Keith Law's complete TALES FROM THE GREAT ROLLING DYNO

[Byron510]

Thanks for reposting Keith, hard to believe it’s been 25 years since you wrote and had this published in our old paper monthly newsletters.

Since I live near that “Dewdney” line, it makes it more interesting. Somehow the story seemed shorter than I remember, but just as enjoyable. But it has aged relatively well, a credit to its author.

Thanks for the flashback.

Byron

[bertvorgon]

Thanks guys, I just cleaned it up from the spelling and punctuation errors.

25 years...CRIPES where has the time gone. That was the height of the Duffy Tours, Hikes To Hell, a very cool time.

Din Nimi and I still talk about the time we got a clear run on the Duffy...scares me now when I think of that!

[bertvorgon]

As there is not much going on in the car department, being into winter now here, and, after so much crud going on, I thought maybe a nice light story would be in order. I write for a mining newsletter too, non car related of course.

I have also tried to document some of our youthful adventures for the family history book.

This story takes us back to my youth, to a simpler time. I hope you enjoy and that it may bring back memories for you too!

The one picture of DUKE and I, was taken in later years, when I worked on a ranch at 93 Mile House in the Caribou.


Uncle Jack and the California Kid


The gloss black Chevrolet Impala Super Sport, with California plates, rumbled into our driveway on a blistering hot August Sunday, idling for a minute, then silence. The neighbourhood went suddenly, unusually quiet, a car like this never before seen in our working man’s world. Even the rabble of dogs stopped their incessant yammering and barking.

The driver’s door opened, then the passenger door. Out of the driver’s side came my Uncle Jack, and then, jumping out of the passenger side, came his sister’s son, Cousin David, soon to be nicknamed, the California Kid.

My brother Kim and I, plus the neighbourhood kids, stood there in awe, as David was dressed in a brilliant yellow Polo shirt, pure white shorts and, something never before seen, white runners.

We had collectively never seen a clean kid before.

“Oh my, that will not last!” mumbled my mother. How true that was to be.

Jack and David had another companion with them, who leapt from the car, giving a big stretch on the lawn. The local dogs took one look and decided they should leave. This was the biggest German Sheppard, aptly named Duke, ever to hit our neighbourhood. After being cooped up in that hot Chevrolet for most of a day, he promptly watered every flower and shrub in the yard, much to my mother’s horror.


The year was 1963 and to the great delight and surprise for my brother and I, my dad and uncle had planned, through the winter, a fishing and camping trip over the coming week, up into the Caribou. My dad and his family had had a cabin on the Lake of the Woods, outside of Kenora, Ontario, where they were used to landing massive Northern Pike. My uncle’s love of fishing was not to be had in the wasteland of Los Angeles, where he lived. He would come every second year for some salmon fishing, but, this year we were to go after some Rainbow trout.

David of course was beyond excited, to be heading into the wilds of B.C.. After the concrete and asphalt of L.A., was a dream about to come true. For Duke, he was about to go insane, as he had never seen so many real trees. Duke was truly the son of the real Rin Tin Tin lineage, my uncle having met the breeder of that line of dogs.

We could hardly sleep that night we were so excited.

The plan was that on Monday we would all go to downtown Vancouver, to the Army & Navy store, an adventure unto itself.

We needed to stock up on fishing supplies, plus pick up a few camping related things. Those days, in the 60’s, when you entered the Army & Navy store, you went down a set of creaky old wooden stairs, with the worn metal strip on the edge, you were first greeted with the incredible smell of canvas, as though it was sitting out all day in hot sun. The other was the wonderful odor of the gun packing grease, a fresh machine smell. The store then truly carried military surplus gear, mainly from WW2 at the time. A few years later I would buy my British Lee Enfield .303 Jungle Carbine from them, my brother an 8mm Mauser, both of which over the years dropped a few deer.

Dad and Jack went to the fishing supplies section; we headed to the surplus side, David was in awe of all the guns, bayonets, ammunition and other detritus of War. I was tasked with grabbing a tin of B.B’s for our Daisy Mfg. Co. B.B. gun. David was beyond himself that he was going to be able to fire a “gun”. He also started to get the first signs of stains and dirt on his white garb, a large smear of grease appeared on his shirt.

Our escape vehicle was to be my dad’s 1962 Mercury station wagon, a behemoth if ever there was one. The whole neighbourhood could fit into that wagon. The three of us kids were to take “turns” as to who got a window, or, sat up front between Jack and Dad. There was of course, the issue of Duke.

That Monday night we hardly slept, talking about how great it was going to be to have a campfire, build a shelter, sleep under the stars, shoot the B.B. gun all we wanted, and, fish all day long.

Tuesday morning dawned bright, promising to be hot. The wagon was partially loaded the night before, but, by the time we loaded the rest of the gear and coolers, there was NO room for Duke in the back. Duke then…needed a seat!

Now to back track a minute, as we were packing 5 days worth of clothing, it was noted that my Aunt Vernie had packed only white’s and light colours for David, as though she did not grasp what this trip was to be. David was about to embark in his second set of PURE WHITE everything.

As Dad fired the Mercury up, the three of us drew straws as to who got to sit in the front; the other two got the back seat …with Duke in between. We were armed with enthusiasm, chips, pop, and pepperoni for the road.

To this day I do not remember where the lakes were that we headed to, somewhere around 100 Mile House, or around Green Lake, maybe. Dad said it would take us the better part of the day to get there. The Fraser Canyon highway #1 was still in its original form, we still had to use the old Alexandra Bridge, built in 1926, where there was only one way traffic, controlled by a traffic light. All this took time, as we wound our way up through Lytton, then to Cache Creek and on up to the lake area.

We stopped a few times to stretch legs, switch seats, and give Duke a run. All the while snacking away on our road food, of which some pepperoni was given to Duke as a treat, big mistake as you will see. Every time we got back in the car, we were sweaty and Duke got dustier. The dust in turn was rubbing off on David’s not so white T-shirt.

We finally turned off the highway, our excitement building, as we must be getting close. Down a long winding, dusty road we went, the heat building in the car. Dad had a map that a co-worker had given him, as to our camp and fishing heaven destination.

We went through some of that wonderful, open Caribou grass land, then, ahead; we could see a tall stand of trees down in a bowl, with THE LAKE behind them. We were there!

We three kids bolted from the car, a wave of dust coming over us from the car having stirred up that gray, brown landscape and then little puffs of dust from our footfalls. Duke bolted for the trees. We left Dad and Jack following, Dad reading his map.

As the five of us got into the cooler shade of the trees, the mosquito’s attacked with a vengeance, as did the horse flies, no-see-ums and other insects wanting to consume us. Dad at the same time, after looking at his map, said; “We have to go to the other side of the lake, which is where the campsite is!” And then YELLED….”Back to the car!”

The bugs were eating us alive…and following us.

We all started running, and laughing, at the same time, charging back up the hill, all of us covered in mosquitoes.

“Shut the doors and roll up the windows!!” my dad yelled.

We started swatting mosquitoes both off ourselves and the other person next to us.

As dad started the car and jockeyed it around, to head back down the road, I looked at David. It was as though a fire engine red paint brush had been flicked at him, his T-shirt was covered in small splotches of blood, the inside of the car was starting to look like the Saint Valentine’s Day Massacre. So much for white.

As we started to bump along the road, with the windows up, the temperature is now 110 Fahrenheit in the car, and it was filled with dust and bugs.

Remember the pepperoni we gave to Duke? After being cooped up for so long, when he was able to get out and run…his digestive system finally kicked in. He is sitting between me and David when he started to fart, evil, mystery meat and pepper farts! We are all sweating and now we could not breath. Dad screams; “ROLL THE WINDOWS DOWN!!!” I swear when I looked at Duke, he had a silly grin on his face, his tongue hanging two feet down, and sounding like the #99 Royal Express Steam train that has just come into the station.

As kids, we could not stop laughing.

Circling around the lake, maybe a mile, we came to what appeared to be the road down to the campsite marked on Dad’s map. We were now sitting just below a small ridge, which then went over and down. Dad, with his “discretion is the better part of valour” thinking, suggested we walk down to make sure he would be able to drive back up.

My brother and I bailed from the car instantly, but, David had taken his runners off to get some of the burrs (the inspiration for Velcro believe it or not) off the shoe laces. We were never supposed to take our runners off in the presence of human beings; the first of the off-shore manufactured rubber based runners, purchased from Army & Navy, caused our smelly feet to kill even a charging moose at fifty feet.

The car disappeared from sight as we ran down the small incline to the lake, where there was a very small dock, sticking maybe eight feet out into the lake.

We stopped at the edge of the dock, marveling that this was to home for the next four days.

All of a sudden, we heard David coming down the hill, great puffs of Cariboo dust firing up from each footfall. He had to be going thirty miles an hour when he passed us, hitting the dock at full speed, his legs starting to do the cartoon style of straight leg braking, when…. he hit the wetness of the dock.

He shot straight out off the end of the dock, maybe four feet out, hovered for a microsecond, then disappeared under the water!

My brother and I looked at each other in shock, and then totally cracked up, laughing, as David fired up out of the lake like a breaching whale, sputtering and gasping after hitting the cold lake water.

Kim and I dragged him out, over the end of the dock. He was covered in lake bottom mud, reeds, and his runners were filled with gravel…nothing was close to white anymore. As he lay there like a beached whale, he sputtered;”My wallet!”

David was quite mad that we were laughing, but, we dragged his soaked wallet out of his back pocket so he could see it was all there, albeit soaked. To this day, 57 years later, I see him going off the end of that dock, just too funny.

Meanwhile Jack and Dad had determined that the trail was ok to drive down, so we were able to set up in the only spot close to the lake, fifty feet away from the dock, just perfect and our wilderness camp established…or so we thought.

It was now very late in the day, we had spread David’s wallet contents out to dry in the sun, a fire was going, and dinner had been eaten.

This side of the lake was good for not too many bugs, but, when that sun went down they came out with a vengeance, keeping us close to the fire and smoke.

Like any first night camping, I lay there listening to all the strange sounds, feeling like sleep would never come. The odd mosquito that had gotten into the tent did not help either, that whining buzz sound just before they land on your ear to take a pint of blood.

I awoke to the sound of my dad dragging his trusty old camp percolator coffee pot off the fire grate, the smell of smoke and fresh coffee in the still morning air. Sticking my head out of the tent I saw that thin layer of white, morning mist on the lake, speaking to the clear blue sky overhead.

We soon were scattered along the side of the lake, fishing rods in hand, there were fish jumping everywhere except within our reach. They seemed to sense our intent!

Much to my uncle’s delight, he caught the first one of the day and two more were to follow, caught by my dad and David, who was beyond ecstatic. They were small, but on the fire for lunch, they were a treat beyond compare.

David, Kim and I spent the rest of the day trying to build a survival shelter back in the trees, good thing we did not have to survive, but, it was fun.

The second night was a repeat of the first, but, at one point, before I fell asleep, I thought I heard a metallic sound off in the distance. I had good hearing then, long before a life time of shooting, melting furnaces, and race cars.

We awoke the next morning to hushed voices and something being dragged. Sticking my head out of the tent I saw two guys dragging a small dingy down and onto the dock, then into the water. I climbed out of the tent as they fired up their little motor and puttered off into the mist for a morning of fishing.
We were up and after breakfast, Dad and Jack announced they were going for a quick trip to town, to grab some more supplies. We promised to stay right at camp.

A few hours later, we heard and saw the small boat heading right to us, pushing up onto the sand right in front of our tent. One fellow got out and asked if we had any pliers. “I think so.” I said, “In one of our tackle boxes.” The other fellow had gotten out, with his hand held out, supported by his other one.

He had a fish hook all the way through the thumb. As kids we were fascinated with all the blood, I had not seen that much since I got cracked in the head during a rock fight in Edmonton, where I lived for two years. He had to cut the barb off so he could pull the hook back out, and it was a BIG barb. From the looks and sounds, the pain was enormous, as they had to really get the pliers pushed into the thumb, to get below the barb to cut it. Seems that he had stumbled in the boat on a cast and the hook just came short and caught him in the hand.

No sooner had they dragged the boat back up the hill and out of sight, than did a very large person rumble down the hill, to our campsite. In a really Deep South accent he asked; “You’alls git an axe ah cun borrugh?” “fergot mihne!” We were brought up to help fellow outdoors men so I gave him ours, he promised to bring it back soon, as he slowly climbed back up the hill.

We had heard more noise from over the hill, so we thought this would be a good time to see what was going on. Blasting up to the top of the hill and looking down into the meadow below, we were astounded to see what looked like the preparation for the D-Day Invasion of Normandy! Holy Cow….the weekend invasion of our peaceful, wilderness campsite was about to begin. Campers and boats littered the meadow now.

Dad and Jack came back in late morning, shocked at what they saw and heard from our tales of our morning experience. Basically, the weekend crowd had arrived and the co-worker of Dad’s never gave him the heads-up about how busy and popular this lake was. We lucked out on being there early in the week and got the primo campsite, or so we thought.

Our American friend rumbled back with our axe and explained that he had read about fishing in B.C. in “OutDoor Life” magazine, so thought he would give it a try.

We spent the rest of Thursday just being kids, fishing and setting up targets for the BB gun.

It was Friday morning when both the infamous BB gun incident happened and the Lake invasion began in earnest. Instead of Dad’s coffee pot being dragged off the grate at dawn, we heard a multiplicity of voices and things being dragged and rolled down the hill. The hoards of fishermen had arrived, launching their boats and puttering off into the lake, which instead of the morning mist, would soon be covered with that blue/white haze of two stroke motors.

We had breakfast, bacon and eggs over the fire again, with Kim setting up some targets for the BB gun, some twenty feet away. He was having trouble hitting them and became quite focused, not wanting to relinquish his turn with the gun. David got frustrated with that and kind of pushed my brother. Without thinking, and violating Rule #2 of gun safety, he was only eight after all, spun around with the gun pointed at waist height. David instantly just grabbed the barrel, wanting his turn…and pulled the gun. My brother’s finger was on the trigger…..PPHHTT…went the BB gun… gut shooting David right next to his belly button. Oh my God… he screamed, my brother said it was not his fault….David was alive…it was only a BB gun after all. It went though his t-shirt and left a very smart red mark on his stomach. That gun was over twenty years old at that point and thankfully had lost some of its power. The gun was put away for the rest of the trip, after a good lecture…AGAIN…on gun safety.

Saturday morning dawned bright, yet with sadness, as it was time to pack up and leave. Dad and his brother got caught up on a few years of life, we got to just be kids, having the time of our lives, even getting our survival shelter finished. We always had a rule of the outdoors, leaving a small stack of kindling for the next camper who comes along. I think that goes back to the days of trapper’s, who might show up at a cabin or campsite in a storm, and a pile of kindling could save their life. To this day I do that even at Provincial campsites when we leave.

I don’t remember much about the trip back, I think we slept most of the way, other than stopping for breaks. NO pepperoni for Duke, who I think thought he had died and gone to heaven, with the open places to run, a million trees, with no concrete or hot asphalt.

Pulling into our Richmond driveway brought my mom to the door in an instant saying that no one was to track anything into the house; all dirty laundry, reeking of smoke, lake water and sweat, was to be left in the mud room. Runners were to be left outside, to be soaked in a bucket of water first. She had been through this before.

David’s pile, of what once were white clothes a week ago, could not even be saved by my mother, who used bleach on an industrial scale. Jack even gave Duke a bath before he would let him back into his new Chevrolet.

Sunday morning we said our goodbyes to Jack and David, now nicknamed the California Kid by our friends. David proudly wore his shirt with the bullet hole, stains and all, his white runners, torn and ripped on one side, and now a shade of gray, he WAS one of US now! He could hardly wait to get home and tell his tales.

It was a summer to remember.

EPILOGUE

My uncle jack visited us a few more summers and in 1966 asked my dad to find an acreage for him, as his plan was to move back to B.C. with his new wife and step daughter. Jack came back to 8 acres just east of Langley in 1968, where he built a new house and went on to become the leading Canadian salesperson for Panasonic Electronics (Matsushita Electric), who were making their first inroads to the North American market. I can clearly remember him talking, after a trip to the Panasonic factory in Japan, of the engineer’s talking about making a television that would be 1/2'” thick and hang on a wall…that was in 1960’s! In the late 80’s he moved back to Tucson, Arizona when he retired, passing away in the mid 2000’s.

The BB gun as it turned out was his; his initials are on the stock, carved as a kid in Winnipeg. I got it when we visited my Grandma in 1960. It then stayed with my dad when I left home. Then to my brother, and, it is now in my nephews hands, still in the family all these years. It was made between 1936 -1940.

Cousin David I never saw again, time and distance just happened. A few years ago though, he cropped up on my brother’s Face Book page, where we found out, that he did not continue with his dad’s printing business, but, ended up having a very successful fly fishing business!!!! Who knows if our trip was the seed for that.

Duke remained the faithful companion for Jack, until he passed away in the late 70’s. I hope he is out there running through a million trees, drinking fresh water…and…maybe even dreaming about some pepperoni.

Thanks for listening,
Keith Law
March/April 2020

[gooned]

As always a great read Keith, thanks for sharing, a great glimpse into a simpler time.

[RONSLYCHUK]

Thanks Keith! Wonderful story telling. It brought back many memories of my youth.

[bertvorgon]

Tales from the Great Rolling Dyno


CLUB CARS


As I was going through my albums, I thought I would throw up this little story of our early car club days and the cars we destroyed.

In the mid 70’s, as Solo grew as the poor man’s motorsport, a dearth of car clubs had been formed. One was the Columbian Auto Sport Club, the first one I joined. The enthusiasm was huge at the time and as we organized, as did others, half of the Solo season’s events, we made a lot of money. We came under the non-profit heading so we had to burn up some of that money, after all the wonderful trophies had been made for the season.

We used some of the money for go-cart weekends, parties, barbecues, a few tours of things…and then, in a brain storming session, came up with buying cheap, end of life type vehicles to use for whatever.

The “whatever” was the fact that we had unfettered access to the Westwood race track on non-race weekends. We could do whatever the hell we wanted as long as we did not kill ourselves nor have a full on road race. Imagine having access to that 1.8 mile track for a weekend, with only our own rules to govern us.

None of us had brakes that would last any more than 3 - 4 laps anyhow, so that reality kept things at bay. I still had the stock calipers and drums then, with Metal Master pads, with no cooling and brake fluid that was marginal at best. Four laps and I was done.

I wish I could tell more stories of those days and Westwood adventures, but, I don’t think the statute of limitations has expired yet. I did at one point, at full race speed in my existing car, crack into the 15’s for lap times, chasing Dave Humphries in his GT3 car. No small feat for my car.

What a time.

We did our own time trials and giant Solo events as a club, members only and a few “invited” people of known skill and mind set.

This is when we decided to have a “club” car, something that could be used on the back little trail road around the Clubhouse, which was situated just outside the track at Turn 2.

As we had the track for the weekend, a large group of us would camp out by the clubhouse, where in the evening I would build a nice camp fire and we could burn something over that. More on the barbecue’s to come!

Our first car was the Toyota, cost us about 200.00 bucks if I remember right. We bolted in a proper 4 point harness for safety and had to wear a helmet of course. One of the fellows flat towed it up there for the weekend. What that thing survived at first was stunning.

Full throttle laps around the club house, each of us getting two, timed laps. The engine would scream! It was on the second set of laps that I think it was Gary Milligan who lost it on the straight stretch and creamed the bolder. We dragged it back to the start line and pounded, pried and bent the offending fender out of the way.

Off we went again till it got kind of sideways on the straight, which was slightly downhill, got crossed up and ended up on its side, unfortunately on the driver’s side and the person came firing up out the passenger window, as we ran with fire extinguishers.

We got it up righted and on we went, till just before dark, the engine seized. We let it cool down for an hour while we sat around the fire, then tried restarting it. Holy Crudmucker away it went!!!! It lasted about 20 minutes before it seized again and we called it a night, as most of us were getting quite blitzed too.

In the morning it started once again, lasted 10 minutes, and then died, no compression, so it was DONE! It endured about 6-7 hours of that abuse, just amazing.

That Saturday I was to cook dinner for the gang, as I had been up Island to my folks and had caught a 32 Lb salmon the weekend before. At the lunch break I had gotten my fire pit and grate organized, ready to start at 5 to 6 in the evening. I had never cooked a salmon THAT big before.
So now imagine we have all been up since 5 in the morning, spent a huge part of the day in the hot, summer sun, plus many, many laps on that track, which did require some serious concentration.

Gary and I got the fire lit and sat back with a bottle of wine that Gary brought…and if some’s good, more is better…that bottle was GONE. I really did not feel anything… I thought. The fire got nice and hot and started making the good coals I needed to cook the huge salmon on.

It was not long that others came to the fire and the wobbly pops came out, as it had been that hot day and most of us never drank enough water, so the beer went down quite quickly and easily.

Gary and I took turns watching the fire/salmon, as the club car got fired up and the laps began.

So at this point, none of us had had much food during the day, not a great idea.

The salmon was taking much longer than expected and of course the fire had to be monitored and wood fed in, but, not enough to burn the salmon.

Next thing is that a few of those funny cigarettes were being passed around; it was NOT me….Oh Jeezus……

We ended up eating around 9 in the evening, that salmon was perfect, but, we ALL were VERY gonzoed at that point! To the point that one of the fellows asked me if he could take my 510 for some night laps around the track……I gave him the keys….to this day I cannot believe I did that. That was my 1972 at the time. It survived, but considering how blitzed we all were, maybe a miracle.

I can honestly say, in my almost 71 years on this planet, I have never been that out of it. I climbed, crawled into my tent, where the world spun when I closed my eyes and at some point in the middle of the night, I awoke lying in the bushes, staring at the stars, freezing and covered in dew.

In the morning I awoke to the sound of the Toyota being fired up, cranking and grunching to life, where it made maybe 2 laps before it died its final death blorp. Most were sorely hung over, making for a late start to the day and I was feeling so bad, I packed up and went home around noon. Lesson learned!

The second car to come along was the English “Mr.Guts” and what it survived was truly amazing.

I only have one picture of it at Westwood, but it survived an afternoon/evening of doing laps around the club house. We decided to be a bit more “easy” on it and I spent the day focussing more on my 510, as it had a new camshaft to try out.

Its next outing was to the back of the property that we had built our new gold refinery on, just east of Steveston. The back lot was just a big mud pit, as the water table in Richmond, being right at sea level, meant drainage was next to non-existent in the winter. The blue Datsun in the background was owned by one of my co-workers, who had one of the largest supplies of Datsun parts you could imagine at the time. It was too bad that he was ahead of the time, as this was during one of the slumps of no interest in the 510. He ran it as a sideline business for some time, then sold everything.

That car spent the whole day at full throttle getting through the mud bog, getting stuck only a few times, where one of our club members would drag it out with his little Suzuki 4 x 4. It was so funny to watch the water just gush out of those headlight buckets. It survived the day!

Its next outing was to be dragged up to Logan Lake, as the normal Barnes Lake Ice race course was too soft for cars, so everything was moved to the higher elevation of Logan Lake.

For you locals, John Haftner (record holder for Knox Mountain Hillclimb) and Gary Milligan, also brought their latest snow mobiles up, for some testing. They were into at the time, as a winter sport, “High-Marking” in the mountain bowls. John offered me to take it for a rip across the lake, which was very smooth for the most part. He said; “Hang on and Stay low!”

I had never tried one of these things, so wide eyed and innocent I hit the throttle. Holy Mother of God, I hit between 90 and 100 miles per hour in a heartbeat! Scared the hell out of me.

As the day progressed, the engine finally went “soft” and then started to run really rough. It either dropped a valve or lost compression in one cylinder, it was done and off to the scrap yard on Monday. I can’t remember what it cost the club, not very much and the fun factor was huge.

The last car we had, in the heyday of Westwood access and before the track really tightened up on weekend stuff, was either a Pontiac or Chevy station wagon, BIG one, V-8 powered. The Sports Car Club of B.C. had gravelled in a part of the upper parking lot, increasing the area there.. The wagon got unloaded and readied for the day.

As I arrived, a club member named Dave B. decided to take it for a warm up blast the full length of the new lot. What he had not done was walked to check things out, and about ¾ of the way, to the end, was a small dip in the gravel. Dave hit it at maybe 50 MPH, a horrendous crashing sound, then, it launched him 3 feet in the air, coming down HARD, nose first, blowing two tires and breaking all sorts of suspension stuff! Done in 6 seconds! I just cried myself laughing, he was quite sore, as the compression both hitting the dip and landing was actually quite severe.

We survived those years, crazy at times. I took some of the club members on occasion, high into the mountains, to explore an old gold mine, as I did in the mid 90’s, with the 510 Club people.

Good times not forgotten!

Keith Law
Jan. 26, 2021

[bertvorgon]

more, hope you enjoyed another period in time.

[bertvorgon]

and last

[ostaylor]

First time seeing this thread as I'm new to the site... impressive archive of memories. Great stories to spend some time with. Thanks for sharing.

[bertvorgon]

Morning World!
As some of you have seen, I do fill a lot of pages with print, documenting our drives and adventures. I still write for a mining newsletter to this day.

I also have been writing my own history of work and my journey to retirement. I just finished a story of when I went to work on a ranch at 93 MILE, in the summer of 1968, and got thrown out in the middle of the night, due to my girl friend coming home drunk and her Dad waiting on the porch. I would post it up if there is any interest.

The following story I am working on is about my next job, in Telegraph Cove, after re-loading my 58’ Chevy and heading out in August of 1968. This would be my last job before entering my career that spanned virtually 48 years.

I had quite the long history at Telegraph, working there for summer jobs in 1965, 1966 & 1967.

These pictures I have posted really are some of B.C.’s history now lost in time. Telegraph Cove had a long history with its sawmill, of which cutting yellow cedar for rail ties, for the Beaver Cove (Engelwood) logging railway was one of the things it did and I did as part of my job there.

A few years ago, after a tragic rail accident in the small community of Woss, which killed some people, the rail line was shut down for ever. MY brother who has worked at Beaver Cove in the dry land log sort, runs a huge 980, that can take a whole rail car of logs off in one bite, was part of the group that ripped up the old ties and then picked up the “crummies” and loaded them onto a flat deck to go to the rail Museum in Squamish.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Englewood_Railway

My job(s) was to load the rail ties onto the back of the tug I worked on and sail over to Beaver Cove and winch them off.

The adventures I had there will be the topic of my next story. I hope this little bit of B.C. coastal history you will find interesting, as Telegraph played a part in WW2 and supplied the North end of the Island and First Nations, logging and other remote locations with lumber and supplies delivered by the coastal tug the GIKUMI, which I worked on. When the Island Highway was finished from Campbell River to Port McNeill, the mill was doomed to close, could not compete with the South.

Keith law
Feb, 2022

[bertvorgon]

final 2

[gooned]

I have yet to get to the Noth island, I had always wanted to get up there and see one of the last rail logging shows, missed it. Don’t wait on those trips is the lesson.

I saw the locomotives from Woss in the yard just West of Queesbough Bridge last week.

I think I can speak for most of us, locals anyway, that would love to read some tales from your past.

Thanks for sharing!

[bertvorgon]

Here is my story of my time at 93 Mile. The Richmond school system spit me out in the spring of 1968. I had no direction, school was boring for me, too many real world adventures, living the life of Tom Sawyer. I skipped almost all of grade 12, my parents could not help, the school counselors at the time could not figure me out and even though I was the top student in Automotive Mechanics, I could not figure myself out. The closest I came to any direction, along with my lifelong friend, was going into the Forestry Service, which was basically a walk in during that time period, no College, no zillion years of University. Needless to say I rambled around the Province, landing in 93 Mile for a short stint, then headed up the Island. When I came back that winter I built Islander Fiberglass boats, construction, worked at Delta Cedar Products on River road and then entered the beginning of my life long career.

The connection of Telegraph Cove, my family, and to my future career will be told in a subsequent 2 story series. For my family these stories close a loop that links to my years in the Precious Metals Industry, stories you will not have seen but documented, the insanity of what GOLD does to people, the scams, 2 murders, industrial accidents, and what length some people go to, to part people from their money. Myself and a couple of others started the first Gold Refinery on the West coast of Canada, East of Toronto and north of San Francisco, in 1969.

I can now talk about what I did, as security was not lost on me over the years. If you have ever watched the TV reality program GOLD RUSH/YUKON GOLD, etc...I was the guy that finally got their placer gold from the Yukon, Alaska, British Columbia and some other places around the World, refining it to pure gold and silver, making bullion investment bars, jeweler's gold, etc.. My stories would blow you away as to what I have seen and been through.

Thanks for coming along for the ride, hope you have a laugh or two!




93 MILE

I bounced once, landing on my back, wind knocked out of me, a gouge from the base of my neck to my lower back, stinging in the heat and dust. Like a beetle flipped on its back, I lay there gasping for breath, legs thrashing, yet my only thought was……”I am going to kill that horse!”

I thought I would write this story, from the perspective of the city guy I was, at 18 years of age. At this time I went naively off to work on a ranch in Cariboo country, north from 93 Mile House, just off Hwy 97 in B.C..

In the winter of 1967-1968, I met a young lady whose family had a small parcel of land in Surrey, doing some small hobby farming. They had some live stock, and, the young girls in the family had horses, as did my new girl friend.

As Surrey was expanding and their land was set to be taken over, the Dad decided to move to an old homestead ranch that had come up for sale, I believe it was a quarter section.

I had been to visit the family’s Surrey property the last time, as they were loading up their 5 ton truck for their move. It was loaded to the gunnels’, and, truly resembled the vehicle portrayed in the movie “The Grapes of Wrath” starring Henry Fonda.

My girlfriend’s Dad had said I could come along, as well as one of the other daughter’s boyfriend, Doug, if we were prepared to work for food and lodging. They left in the beginning of June and I agreed to follow in a few weeks after finishing high school. I had also acquired my own car, which was a bit of a disaster. It was a 1958 Chevy Delray, 6 cylinders, 3-on-the-tree. It had been in an accident (not me) and I had to put a whole new front end on it, which is a story unto itself.

Armed with enthusiasm, I arrived midday in mid June, turning left into the property, stirring up great clouds of grey dust. Before me was an old log house, quite large, a shop building that looked like it was used for many a vehicle repair, farm out buildings, corrals and, a farm truck that had seen the best of life 20 years ago.

Opening my car door had me instantly greeted by a motley crew of yammering dogs and chickens running amok, all wondering if I was the latest meal or plaything.

The door on the house opened and I was invited in, my first indication of what reality was going to be like. I stepped inside, where, if I thought it was hot OUTSIDE, it was nuclear INSIDE. I would soon learn that the woodstove NEVER stopped.

This house was like it was when built maybe at the turn of the century, walking in was like going into a house in the old Barkerville Town site.

The Mom made me lunch and said everyone was out working somewhere on the property, something I would be doing the next day.

With dinner around the corner all the kids started to show up, as well as the Dad and of course my girlfriend. I was soon to meet the two local “cowboys” who obviously perceived me as the typical hippie type “city dude”.

Now, my girl friend was totally into horses, and of course, had her own, as did her siblings and friend. After dinner I was taken to the big corral to meet her horse, where as it turned out, he KNEW I was a rookie, a “city dude” right away. Horses have that sense.

He was named SHAN and was he ever big. I knew nothing about horses, therefore getting the 5 minute spiel about all its characteristics. I found out horse height is measured in “hands”, which I thought was quite funny. Hands seemed too small for this thing, maybe suitcases or piles of wood. With me standing next to it, and I’m 5.8, my eyeballs only came to the side of its rib cage, I swear. Even Zane Grey could not have envisioned this horse. He towered over me and I could tell right away…maybe because he tried to nip me….we were not really going to get along. Over the months he nipped and stepped on my feet far too many times. More is to come.

Sleep was next to impossible that night; the heat upstairs was staggering, even with two windows wide open. The stove was banked up late, so that it was ready to roll at 4:00 AM, the start of the first breakfast round. Then it just kept being stoked for the others as they got up for breakfast, lasting from 4 am to 8 am. As soon as breakfast ended, preparations for lunch and dinner began. It was constant; I don’t know how the mother did it…the heat and never ending cooking!

There were many small meadows where the hay grew, around the property. On one magical night, just after dusk, as the mist rose up, I saw a twinkling across on the far side of the meadow. Thinking my eyes were playing tricks on me, I started to walk towards the little lights. They were fireflies, something I had never seen, nor seen again, in all my trips to the outdoors.

The next morning, I was to be shown how to both run the small tractor, and operate the hay rake behind it, that would coil up the hay to dry in the sun. My job involved sitting on this steel seat, with a pedal that you would step on, to lift the rake tines when the hay coiled to the appropriate size, and then repeat as you gridded the field. It seemed simple enough, but was I ever beat after a day in the sun doing that.

A week after I was there, my girlfriend was driving the tractor that day. As I stepped on the lever, the heel of my right foot got caught up in the mechanism due to the high top moccasins I was wearing. The leather got caught; there was no stopping the rake cycle, even as I screamed to STOP! Finally, freeing myself, I leapt off the rake, feeling a lot of pain and my heel getting wet in the moccasin. Peeling the high top moccasin off I had discovered it had filled with blood. The skin on my heel had literally been pinched to the point of failure against my heel bone. I was lucky my foot did not get crushed, and in looking at that mechanism, I saw what a dangerous design that it was. For the rest of my time there I wore my better shoes and made sure my foot was back when pressing that pedal. Wow did that hurt!

The next few weeks melted into daily chores as on any ranch. I and the other daughter’s boyfriend Doug were tasked with all the grunt jobs, one of which makes me laugh to this day!

My girl friend’s Dad had NO stomach for “yucky” jobs, this seemed weird when you think of what work is like on a ranch. One day, as the summer heat built up, he asked us to clean out the “soap box”, the kitchen sink had stopped draining, and, maybe seventy years of bacon grease had something to do with it.

The Dad had determined there was a soap box outside from the kitchen window; basically it was a settling tank for the sink, which was buried maybe a foot underground. The ground was leaking a horrible fluid, and the smell was just disgusting. The Dad could not stomach it, so Doug and I were tasked with digging it up and cleaning it out.

The plan was to open up the box, then bucket it out and into a 45 gallon drum that we put in the back of the old, 1947 Chevy pickup truck. Doug backed the truck up as close to the potential opening and we started to dig.

A word on that poor truck, maybe it was last serviced in 1948. As I had driven it around the ranch I knew the drum brakes were virtually non-existent, it had no back window and, an engine that was ready to expire.

As the morning heat built, I had to wrap a wet rag around my mouth and nose to try to deal with the stench. We dug away the first foot of rank dirt, hitting the wooden top of the soap box. After prying up the wood slats, the full foul odor hit us, it was almost unbearable. This thick, goopy, greasy sludge stuck to anything it touched. The box was maybe four feet square and turned out to be about three feet deep. I could see the slop had just plugged the overflow pipe that led down to the swampy meadow, not far down a small, rocky trail, to the outflow, maybe 60 metres from the house.

I got a bucket and a scoop from the barn. I would fill the bucket, and then hoist it onto the tail gate of the truck, where Doug would pick it up and pour it into the drum. Of course in the heat and the ever rising smell of putrid crud, the flies started to show up, trying to render us into a pile of oozing flesh. After taking a much needed break for lunch, where I could not get the smell out of my nose, we finished digging and cleaning the box out as best we could by mid afternoon.

The 45 gallon drum, which was now 90% full, is sitting in the middle of the pickup bed, a huge cloud of flying things hovering above. I turned to start to grab some new 2 x 4’s to re-cover the box lid, while Doug climbed off the bed and jumped into the truck. I heard the old six cylinder motor grind to life and as I turned around, Doug had started to slowly drive down the small incline, heading to the edge of the meadow. In a blink the truck started to go faster, the whole thing pitched up and down over the uneven, rocky ground. The slop in the drum was starting to splash out as the truck went even faster and bounced even more. The next few seconds are still burned into my brain, as a hysterical visual memory.

The brakes could not hold both the truck AND the weight of the drum. I heard Doug scream out that he could not stop…..then the truck hit a large rock at the edge of the meadow…almost stopping instantly! The problem was the drum was still moving and crashed into the back of the cab, where, with no back window, the foul slop sloshed into the cab, covering EVERYTHING in that cab….including Doug.

I stood there for a second, not believing what I just saw, when Doug climbed out of the cab. I lost it, I laughed so hard, he looked like some Alien creature covered in dripping, festering ooze. Half the drum emptied into the cab. He stood there for a few seconds, in shock, and then started retching, which then had me laughing even harder. It was just too funny watching that truck bounce along, the drum splashing ever more goop out, then coming to the abrupt stop with a tidal wave coming out that drum and through the back window.

Ultimately, after repeated washing with dish soap and a hose in the yard, he made it to the bath. The drum was dragged off the back and rolled aside. We then had to figure out how to get the truck back up to the house and close to the shop. I ended up getting the tractor and dragged it back up. The plan then, was to get someone the Dad knew, to come from 100 Mile House and pressure wash the inside. It took a week before he showed up; the truck festered the whole time in the hot sun.

One day, the “cowboys” showed up again. They rode in on horses, from where, I have no idea. To me these guys were not like Clint Eastwood as the Man with No Name. They were more like dime store cowboys, far too clean and shiny! My girl friend had to work that day and so she asked them if they would show me how to saddle her horse. I should have sensed they were too eager. They asked me if I had had much to do with horses, “None!” I said.

“Do you know the difference between an English saddle and a Western Saddle?” Cowboy One asked. I said, “The English have one and Randolph Scott has the other?” They did not appreciate my attempt at humour. Meanwhile Cowboy Two had dragged a massive saddle out of the shed and walked SHAN to the hitching post.

Cowboy Two proceeded to hand me this 100 lbs sack of potatoes called a saddle, which I was supposed to throw up and over this monster horse. So, I was now trapped between the horse and the hitching post. I did not really notice that the horse had moved sideways. As I tried to throw the saddle up and over his back, he finished rotating and pinned me to the hitching post, his huge chest forced me tight against the rail. At the same time, he managed to turn and nip my arm…AND….stood on one of my feet! He was deliberately trying to crush me; I could see it in his eyes. The cowboys were laughing their heads off. I had to drop the saddle on the other side of the hitching post and hit him HARD in the ribs to get him to back off. This would be something he would remember as the summer progressed.

According to my girlfriend, SHAN only liked to have the saddle put on, on the left side, not the right, and the cowboys got me on that one, if that truly was true. All I knew was that my right foot hurt like hell AGAIN!

As the summer moved on by, the girls and some friends would go for trail rides back into the bush on their horses and ponies, promising that one time, if I had a break from working, I could go along…little did I know what was coming.

Doug and I were constantly dealing with chickens, gathering eggs, and rescuing cows that would get through the fencing, even one time ending up on Hwy 97, where it was amazing none got hit by a semi truck. We spent almost a full week cutting firewood for winter. As there was so much dead lodge pole pine out in the back 40, we had 3 cords laid in no problem.

The kitchen stove seemed to just eat that firewood wood on a daily basis. I learned to sleep in 80F to 90F upstairs. The whole summer I was there, that stove never went out!

We did have lots of down time, and, as my girl friend built up some common friendships with other horse people, both in 100 Mile House and Lac La Hache, we would go there to swim and to attend some parties. My introduction to LOUD Country and Western music began then, resulting in my lifelong dislike for the genre. Some of those parties, to this 18 year old kid, were like the gatherings portrayed in the movie “ROAD HOUSE”, starring Patrick Swayze. Inevitably there were a lot of drunks which usually resulted in fighting.

I was not a drinker at the time. Even when I was attending high school I was always the “designated” driver, on nights out with my friends. Perhaps my choice not to ever drink and drive was a result of something I witnessed one night in Richmond where I grew up. At that time the roads in Richmond, were bordered by deep ditches. These ditches were death traps if you skidded into them. One night I was present when a dead body was being dragged out of the water filled ditch by the RCMP. The person had been driving impaired; the impact of what I saw really affected me.

I also began to try to make sure my girlfriend was not drinking to excess on these nights, which in reality was not an easy task.

Sadly, I also started to see a dark side to the impact of alcohol on her Dad. After drinking, his anger would explode out in a heartbeat, always in a very irrational way.

This drinking would ultimately have a bad ending for me.

Finally, on a Saturday, a weekend at any rate, where all were around, the plan was hatched to go for a trail ride to the West of the ranch, doing a big loop through some small patches of meadows dotting the forest, maybe 6 miles they thought. At the time there was NOTHING to the West until you hit the Fraser River and Dog Creek, some 190Km away. I always thought that would have been a bucket list trip to get to the Fraser cross country.

I know I had wanted to do an early start, as by mid August it was blazing hot by 8:00 AM. That was not to be.
With everyone all taking their time to get ready, the horses were dragged out and watered and a lunch packed. We did not get going until almost 11. This is also where I should have seen what was to come.

I was to ride my girlfriend’s horse bareback! Seems her saddle was in 100 Mile for some repair. I had tried riding some of the other ponies with no saddle and had no issues, at least around the ranch and the meadow. My inner thighs killed me from trying to grip and I thought I would be in the saddle on her horse, making it easier. I did have one “lesson” on her horse, with her leading, and me in the saddle, big deal.

As we prepared to head off on our trail ride, my more experienced companions climbed onto their horses with ease. I had to climb up on the split rail fence, just to try to mount my girl friends crazy, giant horse. It was clear he knew it was me, giving a big snort and shudder! It was hot out, I was hot, SHAN’s back was hot, and the air was stifling. I should have known he was plotting, as we all started off.

We rambled down onto the meadow and then headed out on a narrow trail that headed miles into the backwoods, planning to have a picnic lunch some 4 miles out, at a small lake. It started out at basically a walking pace. I was ok with that, handful of mane to kind of hang onto for stability.

Entering into the bush trail the heat seemed to magnify and the pace picked up some, basically a trot. I had to squeeze harder with my thighs, and grabbed more of SHAN’s mane.

At the same time, the groups pace again became quite a bit faster, I guess it was heading to a canter. This is where the ride started to go sideways for me. I was starting to be left behind.

My girlfriend was in the middle of the pack, I yelled I was getting left behind. She yelled back…”Kick him in the ribs!!!” Now, I have never abused animals, so “kicking” him in the ribs was tough. I gave him a little nudge, all I got was a big snort…and the speed stayed the same. The group was really ahead of me now; they had gotten to almost a full canter at this point, disappearing into the woods, so I gave SHAN a good dig into the ribs.

With a BIG snort, all hell broke loose; Shan took off at a full gallop!

Now, I know how to steer a car, accelerate and brake. I had NO instructions for this thing. As the gallop got faster, my thighs were trying to hang on and I tried to grab onto the neck, at the same time I felt like I was going to rotate sideways and under the horse. I’m yelling…”WHOA…WHOA!!!” to no avail. I am really bouncing now, thinking I am going to die if I go under this horse. The next thing I see, in a blink, is Shan has gone off trail, heads towards this low hanging branch, putting his head down as I tried to get low on his back….NOT ENOUGH!!!

NOT enough and the branch cleans me right off the back of SHAN, catching me at the base of my neck and down my back, bouncing once and landing with the breath knocked out of me. SHAN disappeared!

The horseflies, no-see-ums and other flying bugs were on me in a heartbeat; they can smell the blood, I am sweaty, super hot and can’t breathe. I at least had the presence of mind to not panic and get my knees pumping up to my chest, that gets the diaphragm working again.

After a few minutes to gather my thoughts I carefully stood up, making sure nothing was broken and still functional. I tried yelling out, but had no response, SHAN was gone.

We had gone far enough off trail that I had to just bushwhack back to the ranch, my sense of direction saving me from wandering off into the wilderness. I plotted the whole way back, likely a mile or so, as to what I was going to do to that horse!

The gang showed up a few hours later, wondering what happened to me. As for SHAN, he hung way out in the meadow, as though he KNEW what might happen. It took a couple of weeks for me to heal from that little incident.

Due to her passion for horses, my girlfriend had entered a small rodeo that was going to be held in Lac La Hache. She was just young enough to fit into the “Little Britches” category, for the barrel race. I had left for a quick visit home on Thursday so I could be back Saturday night and attend on the Sunday.

The Sunday morning dawned, Cariboo bright; you could feel the day was to be very hot. The horse was already there, having been taken up in a friend’s trailer. To be honest, I really don’t remember much about the rodeo, it was loud and dusty. I do remember thinking Shan could just step OVER the barrels. They did place 3rd which was very good for a first timer.

We loaded SHAN and another horse into the trailer, heading back and dropping the horses off, then, I found out we are to go back to Lac La Hache to a blow-out party.

I needed to grab my car which was now covered in a layer of dust in the parking lot. Then we headed to a house and a large outbuilding, where the party had already started. We arrived around 7 PM. It was already loud and a lot of alcohol had been consumed, as far as I could see and hear. I asked my girlfriend to take it easy!

I was so out of place at this party, tried to make small talk, finding common ground conversing about cars, the beginning of the Muscle Car era had started. As the night wore on, I realized I was starving and that we really had not had much food during the sweltering hot day. My girl friend had faded into the crowd, and as I looked about, I always saw a drink in her hand. I tried at one point to say time to stop and we needed to eat, as there was not much food there.

My ears were really starting to ring from the noise; a local band had shown up adding to the din. There had already been a few fights and lots of shoving going on at the makeshift bar. It was at this point that if I ever heard Merle Haggard again, I was going to throw up.

It was around 1:30 AM that I finally said we needed to get back to the ranch. My girlfriend was gooned, soused, blotto’d, tanked; call it what you will, “too much booze and no food”. My sense of dread was building.

It took just over half an hour to get back to the ranch; turning into the driveway, the yellowing lights of my Chevy swept across the porch. Suddenly, who do I see starting to get up from a chair?……DAD!

Right away I see this is going to go badly, it’s now past 2 AM, and my girlfriend is skunk drunk. He starts coming towards the car, virtually foaming at the mouth, screaming obscenities at ME, which cannot be repeated in this family newsletter. He was beet red, even in the cool of the Cariboo night, and, HE too had been drinking…a lot. I reached down and grabbed my trusty tire iron beside my seat, as I did not know how this was going to go down.

He screamed at her to get in the house and then turned his full anger at me, telling me I had 5 minutes to get my stuff and if he ever saw me back…..basically he threatened to kill me!!

I ran into the house, upstairs, grabbed my things, jumped back into my car, and headed down Highway 97 at 3 AM. I was in shock, it was not my fault! In my own anger I wished I had clocked him with the tire iron, all the bad things of course.

I was lucky I had a full tank of fuel, as nothing was open at that time of night then, my eyeballs were like fried eggs, driving with such cruddy headlights, and, such an insanely long day, arriving in Fort Langley around 10 AM.

I only talked to my now ex-girlfriend once after that, to see if she was ok, if her Dad had done anything to her. I will let you think about that.

My 18 year old, hormone fueled brain, realized this was NOT a World I wanted to be part of.

My only regret…I never sent that horse to the glue factory!

Keith Law
October 20, 2021

AFTERWORD:

My next story will follow this one. As I arrived home from 93 Mile, I made one phone call and within a week I was travelling to work at a very isolated coastal community, called TELEGRAPH COVE, on northern Vancouver Island, working in the small sawmill there, and, on a small coastal tug boat called the GIKUMI. The GIKUMI delivered lumber and supplies out into the Broughton Archipelago. I had worked there for 3 summers before, having adventures that kids today can only dream of.

[RONSLYCHUK]

Wow! Excellent story Keith. Keep them coming. Like I have said before—- you need to write a book!

[bertvorgon]

As I planned my next story, I realized that the time between getting thrown out of 93 MILE and Telegraph Cove in 1968, left a large hole as to how I ended up with my connection to Telegraph.

Pondering the "forward" I was going to write, I realized that that itself was a story. Again, I write this to fill in my family history and how lucky I was at 15, 16, & 17 years of age, to work on that tug and do all the adventures that even my story cannot touch on all of them.

I hope you enjoy!

The FORWARD is a Story

Part 1

The new appearing, polished aluminium Greyhound bus, rolled out of the Vancouver station at 6:30 AM sharp, the day beginning for this 15 year old kid that I was, which would turn into a horribly long day, and, the beginning of over two decades of association with Telegraph Cove.

To begin this history we must look back at my Dad, who quit school in Grade 8, did odd jobs, then, started as a young trainee clerk in the Insurance Industry, in Winnipeg. World War 2 came along and he joined the RCAF as an Air Gunner and shipped off to England and Europe for the duration of the War. What saved him, as the survival rate of bomber crews was only around 60%, was his hobby of photography. At the time there was a shortage of trained photographers and dark room people, so my Dad put his hand up and was assigned to an Aerial Reconnaissance Unit, in the 430 Squadron. He then worked in the lab developing and analyzing the aerial photos taken, to see how well targets had been hit and future targets. This saved his life and as his squadron followed the moving front(s) through France, Belgium, Holland and finally Germany, he saw the horrors of Total War. At one point his unit was tasked with some of the photo documentation of the Bergen/Belsen concentration camp, a nightmare my Dad never forgot, the smell haunting him his whole life. He finally came home in 1946, and he rejoined the Insurance Industry.

As he worked his way up the ladder with the Wawanesa Insurance Company, in Winnipeg, he became a risk inspector, going to ranches, farms, etc., to inspect for fire and other risks, making recommendations so the potential customer could get insurance. Dad’s “territory” was western Ontario, Manitoba and parts of southern Saskatchewan. I used to go with my Dad on some trips and I swear this is where I got my love of long distance driving from.

When I was 8 he got transferred to Edmonton for 2 years, then finally to Richmond, B.C., in 1960, where he continued as a senior inspector.

In the spring of 1964, my Dad got a call from a local independent insurance business, run by Harry and Dave Seed. They were having trouble getting insurance for their client, The Broughton Lumber & Trading Company/Telegraph Cove Mills, located at the isolated coastal community of Telegraph Cove, Vancouver Island.

At the time the mill still used a Beehive burner with mill and community being almost as they were, when built in 1912.

To get insurance required that the saw mill and town site be inspected for any and all risk and make any assessments and recommendations required for the insurance to be placed.

Thus begins our journey!

In July 1964, Dad announced to me, that he would be taking me, via float plane, to Telegraph Cove, business of course, but what an adventure for this 14 year old kid. I was beyond excited, could hardly wait or sleep.

Thundering under full power, the Beaver float plane left the Sea Island dock on a bright, sunny day. I could hardly see out but that did not diminish my wonder at flying so high and being able to look down over some of Vancouver Island’s snow capped mountains.

I don’t remember how long it took, maybe an hour and a half? I do remember the pilot saying we were close, as he turned the aircraft and made his approach from seaward, checking for logs or anything in his landing path. I could see this small community tucked into this little harbour, smoke coming from the beehive burner. The sudden sinking feeling, when the pilot pulled the power off, was a bit scary, but as we skimmed the water surface, all was well. We fully touched down maybe 100 meters from the dock, idling our way in.

We drifted right to the float and upon exiting the aircraft we were greeted by the owner of Telegraph, FRED WASTELL and his right hand man, Jimmy Burton.

Coffee and fresh baking were had in Fred’s house, my Dad asking questions about the mill and houses, what fire prevention was in place, etc.. Much was lost on me as I could hardly wait to walk the boardwalk and see the running sawmill.

Even at 14 years of age, I felt like we had stepped WAY back in time. Everything seemed old, weathered wood buildings, houses, and old carts to move lumber around, a little store and a post office, all a blast from the past.

We “inspected” the float where we had arrived at, as it was also a refueling dock for boats and of course diesel for the Gikumi and others that dropped into the Cove…and there were lots! The Beaver pilot had gone to Port McNeill for 100/130 Avgas and would be back at 4 PM to pick us up. One of my jobs over the 3 summers was to re-fuel local boats, the many pleasure craft, and, yachts that came up from the States. Some serious wealth stopped at Telegraph over the summers.

Our next stop was to be the Bunkhouse, which both housed a relatively permanent family, and then two rooms for workers, sealed off from the rest of the house, with its own closet sized kitchen. This was ultimately where I was to reside in the next three times I worked there.

We were introduced to sawdust burning stoves, basically a conventional wood stove, but, they had a hopper on the side that slowly gravity fed a stream of sawdust into the fire box. For the bunkhouse, the workers part, that woodstove was in the basement, where if hot water was needed, that stove needed to be going for a long time, more on that to come.

My Dad was making notes like crazy, asking about fire fighting equipment, which seemed lacking. There was so much fine wood dust everywhere in this ground level basement. All the houses had the sawdust stove, and as we learned, Telegraph had its own power generator, so could not handle any major electrical load, like electric ovens. It would be many years before Telegraph got hooked up to the grid.

One funny thing is that at 10:55 PM, the lights would flash, a warning that at 11:00 PM the generator would be shut down for the night. If on Friday and Saturday night, the foreman was watching something on CBC TV, the generator would run till he was done, with a 5 minute warning flash before lights out.

As we walked the boardwalk, heading to the saw mill, Dad was making note of any wiring issues on power and light poles and a few things I was not aware of.

The mill was at full song when we got there, so much noise, something I had not experienced ever before. Dad had to yell to communicate with the foreman, who had come out to give the mill tour. We were led carefully to the “head” rig, 2 five foot blades just screaming as they went through this HUGE cedar tree, which had just been dragged up the slipway and manoeuvred onto the “carriage” to start to be cut into…dimensional lumber, rail ties, boat lumber, custom cuts. Telegraph at the time was known for its wonderful lumber for the boat construction industry, straight grain and no knots.

We went down below the mill, where the chain conveyer belt’s dropped all the wood dust, bark and other miscellaneous bits. Keeping this clean was a constant job when the mill was running. This would be one of my jobs in 1968 that almost took my hand off.

Next stop was the engine room, where the steam engine of the past had been replaced by two small diesel units, one for the head rig and one for the rest of the mills saws and belts. Were there ever a lot of those canvas appearing belts, all traveling at enormous speed. Dad noticed some issue in that engine room, making more notes.

The beehive burner was burning very hot when we looked in the one small door at the base. Believe it or not, this is where all the garbage got thrown into by Telegraph’s inhabitants. This burner of course was the BIGGEST issue for fire risk, Dad talked about that on the flight up. More notes.

We popped into a few more houses on the way back to the end of the boardwalk. Dad wanting to check on a mix of the houses and see the stoves, anything really that might pose such a risk for fire.

After a nice lunch put up by Fred’s wife, Emma, we were invited to go onto the Gikumi (means CHIEF in First Nations dialect), led by Jimmy Burton. Even at 14 I could tell this was HIS baby! I wanted to see the engine room, which just lit him up. Through a door and down a steep ladder had me looking at the engine, a shiny green Atlas Gardner straight six diesel. The Gikumi was custom built in 1954, for Telegraph Cove Mills. Jimmy had every piece of copper and brass lines and piping polished to a gleam, it was a wonder to me and to this day, I follow that lead, with everything I have that is copper, brass or aluminium all polished to a tee. I was impressed and let Jimmy know that took a lot of hard work. The wheel house was the same, that brass around the big wheel gleaming. In the bunk behind the wheel was a shelf with an old communications radio on it, looked like something out of an old war movie. This radio too will play a huge amount in my time at Telegraph.

I sat for awhile on the dock, talking to Jimmy, while Dad and Fred talked business. Soon we heard the float plane coming back, settling onto the water so smooth and gliding to the fuel float again.

After much thanking, hand shaking, we were off, what a day’s adventure for me and the seeds of next summer had been sown, but, little did I know at that time.

Jimmy and I would become good friends during my time working there, making the time on the GIKUMI such a fun adventure, no matter what we encountered, sailing the Islands with freight, lumber, food, and rescuing people, among many other true life experiences on B.C.s waterways.

Dad had filed his report, made a ton of recommendations, to be followed by another visit to check that things had been tidied up, I did not go.

At the same time, as he was dealing with Dave Seed and the insurance for Telegraph, in discussion it came out that as a family we were outdoors people, as was Dave. We made a connection so to speak, where in later years; we hunted deer together and visited his cabin on Bowen Island. We even did a moose hunt in Horsefly one year. It was also during this time, 1965 -1969 that Dave Seed became interested in Precious Metals (WHICH IS A WHOLE OTHER STORY OF HOW HE GOT SCAMMED INITIALLY), ultimately forming
DELTA SMELTING & REFINING Co. of which I joined in 1969 and started my career in gold refining!



PART 2

I gave my Dad a last happy wave, as the bus pulled out, but, deep down I was nervous. I think maybe I saw a look on his face….”Did I do the right thing?”

As it turned out, I had made a bit of an impression on Fred and Jimmy. Besides business that was talked about at the end of the day, it was also put forward that there was a summer job there for me the next summer if I was up for that. After much discussion over the winter and into the spring I agreed to give it a try. I would just be the handyman, gardener, gopher and some duty on the Gikumi if it looked like I could handle that.

The bus was virtually full as we left Vancouver, heading to the ferry terminal and all points north going up the Island, and this was the OLD highway back then.

I could not believe that the bus just kept stopping; it seemed like every 5 minutes. Some would get off, the odd stop someone would get on, plus, freight would be dropped, all this taking time. The day just went by and Telegraph seemed such a long way off, which, as it turned out…IT WAS!.

We arrived in Campbell River late in the afternoon with most of the bus empty. The driver took a 15 minute break, as he said the longest part of the journey was a head of us.

In the 60’s there were two ways to get to the North Island, take the ferry at Sayward, or, and this is big, travel the back road. This meant going from Campbell River to Gold River, then 100 miles of logging road, gravel hell.

I don’t think even my Dad knew what the bus journey was going to be like. The road to Gold River is a winding up and down mountain road, where dodging logging trucks and mine trucks was the order of the day. It took about 2 hours to get there, only 3 of us left on the bus!

Arriving in Gold River had 1 person get off and a ton of boxes for the pulp mill get unloaded into a pickup truck. I got out and stretched my legs; recommended I do by the driver, as the next leg of the journey would be rough and only 1 stop over the next 100 miles.

Five minutes out of Gold River had us on the super rough logging road, the bus slowing to a crawl, great volumes of dust billowing up. Over the next hour or so it was just trees, trees and more trees. I was also panicking some that I was on the wrong bus! I finally walked up to the driver and asked. Yes, I’m on the right bus, the road is really bad; it is just going to take time and we should be at Beaver Cover by 11:00 PM. It is now getting dark, the last passenger got off in a little logging community called Vernon Reload.

Unbeknownst to me, Fred and my Dad were communicating, as even they thought I should have been there, so they were worried.

I was dead tired, yet so excited, worried, nervous, that I was a walking zombie when we finally pulled into Beaver Cove (10 minutes from Telegraph) and I walked off that bus. There was Fred waiting, driving me back to his house and putting me up there for the night, plus letting my family know I was there safe.

The next morning, after a nice breakfast made by Fred’s wife, and a hot bath, came Jimmy, to take me to the bunkhouse and my orientations to what, where, and how. This hot, morning bath and breakfast would be my last taste of civility for the rest of my time there.

I had the worker part of the bunkhouse all to myself this summer. I had a small, single bed, a little table, a coal oil lamp, and NO heat, other than this little screw-in like light bulb thingy, with toaster like wire wrapped around it. I really had stepped back in time.

If I wanted hot water, I had to light and keep feeding the sawdust burner downstairs, so the water coils in the stove burner box would heat up a galvanized tank of water. This would take all day, so on my so called coffee and lunch break, I would run to the bunkhouse and make sure the hopper was full. There was only a small steel shower enclosure in the basement too. The kitchen, the size of a closet, had a propane stove and a small sink. I sometimes would boil water to do my dishes.

Keeping one of these stoves going was a full time job, as depending on what type of wood was cut in the mill, it would affect how the stove both fed and burned. Hemlock was the worst; it stunk and always seemed really wet. I learned to stockpile some good sawdust for shower day, where I could get the water really hot…hot being a relative thing. A shower became an every 2nd or 3rd day thing, as getting the stove going and feeding was tough to do when working all day, or, gone for 15 hours on the Gikumi.

Jimmy and I then went to the mill, where he showed me the little lumber carts, as I would be tasked with bringing cut lumber over to the storage shed and to be loaded onto both the Gikumi and others who came from out in the Islands.
Back to the dock we went, giving me a full lesson on how to refuel boats. He would watch over me for some time when I did that. We then sat in the sun on the dock and Jimmy proceeded to show me the ropes…literally. If I was to work on the tug, I needed to know some basic knots. He also was a stickler for all ropes and hoses to be coiled neatly on deck, so no tripping hazard and ready to go in a moment’s notice with no tangles.

The tides in Telegraph are huge, almost like the Bay of Fundy, at low tide it was a 15’ drop down a vertical ladder to get on the back deck. Over the next 3 summers timing the loading of the back deck of the Gikumi had a lot to do with where the tide was at, sometimes loading late at night during high tide.

The rest of my jobs were a mix of some light gardening, which I hated, at Fred’s house, the only place with any sort of landscaping. Fred knew I did not like that and as much as it was on the job roster, he actually had me doing other things.

A small coast freighter, almost like out of a Humphrey Bogart movie, visited Telegraph every two weeks, bringing fresh food, mail, misc things. The “Alaska Prince” would blow its massive horn as it approached the dock. Jimmy and I were tasked with helping the slings of freight land squarely on the dock, remove the sling ropes and grab the next sling, usually 2 or 3 pallets of freight. My job then was to take the fresh groceries to the store, get everything inside. Take all pop and other beverages to the cooler shed. Mail of course went to the little post office in the back of the store.

As I was in the store with all the fresh food, this is when I would instantly grab some fresh bread, pork chops, cookies and a few other necessities.

For this and the next 2 summers, this would all be part of my daily routine. I got my driver’s licence at 16 of course, even though I had driven my Grammas’ 1950 Chevy Fastback from Winnipeg to Vancouver, when I was 14, as we moved her to the coast. I could drive the Telegraph Cove truck then in 1966 on, to deliver some freight to both Beaver Cove and Kokish, all logging related places.

The Gikumi…this was where the adventures and experiences happened.

The Gikumi had many jobs when I worked on it over the 3 summers, 1968 I will cover in my next story.

Jimmy and I would fire the tug up early in the morning, it had a compressed air starting system, and one of my jobs was to turn the air tank off when we got back in, so as to have air pressure for the next start.

Depending on where we were sailing to that day a lunch and/or small snacky dinner would be taken along. There were some days we would be gone from six in the morning and not back till after dark.

We would load up the back deck with lumber mostly, some days other misc freight and possibly some food orders to go to the many floating logging camps and First Nation villages scattered though out the chain of Islands.

Killer Whales, salmon jumping, massive herring balls, eagles, seals, bears swimming, deer, the fishing fleet from Alert bay, tourist boats, transport ships, you name it we would see. There was not one trip then, that we did not encounter MANY pods of whales, so many then.

It turned out that I had an uncanny knack for getting the center of gravity right on, for slinging lumber and freight pallets. I don’t know where that came from but I could visually look at a pile of 2 x 4’s, get the two slings in the right spot and with my great balance, push the load off the back deck, kind of float across the open space between the tug and the dock, set the load down and repeat, all with Jimmy’s timing of the winch taking up and then lowering the sling load. We worked as such a team that we could both load and unload very quickly, which then freed up some time…..let’s say for a bit of sightseeing on the way back at times. I only fell into the salt chuck once, getting swept off the back deck when a wave upset the tug, catching us off guard. I hit that 42F water on my back, the sharp cold knocking the wind out of me. Wow was that cold, I shot up and grabbed one of the bumper tires and launched myself back on deck, wheezing like crazy from the super salty water. Jimmy of course was laughing his head off.

We used to go to a place called Simoom Sound way back in one of the Islands. There we took some supplies to a genuine Hillbilly family from the U.S. Deep South Ozarks, who had a shake cutting mill there. Hard to describe them, but, what characters, looking like those in the movie DELIVERANCE. As shake cutters, and I kid you not, the father and son had only STUMPS for fingers. They were friendly enough but sure were living out there.

The Gikumi also had the contract to take coastal pilots off the Japanese iron ore ships once they sailed out of Port McNeill. I actually got a tour of one of the ships before it left dock; a crew was playing baseball in one of the holds. I also got to see the massive engine in it and a spare piston the size of a Volkswagen hanging from the ceiling. This trip required us to be up super early, as we had to sail from Telegraph Cove out into the open ocean in the Queen Charlotte straits, some 100 Km away. These trips, while an adventure, were scary at times. The first trip for me especially.

Out in the true open ocean was an eye opener, the roller waves were monstrous. We had left the Island and Port Hardy far behind us and ahead in the distance we could see the ore ship. It throttled back to an idle basically and we tried to pull alongside this iron wall, the ship positioning itself to help shield us from the wind. The idea was that a rope ladder was let down midship, we would try to stay almost rubbing the steel wall. We were going up and down at least 8 feet, in the rolling swells, even sheltered as we were. At one point, I was in the wheel house, when the Gikumi rolled way over on its side. I found myself hanging on and looking DOWN into the cold, steel blue water. The Gikumi was never designed for the open sea.

Down this ladder came an older gentleman, small suitcase in hand, I could not believe what I was seeing. Fred jockeyed the tug so the fan tail was just under the ladder, but the whole up and down was out of our control. I went out on the back, fearful I could go overboard. I had to help the pilot get from the ladder to the deck. At the last moment, as he judged time to leave the ladder and jump a foot or so, the tug DROPPED into a wave trough. He fell about 4-5 feet, landing hard on the deck, where I grabbed him, his briefcase popping open and some papers went to a watery grave. I then jumped on his case and then led him to the galley opening. Once inside he said the classic line…” I’m getting too old for this!”

I never liked those trips as the sea up there was never calm and we seemed so far from shore.

Occasionally we would go to Alert Bay, dropping off some supplies, and, Fred would get some of the young nurses from the hospital there to come for half a day whale watching. This was NOT work for me and I got to steer the boat now for most of the trip up and down Johnston Straight. I also on one trip got introduced to First Nation wood carving art, buying a wonderful mask from a fellow at the dock one day.

Jimmy also had his favorite trip too, we would head out on some excuse to check the Gikumi out and sail to Sointula, on Malcolm Island. We would dock there and walk half a mile up to an old weathered house where we would have tea with a genuine, salty Sea captain from the days of sail. This fellow was the real deal, his stories amazing, as a young man, my age, he sailed from Hawaii all over the World, surviving a shipwreck and major storms. At least his stories were GOOD! He was a big guy and his hands still stand out to me, like two ham hocks, he was in his 90’s then.

The radios, both on the Gikumi, and, in the store, were always on, listening for anything on the airwaves. It is an unwritten rule that anyone in distress puts out a call and anyone close comes to the rescue.

I got to do that 3 times in my summers there. The first was a major scow/barge fire not all the far from Telegraph. Fred heard the call, rounded up Jimmy and me and off we went. Not all that far out in the middle of the channel we could see smoke billowing out of the large, enclosed barge. There was already a seine boat there, and, the deep sea tug that had been towing it. We got our fire hose ready, which in looking at the size of the barge was very small in the scheme of things. Pulling up beside this huge tug Fred asked how we could help. The toughest, meanest looking guys were on the boat, talk about seasoned deep sea tug crew. They were friendly to talk to though, saying they were gearing up to go inside the barge and were getting all their gear ready, not much we could do.

The second time was in August 11, 1967, when the B.C. Ferry, Queen of Prince Rupert, grounded on Haddington Reef, just off Port McNeill. This truly was all hands on deck. To say I was excited was an understatement, a real rescue mission, in my youthful exuberance, not thinking about how serious this could be.

The reef was about half an hour away and as we exited Telegraph, we could see some fish boats steaming full speed up the coast in front of us.

When Jimmy first showed me around the Gikumi and showed me the engine operation, he talked about the basic maximum RPM of the engine was about 1,100 RPM and we normally cruised about 800 RPM. Today, based on the confusing radio chatter, as to what the status was of the ferry, we were up at 1,000 RPM. In 1968, which I will be writing about, we had to run at redline for 25 minutes, to get to Alert Bay and the hospital, to save someone’s life.

Ahead we could see the flurry of activity around the ferry, the rescue rafts had been deployed, and there were at least a dozen fish boats helping with taking people ashore. As the crew saw that they were not sinking, we took personal possession’s left in the panic to evacuate and took them to the dock in Port McNeill.

The last time for an emergency was when a float plane landing at one of the remote First Nation communities, had a strut fail on one of the pontoons, dumping it in the water. No one was seriously hurt but, the need to get the plane out of the water and back for service became a real rush. This was to be an all day trip as we had to wait for a 3 man crew to arrive in Telegraph and come with us to undo whatever needed to be done on the plane and have a proper lifting hook put in. They had to come from Port Hardy, an hour at least away.

That was an amazing trip, listening to the crew talk about plane rescues, crashes, the STUFF.

The float plane had been pulled to the dock by First Nations and their boats, still half floating. The crew got a bar installed along the roofline above the cockpit, which I could see was the center of gravity. We repositioned the Gikumi and with our boom, were able to lift the plane onto the back deck. The mechanics worked on it the whole trip back to Port McNeill, where we carefully lifted it up and onto a dolly on the boat ramp, where it got dragged up to the level parking ramp.

I was there when one of the first killer whales was captured, so sad. They brought it into Beaver Cove, to then be trucked up to Port Hardy and loaded on a plane. I did find what it was called many years ago, but, have not been able to find the link again. We helped get the dolly the whale was in up onto the ferry slip and then pulled up to the parking lot. I think that was 1966, maybe 1967, my photo album is a bit scattered in that time period.

I could go on for pages, the beauty of the area, its remoteness then, so many interesting characters scattered in the Islands. In one place, back in the Islands, was a famous old hotel, which just blew me away, sitting at the edge of a remote island, where movie stars came to fish back in the 20’s and 30’s.

I lived 3 summers of those sorts of experiences, Jimmy and I became a great team loading and unloading lumber and supplies. In 1967 we sailed to Vancouver, a 24 hour trip, towing the small scow of Telegraph’s, for some needed repair. I did part of the night shift at the helm, listening to that old radio’s chatter between fish boats, ships and other communications as I scanned the channels broadcasting from somewhere in the world.

Living there in the bunkhouse taught me my independence, of being reliable, I lived or died by my decisions, and, I saw the World was made up of all sorts of people, each with a story.

We leave this part of the journey now, the loop yet to be closed. My next story, the fall and winter of 1968, will see me actually working in the saw mill, and, as I will have my 1958 Chevy, it gave me the ability to be able to drive home on a weekend, which was an adventure unto itself.

Keith Law
February, 2022