over there Ben put in the nightly call to Mom and George.

I have known the McLean family for many years, 46 years to be exact. Harold McLean worked in the same logging camp I worked at and his wife, Frances, and their little baby lived down at what was called the landing because there was no family facilities up at the camp. Of course, this being about 1930, the Great Depression wiped out all of that and later on both the McLeans and myself moved to Nelson, but at different times.

Again we spent a very pleasant evening that somehow, with everything considered, just never seemed to be long enough. After saying goodnight to our old friends, it was back to the motel and thoughts of our plans for the next day, including a visit to the town of Salmo which is about 26 miles from Nelson

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due south. Again the purpose was to visit scenes of my youth.

Salmo and surrounding district was where I lived when I first came to Canada.

Day Thirteen

April 16, 1976—It was Good Friday and if we didn’t realize the fact before, the closed stores served to remind us when we got uptown. There was no real problem as we merely put off eating breakfast until arriving at Salmo.

During our drive out to this small country town, I recalled how it used to be nearly 50 years ago. I believe my first trip to Nelson was made in 1927. The stage service was operated by a Salmo resident who ran this transportation system for quite a number of years. Anyone living in Salmo could go to Nelson in the morning and return in the late afternoon.

In those days the highway was just a common dirt road changing its condition at the dictation of the weather.

Sometimes it required the aid of the passengers to push the vehicle out of a mud hole. Oddly enough, very few accidents ever took place. In dry weather, every car created its own dust storm which was very visible. And when the roads were soaked with water and mud, nobody could drive those old time cars or trucks fast enough to be dangerous. Also, horse and wagon traffic had to be looked out for. The longest trip I ever made on this particular road was when I rode or led a horse from Rotter’s Spur to Nelson, a distance of over 20 miles.

All that changed years ago and so Ben and I drove along a good surfaced highway and arrived in Salmo in a matter of minutes. We had our usual breakfast of bacon and eggs which was well-prepared and the service was good. We returned to the car and drove a few miles down to Benton Siding and Ross Spur where I once lived and went to school. The highway runs along the Beaver Creek valley which it shared with Great Northern Railway. This railway provided passenger and freight service between Nelson and Spokane, Washington.

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Going as far as Park Siding, we turned around started back. On the way back we took the old Ross Spur Road that I knew so well many years ago. When we came to what was known as the Barclay Farm, the valley widened out somewhat and I was able to take some photos of what was once Benton Siding.

The Barclay Farm hadn’t changed much since I walked through some of the meadows on my way to school. This would have been about 1925 or 1926. Driving further on the original road, I started looking for signs of where the old country school had been. We came to a place that from the surrounds appeared to be the site of the long-gone school house. A fairly new house had been built there and a lady was raking leaves nearby. Ben stopped and I got out and went over to inquire about the possibility of the school having once been in that vicinity. The lady pointed to the front yard and told me that the school had been there until a few years ago. I recalled that one of my schoolmates had mentioned quite a long time ago he had stopped and gone into the schoolhouse which even then had been long abandoned. While looking around, he noticed a pile of school attendance records which he salvaged and took home. Incidentally, the school’s average attendance would be something like 10 to 12 pupils. One of these pupils I went to school with later went into the dairy business in Nelson and I did some building for him over 30 years later.

We drove on until the old road joined the main highway.

As Ben drove out onto the highway he said we might as well drive back down Benton Siding and have a closer look. I had already taken pictures from across the valley but as we had lots of time, I thought we could perhaps find the place where Dad and I had once lived.

My father and I lived in a small two-room frame house five or six hundred feet from the railroad. However, as the highway had since been built along that side of the valley above the railway, the topography took a little getting used to.

Where once had been cabins, houses, barns, a blacksmith shop and even a small store, there was now only a heavy growth of small trees. As Ben and I walked into this young forest, we

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encountered snow. I mentioned to Ben our house had been near a very large cedar stump that had springboard notches cut in the sides. Springboard notches are cut so short planks can be wedged into these holes. These planks stuck out in a horizontal position so the tree faller could climb up and cut the tree down above the wide root expanse. This stump would be about 10 feet high.

Sure enough, Ben quickly walked around and found the stump in question. I went up and we took some photos of me standing by this old landmark. The walking around in the snow had sort of got me out of breath for the moment and Ben directed that I sit on a convenient log and relax. He observed I was being a bit too active. Somehow, I had to smile at my son’s concern for a rather strange reason. My father whose name was also Ben had often given me this same advice right here on this same spot. After all, what father has not told his 12-year-old son to stop rushing around and settle down? Maybe it wasn’t all that funny but the fact that my father and my son should give me the same advice in the same place over 50 years apart, struck me as rather ironic.

We had been accompanied on our walk around Benton Siding by a dog that evidently belonged to a family living down near the railroad. This animal was so friendly that he wanted to get into the car with us when we prepared to leave. However, we convinced him otherwise and after snapping one last distant photo of the Barclay Farm, started the return trip to Nelson.

Stopping in Salmo, I entered a service station that had been operated by Carl Wilson, the former school chum who had rescued the school papers as previously mentioned. The station had since been sold to another person who gave me directions to the Wilson home in Salmo. I did not try to find the address owing to this being a holiday, the Wilson family might have been involved in any of at least a dozen things. Moreover I had seen Carl during the last years I had lived in Nelson. When I left the service station and went back to the car, Ben had been witnessing some sort of altercation between two men out in the street. As we drove away the local police had arrived and were inquiring into the situation.

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On our way to Nelson we stopped at Ymir, B.C. Ymir is about seven or eight miles from Salmo going toward Nelson.

This small town is, I suppose, one of the Kootenay district pioneer settlements. During the early days, Ymir was first known as “Quartz Creek”. Later on, this name was changed to Ymir. I have always understood that Ymir refers to a god of Scandinavian mythology. Just what this small mining town has to do with Swedish fantasy is beyond me. I had not discussed Ymir on our way to Salmo from Nelson because the highway does not go through the main part of town. However, on our way back we took a picture of the main street, which was at one time a part of the highway.

When I was about 15 years of age, I lived around Ymir for a year or so. Back in those days, there were many prospectors and small mining companies working in different parts of the adjacent hills. One of the largest of these mining operations was the “Yankee Girl” mine right near Ymir. Unfortunately, this type of small mine is no longer worth operating and thus Ymir is a mining town of history mostly. At the present I believe that most of the residents of Ymir are either retired or work elsewhere, as good roads and fast transportation enables people to live a considerable distance from their place of employment.

Leaving Ymir, we drove to Nelson without stopping. In passing one of the places along the way, memory took me back a long time to an unusual situation.

At one time, about four or five miles from Ymir going toward Nelson, the road passed the railway siding of “Porto Rico”. Again, I have no idea how such a name came to be chosen. Around 1927 this Porto Rico area was cordoned off as a detention ground for a group of radical and rebellious people known as the Sons of Freedom. These Sons of Freedom characters were a splinter group which had broken away from a larger Russian immigrant group called the Doukhobors. We shall discuss this Doukhobors affair a little later on. However, I remember that whenever any vehicle passed Porto Rico during the time the dissident Doukhobors were held there, the vehicle would be stopped and checked by the Mounted Police.

Somehow, this was a Federal matter then and the RCMP were

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in temporary charge of these people. I would remind the reader that the Mounted Police did not take over the policing of British Columbia until more than 20 years later. I wonder how many people passing that way today would ever suspect that this desolate countryside had once been a prison of sorts.

Once more back in Nelson, we had supper and after phoning Mom and George decided to call on our son-in-law John’s mother who still lives in Nelson. Spending a very relaxing evening talking of times, both old and new, it was time to take our leave before we realized that the evening had gone.

Returning to the motel, we soon sought our beds. All in all, it had been a good day. Some people feel that reviewing the past, is somewhat depressing and sad. I am not inclined to agree with this point of view. My feeling was that I had gone through a difficult childhood and youth and after that had been fortunate enough to share the larger part of my life with a wife and family that has contributed in nearly every way to my happiness and well-being.

Day Fourteen

April 17, 1976—We arose late and went uptown to the Hume Hotel for breakfast. Finishing our meal, we went to the car and decided to drive out to the North Shore where I had worked for a number of years.

After crossing the bridge, Ben drove along at the speed that enabled us to take in these old and familiar sights. In fact, as we went along I could point out a few of my jobs that were still quite evident. This work consisted mostly of stone walls, stone steps and repairs to buildings at various places.

I might observe that each project reminded me of incidents regarding the people involved. Some of these experiences were a little unusual, one or two being rather sad and others that were quite humourous. I am pleased to say that very few were unpleasant. Perhaps a brief sketch of some of these episodes would be of interest.

One of my employers, although very wealthy, was so careful when it came to spending money that some of his antics bordered on the unbelievable. For example, one time this chap asked me to return four wind closure buttons to the hardware store where he had purchased them. The total value of this merchandise was about $0.30. Another time, this same fellow gave me three or four windows to take home for my own use as he said that he had no further use for them. This was in the morning and during the afternoon he came around and asked if I would object if he kept the windows being that a use had been found for them.

On another occasion, a prospective employer took me up the lake in his car and then we went across to his isolated summer home on the south shore; all without getting out of his car or using any kind of a ferry or boat. This was my one and

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only ride in an amphacar. I accepted his offer of employment which lasted for quite sometime. This man was part owner and manager of the Hume Hotel at that time. His reputation as a staff employer at the hotel seemed to be of a hard and demanding nature. I cannot honestly say that I received any of this type of treatment. Sometimes I would not see him for days at a time and when he did come to see how I was getting along, his manner was always most cordial. I can still remember seeing him coming across the lake in his car and driving up to the house from the beach. Somehow, this always seemed so unusual. By the way, I’ve often wondered whatever became of the amphacar idea, as they do not seem to be advertised anymore.

We drove further up the lake and then turned on a side road to see a place where I had done a large amount of work from time to time. I will always have a very appreciative memory of the elderly lady that I worked for at this place. During the summer of 1952, this lady got in touch with me regarding some stone steps she needed built. I went to see her and arranged to do the job in a few days time. I heard about this lady as being quite eccentric and very difficult to work for. However, I did not regard the neighbourhood opinion as being very important so I thought very little about it. A few days after seeing her, I began to build the steps which led up to, of all places, a mausoleum where her husband was buried. This unique situation is what generated most of the rumour and speculation about the lady being odd or eccentric. Anyway, the first day I worked at this job, the lady suggested that I need not bring my lunch as she would enjoy having company for dinner. Also, she served midmorning tea and a glass of wine in the afternoon. She was a lonely person and often during the dinner hour she would get involved in some story that would take longer than this prescribed time. She would always pour another cup of tea or coffee and advise me that work could wait.

But it was her method of payment that has always impressed me the most. The fist time I finished a job for her, she asked what to make the cheque out for, that is, the amount she owed me. I took out a paper from my notebook and started to explain about the rate of pay and hours worked. She cut

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me short! She said she was not interested in such detail and she repeated her request for the total amount that the cheque should be issued for.

Such an arrangement continued all during our association of several years. Also, at the end of the working day, I had to walk for not more than five minutes to reach the highway where I got a bus home. This lady always insisted I have 20 minutes to a half-hour for this short walk, lest I miss my ride home. Perhaps such consideration and trust does seem a little out of the ordinary, but if this is viewed as eccentricity then let’s have more of it.

Returning again to our trip, we drove a little further until we stopped where a married niece of ours lived. She and her family were not home so we came back to Nelson. Back in the city again, Ben let me off so I could go and visit an old friend I had known since my logging days years ago. In the meantime, Ben went to visit his former school teacher and one of his schoolmates as well.

Arriving at my friend’s home near the center of town, I found him preparing to paint the kitchen. It had been some years past since we had last seen each other. His name was Singvid Norlund and had been a flunkey in the logging camp where I had worked around 1929 or 1930. Anyway, when Sing, as we called him, and I worked at this camp he was about 15 and I was 17. He was surprised to see me and we had a good visit over two or three cups of coffee. He had been married at one time but was now living with his aged mother at the family home. I say the family home because this was the same house where he had lived when he was working at the camp. I visited him there several times as a young man and the place looked much the same. Before I left Sing, he gave me a picture of myself as a young man. I had forgotten, if indeed I ever knew, that he had this picture.

Finishing my visit with this old friend from bygone years, I went downtown to see what was going on. I had only been gone a few years, so not much had changed. Walking past the McLeod Shopping Center, I noted that the “S” had fallen from the sign making it the “Hopping Center”. My rather

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cynical thought was that such a sign could denote either a dance hall or a place to raise rabbits. Further on I met Ralph Wilson again and we had a brief chat. The weather was cold and I did not feel inclined to do much idle strolling. As I walked along, I saw a policeman busy issuing parking citations. Going into the local Woolworth Store, I met a former acquaintance who had been a dogcatcher. Somehow I got the impression my afternoon stroll was not placing me among the elite of my old hometown.

However, I did meet another friend many years standing. We had a brief chat and I got on the bus to return to our motel. A few months later, I was saddened to hear that this latter friend, John Woods was drowned by accident while on a fishing trip.

Apparently, he had fallen into a river while cleaning some camping equipment.

Boarding the city bus, I realized I didn’t know the price of the fare and I asked the bus driver how much it was. Paying the $0.25, I sat down near the driver whom I had recognized. It would seem this recognition was mutual because he asked me where I had been since he had last seen me. Max Carne was this fellow’s name and his family were old timers in the district. I noticed he made change for passengers buying tickets which is not done in Victoria or Vancouver. Of course, as far as I know, the Nelson city bus transportation has not been taken over by B.C. Hydro.

After a short ride, I left the bus at the stop near our motel and that was about that for the day insofar as outside activity was concerned. Ben came in from his visiting before long and we decided to patronize Colonel Sanders for the evening meal.

As it was still a good light outside, I snapped a few photos of the opposite shore of the lake where we had lived for so long.

Months later I was able to make a fairly good panoramic scene by cutting and aligning three of these photos. We had also taken a picture of the Nelson Bridge which I think had been painted a sort of silver or aluminum colour for many years. However, it was a bright orange hue. To see this large bridge settled in the green mountain background and sporting such a brilliant note seemed rather odd to say the least. Ben and I finally decided the highway purchasing agent had been offered a very good rate on a large amount of orange paint.

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Be that as it may, Ben arrived back at the motel with our supper and we proceeded to look after the inner man, as the saying goes. With no plans for further evening visits, we phoned Victoria with the usual report and then talked until bedtime.

Once again, I had seen old friends which is always worthwhile and had also checked over familiar scenes. And quoting the famous Mr. Samuel Pepys, “And so to bed.�

Day Fifteen

April 18, 1976—We were up and packed our belongings fairly early this morning as we planned to leave Nelson to continue our trip. However, before leaving the city, Ben drove to the Hume School so I could take a photo of the elementary school to show George when I returned to Victoria. This, incidentally, is the first school the older children went to.

Going through Nelson on our way west, I noted one other slight change that had been made. For a great many years, the war memorial, honoring the fallen of two world wars had occupied a place on the boulevard in the center of a two-way street. As in most of these cases, the original monument had been placed there in honour of the fallen during the first world war and the names of those World War Two had been added.

Some years ago this particular street had undergone renovation and the center boulevards had been reduced to provide room for angle parking, except the block with the war memorial. The planned conversion of this block involving the movement of the monument had encountered serious opposition from the Legion and war veterans in general. Many letters were written and published in the local newspaper. The general consensus was that the memorial and the place it occupied, had been given to those who had already given their last full measure.

Therefore, the memorial could not be moved. Although not a veteran myself, I wrote a letter fully supporting this contention.

For a long time, nothing was done about this problem or to be more explicit, what city officials thought was a problem. But as I said, on our visit to Nelson, I could see that officialdom, politics or whatever had finally prevailed.

We left the city on the new road that had been built along the lake and river shore and crossed the river at Taghum, five

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or six miles from Nelson. The reader will note I said by the lake and river shore. This is because the west arm of Kootenay Lake empties into the lower Kootenay River along this part of the highway slightly west of Nelson. From Taghum we travel on to South Slocan and then Krestova. Before going further I would like to pause for a short explanation of what we were about to do next.

Awhile back, I made some reference to the Doukhobor people. These people were a band or group of Russian immigrants that were admitted into Canada in 1899. In the beginning, they were regarded as a pacific, strictly non-violent type of people who lived by agriculture alone. As a matter of fact, the original Doubkhobors did not believe in eating meat because such a practice would involve the killing of animals.

According to history, these Doukhobor people were not in any special favour with the Russian government owing to their refusal to bear arms or engage in any military service. However, after a minimum examination of their history, the Canadian government welcomed 7,000 of these immigrants to Canada.

I do not intend to give any sort of history of the Doukhobors at this time. But I would say that for over 60 years this band of immigrants gave nothing but trouble and problems in return for what was an honest, although somewhat misguided attempt to please them and add to their well being. Some of the philosophy of these Doukhobor people bordered on the fantastic. For example, while they did not believe in killing or being in any way responsible for taking of human life; at the same time, they thought nothing of committing arson and bombing to destroy property. It is only fair to point out that not all of the Doukhobor clan engaged in this sort of thing.

As I mentioned, the radical and violent sect of the Doukhobor people was known as the Sons of Freedom and it is to the village of Krestova, their old headquarters, that we were going. As we drove through what had once been the largest gathering place of these Russian rebels, various thoughts went through my mind.

Here, at this place, which was now a quiet country community, strange things had happened in the long ago. On

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the advice of various leaders, the Freedomites had set fire to their own homes and stood by while the houses burned. Here, also, over 200 people had fallen to their knees to worship a leader they had never seen before. And finally, here also, these people had mourned the loss of some of their young men who had not been successful at making bombs. It was even more amazing to realize that all of this had taken place during the last 25 to 30 years. Perhaps one small incident concerning our visit to Krestova should be mentioned as it, in itself, indicated how times had changed.

I called at the Provincial Police Station across the Slocan River from Krestova to make an enquiry, but being Easter Sunday it was closed. However, a sign directed any caller to go next door. While I was doing this, a young lad about three years old came around the corner. Peering up at me very earnestly, he said his father was a policeman who was still asleep in bed.

This young lad then informed me his father would soon arise and proceed to hide Easter eggs, which my young friend had every confidence in being able to find. Also, I was asked how many Easter eggs I had been able to locate. I had to confess that my Easter egg recovery effort had been something of a disaster.

As we drove away from the police post, I felt that, all things considered, peace had finally come to Krestova.

Continuing on our journey we arrived at Brilliant then Castlegar, two country towns quite close together. By this time, we had gained a very good appetite so breakfast was the next business of the day.

This Brilliant and Castlegar area is where the Kootenay River joins the Columbia River. The landscape or topography around here is a bench land with mountains in the background.

Driving along this flat river shore country one can see many new buildings that have been built just recently or within the last 25 years. Many of these residents work in the smelter at the city of Trail about 25 miles to the south. However, along these same flats or benches, there are still signs of old fruit trees and here and there a large old-fashioned two-storey brick building which to Kootenay old timers seem rather nostalgic. For it was here, at the beginning of this century, that those people called

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the Doukhobors came to establish a new life. Unfortunately, for them, they saw their hopes and dreams gradually fade away and become engulfed by general Canadian lifestyle.

When the Doukhobors first came to Canada in 1899, they were settled in Saskatchewan. Back in Russian these same Doukhobors were led by an individual whom they addressed as King, Christ, Holy One and almost any other title benefiting that standard. However, the Russian government had seen fit to detain this character and provide living quarters for him and his family somewhere in Siberia. During 1902, urged by the Doukhobors now in Canada, the Canadian government petitioned for his release and such was granted enabling this leader, Peter “the Lordly� Verigan, to join his people in Canada.

About 1908, Peter Verigan purchased a few hundred acres of land here at Brilliant and also at Grand Forks about 50 or so miles to the west on the side of the mountain range. During those early times, most of the Doukhobor trouble centered around the fact their leaders did not wish to share their power or influence with the Canadian government. Actually, the whole issue was just that simple. In fact, such things as attending school, paying tax, registering births and deaths was strictly a no-no, insofar as Doukhobor philosophy was concerned.

Likely the majority of these people would not have subscribed to this rebellious situation if their leaders had been more sensible. Also, as in most of these radical affairs, there developed a power struggle for leadership and Verigan was killed by his railway passenger car being bombed. This bombing happened in late 1924 and by 1927 a son of this deposed leader arrived from Russia to take over the leadership that his father had vacated so suddenly.

Right from the beginning, this second Doukhobor leader, also named Peter Verigan, seemed to have three closely related ambitions. These goals were simply this: to cause as much trouble, drink as much liquor as possible and collect all of the money he could in the shortest possible time. History relates that he did fairly well in all three fields until death, by cirrhosis of the liver, caught up to him in 1939.

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Both of these leaders are buried in the same tomb on a hillside overlooking the highway near Brilliant. This tomb has at various times been the scene of worship and of various attempts to blast it out of existence. Incidentally, Peter the Lordly Verigan was the one that was honored here or hated, depending whether it was a blessing or a blasting that occurred.

After we photographed the tomb and some of the surrounding valley, I inquired if there was anything to drink as I felt a thirst coming on. Ben searched around in the car and found a bottle and two glasses. As he handed a glass to me, I proposed a toast to King Peter. For, say as you will, this Doukhobor leader may not have very important in a national way, but to his own people he was a King and a Christ and you can’t get much better than that. Oh, yes! Somehow I think that King Peter would have approved of our toast to him because he was a strict vegetarian and our beverage was prune juice.

Before leaving Brilliant and Castlegar, we paid a visit to the Doukhobor museum. There were many interesting exhibits and displays showing the Doukhobor lifestyle of long ago. But strangely enough, I did not seem to enjoy it very much. I could not help but realize that here was evidence of a people’s hopes and dreams that, in one lifespan, had faded away. Today, around this Brilliant and Castlegar area, there are many descendants of the Doukhobor people, but they live and work as Canadians.

Heading west again, we were soon on the BlueberryPaulson Highway that goes over the mountain range to the small city of Grand Forks. At the top of the mountain range, we encountered snow piled on the sides of the highway. However, the road itself was quite dry and easy to travel.

Before reaching Grand Forks, we stopped to photograph a place that had a special meaning for me. More than 20 years ago, I had ridden along this road in a Jeep during the middle of the winter. The driver had picked up two Doukhobor woodcutters who were walking along the highway, carrying some of their tools. A few miles before getting into Grand Forks, the highway ran along the bank of the Kettle River. Around this area, the driver lost control of the vehicle and mounted a snow bank that kept it from plunging backward into the river some 60

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or 70 feet below. Just then a telephone repair crew drove up and helped us get back on the road. However, our passengers were having no further part of this kind of thing. As they retrieved their tools from the back of the Jeep, they chattered something about “pretty near kill it” meaning that they had nearly met their Maker. So we stopped and looked at this spot where, I must confess, I received a bit of a scare and then a chuckle, quite a long time ago.

Pulling into Grand Prairie, we had the usual pie and coffee and then drove on through to West Grand Forks. As I said before, this was also the scene of an early Doukhobor settlement.

We snapped a few photos of some original Doukhobor buildings and the countryside in general before going on further west to Greenwood and Rock Creek.

Years ago, about 1947, Mother and I and our three older children lived along this road about 15 miles from Grand Forks.

In latter years, we always noted the house where we lived whenever our trips to the Coast took us past there. However, when Ben and I had time to stop, I noticed that the house had finally been torn down. Once incident comes to mind whenever I travel along this way.

When we lived here long ago, I was employed in the logging industry. While walking home one evening, a motorist stopped and offered me a ride. It being winter, I lost no time in getting aboard. When I turned to speak to the driver I recognized him as the local undertaker in Grand Forks. Yes, you’ve guessed it. I was riding in the vehicle belonging to his business. Stopping at our place, I got out and walked up to the house where Mother was waiting with supper. She asked me how I was and I replied that I wasn’t too bad considering that I had come home in a hearse. As I recall, this attempt at levity didn’t go over to well with Mom.

Continuing with our trip, we did not stop in Greenwood or Rock Creek but we did stop about halfway up Anarchist Mountain to take a photo of the town of Bridesville.

I have no idea how this little village came by such a name. Bridesville sits on the hillside among the few ranches below the main highway. We didn’t go into the town itself.

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On a trip to the Klondike several years ago, we had gone into Bridesville to check and see if there was a railroad there. There was no railroad.

Traveling on, we crossed over the top of Anarchist Mountain and started down the other side where we could see both the lake and town called Osoyoos. The Osoyoos side of the mountain is very steep and the road is quite winding. We decided to spend the night at Osoyoos as it was approaching 6 p.m. The Falcon Motel appeared to be a nice place so we stopped and Ben got lodging for the night. A nearby restaurant also looked inviting, so we went over and ate supper. Finishing our meal, we returned to our room and settled down for a couple of hours of conversation before turning in for the night.

We phoned Mother at a booth close by to the restaurant.

Before closing out the day I could perhaps add one more point of interest having to do with some of the country we passed that day. North of the little village of Rock Creek, there was, in the early days, a mining camp known as Camp McKinney.

This Camp McKinney was centered around a mine called the Cariboo Gold Mine or some similar name. Being a hard rock mine, the gold was extracted from the ore, melted and formed into bricks. During the summer of 1896, a gold brick robbery took place that, believe it or not, still has an effect on the country around which it took place. A mine employee with a team and wagon was taking the gold bricks valued at about $10,000 per shipment out to the railroad to be sent to the mint probably somewhere at the Coast. A few miles from the mine the freight wagon and driver were stopped by an armed man who made off with the gold shipment. By a series of events, suspicion was focused on one Matthew Roderick, a former employee at the mine who had moved to Seattle, U.S.A. Washington State Police were asked to keep informed as to what Roderick did and send reports to the B.C. Police.

In the fall of 1896, the B.C. Police were advised that Roderick was on his way back to Canada. Sure enough, police informants reported Roderick was apparently heading for the area of Camp McKinney, riding a large grey horse. B.C. Police decided to use Indian constables to track Roderick without

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revealing themselves. The plan was not to arrest Roderick until he had uncovered the gold brick cache as this was evidently the reason for his return. But, events didn’t work out according to plan. It would seem the mine manager also heard of Roderick’s return and set out to meet him. In short, the mine manager did contact Roderick and shot him dead; thereby, losing forever any first-hand clue to the location of the buried gold. Thus, even today, people who have read this story, sometimes spend some of their holiday around this old camp area looking for Roderick’s cache of gold bars. Incidentally this treasure would be worth about $60,000 or $70,000 now. Also, a couple of curious questions remain.

Why did Roderick come to retrieve his stolen treasure mounted on a horse that was so conspicuous? Was he actually planning to ride out of the country so boldly with his saddlebags full of gold? Also, was the seeking out and shooting of Roderick by the mine manager merely to recover the gold? Some of those old timers were of the opinion that no gold had ever been stolen and that Roderick was either innocent or was returning to claim a share of some pre-arranged plan with the mine officials.

In any case, that part of the country is a nice place to spend a holiday in, whether you find any gold or not.

So until morning we searched for gold in our dreams, somehow it was easier and less complicated that way.

Day Sixteen

April 19, 1976—We arose late today and went over to have breakfast at the same restaurant where we had eaten supper. Preparing to leave Osoyoos, we took photos of the Falcon Motel and the Main street of this small city. Osoyoos in mid-summer gets to be about the hottest place in Canada.

Temperatures up to 120 degrees Fahrenheit have been recorded.

However, being there in April, the heat was no problem. Since leaving Cranbrook a few days before, we travelled in a general westerly direction. But from Osoyoos we turned north to head into the Okanagan Valley to pay a visit to an old friend in Okanagan Falls between Osoyoos and Penticton.

It was a bit early to call, so we decided to drive to Penticton to do some more visiting, then return to Okanagan Falls during the afternoon. It promised to be very sunny and the traffic was not heavy. Stopping before we got into Penticton, we took a roadside photo of a highway sign with Lake Skaha and the southern part of Penticton in the background. Arriving at Penticton, we called on Steve and Georgia Klinosky at their place on Forestbrook Drive in the city.

Steve Klinosky was an old friend and former employer I knew and worked for in Nelson years before. He and his wife, Georgia retired in Penticton. Ben and I learned about Steve’s whereabouts in a rather roundabout way. During one of his trips to Nelson, Steve telephoned Mrs. Johnson to ask if she could give him our address. He wrote to us and his letter arrived during our trip to California. Mother gave us his address over the phone and Ben and I were pleased to pay a visit. Needless to say, Steve and Georgia were very surprised to see us. After visiting and talking over old times, we shared a very enjoyable lunch with our hosts. As the day was getting on, we decided it

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was time to make the short return trip to Okanagan Falls to see my old friend, Mrs. Olive Fredrickson. So we went back and soon located the Fredrickson home.

About four years ago in Victoria, I chanced to be reading a book review concerning a book that had been written about Mrs. Fredrickson’s life as a young woman in the Canadian north.

The book was entitled The Silence of the North and became very popular as a Book of the Month selection. As I was reading the review, I suddenly realized I had known the author many years ago. I had not recognized the name because Fredrickson is the name of her second husband. I had known Mrs. Fredrickson as Mrs. Walter Reamer when I knew her in Ruby, Washington back in my school days. A few days after reading her book review, I wrote to Mrs. Fredrickson to find out if she would happen to remember a ten-year-old boy.

To my delight, she sent a prompt reply in which she said her memory of me was very clear and expressed pleasure in hearing from an old friend. Her letter also contained an invitation to call on her whenever the opportunity presented itself.

When I walked into her home and spoke to Mrs. Fredrickson, she did not recognize who I was until I said that I was from Victoria. Again, as with Roy Connor and Thelma Chase, I was greeting an old friend whom I had not seen for more than half a century. I should note that Mrs. Fredrickson’s first husband had accidentally drowned while trapping in the northland. We visited for awhile and she reminded me how I had once baby sat her two children and carried pails of water for her when she was cooking in a camp where my father worked. Apparently, from what she said, her book The Silence of the North was to be made into a movie. Hollywood people had already been up to see her about such a project. However, I have since learned that a postponement, for some reason or another, has taken place. So, as far as I know, nothing has been done as yet about the proposed picture.

When we were there, Mrs. Fredrickson seemed rather worried and upset about the whole thing. I was very satisfied to see that her husband John seemed a very pleasant and happy

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type of fellow. In fact, John Fredrickson thought it a good joke when I suggested that he might play a successful role in the upcoming picture.

Having coffee, we all went out on the front lawn to snap some photos then we took our leave. Riding along going back to Penticton, I couldn’t help but reflect that possibly what we call success and financial security had been a little tardy in getting to my old friend. Twenty years earlier would have made a great difference in her enjoyment of this bounty. Then again, who are we to pass judgment on the whims of fate? Or, perhaps we could quote the familiar saying, “better late than never”.

As we passed Penticton, the afternoon was very sunny and was to be really enjoyed and remembered. Further on, the highway crossed Okanagan Lake at Kelowna and continued on to Vernon near the north end of the lake. Darkness came as we drove into the edge of the city of Vernon. I was not too familiar with the street location in this city, but I recall our destination was somewhere near Silver Star Road. We were not too long in finding this road when I recognized the group of mail boxes where our daughter, Rose and husband Gene, get their mail.

Ben drove into the driveway of their place on Pierson Road. As Ben switched off the ignition, we look at each other, grinned and clasped hands in mutual congratulation. Although we would visit around Vernon for a couple of days more, this was the end of our trip. Oddly enough Gene and Rose had only returned 10 minutes earlier from calling on Mother and George in Victoria.

The evening was spent catching up on family news with Gene and Rose and with all four of us having had a very full day, we retired early after getting in touch with Victoria.

Day Seventeen

April 20, 1976—The next day Rose and Gene went to work while Ben and I did a little local sightseeing and visited a couple of friends. One of our calls was made out at the old O’Keefe Ranch a few miles from Vernon. This had been about the oldest ranch in the Okanagan Valley, being established more than a century ago. The O’Keefe Ranch even had its own church which is still standing. I understand the descendants of the O’Keefe family sold this place to the B.C. Government a couple of years ago. Before that, the ranch house and other old buildings and equipment were on display to the public for a small fee. I have a photo taken by the roadside on this ranch, showing two old manual gasoline pumps. From their appearance they had not been used for many years.

The next day Ben and I decided to drive out to Sorrento near Shuswap Lake to visit our son-in-law Gene’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. William Watt. It had been our plan to just drop in for a chat and then return. But as most of us know, genial hospitality plus excellent food are two items which are difficult to take lightly. So, almost before we realized it, the sun had gone to bed somewhere in the west.

Returning to Vernon, a drive of some 50 miles, the remainder of the evening was concerned with more conversation with Rose and Gene. We took various photos during our two-day stay in Vernon just as we had all along the way. Next morning was our third day in Vernon and surrounding country and Ben made ready to leave for Quesnel where he wanted to spend the weekend with his older sister, Vayla and John Tulloch. Vayla and John have two children, Melanie and Christopher. I had been going to travel with Ben as far as Cache Creek and then take the morning bus to Vancouver. However, a check of the bus schedule revealed there wasn’t sufficient time to catch the Vancouver bus without driving at a fast speed. Ben was willing

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to try to make the Cache Creek bus but I was reluctant to do so.

After all, we had traveled a long distance without mishap. Why tempt fate now? Perhaps it all sounds a bit on the old-fashioned side but that is the way I felt.

Thus, on Thursday, April 22, Ben and I said goodbye to Gene and Rose as they departed for work and a few minutes later I snapped a picture of Ben as he drove away. I spent the day and part of the evening at Rose and Gene’s place after which Gene dropped me up to the bus station. Leaving Vernon about 9 p.m., I arrived in Vancouver quite early the next morning. Changing buses, I got an early ferry and the trip was over as I walked into our home about 10:30 a.m.

Writing this nearly a year later, I can still remember that after I had reached home here in Victoria, a tired and weary feeling seemed to take over. Of course, such was a happy and satisfied fatigue if that description makes any sense.

In closing, there is little more to add. One thing is certain; to get together with my youngest son and share this trip, and all of that, was a rewarding experience. I highly recommend such a procedure to fathers everywhere. Perhaps the reader might wonder what we found to talk about during those evenings spent in various motels. As Ben had been living and working away from home for the last five years or so, we found much to catch up on in the way of personal experience. Also, we had plenty of that commodity called time.

Time is something that most of us have either spent, saved or wasted according to how one considers what matters.

Yet, none of this is really true. For no matter how we treat it, time is our master and we have too little of it no matter how much we tried to save. It’s usually later than we think.

What is the point of all this? Very simple! Have reasonable hopes and dreams and try to carry out or realize them as quickly as possible. That, after all, is the only way to gain time.

So, with this bit of homespun philosophy, I take my leave. I hope, dear reader, you have found something of interest in these pages, for it’s been good to have you along.

Elwood A. Clum 1913 - 1979

E

lwood Clum was born in Cusick, Washington in 1913. When he was 11 years old his mother became ill and was permanently hospitalized. He moved with his father to a small logging town in British Columbia. His formal education ended in Grade 6 so he could assist his father by using a team of horses to haul logs. The relationship he had with these horses began a life long love and respect for animals which he passed on to his children.

Elwood and his father lived in logging camps for several years until, at 16, he was taken to a hospital in Nelson, B. C. after a serious logging injury. He remained in Nelson and eventually met Cecilia Crossley who he married in 1937. Together they

built a log cabin near a large river to placer mine for gold.

For the remainder of the Depression and until the end of the Second World War, the proceeds from the gold mining kept them self sufficient.

Elwood’s life work was as a building contractor. He taught himself from observation and reading. He built houses from the foundation up with his only tools being a shovel, wheelbarrow, hammer and hand saw. He designed and built boats and many rock walls he constructed still stand to this day. He learned to survey property and draw survey maps and was hired by several large companies to survey vast tracts of land and then register each survey with the government.

Prospecting and staking claims was another form of income for Elwood. In 1954, he built a home on the shore of Kootenay Lake where Elwood and Cecilia raised their five children.

Elwood’s passion was reading. He read anything and everything and was particularly interested in politics and law. Although a quiet-spoken person, he loved to have lively discussions about what he had read. His opinions were always peppered with witty comments and he saw the humourous side of even the most serious topic.

He derived much solace and comfort from nature. A favourite quote of his was, “A long walk in the forest gives your soul elbow-room”. It certainly did for him.

Elwood and Cecilia retired to Victoria in 1970 where writing became his past time. He died in 1979 of heart failure.

He was 65. His quiet but strong presence, his wonderful sense of humour and his gentlemanly demeanor are missed by those whose lives he touched.